I See You

by Clare Mackintosh

She moves her mouse across the screen and I catch sight of a list of what I assume must be cameras: Aldgate East – entrance; Angel – entrance; Angel – southbound platform; Angel – northbound platform; Bakerloo – ticket barriers … The list goes on and on.

  ‘Quite a few of the early profiles aren’t in the right area for the cameras I can access,’ Melissa explains, ‘but we’ll be able to get most of Katie’s commute. Look – there she is.’

  Katie is standing on the platform, her hands thrust into her pockets. She’s looking around and I hope she’s searching for cameras, or working out which of her fellow passengers might be a threat. I see a man in a suit and overcoat approach her. Katie steps back slightly, and I dig my nails into my closed palms until he passes without checking his pace. My heart is pounding.

  ‘Quite the little actress, isn’t she?’

  I ignore her. The Overground train arrives and Katie steps on, the doors closing and swallowing her up all too quickly. I want Melissa to click on to the next camera, but she doesn’t move. She picks a piece of cotton from her jacket and frowns at it, before letting it float from her fingers on to the floor. My fantasy evolves: I imagine Simon returning from his interview; finding the house empty – the door unlocked – and somehow knowing I am next door. Rescuing me. My imaginings grow in detail and absurdity in inverse proportion to my dwindling hope.

  No one is coming.

  I will die here, in Melissa’s house. Will she dispose of my body, I wonder, or leave me here, festering, for Neil to find when he returns from his work trip?

  ‘Where will you go?’ I ask her. She turns to look at me. ‘Once you’ve killed me. Where will you go?’ She starts to say something – to deny that I’m going to die – then she stops. There’s a flash of what looks like respect in her eyes, and then it’s gone. She shrugs.

  ‘Costa Rica. Japan. The Philippines. There are still plenty of countries without extradition agreements.’

  I wonder how long it will take them to find me. Whether Melissa could make it to another country by then. ‘They’ll stop you at passport control,’ I say, more confidently than I feel.

  She looks at me scornfully. ‘Only if I use my own passport.’

  ‘How—’ I can’t find the words. I have stumbled into a parallel universe, in which people wield knives and use fake passports and murder their friends. I suddenly realise something. Melissa is clever, but she’s not that clever. ‘How did you learn all this?’

  ‘All what?’ She’s distracted, tapping the keyboard. Bored with the conversation.

  ‘The CCTV, a false passport. PC Swift said the adverts were placed by a man; that he had a mailbox set up in his name. The website is untraceable. You had help – you must have done.’

  ‘That’s rather insulting, Zoe. I think you underestimate me.’ She doesn’t look at me, and I know she’s lying. She couldn’t have done this alone. Is Neil really away with work? Or is he upstairs? Listening. Waiting until reinforcements are needed. I glance nervously towards the ceiling. Did I imagine the creak in the floorboards?

  ‘That’s been fifteen minutes,’ Melissa says abruptly, looking at her watch. ‘I can’t get into the Overground trains, but the next camera will get her changing at Canada Water.’ She clicks on the next camera and I see another platform; a group of schoolchildren being shepherded away from the edge by three teachers wearing high-visibility tabards. A train arrives and I scour the screen for Katie, but can’t find her. My heart beats faster: has something happened to her already? On that short journey from Crystal Palace to Canada Water? But then I catch a glimpse of a white Puffa coat, and there she is, her hands still pushed into her pockets, her head still turning this way and that, looking at everyone she passes. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  Katie goes out of sight, and despite Melissa bringing up two more cameras, we don’t see her again until she’s waiting on the Jubilee line platform. She’s standing close to the platform edge and I want to tell her to step away, that someone could push her in front of the train. Watching her like this, on CCTV, is like watching a film in which you know something terrible is about to happen to the main character, and you scream at them not to be so stupid.

  Don’t go outside, don’t ignore that sound you heard … haven’t you read the script? Don’t you know what happens next?

  I remind myself that Katie has read the script. She knows what the danger is, she just doesn’t know exactly where it’s coming from.

