A tiny thrill. He was in.
Jitesh reset the journalist’s password, then logged in and scrolled through her most recent sent messages. There were three from this morning, all to a guy named Josh Genower, all marked ‘Urgent’.
The first two were broken sentences confirming the key facts as they’d emerged from the murder scene. Josh seemed to be Sam’s editor, based at the newspaper’s Fort Dunlop HQ. The third and final email had been sent an hour later.
Josh. Tried calling just now but you were on the other line. Have confirmed the name and age of the murder victim. Natasha Alleyne, 24. My source tells me the lad they’ve arrested for it is Natasha’s boyfriend, Theo Kendrick. The names are embargoed until they can notify the next of kin. Can you get the team on to it while I finish off here – social media, etc., etc. – so that once we get the green light we’ll be ready to go? I’ll be back at the office in half an hour or so. S x
Natasha Alleyne and Theo Kendrick.
He wrote the names on a Post-it and went over to Jessamine’s desk. Still busy scanning news sites, she took a few seconds to notice him.
‘Yes?’ She blinked, struggling to refocus after staring at the screen for so long. ‘Can I help?’
‘Here.’ He handed her the scrap of paper. ‘I th-think th-this is what you’re looking for.’
She peered at the paper and, for a moment, she seemed confused. Jitesh worried that he’d made a horrible mistake. Maybe she didn’t care about the names after all. Then her hand flew to her mouth. She looked back at the screen, comparing the names on the Post-it with what she saw there. ‘I don’t understand. How did you find this?’
But Jitesh was already gone, his conscience absolved, on to his next job with Malcolm, a new spring in his step.
Sarah
Sarah sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, a series of photographs spread out in front of her. The man had asked her to send him more pictures of herself. This time he wanted some from when she was younger, as a small child.
Wanting to please him, Sarah had waited until her mum was out of the flat, then gone into the living room and the shelves where the photo albums were kept. She hadn’t looked through them in years and it had been nice to see them again, to revel in the retro creaking noise the spine made whenever you turned a page. Some of the clear plastic film that covered the pictures had come loose, sticking the edges of the gluey cardboard together. She had adjusted them carefully, trying to prevent any further damage.
It had taken her ages to choose but in the end Sarah had selected some pictures that seemed to match up with what he’d asked for.
The first was of her when she was really little. Maybe three years old. Her hair was fairer then. Strawberry blonde. In it she was on a swing at the park, her hands clinging to the safety bar. Her expression was scared and uncertain, and Sarah wondered if it was because she had been frightened of the swing going too high or something else, some residue of her life before.
He’d wanted as many as possible so she’d chosen another three: one of her at the beach, one of her in the garden at her granddad’s house in Somerset and one of her in the school play.
Spacing them evenly on the floor, she got out her iPhone ready to make digital copies she could send via email, but then she stopped to watch the afternoon sun travel across each of the photographs in turn. She wanted to do as he asked, to show off this part of herself and, in doing so, help him get to know her better, but she also wanted to protect the pictures and the three-year-old girl gripping the swing.
In the end she didn’t send them. But she didn’t return them to their albums either. Instead she scooped them into a shallow pile and placed them in an envelope in her desk. Tomorrow she would arrange them on the carpet again and wait for the sun to glide past.
Jessamine
Tasha’s murder dominated the six o’clock news. The baby, they said, was in intensive care, Tasha’s mother, the baby’s grandmother, by the infant’s side.
Jessamine had spent the afternoon torturing herself as to whether she could or should have done more to intervene. She’d been speaking to Tasha on the helpline for months. If only she’d been more forceful, perhaps she could have persuaded her to go to a refuge. Tasha would still be alive now, safe from harm.
All things considered, going on air when she was feeling like this was not the smartest decision. She should have cried off, feigned illness, given herself time to process what had happened. But she’d thought she was okay. She’d thought she could handle it.
She was wrong.
Halfway through her radio show, things started to go awry.
They’d been discussing the criminology of a man named Victor Lambert. Lambert, upon discovering his wife was going to leave him for another man, had murdered his four children and arranged their bodies on chairs around the kitchen table for his wife to discover when she returned from work. Until that day, Lambert had apparently led an uneventful, law-abiding life, without so much as a parking ticket.
In the studio to discuss the case was Luke Scratcher, a criminal psychologist who specialized in filicide, and O’Brien. They’d reached the point where they opened the discussion to listeners. Jessamine took a call from a woman who wanted to talk about her theories on why the last decade had seen a marked increase in family annihilation cases and an elderly gentleman who came on to point out gently that, when it came to men like Lambert, he would very much like the death penalty to be reinstated.
Then Jessamine took a call from Ian in Lyme Regis.
Jessamine Gooch
What are your thoughts on Victor Lambert? Were the signs always there?
Ian
His wife has to take some responsibility for what happened. She could have left him at any point in the years preceding the murders. She knew what kind of man he was, what he was capable of. These deaths are on him and her. End of.
Jessamine looked through the glass to Mick. It was his job to vet the callers, partly to find people with the most interesting things to say but also to weed out the weirdos or those who were just plain offensive. Still, sometimes, despite his best efforts, the odd one managed to slip through.
