‘Katie and Simon get on well though. They were thick as thieves over Sunday lunch, talking about Twelfth Night.’
‘Katie, yes, but as for Justin—’ I stop, realising I’m monopolising the conversation. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve made this all about me. Have you tried talking to Neil about how you feel?’ But the vulnerability I saw on Melissa’s face has vanished.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. He’ll get over it. Midlife crisis, probably.’ She grins. ‘Don’t worry about Justin. It’s completely natural; I loathed my stepfather for no other reason than he wasn’t my dad.’
‘I guess so.’
‘And don’t worry about Katie, either, with this Isaac chap. She’s got her head screwed on, your daughter. Brains and beauty, that one.’
‘Brains, yes. So why can’t she see that it would make sense to get a proper job? It’s not as though I’m telling her to give up on her dream; I just want her to have some insurance.’
‘Because she’s nineteen, Zoe.’
I acknowledge her point with a wry smile. ‘I suggested to Simon he might be able to get her some work experience at his newspaper, doing theatre reviews, but he wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Apparently they only take graduates.’ That had stung; that Katie’s clutch of hard-won GCSEs wasn’t enough even to work for free. ‘Can’t you pull some strings?’ I asked Simon, but he’d been immovable.
‘She’s an adult, Zoe,’ Melissa says. ‘Let her make her own decisions – she’ll soon learn which ones were right.’ She holds open the door for me and we walk towards the Tube. ‘I might not have brought up a teenager, but I’ve employed enough of them to know that if you want to make them do something, you have to make them think it’s their idea. They’re a bit like men, in that respect.’
I laugh. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Justin getting on?’
‘Best manager I’ve ever had.’ She sees the doubt in my face and loops her arm through mine. ‘And I’m not just saying that because you’re my friend. He turns up on time, hasn’t got his fingers in the till, and the customers seem to like him. That’s good enough for me.’
She gives me a hug before heading off on the Metropolitan line back to the café, and I feel so buoyed up by our lunch that the afternoon passes in no time at all, and even Graham Hallow’s pomposity doesn’t take the edge off my feelings of positivity.
‘Hello again.’
It’s twenty to six; the Underground packed with people who would rather be anywhere but here. I can smell sweat; garlic; rain.
And I know that voice.
I recognise the confidence in it; the rich tones of someone used to being the centre of attention.
Luke Friedland.
The man who saved me from falling on to the tracks.
Falling.
Did I fall?
I have a fleeting, half-formed memory; the sensation of pressure between my shoulder blades. It all seems like a blur, and longer – far longer – than twenty-four hours ago.
Luke Friedland.
Yesterday I practically accused him of stalking me; today I’m the one stepping on to a train in which he’s already standing. You see? I tell myself. He can’t have been following you.
Despite my embarrassment, the back of my neck is prickling so badly I feel as though everyone must be able to see the hairs standing up. I run a hand across the nape of my neck.
‘Bad day?’ he says, perhaps mistaking my gesture for stress.
‘No, good day, actually.’
‘That’s great! I’m glad you’re feeling better.’ He has the over-cheery tone of someone who works with children, or in a hospital, and I remember his suggestion yesterday that I might want to speak to the Samaritans. He thinks I’m suicidal. He thinks I tipped myself towards that train on purpose; as a cry for help, perhaps, or a genuine attempt to end my life.
‘I didn’t jump,’ I said. I’m speaking quietly – I don’t want the whole carriage to hear – so he manoeuvres his way past the woman in front, to stand next to me. My heart rate quickens. He puts his hand up to hold the rail above our heads and I feel the faint brush of tiny hairs, like an electric charge between us.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, and the disbelief in his voice makes me doubt my own story. What if I did jump? What if my subconscious propelled me towards the track, even as my brain sent messages saying the opposite to my body? I shiver.
‘Well, this is my stop.’
‘Oh.’ We’re at Crystal Palace. ‘Me too.’ There’s no shaving cut, today, and the blue striped tie has been replaced by one in pale pink, standing out against the grey shirt and suit.