  There’s a man standing behind Katie, and to her left. He’s watching her. I can’t see his face – the camera is too far away – but his head is turned towards her and it moves slightly as he looks her up and down. He takes a step closer and I grip the edge of my seat, leaning forward in a vain attempt to see more. There are other people on the platform – why aren’t they looking the right way? They won’t see if he does something. I used to feel so safe on the Underground. So many cameras, so many people all around. But no one’s watching, not really. Everyone’s travelling in their own little bubble, oblivious to what’s happening to their fellow commuters.

  I say her name under my breath and as if she’s heard me she turns around. Looks at the man. He steps closer and immediately Katie backs off. I can’t read her body language – is she frightened? She walks to the other end of the platform. Melissa shifts in her chair and I look at her. She’s gazing intently at the screen, but she isn’t sitting forward, tense in her chair, like I am. She’s leaning backwards, her elbows resting on the arms of her chair, and her fingertips pressed together. A small smile plays across her lips.

  ‘Fascinating,’ she says. ‘I always liked the idea that the women didn’t know they were being followed, but this adds something quite interesting. Cat and mouse on the Underground. It might work rather well as an extra package for members.’ Her flippancy revolts me.

  The man on the platform hasn’t followed Katie to the other end of the platform, but as the train arrives, and a surge of tourists and commuters disembark, I see him move through the mêlée towards her. He doesn’t get on at the same place as her, and I’m feeling relieved when I realise he has nevertheless chosen the same carriage.

  ‘Can you get into the camera on that train? I want to see it. I want to see what’s happening on the train!’

  ‘Addictive, isn’t it? No, I’ve tried but it’s very secure. We’ve got’ – she checks another tab, open on the computer – ‘seven minutes till she gets to Waterloo.’ She drums her fingers on the desk.

  ‘The carriage is busy. No one will try anything on a busy train.’ I say it to myself as much as to Melissa.

  If Katie cried out, would someone do something? I’ve always taught her to make a noise if something happens. ‘Be loud about it,’ I told her. ‘If some perv pushes himself against you, don’t tell him, tell everyone. Shout, “Stop touching me this instant!” Let the whole carriage know. They might not do anything, but he’ll stop straight away, you’ll see.’

  It’s only four minutes from Waterloo to Leicester Square. I know because Melissa has told me, and because every second feels like an hour. As soon as we lose Katie into a Northern line train at Waterloo, Melissa brings a new image on to the screen; the camera looking towards the bottom of the escalators leading up to Leicester Square.

  We watch in silence until she appears.

  ‘There she is.’ Melissa points to Katie. Instantly I look for the man I saw approaching her on the platform, and when I find him a couple of yards behind her my chest tightens.

  ‘That man …’ I say, but I trail off because – what is there to say?

  ‘He’s persistent, isn’t he?’

  ‘Do you know who he is? Where he comes from? How old he is?’ I don’t know why any of these things matter.

  ‘The profile’s been downloaded almost two hundred times,’ Melissa says. ‘It could be any one of them.’

  The man pushes past a woman with a buggy. Katie steps on to the escalator.

  Keep walking, I say in my head, b
ut she stands still, and the man walks up on the left-hand side and then slots in on the right to stand behind her. He puts a hand on her arm and leans in. He’s saying something to her. Katie shakes her head, and then they reach the top of the escalator and out of view.

  ‘The next camera! Get the next camera!’

  Melissa responds with deliberate slowness, enjoying my panic. There are lots of people at Leicester Square, and when she finally pulls up another CCTV image I can’t immediately see Katie. But then I spot her, walking alongside the man from the train. My heart races: something isn’t right. Katie is walking at an odd angle, bent to one side. Her head is bowed and although she doesn’t look as though she’s fighting him, everything about her body language tells me she can’t get away. I look closer and realise he is gripping the top of her left arm with his right hand. With his other hand he is gripping her wrist: it is the pressure on this arm pulling her off balance. He must have a weapon. He must be threatening her. Otherwise why isn’t she screaming? Running? Fighting?

  I watch Katie walk towards the ticket barriers with this man, her arm pulled awkwardly across the front of his chest. There are two ticket collectors standing by a Tube map, chatting, and I will them to notice something is wrong, but they pay no attention. How can this be happening in broad daylight? Why is no one seeing what I’m seeing?

