I See You (12 page)

He scans the opening paragraph, his lips moving slightly around the unspoken words. A radio crackles on the desk beside him. The details in the
Gazette
are scant. Tania Beckett was a teaching assistant at a primary school on Holloway Road. She took the Northern line from Archway to Highgate at around 3.30 p.m., then the 43 bus to Cranley Gardens.
I was going to meet her off the bus
, her boyfriend is quoted as saying,
but it was raining and she said to stay inside. I’d do anything to turn back the clock.
There’s a photo of him with his arm around Tania, and I can’t help but wonder if we’re looking into the eyes of a killer. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Most murder victims know their attacker.

I
slide the second cutting under the barrier. ‘And this is an advert from yesterday’s
Gazette
.’ White spots dance in front of my eyes, and I blink rapidly to clear them. I bring my fingers to my forehead and feel them still burning as I take them away.

The desk officer looks from one piece of paper to the other. He has the poker face of someone who’s seen it all before, and I wonder if he’s going to tell me I’m imagining the resemblance; that the dark-haired girl with the crucifix around her neck isn’t twenty-five-year-old Tania Beckett.

But he doesn’t tell me that. Instead he picks up the phone and presses zero; pauses and holds my gaze while he waits for the operator to pick up. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he says, ‘Could you put me though to DI Rampello please?’

I text Graham to say I’ve come down with something and won’t be coming back to work. I sip tepid water and wait for someone to come and speak to me, resting my head against the cool wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ the desk officer says after an hour. He introduces himself as Derek, but it feels too familiar to use. ‘I don’t know what’s keeping him.’

‘Him’ is Detective Inspector Nick Rampello, coming to Cannon Street from what Derek referred to as ‘MIT’, before apologising for his use of jargon. ‘The Murder Investigation Team. That’s the unit tasked with looking into this young lady’s death.’

I can’t stop shaking. I keep staring at the two pictures of Tania and wondering what happened between her appearing in the
Gazette
, and lying strangled in the park in Muswell Hill.

Wondering if it’s my turn next.

It was my photo in the Gazette last Friday. I knew it the second I saw it; I should never have let myself be convinced otherwise. If I’d have gone to the police straight away, maybe it would have made a difference.

There has to be a connection. Tania Beckett was killed
twenty-four hours after her advert appeared; Cathy Tanning had her keys stolen forty-eight hours after hers. It’s been five days since I saw my own photo; how long before something happens to me?

A man comes in to present his driving documents.

‘Such a waste of time,’ he says loudly, as the desk officer methodically fills out a form. ‘Yours and mine.’ He glances at me, as if in hope of finding a sympathiser, but I don’t respond and neither does Derek. He looks at the man’s driving licence and notes down details with a slowness I suspect might be deliberate. I decide I rather like Derek. When he has finished, the man slots the licence into his wallet.

‘Thank you so much,’ he says, in a voice thick with sarcasm. ‘This is exactly how I like to spend my lunch break.’

He’s replaced by a woman with a screaming toddler looking for directions, then an elderly man who has lost his wallet. ‘I had it at Bank,’ he says, ‘when I came out of the Tube. But somewhere between there and the river it …’ he looks around as though it might materialise in the police station, ‘… vanished.’ I shut my eyes and wish I was here on such a mundane mission; that I could walk out with nothing more than mild irritation on my mind.

Derek takes the man’s details, along with a description of the wallet, and I force myself to take deep breaths. I wish DI Rampello would hurry up.

The wallet man leaves, and another hour goes by, and finally Derek picks up the phone. ‘Are you on your way? Only she’s been waiting since lunchtime.’ He glances at me, his face inscrutable. ‘Right. Sure. I’ll tell her.’

‘He’s not coming, is he?’ I feel too ill to be cross at the wasted time. What would I have done instead? I wouldn’t have got any work done.

‘It seems he’s been waylaid by some urgent enquiries. As you can imagine, the incident room is very busy. He asked me to
pass on his apologies and said he’ll be in touch. I’ll give him your number.’ He narrows his eyes at me. ‘You don’t look well, love.’

‘I’ll be okay,’ I say, but it’s far from the truth. I tell myself I’m not scared, just ill, but my hands are trembling as I find my phone and scroll through the contacts.

