Watching from the Dark

by Gytha Lodge

  “She spoke to someone she was afraid of,” she’d said to Jonah, “shortly before neighbors heard shouting in her flat, right? There’s every chance this is the same person, and that he reappeared with a cap on and a dodgy walk. They argue, and he comes back later to kill her. If we can catch them on the other camera heading up to Zoe’s the first time, we should be able to see who it is.”

  “It’s a good theory,” Jonah said, and didn’t add that their suspect might have approached from the other direction. There was only a fifty percent chance that they had come from town, and past the camera they had footage from.

  He also found himself wondering about the desflurane. Was it really possible that someone had gotten their hands on some after the argument and before she was killed at eleven? It was a ninety-minute window, which seemed a bizarrely short time to get hold of an unusual drug. Though it was still possible that the argument had simply been a trigger for a long-considered plan. The final straw that drove the killer to it.

  O’Malley had taken a break from trying to hack a police database, and was now going through footage from the same camera much earlier in the evening, when Zoe had left her flat. His remit was to work out her destination and whether she looked like she’d spoken to anyone. It was frustrating that they had no access to other cameras today, and no likelihood of any until Monday, when the Intelligence staff would be back.

  That mystery trip of Zoe’s was bothering Jonah. They should have pinned down her movements by now. She’d been gone for more than three hours, and she had come back at eight-thirty looking frightened. The journey seemed significant. He’d checked through the interview transcripts they had so far, and nobody except Felix had admitted to seeing her that evening. Nobody had mentioned her having plans, either.

  So what they currently had was a trio of mysteries: three hours of unaccounted-for time, an unknown person waiting at the door of the flat, and an unknown (quite possibly the same) person involved in an argument with Zoe some two hours before her murder.

  With all that in mind, he sent Lightman out with two aims. The first was to try to talk to Angeline Judd again. Angeline might either have been too distressed to remember seeing Zoe later, or have lied about it.

  The second aim was to find the position of any CCTV cameras farther into town and see if he could arm-twist the owners directly into giving him access. If it turned out that nobody was willing or able to reveal Zoe’s last movements, they would have to use other methods.

  * * *

  —

  ANGELINE’S FLAT LOOKED to Lightman much more like student accommodation than Zoe’s had. It was in a large 1970s-style building that had presumably been built to house the undergraduates, and it was accessible by a very long diagonal staircase that ran all the way up the side, punctuated by small square landings that led to each floor.

  Despite having called ahead to check she was there, Lightman had to wait for a full minute before Angeline came to the door. She was wearing pajamas, little lace-edged shorts, and a strappy top, and looked dopey, as though she’d taken too much Prozac. He supposed that wouldn’t be unreasonable in the circumstances.

  “Who is it?” she asked, a strange question to put to someone’s face.

  “I’m DS Lightman,” he said. “I called earlier?”

  “Oh. Yes. OK.”

  She backed up, and he followed her inside, trying to keep some distance. Her underdressed state made him feel that it was inappropriate to step inside.

  The place was tidier than he’d expected, though there was a glass, a mug, and a plate next to the bed and what looked like a newly opened bottle of vodka in a plastic bag on the table. It was also slightly larger than he would have guessed from the corridor, and included its own kitchenette and sitting-room area as well as the bed. One of the kitchen drawers stood open, as if Angeline hadn’t quite gotten round to closing it. There was an en suite bathroom, too, though the door was almost shut.

  Angeline slid her arm behind the door and grabbed an off-white bathrobe off a hook. She shrugged it on and tried to pull it round herself, but when her hands reached for the belt they came up empty, and she let it fall open.

  “I just have a few things to ask,” Lightman told her quietly. Angeline moved slowly to the bed and sat on the edge, so he perched himself on the sofa. “We’ve tried to check up about your missing keys, but nobody can recall who handed them in, unfortunately.”

  “I don’t know, either,” Angeline said, her voice aimless and flat. “Lost them.”

  Lightman looked at her more carefully, wondering if she was drunk or maybe badly hungover.

  “Perhaps you might be able to help with information about the night Zoe was killed,” he said. “You saw her that morning, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Angeline said, and then looked quickly from side to side, as if there might be other people there. “I told you.”

  “Did she mention any plans for that day?” he asked, determined to plow on. “Something she was doing later on?”

  “No,” Angeline said. “She sometimes went to Argentinian tango classes on Thursdays, though,” she added.

  “What time would that have been?”

  “Eight something.” Angeline shrugged. “It normally went on quite late.”

  Lightman reflected that this was definitely not the right timing for Zoe being out from five until eight-thirty. It was unlikely she could have made it to the tango class that night, given the argument that had gone on until nine-thirty.

  “Did anything strike you as strange this week?” he tried. “Any arguments between Zoe and her friends?”

  Angeline looked suddenly hurt and angry, and began to shake her head. “Why do you have to keep making me feel bad? I already said I was sorry for…for getting upset. When she told me she only liked to paint me because I was broken. How would that make you feel?”