  I can’t take my eyes off the screen.

  Surely once Katie and the man reach the barriers he’ll have to let her go? That will be her chance to get away. I know Katie, she’ll be planning it now – working out where to run, which exit to take. I feel a surge of adrenaline. She’ll do it – she’ll get away from him.

  But they don’t reach the gates. Instead the man leads her to the left of the concourse, where there is an empty information kiosk and a door marked ‘no entry’. He glances behind, as if to see whether they’re being observed.

  And then my blood runs cold as I see him open the door and take Katie inside.

  You think I’ve gone too far. Risking the lives of women I’ve never met is bad enough, you think, but this? It’s too much. How could I risk the life of someone I’m supposed to care about?

  You need to understand something.

  Katie deserves this.

  She’s always been the same. Demanding to be the centre of attention; clamouring to be heard, to be noticed, to be loved. Not a thought to how that made others feel.

  Always talking; never listening.

  So now she’s got her wish.

  Centre stage.

  Her most important production yet; her most challenging part. The performance to end all performances.

  Her final curtain call.

  36

  ‘What phone numbers do we have for Zoe Walker?’ Nick demanded.

  Lucinda checked her files. ‘Mobile, work, and home.’

  ‘Call them all.’

  Kelly was already dialling Zoe’s mobile number, shaking her head as it went to voicemail. ‘Zoe, could you please call the Murder Investigation Team as soon as you get this message?’

  ‘What do we know about the daughter?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Her name’s Katie,’ Kelly said, desperately trying to recall anything Zoe Walker had mentioned. ‘She wants to be an actress but at the moment she’s doing shifts in a restaurant near Leicester Square – I don’t know which one.’ Kelly tried to remember if Zoe had ever said anything else about her children; she had a son, Kelly knew, and a partner, but they’d never really spoken about anything other than the case.

  ‘Nick, Zoe Walker isn’t at work today,’ Lucinda said, putting the phone down. ‘Her boss sent her home yesterday; he said she wasn’t able to concentrate on anything but – and I quote – this bloody case. I’ve asked him to tell Zoe to call us if he hears from her first.’

  ‘Call her at home.’

  ‘There’s no reply.’

  ‘There are no other numbers for her on the system?’ Nick had started pacing, in the way he did when he wanted to think faster.

  ‘Not for Zoe, and nothing for Katie. We’ve got an old mobile number for her son, Justin – he was ASBO’d in 2006 after a shoplifting, and received a caution for possession of class C in 2008. Nothing since then, although we’ve got a dozen stop checks for him.’

  ‘What did the Telephone Intelligence Unit say?’

  ‘There’s no phone registered to Katie Walker at their home address. Either she’s on Pay As You Go or she’s got an additional handset on Mum’s account; I’ve asked them to look into it.’

  ‘Where was the email with Katie Walker’s profile sent from?’ Nick fired the question at Andrew, who seemed unperturbed by the DI’s ferocity.

  ‘Not Espress Oh!, if that’s what you’re thinking. The IP is different. I’ll need to put in a request.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ Nick glanced at his watch and didn’t wait for a response. ‘Whatever it takes, it’ll be too long. British Transport Police are on their way to Leicester Square, but there’s no guarantee they’ll get to Katie in time, and in the meantime there’s every chance Zoe’s in real danger.’

  ‘She’s still not home,’ Lucinda said, putting down the phone, ‘and her mobile’s been switched off.’

  ‘I want a cell-site trace on her mobile. Find out when her phone was last used and where. Kelly, the second Lucinda gets a location I want officers making on immediate.’

  ‘On it.’ Kelly moved to sit next to Lucinda, who was already starting the trace. Nick was pacing again, reeling off instructions without pausing for breath. A thought was forming; something someone had said, just a moment ago. Kelly tried to get hold of it but it slipped away in the midst of the growing chaos in the briefing room.

  ‘Can we get the daughter’s mobile number from Zoe Walker’s billing?’ Nick was saying.

