I See You (16 page)

‘Good thing I’m married to the job, isn’t it?’ She followed the DI.

Kelly, not knowing whether she was expected to stay or go, went with Lucinda. She had assumed the DI would have his own office, but Nick Rampello’s desk space was open-plan, like the rest of the MIT. Only the DCI’s office appeared to be separate, the door closed and no lights showing through the slatted blinds.

Nick gestured to Kelly to take a seat. ‘I need links between these two jobs,’ he said to Lucinda, who was already scribbling in a notebook. ‘Do they know each other? Are they chatline operatives? Escorts? What does Walker do for a living? Check out where Tanning works – is she a teacher like Beckett? Do her children go to Beckett’s school?’ Kelly listened, sensing that, even though she had the answers to some of the questions the DI was firing out, an interruption from her wouldn’t be welcome.
She would speak to Lucinda afterwards and give her as much information as she knew.

Nick continued. ‘See if any of them used dating sites. I had a call from Zoe Walker’s partner; it’s possible he found out she was using the site and now she’s claiming she knows nothing about it.’

‘Sir, she wasn’t using a dating site,’ Kelly said. ‘Zoe Walker was very agitated when she made contact with me.’

‘As she might be if, say, an aggressive partner discovered she was seeing other people,’ Nick countered. He turned to Lucinda. ‘Get Bob to pull the original file from BTP and go over it; make sure everything was done properly, and do it again if it wasn’t.’

Kelly narrowed her eyes. It was hardly a surprise to find a Met officer dismissing work done by another force, but he could at least have the decency not to do it in front of her. ‘CCTV was secured immediately,’ she said, deliberately looking at Lucinda, and not the DI. ‘I can get you copies tomorrow, as well as stills of the offender. Given the original offence, I didn’t consider it proportionate to request DNA at the time, but I’m assuming budget won’t be a problem now: the bag has been correctly exhibited and retained by BTP, and I can arrange for your team to have access. Cathy Tanning has no children, she isn’t a teacher and she has never worked as an escort. Nor, just as pertinently, has Zoe Walker, whose photograph also appears in the
London Gazette
, and who is understandably rather concerned for her safety.’ Kelly took a breath.

‘Have you finished?’ Nick Rampello said. He didn’t wait for an answer, turning instead to Lucinda. ‘Come back to me in an hour and let me know how you’ve got on.’

Lucinda nodded, standing up and smiling to Kelly. ‘Nice to meet you.’

The DI waited until Lucinda had returned to her desk, before folding his arms and staring at Kelly. ‘Do you make a habit of undermining your senior officers?’

‘No,
sir.’
Do you make a habit of rubbishing another officer’s work?
she wanted to add.

The DI looked as though he were about to continue, but, perhaps remembering that Kelly wasn’t his officer to reprimand, unfolded his arms and stood up. ‘Thanks for letting us know about the link between the jobs. I’ll give my oppo a call later and take ownership of the bag dip. May as well bring it under one roof, even if it isn’t technically a series.’

‘Sir?’ Kelly steeled herself. She knew the answer even without asking the question, but she couldn’t leave MIT without trying.

‘Yes?’ Rampello was impatient, his mind already on the next thing on his list.

‘I’d like to carry on working the Cathy Tanning job.’

‘Sorry, but that doesn’t make sense.’ Perhaps seeing the disappointment in Kelly’s face, he sighed. ‘Look, you identified the link between the two jobs. You were quite right to get in touch, and I really appreciate you coming to the briefing. You’re off-duty, right?’ Kelly nodded. ‘But the job needs to come to us. Any series will always be dealt with by the team dealing with the lead crime; in this case, that’s Tania Beckett’s murder, which puts the series under MetPol’s jurisdiction, not British Transport Police’s. As I’ve already made clear, I’m reserving judgement on whether this is a series, but if it is, your bag-dip victim may have narrowly escaped being a murder victim. That’s a job for MIT, not your Dip Squad.’

It was unarguable.

