by Alison James
‘Well, no, I—’
‘Surely you should? Surely that’s the first thing anyone would do? I know I would.’ She holds out her hands and splays her fingers, as if trying to keep such unpleasantness at bay.
‘It’s… it’s a little more complicated than that.’
‘So you do know him? This man.’
Lucy nods.
‘And what he was saying about your husband’s death?’ Megan twists hard at her necklace.
‘It’s not true, obviously,’ Lucy says quickly. ‘Marcus died in a car crash while over the alcohol limit: that’s a matter of public record. I spoke to the police, of course, to help them establish the facts, but that’s all.’
‘So all that other stuff he said… you don’t have a forged passport in another name?’
Lucy could tell a bare-faced lie. She could tell Megan that this piece of information is fabricated too. But the problem is, she’s a terrible liar. She has never been able to pass off even the most innocuous fib without blushing or some sort of giveaway facial tic. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I mean, no, that’s not made up. I do have a passport in the name of Joanne Chandler… Like I said, it’s complicated.’
Megan raises her eyebrows slightly and looks round the room as though expecting someone else to tell her what to do next. She’s clearly out of her depth now. ‘I see.’
Lucy looks down at her hands. ‘I really am sorry. It’s embarrassing.’
‘So… moving forward, we have to think about the Starflower Trust account. Assuming we’re still lucky enough to be considered, after the… after what happened last night. If we are, I’ll need to be able to reassure Nick Dalgliesh that we are capable of giving him a thoroughly professional service. So I’ll have to tell him you’re no longer slated to work on their account. I hope you understand.’
‘Yes,’ Lucy sighs. She had expected nothing less.
‘And just until we can be sure that there are no more incidents like yesterday’s, I think it would be best if you work from home for the time being.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Lucy asks desperately. Leaving the house every day, chatting with her colleagues, even the hassle of the commute – they have all been part of her survival, her reinvention. She no longer even has Noah’s company to distract her from herself. ‘It won’t ever happen again; I promise.’
But she knows she’s in no position to make this guarantee and, what’s more, so does Megan.
‘I’m sorry, but we believe it is necessary.’ Megan hides behind the corporate plural but does at least look genuinely sorry. ‘IT will show you how to set up the mail server and the intranet on your own laptop. It won’t be much different from being here. And,’ She attempts a smile, ‘I’m sure the coffee will be better.’
‘How long will this be for?’ Lucy is aware she sounds desperate. Because working from home will be different. It will be a whole world of different.
‘Hopefully not long. Let’s see how things go.’
It could have been worse, Lucy tells herself as she catches the tube home. I could have been sacked.
And on her first morning of working in her own house, it doesn’t feel too bad. It’s quite nice to lie in bed with a cup of tea until eight, and then wander down to her desk dressed in her pyjama bottoms. She can throw open the doors onto the lavender-scented garden and almost believe she’s on holiday.
But this novelty is short-lived. She receives a few emails, with sundry queries to answer, but as these problems are resolved one by one, the communication starts to dry up. And Lucy is no longer there in the office to pick up new tasks and enquiries to tackle. She’s not part of the conversation. Does it really matter if she’s emailed to ask her vote for either sandwich lunch or hot buffet for the monthly accounts meeting, if she’s not even going to be there? Within a few days she has become redundant, in all senses of the word.
After two weeks of haunting her own house like an underemployed ghost, with nothing to do beyond answering a few emails each day, she smartens herself up and takes the tube to Old Street to visit the office. Heads turn as she walks in, and her co-workers give her awkward little smiles before returning to staring at their screens.
Lucy taps on the open door to Megan’s office.
‘Lucy… hi!’ Megan pauses midway between desk and filing cabinet. ‘Do we have a meeting?’
‘No, I just thought I’d pop in for a quick chat.’
‘Sure.’ Megan smiles, but it doesn’t quite make it all the way to her eyes.
‘I’ve got to be honest, Megan, I’m finding this working at home thing tough. I just don’t have enough to do. So I was wondering if we could set an end date on it. Maybe the end of next week? Or the week after.’