  ‘Potentially,’ Lucinda said. ‘It’s a long process though and not an exact science; I’ll need to look at the most frequently dialled numbers and make assumptions about which ones are likely to be family numbers.’

  ‘Do it. Please,’ he added as an afterthought. It was the first time Kelly had seen the DI rattled. His tie was already loosened, but now he took it off and chucked it on the table, flicking open the top button of his shirt and stretching his neck first one way, then the other.

  ‘Andrew, keep an eye on the website and tell me the second anything changes. Do what you can to find out where that most recent email was from. If it isn’t Espress Oh! maybe it’s another café. Kelly, if it is, get officers there pronto to view CCTV for customers in there around the time it was sent.’

  Espress Oh!

  That was it. The thought that had been circling Kelly’s head finally solidified. Meeting Zoe at the café in Covent Garden. The friend with the chain of coffee shops; the new business in Clerkenwell. The Australian girl at Espress Oh! and the absent owner with the chain of shops. ‘Not customers,’ she said, suddenly certain she knew who they were looking for. The person behind the website; the person who, right now, was sending nineteen-year-old Katie into danger, and who was potentially holding Zoe Walker hostage.

  Nick looked at her expectantly. Kelly felt a rush of adrenaline. ‘We need to do a Companies House check,’ she said. ‘It isn’t a customer who’s been using the WiFi at Espress Oh! to administer the website. It’s the owner.’

  37

  ‘Katie!’ I scream so loudly my voice cracks, my mouth suddenly devoid of moisture. I pull at the tape, feeling the adhesive tug at the hairs on my wrists. I find a strength I didn’t know I had, and I feel the tape give a fraction. Melissa smiles.

  ‘I win.’ She spins her chair round to face me, folding her arms and looking thoughtfully at me. ‘But then, I was always going to.’

  ‘You bitch. How could you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. You did. You let her walk into danger; danger you knew was out there. How could you do that to your own flesh and blood?’

  ‘You—’ I stop. Melissa didn’t make me. She’s right; I let Katie
go. It’s my fault.

  I can’t look at her. There’s a pain in my chest that’s making it hard to breathe. Katie. My Katie. Who was that man? What is he doing to her?

  I try to keep my voice calm. Rational. ‘You could have had children. You could have adopted; had IVF.’ I look at the screen again but the door to what I assume is some kind of cupboard or maintenance room remains stubbornly closed. Why did no one notice? There are people everywhere. I see a fluorescent jacketed Underground worker and I want so much for her to open the door; to hear Katie crying out; to do something – anything – to stop whatever is happening right now to my baby girl.

  ‘Neil refused.’ Melissa is staring at the screen, and I can’t see her eyes. I can’t see if there’s any emotion in them, or whether they’re as dead as her voice. ‘Said he wanted his own child, not someone else’s.’ She gives a hollow laugh. ‘Ironic, given the amount of time we spent looking after yours.’

  On the screen life is continuing as usual; people are getting in each other’s way, searching for Oyster cards, rushing to catch trains. But for me, the world has stopped.

  ‘You lose,’ she says, as easily as if we’ve been playing cards. ‘Time to pay up.’ She picks up the knife and runs a speculative finger across the blade.

  I should never have let Katie go, no matter what she said. I thought I was giving her a chance, but I was sending her into danger. Melissa would have tried to kill us, but would she have succeeded, with two of us to fight her off?

  And now she’s going to kill me anyway. I feel dead inside already, and part of me wants her to finish it; to hasten the darkness that began to descend after Katie left, and which now threatens to overcome me.

  Do it, Melissa. Kill me.

  I catch sight of the penholder on Melissa’s desk – the one Katie made for her in woodwork – and feel a surge of rage. Katie and Justin worshipped Melissa. They saw her as a surrogate mother; someone to trust. How dare she betray us like this?

  I mentally shake myself. If Katie dies, who will be there for Justin? I work my wrists again, twisting my hands in opposite directions and finding perverse pleasure in the pain which ensues. It is a distraction. My eyes are still trained on the screen as though I can make the door to that maintenance cupboard fly open through the power of thought alone.