‘You’re not following me, are you?’ he says, then apologises when he sees my horrified face. ‘It was just a joke.’ We fall into step together, heading towards the escalators. It’s hard to move away from someone walking in the same direction as you. At the ticket barrier he stands aside to let me tap my Oyster first. I thank him, then say goodbye, but we both turn the same way out of the station. He laughs.
‘It’s like at the supermarket,’ he says, ‘when you say hello to someone in the veg section then end up saying hello to them again in every single aisle.’
‘Do you live around here, then?’ I’ve never seen him, although that’s ridiculous; there are dozens of people in my street alone who I’ve never seen. I throw ten pence in Megan’s guitar case and smile a hello as we pass.
‘Just visiting a friend.’ He stops walking, and automatically I do the same. ‘I’m making you feel uncomfortable, aren’t I? You go ahead.’
‘No no, really, you’re not,’ I say, although my chest feels as though someone’s squeezing it.
‘I’ll cross the road, then you won’t feel obliged to talk to me.’ He grins. He has a nice face; warm and open. I don’t know why I feel so uneasy.
‘There’s no need, honestly.’
‘I need some cigarettes anyway.’ We stand still as people weave their way around us.
‘Well, goodbye, then.’
‘Bye.’ He opens his mouth to say something, then stops. I turn to walk away. ‘Um, would it be terribly forward of me to ask you to have dinner with me one evening?’ The question is delivered in one breath, rushed as though he feels embarrassed asking, although his face still wears the same confident expression. It crosses my mind that the delivery is deliberate. Practised, even.
‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising.
‘Or a drink? I mean, I don’t want to play the “I saved your life” card, but …’ He holds up his hands in mock surrender, then lets them fall and assumes a more serious expression. ‘It’s an odd way to meet, I know, but I’d really like to see you again.’
‘I’m seeing someone,’ I blurt out, like a sixteen-year-old. ‘We live together.’
‘Oh!’ Confusion crosses his face, before he composes himself. ‘Of course you’re with someone. Foolish of me; I should have expected that.’ He takes a step away from me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
We say goodbye and when I glance back he is crossing the road towards the newsagents. To buy his cigarettes, I suppose.
I call Simon’s mobile, not wanting to walk along Anerley Road without company, even if it’s at the end of a phone. It rings, but goes to voicemail. This morning he reminded me he was having dinner at his sister’s tonight. I’d planned to watch a film; perhaps persuade Justin and Katie to join me. Just the three of us; like old times. But my encounter with Luke Friedland has left me unsettled, and I wonder if Simon would postpone his trip to see his sister; if he’d come home instead.
If I call now I might catch him before he leaves work. I used to have a direct line for him, but the paper moved to hot-desking a few months ago and now he never knows where he’s going to be from one day to the next.
I Google the switchboard number. ‘Could you put me through to Simon Thornton, please?’
‘I’ll just put you on hold.’
I listen to classical music until the line connects agai
n. I look at the Christmas lights on the lamp-posts lining Anerley Road, and see they’re already coated with grime. The music stops. I expect to hear Simon’s voice, but it’s the girl from the switchboard.
‘Could you give me the name again, please?’
‘Simon Thornton. He’s an editor. Mostly features, but sometimes he’s on the news desk.’ I repeat the words I’ve heard Simon use, without knowing whether these two roles are in the same place or miles apart. Without knowing if they’re in the same building, even.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no one here of that name. Is he freelance? I wouldn’t have him listed if he was freelance.’
‘No, he’s on the payroll. He’s been there for years. Could you check again? Simon Thornton.’
‘He’s not on my system,’ she repeats. ‘There’s no Simon Thornton working here.’
16
Kelly took out her chewing gum and dropped it into a bin. Having left home early, if she loitered any more she was in danger of being late, and that was hardly going to endear her to Nick Rampello. She took a deep breath, pushed up her chin, and walked briskly to the door she’d stood in front of on Friday, her umbrella doing little to protect her from the drizzle that seemed to be coming at her horizontally.
Wanting to make a good impression on her first day, Kelly had instinctively reached for her suit that morning, before feeling the coldness of an unwelcome memory. She had worn it for her disciplinary hearing; she could still feel the woollen cuffs scratching her wrists as she stood outside the chief’s office, waiting to be called in.