There’s a heavy pause. ‘We didn’t get the Starflower Trust account,’ Megan says eventually. ‘They assured us it was nothing to do with what happened over drinks, but—’
‘So can I come back?’
Megan rubs her forehead. ‘Lucy, I’m afraid it’s not that simple. We had another visit from him today. From your acquaintance.’
‘From Denny?’ Lucy repeats stupidly.
‘Yes. Now, I’m bound to say, he didn’t make any trouble. He asked for you, and once he knew you weren’t here, he left peaceably enough. But the visit was unsettling for your colleagues, you have to understand that.’
‘Yes.’ Lucy feels an acid surge of panic curdling her insides. ‘Yes, but—’
‘Now that he knows you’re working at home, and not here, hopefully that will be the end of it.’
‘You told him that?’ Lucy’s voice rises to a squeak.
It’s Megan’s turn to look disturbed. ‘Sorry, should I not have done that? We didn’t give him your address or anything; we’d never give out an employee’s personal information. Only we didn’t want him making further visits to the office.’
‘No,’ Lucy says heavily, standing up. ‘No it’s all right. He already knows where I live anyway.’
The text comes first.
you lost yr boyfriend and now you lost yr job
Strictly speaking this isn’t true: Lucy is still on the payroll of The Pink Square Agency. She ignores it, which she knows will prompt a further message. Sure enough, it arrives ten minutes later.
never mind you’ve still got all that lovely wonga
Her mobile rings with a withheld number, once, twice, a dozen times or more. She turns off the sound, but still the calls keep coming every few seconds, so she switches it off altogether. Tomorrow she will have to go and buy a new mobile phone; her fifth in as many months if she counts the handset Denny gave her. The landline starts ringing next, over and over until she’s forced to unplug it. She phones the locksmith who fitted her super-strong German locks and pleads for reassurance: are they absolutely sure that they can’t be picked or forced? Could they send someone round to check, and to fit an additional bolt, just in case?
The next day is a bad day. There are far worse to come, but as yet Lucy has no way of knowing this. You believe you’ve hit the bottom, until you fall still further.
After another frustrating eight hours of sitting watch over an inert email inbox, she decides she needs to do something physically active. Something that will exhaust her and help her to sleep. It’s a sultry, humid August evening, but she changes into running shorts and sports bra, sets her phone to flight mode and plugs in her headphones, then heads at a slow jog along Lonsdale Road and towards the river. Lost in her playlist, and without really thinking about an end destination, she ends up crossing the bridge to Hammersmith. She’s pounding along the Thames path past the Blue Anchor when she sees him.
The pub’s terrace is thronged with people, as it is every summer evening, so at first Lucy’s not entirely sure from the brief glimpse of the side of his head. But when she glances back over her shoulder, she catches him in profile and then she is sure. It’s Noah, and he’s with a girl.
She takes in details, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Petite frame, auburn
hair and freckles. Huge sunglasses that don’t leave much face visible, tight jeans, a low-cut top and high cork wedges. The girl is hanging onto Noah’s arm, tilting her face up to his and laughing. And Lucy knows instinctively from the tension in his neck that he’s seen her too but is pretending that he hasn’t. With her stomach churning queasily, she dips her head and runs on, making sure to take a different route back to the bridge.
Showered, and with a fishbowl-size glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc in her hand, she hears her mother’s voice in her head: ‘If he could move on that easily, then he wasn’t for you anyway, darling.’
She knows this is true, and yet it’s hard to completely override the feelings of rejection. Of humiliation. Then it occurs to her that the unexpected sighting might have prompted Noah to get in touch. She switches her phone out of flight mode, but there are no messages from him. Only another twenty-seven missed calls from Denny Renard, and one text.
you can’t keep on avoiding me I know where u live, remember
Once she has drunk most of the bottle of white wine, Lucy double-bolts the front door and locks the security grilles before retiring upstairs.