‘Are you anywhere near Cannon Street? I don’t feel well. I think I need to be at home.’

‘Stay where you are, Zo,’ Matt says, without hesitation, ‘I’ll come and get you.’

He tells me he’s just round the corner, but half an hour passes and it’s obvious that wasn’t the case; I think guiltily of the fares he’s missing out on while he makes a mercy dash for me. The door to the police station swings open, and to my embarrassment I feel tears rolling down my cheeks as I see his familiar face.

‘You here for your missus?’ Derek says. I don’t have the energy to correct him and Matt doesn’t bother. ‘Double strength Lemsip and a drop of whisky, that’s what she needs. Hope you feel better soon, love.’

Matt settles me in the cab, like I’m a paying customer, and turns the heating up full blast. I focus on my breathing, trying to stop the violent shaking that seizes my entire body.

‘When did you start feeling like this?’

‘This morning. I thought it was odd I had a hangover – I didn’t drink that much last night – then my headache got worse and I started feeling shaky.’

‘Flu.’ He diagnoses me without hesitation. Like most cabbies, Matt is an expert in everything. He watches me in the rear-view mirror, his eyes flicking between me and the road ahead. ‘What were you doing at the cop shop?’

‘There was a murder last night. In a park close to Cranley Gardens.’

‘Crouch End?’

‘Yes.
She was strangled.’ I tell him about the
London Gazette
adverts; about my own photo, then seeing Tania Beckett.

‘Are you sure it’s the same woman?’

I nod, although he has his eyes trained on the road ahead. He sucks his teeth, then spins the steering wheel decisively to the left, cutting through one-way streets so narrow I could reach through my window and touch the brick walls as we pass.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Traffic’s a nightmare. What did the police say?’

I look out at the street, trying to get my bearings, but I’m not sure where we are. Children are walking home from school; some on their own, others still clutching their mothers’ hands.

‘They called the detective inspector in charge of the case, but he didn’t come.’

‘Figures.’

‘I’m scared, Matt.’

He doesn’t say anything. He never was any good at handling emotions.

‘If it really was my photo in the paper, then something’s going to happen to me. Something bad.’ My throat feels scratchy; a hard lump preventing me from swallowing.

‘Do the police think there’s a link between the adverts and this murder?’

Finally we emerge from the warren of tiny streets, and I see the South Circular. We’re nearly home. My eyes are stinging so badly it hurts to keep them open. I blink rapidly in an attempt to find some moisture.

‘The desk officer seemed to take me seriously,’ I say. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. ‘But I don’t know if the detective inspector will. I haven’t told him about my photo yet – I didn’t have a chance.’

‘This is weird shit, Zo.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that. I thought I was going nuts when I saw the picture. I think Simon still thinks I am.’

Matt
looks at me sharply. ‘He doesn’t believe you?’

I could kick myself. As if Matt needs any more ammunition against Simon.

‘He thinks there’s a rational explanation.’

‘What do you think?’

I don’t answer.
I think I’m going to be murdered
.

We pull up outside my house and I open my handbag.

‘Let me give you some money.’

‘You’re all right.’

‘You shouldn’t be out of pocket, Matt, it isn’t fair—’

‘I don’t want your money, Zo,’ he snaps. ‘Put it away.’ His tone softens. ‘Here, I’ll help you inside.’

‘I can manage.’ But as I stand up my knees start to buckle and he catches me before I fall.

‘Sure you can.’

He takes my key and opens the front door, then hesitates.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Simon’s at work.’ I’m too ill to feel disloyal. I hang my handbag and coat over the banister and let Matt help me up the stairs. He pauses at the top, unsure where my bedroom is, and I point to the door next to Katie’s. ‘I’ll be fine, now,’ I tell him, but he takes no notice, opening the door and keeping hold of my arm as we shuffle into the bedroom together.

He pulls down the duvet on the left side of the bed. The side I used to sleep on when we were married. Now it’s Simon’s things on the table to the left; his book, a spare pair of reading glasses, a leather tray for his watch and pocket change. If Matt notices he doesn’t say anything.

I crawl into bed, fully clothed.