  “I think you must have told a colleague of mine rather than me,” Lightman said gently, “but I’m sorry to bring it up again.”

  He decided that this was not likely to go anywhere. They would be much better off bringing her in when she was sober. He stood, and it was as he was levering himself up that he saw, tucked down beside the arm of the chair, a pair of men’s navy trainers.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

  “No,” Angeline said, and this time it was quick and dismissive instead of melodramatic.

  Lightman glanced at the shoes, which had the tongues pulled up and, bizarrely, no laces in them. “So whose are these?”

  Angeline moved unsteadily to stand up and then leaned over to look. “No idea,” she said with a shake of her head.

  As he turned away, he heard her mutter again to herself. He was positive she said “no laces” amid several indistinct sounds.

  He moved toward the door, and then, with a sudden thought, over to the kitchen drawer. Glancing inside, he saw a cutlery tray with forks, dessert spoons, and teaspoons in their places. To each side there were cooking and serving utensils. And in all of that, not a knife to be seen.

  He excused himself and started to call the chief on the stairs. He wasn’t sure if it was relevant to their inquiries, but someone had been in that room and had cleared out anything Angeline might hurt herself—or anyone else—with.

  * * *

  —

  HANSON AND O’MALLEY gave him an update on the CCTV footage. They’d made little headway with their suspects but had successfully picked up Zoe walking farther toward town, down Hill Lane, on a single supermarket camera they’d managed to talk the owners into giving them the feed from. It gave them little indication of where she was ultimately headed, but she was still hurrying.

  He wondered if he ought to call Wilkinson to speed up the CCTV harvesting. During serious investigations it was accepted that rank might be pulled. But it was the sort of card you couldn’t play too often,
and the DCS might query whether this was sufficiently vital information to justify stepping in. That usually entailed potential threat to life, and there was no particular reason to suspect that the killer might strike again.

  “Did you make any progress on Felix Solomon hacking our systems?” Jonah asked O’Malley, shelving those thoughts for the time being.

  “Actually I made a surprising amount,” O’Malley said, minimizing the video app and bringing up a very outdated-looking database instead, on a sickly green background and full of buttons with console script on them. The overall impression was that it hadn’t been updated since the ’90s, and he could have guessed without being told that this was a police database. “I’ve had some live tutoring from a particular young man named Ziggy, who got thrown out of a computer science course, and I’m now seeing logins for the entirety of East Sussex. Which, needless to say, is not something I should be seeing.”

  “Jesus,” Jonah said quietly. “So what’s that telling you?”

  “That there are literally hundreds of group logins for particular cases that were never closed down after they were opened up,” he said, scrolling up and down a list to the right of the screen, “and I’m going to bet that ones like ‘Executive Team Internal Corruption Inquiry’ have quite extensive access.” He shook his head. “My next move is to narrow down all the ones that were open before Felix Solomon retired. But if you’re asking if he’s probably been nosying where he shouldn’t, it’s a definite possibility. All of this is remotely accessible and it wouldn’t take a genius to try a few old logins and see if they worked.”

  “Thank you,” Jonah said, not sure whether he was worried about Zoe’s landlord or inclined to think he’d be doing exactly the same in his shoes. “And see if you can recruit that young man to work for us. The alternative is too awful for words.”

  * * *

  —

  LIGHTMAN HAD SENT over details of three cameras farther into town by five. One was owned by Barclays, one by a betting shop, and one by the council. There was a bit of a void on the western side of the Latterworth Road junction, but the cameras they had looked likely to cover wherever their mysterious figure in a cap had come from.

  Jonah decided it was time to get in touch with Wilkinson. Weighing his options, he decided on a message rather than a phone call. It might create a delay, but it was unlikely that they’d get any footage until later that evening as it was. Sunday was distinctly more likely. He included details of the three cameras, apologized for disrupting, and held his breath as he sent.

  It took ten minutes to get a response. Wilkinson said he was out with poor signal but would be home before six, and would get on it.

  Jonah let out a sigh. That meant they were still looking at Sunday, but it also meant they were likely to get the footage. The detective chief superintendent generally got what he wanted, not least because he was well known around Southampton.

  That also meant Jonah had nothing else to do at the moment. With CCTV the next day and forensics on Monday, they were essentially on hold unless they chose to weigh in on more interviews. Jonah felt strongly that these would go better if they had more information, however frustrating the delay was.

  So it was time to let work lie and get some exercise. He glanced out of the window at the driving rain with a slightly rebellious feeling. He wasn’t going to miss the chance to get out on his bike, no matter what the weather threw at him.

  He picked up his phone prior to leaving and saw that he had a few new personal emails. Opening them, he realized that he’d entirely forgotten Roy Upson’s stag do that night.

  He felt strongly tempted to claim he was working. But he saw they’d been booked into some whiskey tasting and had all been allocated a pair. He should have canceled a lot earlier.

  And he should go. He knew that. He’d seen very little of his cycling group recently, thanks to a few bits of work spilling over and a temporarily broken bike. He also hadn’t seen a lot of Stephen and Andrew, his two remaining school friends. It was sad to admit that Roy, a forty-year-old big kid whom he cycled with every couple of weeks, was probably one of his closest friends these days.