Strange, illogical dreams assail her as soon as she’s asleep: dreams of cooking in the kitchen of Noah’s flat and him becoming angry with her because she keeps burning the bacon they’re supposed to be eating for breakfast. It doesn’t matter how many times she tries again with fresh rashers it still manages to burn.
Burning…
Her eyes fly open and the smell bridges dream and reality. The smell of smoke. And a distinctive sound: that of the letter box thumping shut. She rushes to the landing and sees it immediately on the hall floor: an orange ball of flame. A livid scorch mark is lapping the wooden floorboards and the acrid smoke from the varnish hits the smoke alarm sensor, making it screech at an unbearable pitch.
Lucy freezes to the spot. Are you supposed to open doors and windows or close them in a fire? She knows the answer to this question, but her brain is dulled by the screaming alarm and refuses to dredge up the answer. There is a fire extinguisher somewhere in the house, but she can’t remember where that is either. She closes her eyes momentarily trying to picture it. First aid kit. It’s near the first aid kit. Which is in the utility room cupboard.
Taking the stairs two at a time, she runs to the utility room and finds the extinguisher. Tries to read the instructions but can’t without her contacts in. A vague memory of a fire safety drill at St Theresa’s comes back to her: Pull the pin, keep the nozzle down, aim at the base of the fire.
The cloud of chemicals smothers the flames with astonishing speed, leaving a fog of unpleasant-smelling vapour hanging in the air. Lucy opens the front door to let in a draught, and a few seconds later, the fire alarm eventually stops its distracting racket.
Setting down the fire extinguisher, she drops to her knees to inspect the damage. The wooden floor is indelibly marked and an area a metre square will need to be replaced. The pile of sodden ash is more or less all that remains of whatever was put through the letter box. Except for one piece of paper that was not quite destroyed and which reveals the fragment of an all-too-familiar image.
Lucy picks it up and examines it. It’s a photocopy of her counterfeit passport. There’s her own headshot, blonde and blandly smiling, above the name ‘Joanne Louise Chandler’. And handwritten underneath it in heavy black marker are three letters: R.I.P.
Thirty
‘Hold on… so let me get try and get this straight.’
After waiting for an hour and a half at Roehampton Police Station, Lucy is finally sitting down in front of a young plain-clothes officer: DC Dale Andrewes. He’s black, good-looking and has intricate and well-trimmed facial hair.
‘This is you?’ He points at the photo on the fragment of burned paper. The image, now in a clear plastic evidence bag, is barely discernible,
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re saying you’re not Joanne Chandler?’ He looks down at the form passed to him by the desk sergeant. ‘You’re Lucinda Wheedon?’
‘Yes.’
‘So this is not copied from your actual passport?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me if I’m confused… why is your photo on a counterfeit passport? Were you the one who made this document?’
‘No, that was the man who set the copy on fire and shoved it through my letter box. He’s called Denny Renard. Well, that’s the name he gave. I’m not sure it’s his real one.’
DC Andrewes gives her a searching look, taking in her pink Reiss linen dress, her expensive handbag, her manicured nails. ‘Mrs Wheedon, are you aware that this –’ he waves at the evidence bag – ‘is a copy of what in legal terms is known as a false instrument?’
‘I’ve never actually used it,’ Lucy says quickly. ‘And I don’t intend to: I’ll happily bring the original down to the police station and hand it in.’
‘Even having it in your possession is an offence under the Forgery and Counterfeiting Act. Carries a penalty of up to two.’ When he sees Lucy’s bewildered expression, he adds helpfully, ‘Years in prison.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m aware there are consequences, yes. I can only tell you I bought it because my… because I was desperate. I was experiencing extreme domestic violence.’
‘I see.’ He looks down at a manila file on the desk in front of him. ‘And this was at the hands of your husband? The eminent heart surgeon who wrapped his car round a tree? I’ve got a copy of the statement you made at the time of that incident.’ Aware that he is sounding callous, Andrewes adds, ‘You’ve clearly had a very difficult few months.’