Jessamine Gooch
The mother could have done more to prevent the deaths of her children. Luke Scratcher, what would you say to that?
The psychologist parried Ian’s comments with grace and professionalism, citing the complex reasons women stay with abusive partners. Jessamine went to move on to the next caller but it seemed Ian from Lyme Regis wasn’t done.
Ian
Doesn’t change the fact that their blood is on her hands. It’s like that woman on the news today. The one that got stabbed.
Jessamine felt her diaphragm tighten. In the corner of her vision, the red light of the ‘On Air’ box seemed to flicker and flare.
Ian
By all accounts her boyfriend, the one that did it, was knocking her around for years. But she stayed and now that baby is going to grow up without a mother.
She tried to take a breath but the air seemed to stall near her sternum. She tried again, but with every breath she took the less space there seemed to be in her lungs until, finally, she felt as if she could breathe into only a tiny gap near her collarbone.
Jessamine Gooch
Let me get this straight.
She worked hard to keep her voice neutral. She was here to moderate, not take sides. Callers were often antagonistic. It was her job to steer and deflect the conversation away from inappropriate or nasty exchanges or, if they became too much, to cut them off completely. But she couldn’t help it. Her vocal cords tightened. When she spoke next her voice was clipped, her tone an octave higher.
Jessamine Gooch
You’re saying that being stabbed, being murdered was her own fault?
Mick caught the new edge to her tone. Through the glass, his eyes widened and he shook his head, a warning.
Ian
She should have been out that door the first time he raised his
hand. She chose to stay.
O’Brien
Ian, I’m sure you don’t mean that.
But O’Brien’s attempt to defuse the situation was no good.
Jessamine tried to focus but her head was too full of stuff. Of what Tasha must have looked like this morning, all ready for her last shift at work in her silly Christmas pudding dress. Of the white sheet in the middle of the pavement, Tasha’s blood pooling on the ground.
The best thing to do with callers like Ian was to get rid of them politely and move on to something else.
Jessamine Gooch
Ian, you’re a horrible, horrible person.
Mick got to his feet and made a ‘quit it’ slicing motion across his throat. But it was too late. Jessamine’s heart was racing. Finally, the cloud of air near her sternum seemed to disperse. It rushed down into her lungs, filling them with oxygen.
Jessamine Gooch
Go fuck yourself.
2003
Rowena
Another party in London. The end of the evening.
Queenie and Erin are here, along with some of the other regular girls. We sit around, waiting to be taken home. Billy, the kid with the Game Boy, lies asleep on the floor at our feet. His knees are tucked into his chest and he is sucking his thumb.
For the first time tonight there was a celebrity there, an older man with shaggy black hair who I recognised from the telly, and his brother, who is not famous at all. Queenie got all excited when they walked in but I found them both repulsive.
Before things got started, the one with the black hair made a point of going around the room and kissing the hand of every girl, as though he was a knight in shining armour. His hair was coated with a mousse that made it look wet and when he kissed my hand I saw his roots were grey.
I want to go now. I feel sore and outside of myself. It’s a long drive back to Oxford and I have school tomorrow but Leo is in the kitchen, talking to one of the men. I notice that every time the other man makes a joke Leo laughs that bit too easily. It reminds me of a new kid arriving at the home. Sometimes they can be so desperate to make friends, to make everyone like them. It’s hard to watch.
The man drains his drink and, before he can refuse another, Leo rushes to fill it. He starts talking about his wife and her love of tennis. The man is not interested but Leo doesn’t seem to realise this and keeps going.
‘Every afternoon, like clockwork. She eats lunch and then she grabs her racquet and she’s off to the club for her lesson with Raoul, her coach.’ He says the coach’s name in this high-pitched drawn-out way that I think is supposed to sound like his wife. ‘She never misses a game. Sometimes I wonder if I should be worried, if it’s not the tennis she’s in love with but Raoul.’
His wife.
Just lately, I’ve found myself wondering more and more about his family and the pictures I saw, that first night at the garden party. I think it’s because I keep finding things in the back seat of the car that must belong to them. A stray hair-slide, a lipstick, a well-thumbed Judy Blume. I try to imagine what he’s like as a father and husband, if they have any clue as to what he gets up to in his spare time.
I feel my eyes start to close and place my head in Queenie’s lap. She smoothes my hair away from my ears, then does it again and again, her nails trailing across my scalp. My mum used to do the exact same thing every night, just before she went out. I’d told Queenie about it once, how much I’d loved it when she did that for me but also how hard I’d fight to keep my eyes open, even when I was exhausted, as I so didn’t want her to go.
Before long I’m asleep, but I know that, even once my breathing starts to slow, Queenie will continue to stroke my hair. Even when my eyes close, she will still be there.
Tuesday 20 December
Present day
Jitesh
Jitesh wandered around the café, a mug of hot chocolate in one hand, an almond croissant in the other, and tried to work out which seat would afford him the clearest view of the door. Meera had arranged to meet her friend Katy there at eight thirty and he wanted advance warning of her arrival.