Simon wakes me. It’s dark outside and he turns on the bedside light. ‘You’ve been asleep since I got home. Are you ill?’ He’s whispering, one hand clamped around my mobile phone. ‘There’s a police officer on the phone. What’s going on? Has something
happened?’ I’m hot and sticky, and when I lift my head from the pillow it aches. I reach for the phone but Simon holds it away. ‘Why are the police calling you?’

‘I’ll explain later.’ My voice disappears halfway through the last word and I cough to wake it up. Simon hands me my mobile and sits on the bed. I’m still feverish, but I feel better for having slept.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘This is Zoe Walker.’

‘Mrs Walker, this is DI Rampello from the North West Murder Investigation Team. I understand you wanted to speak to me.’ He sounds distracted. Bored or tired. Or both.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m at home now, if you’d like to come round.’ Simon opens his hands and mouths, ‘What’s happened?’

I shake my head at him, irritated by the interruption. The reception at home is bad and I don’t want to miss what DI Rampello is saying.

‘… probably all I need for now.’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘You didn’t know Tania Beckett, I understand?’

‘No, but—’

‘So you don’t know if she was working as an escort, or running a sex chatline?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ He’s brisk; speaking fast as though I’m just one in a long list of calls he has to make tonight. ‘So Tania’s photo appeared in a chatline advert in the
London Gazette
yesterday, Monday sixteenth of November. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you contacted us when you recognised her photo on the news this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s really helpful, thank you for your time.’

‘But don’t you want to speak to me? Take a statement?’

‘If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.’ He puts the
phone down while I’m still talking. Simon now looks more cross than confused.

‘Will you please tell me what’s happened?’

‘It’s the girl,’ I say. ‘The one who was murdered. The picture I showed you this morning.’

I ran upstairs this morning as soon as the news report finished, shaking Simon awake; my words falling over themselves.

‘What if it’s all to do with the adverts, Si?’ I said, my voice cracking. ‘What if someone’s putting in photos of women they’re going to murder, and I’m next?’

Simon pulled me into an awkward hug. ‘Sweetheart, don’t you think you might be overplaying this a bit? I read somewhere a hundred people are murdered in London every year. Every year! That’s – what? – about eight a month. I know it’s awful, but this has nothing to do with a free rag.’

‘I’m going to go to the police station at lunchtime,’ I told him. I could see he still thought I was being melodramatic.

‘Did the police take you seriously?’ he says now, sitting on the end of the bed. He squashes my toes and I pull my feet out of the way.

I shrug. ‘The man on the desk today was nice. But he called the detective inspector dealing with the case and he didn’t come, and now he says they’ve got all they need from me and they’ll call me if they want to speak to me again.’ Tears push their way out from the corners of my eyes. ‘But they don’t know about the other photos; about Cathy Tanning’s, about mine!’ I start to cry, unable to think straight with my head pounding.

‘Shhh.’ Simon strokes my hair and turns my pillow to find a cool bit for me to rest my cheek against. ‘Do you want me to call them back?’

‘I haven’t even got their number. He said it was the North West Murder Investigation Team.’

‘I’ll find it. Let me get you some painkillers and a glass of water, then I’ll give them a ring.’ He moves towards the door,
then turns, as though he’s only just noticed something. ‘Why are you on my side of the bed?’

I press my face against the pillow so I don’t have to meet his gaze. ‘I must have moved around in my sleep,’ I mumble.

It’s the only thing we ever properly argue about.

‘Matt is Katie’s and Justin’s dad,’ I used to say. ‘You can’t expect me not to see him from time to time.’

Simon reluctantly conceded the point. ‘There’s no reason for him to come in the house though, is there? To sit in our lounge; drink coffee from our mugs?’

It was childish and irrational, but I didn’t want to lose Simon, and at the time it felt like a compromise.

‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘He won’t come in the house.’

When I open my eyes again there’s a glass of water on my bedside table, next to a little foil packet of pills. I take two and get out of bed. My top is creased and my trousers are twisted: I get undressed and find a pair of thick cotton pyjamas, wrapping myself in a big cardigan.

It’s nine o’clock, and downstairs I find the remnants of what looks like beef casserole. My legs still feel wobbly, and my long sleep has left me drowsy. I go into the lounge and find Simon, Justin and Katie watching TV. No one’s talking, but it’s a comfortable silence, and I stand for a moment, watching my family. Katie sees me first.