The reminder had made her nauseous. She had taken the suit off the hanger and bundled it into a bin bag to go to the charity shop, wearing instead her striped shirt with a pair of wide grey trousers that were now dark with rainwater where they met her shoes. Even without the sartorial prompt of the suit, Kelly was assaulted by memories, appearing in reverse order, like a film on rewind. Her return to shift; slinking into that first briefing with her cheeks ablaze, the echo of gossip reverberating in the air. Her months away from work; days on end in her room, unwashed and uncaring, waiting for a disciplinary hearing that could have ended her career. The sound of the alarm, signifying a crisis in custody; an urgent need for support. Running feet; not coming to back her up but to pull her off.
There were no images of the assault flashing in her head. There never had been. During her anger management classes Kelly had been encouraged to talk about the incident; to walk her counsellor through what had happened, what had triggered it.
‘I don’t remember,’ she’d explained. One minute she’d been interviewing the prisoner; the next … the custody alarm. She didn’t know what had caused her to lose control so horrifically; she had no memory of it.
‘That’s good though, isn’t it?’ Lexi had said, when she’d come to visit Kelly after a particularly difficult anger management session. ‘It’ll make it easier to move on from it. Forget it even happened.’
Kelly had buried her face in her pillow. It wasn’t easier to move on. It was harder. Because if she didn’t know what had caused her to lose control, how could she be certain it wouldn’t happen again?
She pressed the buzzer for MIT and waited, huddled inside the shallow doorway, out of the rain. A disembodied voice rang out on to the street.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Kelly Swift. I’m here on secondment to Op FURNISS.’
‘Come on up, Kelly!’
Kelly recognised Lucinda’s voice and her nerves abated a little. This was a clean slate, she reminded herself; a chance to start again, to prove herself without being judged on her past. She took the lift, walking into MIT without any of the hesitation of her previous visit. A nod of recognition from one of the team – Bob, she remembered, just too late to greet him by name – buoyed her mood, and when Lucinda bobbed up from behind her desk, Kelly was reassured further.
‘Welcome to the madhouse.’
‘Thanks – I think. Is the DI around?’
‘He went out for a run.’
‘In this weather?’
‘That’s the DI for you. He’s expecting you, though; Diggers sent an email round yesterday, letting us know.’
Kelly tried to read Lucinda’s expression. ‘How did it go down?’
‘With Nick?’ She laughed. ‘Oh, you know Nick. Well, I guess you don’t. Look, the DI’s great, but he’s not good with authority. If it had been his idea to have a BTP officer on secondment, he’d be all smiles. As it is, Diggers and he don’t exactly see eye to eye, so …’ Lucinda stopped. ‘It’ll be fine. Now, let me show you where you’ll be working.’
At that moment the door opened and DI Rampello came in. He wore shorts and a Gore-Tex T-shirt; a lightweight fluorescent jacket zipped part way up his chest. He pulled his earphones out and balled them up, rolling them into a pair of Lycra gloves. Water dripped on to the floor.
‘What’s it like out?’ Lucinda said casually.
‘Lovely,’ Nick said. ‘Almost tropical.’ He headed for the locker rooms without acknowledging Kelly, who envied Lucinda her easy relationship with the DI.
She had switched on her computer and was looking for the piece of paper with the temporary log-in Lucinda had given her, when Nick returned, a white shirt sticking to his still-damp back, and a rolled-up tie in one hand. He slung his jacket over the chair next to Kelly.
‘I’m not sure whether to be pissed off that you went to the DCI after I’d already said no to this attachment, or to admire your negotiation skills. In the interest of working relationships, I’ll go for the latter.’ He grinned and stuck out his free hand towards her. ‘Welcome on board.’
‘Thank you.’ Kelly felt herself relax.
‘So you’re an old friend of the DCI’s, I hear?’
‘Not a friend, no. He was my DI on the Sexual Offences Unit.’
‘He thinks very highly of you. I understand you got a commendation.’