He settled on one of the tables in the raised section at the back. Parallel to the toilets and obscured by a wooden barrier it was the perfect vantage-point and would allow him to see without being seen. His plan was to wait until they had taken their seats and walk slowly past their table on his way out. He’d catch Meera’s eye and say hello.
He sat back to wait and tried to ignore the feelings of disgust that had plagued him all morning. He knew that engineering a meeting like this was creepy, but he told himself it was a one-time thing. He’d been locked out of Meera’s email within twenty-four hours of breaking into her account (this was standard, his hacking methodology had a limited time-span: as soon as people realised what had happened, they tended to up the ante on their security questions and change their password) so after today any meetings would have to come about through conventional means.
He’d just taken his first bite of croissant when someone he recognised entered the café.
Kishor Patel.
He startled and the croissant slipped down his gullet and lodged there. Coughing and spluttering, Jitesh ducked behind the barrier and gulped his hot chocolate, trying to clear the blockage.
Once he was sufficiently recovered he ventured a peek.
Wearing a hoody, Kishor had a black and red striped college scarf tied around his neck. He bought a coffee and, after sorting himself out with milk and sugar, went to sit at a table by the window.
Seeing him in person was less shocking than it had been that night at the Mandir, but still Jitesh had to concentrate on his breathing until his heart rate returned to normal. Was this how it would be when he took up his place at Cambridge next year? At the same college, it would be impossible to avoid each other. Would he fall apart every time he saw Kishor in the bar or walking to lectures on the other side of the quad?
Back in January he’d imagined things differently. As soon as Kishor had invited him to his party, Jitesh had developed notions of the two of them spending the remainder of their upper-sixth year becoming best pals, a friendship that would continue when they went up to college in October. It wouldn’t be long before they were known as the Neasden boys. Maybe they’d even share a set in Chapel Court in their second year.
But then he’d attended the party. He’d gone in search of the bathroom and, in an instant, everything had changed.
He’d pushed a door open into a dark room, then stepped inside, trying to gauge whether it contained a toilet, then had seen his mistake. A desk in the corner, an open laptop and a wall of Arsenal posters had identified it as a bedroom or study.
Jitesh used a napkin to wipe the croissant grease from his hands and finished the last of his hot chocolate. There was still another ten minutes before Meera was due to arrive but he didn’t care. He couldn’t risk another encounter with Kishor. He gathered his things and peered over the wooden divider. Kishor was engrossed in his phone. He put on his coat, kept his head down and left the café unnoticed.
He hadn’t gone far down the street when he barrelled into someone coming from the opposite direction.
‘Watch it.’
He looked up, about to apologise and stopped.
Meera.
‘You?’ she said, smiling.
Up close he could see the neat swoop of black liner on her eyelid. Her ruby nose stud twinkled in the sunshine.
‘Jitesh, right?’
He nodded.
‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘W-w-w-work.’
‘That’s right. You’re some BBC big shot.’
‘H-h-hardly.’
She nodded at the café. ‘I’m meeting a friend.’
Katy. He already knew this from her email. It was, after all, the reason he was there.
She blushed. ‘You two were at school together.’
Jitesh stopped. He hadn’t gone to school with anyone called Katy.
/> ‘Kishor.’ She said his name proudly, like she was announcing the results of a prize draw. ‘He was there the other day, outside the Mandir.’
That night at the party, standing in the bedroom, Jitesh had noticed a shape on the bed. Too big to be a person, it spanned the length of the mattress. A pile of coats? He’d opened the door a little wider. Then he’d seen them. Kishor and Shanae. Kishor’s jeans were around his thighs and Shanae was underneath him. They were kissing, Shanae’s hands around the back of Kishor’s neck.
‘Busy here,’ shouted Kishor, his hand up Shanae’s T-shirt.
Jitesh had backed out of the room. Not fast enough.
Kishor had turned to the door.
‘You some kind of perv?’ He’d squinted against the light. ‘I said, we’re busy.’
Now Meera leaned in conspiratorially. ‘It’s all a bit random.’ She nodded at the café. ‘A girlfriend cancelled on me at the last minute so I asked Kishor if he wanted to be my breakfast date instead.’
Jitesh felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut.
After a few more seconds had passed, when he’d still failed to respond, Meera smiled awkwardly. ‘Best be on my way, then,’ she said.
Jitesh moved to block her. ‘N-n-n-no.’
She paused. There was still a smile on her face but it was close to collapse. She waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t she patted him carefully on the arm and stepped around him. ‘Nice seeing you, Jitesh.’
He wanted to say something to keep her there on the pavement, away from Kishor, a little while longer, but what?
He let her go.
Jessamine
Jessamine entered Broadcasting House, pressed her pass against the barrier and joined the crowd waiting for the lift. Judging by the whispers that greeted her, word of last night’s show had already done the rounds. She pretended not to notice the curious stares and focused instead on the statue situated in the small alcove just behind Reception. Sculpted by Eric Gill, the artist responsible for the Prospero and Ariel above the main entrance, it was called The Sower and showed a roman-nosed man in a loincloth, his hand thrust into a bag of seed. Above the statue was a gilded inscription, placed there at the opening of the building. Jessamine used her O-level Latin to translate:
The Dangerous Kind Page 11