‘Yes,’ says Lucy. ‘And it’s not over. Denny – the one who got me the passport – he’s been blackmailing me since my husband died. Well, trying to.’
‘I hope you’ve not given him any money?’
She shakes her head firmly. ‘No. And I don’t intend to.’ She thinks about the fifty thousand pounds she offered Denny to leave her alone, but decides not to mention it, or the audiotape he made of her conspiring to murder, but which she currently can’t prove exists. ‘He’s started a campaign of harassment. Phone calls, texts, showing up at my place of work.’
‘I don’t suppose you happen to know his address?’ Andrewes turns to the computer terminal on his desk and enters a login.
‘No, I’m afraid not. I think he’s based somewhere in the Redgate area – in Surrey – but I’m not one hundred per cent certain.’
‘And his date of birth… I don’t suppose you know that?’
Lucy shakes her head. ‘I’d say he was somewhere between late thirties and early forties. White. Caucasian.’
‘We’ll test the paper for DNA, but I think that the fire’s probably destroyed anything viable…’ He starts tapping a series of keys. ‘I’ve got no one under the name of Denny Renard – or Dennis – on the PNC.’ He taps some more. ‘Or the DVLA database.’
Lucy frowns. ‘So what should I do now?’
‘I’ll make some more enquiries, but in the meantime we can’t do anything about the stalking without hard evidence. I need you to log every incident that happens from now on. Keep screenshots of texts and missed-call notifications.’
‘I plan to change my mobile number. Again.’
‘Good: do that. And keep a record of anything suspicious that comes through your door. And obviously if “Renard”,’ he makes air quotes, ‘turns up in person, at your house or anywhere else, then you must phone us straight away. And by that, I mean phone 999.’
Lucy nods slowly, shouldering her bag and standing up. ‘What about the passport? And I also have a driving licence in the same name.’
‘Bring them here to me,’ DC Andrewes stands up and proffers a hand. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t rule out the possibility of you being charged.’
Lucy sucks in her breath and holds it there until her sternum begins to hurt. She looks across the desk at Andrewes and her words tumble out with the gush of her ex
halation. ‘Honest to God, the way I feel right now…’
The past two days unspool in her head like video tape. Her rampant insomnia, her terror every time footsteps behind her on the street get too close, her heart leaping from her chest at every moving shadow. DC Andrewes has never met her before and therefore doesn’t know that these pink-rimmed eyes and these patches of scaly eczema all over her arms are not normal. That this dress now hanging loosely used to fit her snugly round the waist.
‘…Prison would be the better option. At least I’d be safe there.’
Dale Andrewes manages a smile. ‘I doubt very much it would come to that. Even if your case is passed to the CPS, which isn’t all that likely… well, pleading guilty, first time offence, combined with you never actually using the documents, and the mitigation of spousal abuse… you’d be looking at a fine, and maybe community service. Suspended sentence at the very worst.’
A thought occurs to Lucy. ‘What if I do some digging and try to find more about Renard? Someone recommended him after all: somebody must know something.’
‘If you come up with any new information, then please get in touch with me straight away.’ Andrewes reaches in a back pocket and hands her one of his business cards. ‘But – please – your priority is to remain safe. My advice would be to go and stay with a friend or a relative for a bit. Get away from it all.’ He comes round the desk to open the door of the interview room for her, adding as he closes it behind her: ‘This man is clearly dangerous.’
Lucy is only too happy to take police advice.
She emails Megan, saying she plans to take a few days off, painfully aware that since her exile, her absence won’t make any difference to her colleagues at the agency. Then she phones Jeffrey and tells him she is coming to visit. It occurs to her that she should stay the night at his bungalow, but she is simply too tired. She can’t face the probing, the enquiries about the happenings of recent weeks, the need for an update on her new career at Pink Square. So her father’s offer of a bed is politely declined and instead she books herself in to the Eastland Manor Hotel, some five miles from Redgate. Any rising guilt over splurging on a large suite for herself is quickly quashed. She’s earned a break.