  He’d go. He didn’t need to stay out late, or drink as much as the rest of them. He could easily sit and sink tonics and then excuse himself once they were too battered to notice. Though whether sitting at home for the rest of the evening and brooding over the case would actually be any better than staying out and creating a hangover was anybody’s guess.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS STRANGE how the day had just kept on going. Aidan had felt repeatedly that something would have to happen; something that would stop everything. Some kind of accident that would strike down him or Greta. A heart attack (him) or some kind of devastating moment of understanding when she saw Zoe’s death on the news (her). He hadn’t expected to go on existing in a state of constant fear.

  But somehow an abortive morning jog had rolled on into early Christmas shopping with Greta, which she luckily always took charge of. He’d done little more than follow her around and hold things. Later, he’d drunk tea and listened to her tell him about her repainting of the downstairs bathroom the previous day, which was still wet and couldn’t be used. And he’d smiled stiffly when she’d reminded him about the god-awful dinner party they were supposed to go to.

  He had asked to shower before her, more because he wanted to step away from her cheerful conversation than because he was relishing getting ready. At least once he was dressed he could pour himself a drink.

  He also had messages from Maeve to deal with. They had begun arriving late the night before, hours after Zoe had been found, and had continued relentlessly. Maeve was devastated. She needed to see him. How was he coping? The police were asking about everything. On and on they went, no matter how gently he tried to tell her that he needed space to grieve.

  He was almost as afraid of Greta seeing those messages as he was of her seeing what he’d sent to Zoe. It would look like something had been going on between him and Maeve, too.

  Standing in front of the drinks cabinet, he pulled out his phone again and, with a feeling of resignation, told her he’d meet her the next day. He just hoped that would keep her quiet.

  His hand was shaking as he returned the phone to his pocket and picked up a glass. It wasn’t all fear. He was searingly angry, too. So angry that he couldn’t sit or stand still.

  The first whiskey, which was definitely at least a double, went down quickly and fierily and made him want another. He told himself he’d slow down with this one, but he was on his fourth and feeling decidedly dizzy by the time Greta emerged twenty-five minutes later.

  He had the glass halfway to his mouth when she walked into the room, and he ended up stuck like that for a moment. Everything about her was dazzling, from her tight red halter-neck to the new necklace that divided it down the front in a line of gold. From her sleek legs to her perfectly applied lipstick. She’d done whatever it was she did to her hair that made her face look elfin and otherworldly.

  Aidan felt desire and immense sadness rise in him at once. He put his glass on the table clumsily and stood up.

  “You look totally hot, Greta,” he said. “How did I end up with someone so bloody beautiful?”

  She beamed at him. “I have no idea,” she said, shaking her head and then laughing. As he came over to her, she tugged at the Ted Baker shirt he was wearing. “You know, you’re pretty handsome, too.”

  He slid his arms around her backside, and pulled her in for a very long, very sexy kiss. When he broke it off, he asked her, “How long do we have?”

  “About five minutes,” Greta said, but she put her arms around his neck, and he could see the same desire in her, too. “Maybe we should get going? Michael hates it when we’re late…”

  “Bollocks to Michael,” Aidan said, and then suddenly remembered that Michael ha
d flirted with Greta last time they went out together. He felt suddenly angry. “What’s more important? Us, or that bastard?”

  “Well, he is an awfully successful man,” she said, her voice teasing.

  Aidan slid his hand around to the front of her thigh, and then upward. “But can he do this?” he asked.

  “No,” Greta murmured, leaning her head against his and taking a shaky breath. “No, he can’t.”

  * * *

  —

  JONAH’S PLANS TO be sober at the stag do turned out to be hopelessly over-optimistic. It wasn’t simply that it was hard to avoid drinking at a whiskey tasting and dinner. It turned out that he was also his own worst enemy.

  He remembered, once he’d rolled in a little late and greeted everyone, that he liked these guys. They were fun without being excessively laddish, and he felt like he owed them just for asking him along. It made him feel generous, and that meant buying them all an extra glass of whiskey at the tasting. It meant a bottle of Champagne at the dinner, and then a couple of bottles of red.

  By the time they arrived at Jean-Pierre Wine Bar, he was rolling, and in a mood to find everything humorous. He felt glib and witty, a louder, more confident version of himself. It didn’t surprise him when they told him there was a woman at the bar who kept looking at him. He was worth looking at now. He didn’t need to go and flirt with her to check.

  He got unsteadily to his feet to buy the next round, thinking that he might as well see what this woman was like. He guessed it must be the brunette. She was standing with two men who looked, to Jonah, to be a couple. Her head was turned toward them at the moment, and away from him. But as he approached, she glanced his way.

  Jonah came to a total stop.

  “Michelle,” he said.

  He should have looked earlier. He could have been prepared, and had something to say. Instead when his ex-fiancée smiled at him and said, “I thought it was you,” he had nothing. Nothing at all.