Nick Rampello had done his homework. The chief constable’s commendation had followed several months of painstaking work tracking down a man indecently exposing himself to schoolchildren. Kelly had taken scores of witness statements, working closely with the Intelligence unit to eliminate known sex offenders and other undesirables on the police radar. Eventually, Kelly had successfully bid to use decoys – a team of undercover surveillance officers deployed to high-risk areas to pose as potential victims – and caught the offender red-handed. She was flattered that Diggers had remembered, and touched that he had smoothed the waters with Nick by singing her praises. The feeling was short-lived.
‘The DCI wants you working with someone else at all times.’ Nothing about his delivery suggested that Nick knew the reason behind Diggers’ condition of Kelly’s secondment, but she wasn’t naive enough to think the two men hadn’t discussed it. She felt her cheeks grow hot and hoped it wasn’t obvious to Nick, and to Lucinda, who was listening with interest. ‘So you can work with me.’
‘With you?’ Kelly had assumed she’d be paired with a DC. Was it Diggers who had decided the DI would need to keep an eye on her, or Nick himself? Was she really that much of a liability?
‘You might as well learn from the best.’ Nick winked at her.
‘Cocky bastard,’ Lucinda said. Nick shrugged in an I can’t help it if I’m brilliant way, and Kelly couldn’t help but smile. Lucinda was right, he was cocky, but at least he could laugh at himself.
‘Have you sponsored me, Luce?’ Nick said, and Kelly realised – not without some relief – that their conversation was over.
‘I gave it to you weeks ago!’
‘That was for the Great North Run. This is for the Great South Run.’ He looked at Lucinda, whose arms were crossed tightly across her chest. ‘Think of the children, Lucinda. Those little orphaned children …’
‘Oh fine! Put me down for a fiver.’
‘Per mile?’ Nick grinned. Lucinda gave him a stern look. ‘Cheers. Right, I need an update. On the face of it there’s nothing to link Tania Bec
kett and Cathy Tanning apart from the adverts, but I want to know if we’re missing something.’
‘Put the kettle on and break open that secret stash of Hobnobs, and I’ll fill you in at briefing.’
‘What secret stash?’ Nick began, but Lucinda gave him a withering stare.
‘I’m an analyst, Inspector,’ she raised an eyebrow as she stressed his rank, ‘you can’t hide anything from me.’ She returned to her desk, and Kelly risked a smile.
‘If you point me in the direction of the kitchen, I’ll make the tea.’
Nick Rampello looked at her appraisingly. ‘You’ll go far. Out in the lobby, second door on the right.’
By the end of Kelly’s first day she was intimately acquainted with the kettle. Between rounds of tea-and-coffee-making she had read through the case papers and at 5 p.m. she headed to the incident room with Nick and Lucinda, and a smattering of people to whom she had been introduced and whose names she had instantly forgotten. Several free chairs littered the briefing room, but most people were standing, their restlessness a not-particularly subtle message that they had more important things to be getting on with. Nick Rampello was having none of it.
‘Grab a pew and settle in,’ he instructed. ‘I won’t keep you long, but we’re dealing with a complex investigation and I want us all on the same page.’ He looked around the room, waiting until all eyes were on him, before continuing. ‘It’s Tuesday twenty-fourth November and this is a briefing for Operation FURNISS, an investigation into the murder of Tania Beckett, and into related crimes committed against women, namely theft of keys and a suspected burglary of a woman called Cathy Tanning. The link between these crimes relates to adverts placed in the London Gazette featuring the women’s photographs.’ Nick looked for Lucinda. ‘Over to you.’
Lucinda moved to the front of the room. ‘I was tasked with looking at murders from the last four weeks, but I’ve also done some work around sexual assaults, harassments and burglaries where the victims were lone females. For the purposes of this exercise I discounted domestics, but even so, there are quite a few.’ As she was speaking, she inserted a USB drive into the laptop at the front of the room; the connected projector ready and waiting. The first slide showed thumbnail images Kelly recognised as the women from the London Gazette adverts; the results taken from the file Tamir Barron had reluctantly given to Kelly on her visit to their offices. Lucinda clicked through the next four slides, another dizzying mosaic of thumbnails. ‘These women have all been victims of relevant crime during the last month. You’ll see I grouped them according to physical characteristics. Skin colour, then hair colour, then subcategories according to their approximate age. Obviously it’s not an exact science, but it made the next bit slightly easier.’
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