‘Could I work with you?’ The words were out before she’d had a chance to sense-check them. ‘A secondment, I mean. I investigated the Cathy Tanning job when it came in, and I can help with the Underground enquiries on your murder case – I know every inch of the Tube and you’ll need hours of CCTV footage, right?’

Nick Rampello was polite but to the point. ‘We’ve got enough resources.’ He gave her a smile which softened what came next.
‘Besides, I have a feeling working with you might be rather exhausting.’

‘I’m not inexperienced, sir. I spent four years on the Sexual Offences Unit in BTP. I’m a good investigator.’

‘As a DC?’ Kelly nodded. ‘Why are you back in uniform?’

For a second Kelly thought about bending the truth. Claiming she’d wanted more operational experience, or she was working towards her sergeant’s exam. But something told her Nick Rampello would see through her in a heartbeat.

‘It’s complicated.’

Nick surveyed her for a moment and she held her breath, wondering if he was about to change his mind. But he dropped his gaze and opened his daybook, the action dismissing her even before he spoke.

‘I’m afraid I don’t do complicated.’

I
pull the grey blanket around my shoulders. It’s wool, and looks nice draped across the sofa, but now it scratches my neck and makes me itch. The light makes a buzzing noise you can hear upstairs – yet another thing that needs fixing – and even though I know Simon and the kids are fast asleep I’ve left it switched off, the light from my iPad making the rest of the lounge seem even darker than it really is. The wind is howling and somewhere a gate is banging. I tried to sleep, but every sound made me jump, and eventually I gave up and came downstairs.

Someone took my photo and put it in the classifieds.

That’s the only solid fact I have, and it runs through my head on a loop.

Someone took my photo.

PC Swift believes it’s my picture too. She said she’s looking into it, that she knows that sounds like a brush-off, but that she really is working on it. I wish I could trust her, but I don’t share Simon’s romanticised views of the boys and girls in blue. Life was tough when I was growing up, and round our way a police car was something to run away from, even if none of us really knew why we were running.

I tap on the screen in front of me. Tania Beckett’s Facebook page has a link to a blog; a diary written by both Tania and her mother, in the run-up to the wedding. Tania’s posts are frequent and practical: Should we have miniature gin bottles for wedding favours, or personalised Love Hearts? White roses or
yellow? There are only a handful of posts from Alison, each one laid out as a letter.

My vision blurs and I blink to clear the tears. It feels wrong to read on. I can’t get Tania and her mum out of my head. I crept into Katie’s room on my way downstairs, to reassure myself she was still there; still alive. There was no rehearsal last night – she did her Saturday-evening shift at the restaurant as usual – yet Isaac brought her home regardless. They walked past the lounge window, then paused for the length of a kiss before I heard her key in the lock.

‘You really like him, don’t you?’ I asked her. I expected her to brazen it out, but she looked at me with her eyes shining.

‘I really do.’

I pause, not wanting to spoil the moment, yet unable to keep quiet. ‘He’s quite a bit older than you.’ Instantly her face hardened. The swiftness of her response made me realise she’d predicted my concern.

‘He’s
thirty-one; that’s a twelve-year age gap. Simon’s fifty-four; that makes him fourteen years older than you.’

‘That’s different.’

‘Why? Because you’re an adult?’ I felt momentary relief that she understood, before I saw the flash of anger in her eyes; and the saccharine tone she’d just used was replaced with harshness. ‘So am I, Mum.’

She’s had boyfriends before, but this feels different. I can already feel her slipping away from me. One day Isaac – or some other man – will be the first person she turns to; the one she leans on when life gets too much. Did Alison Beckett feel like that?

People keep reminding me that I’m not losing a daughter
, she wrote in her last diary entry.

But she did.

I take a deep breath. I won’t lose my daughter, and I won’t let her lose me. I can’t sit by and hope the police are taking this seriously; I have to do something.

Next to me on the sofa are the adverts. I’ve cut them out from the back pages of the
London Gazette
, carefully marking the date on each one. I have twenty-eight, spread out on the sofa cushion like an art installation.

Photographic Quilt
, by Zoe Walker. It’s the sort of thing Simon would go and see at the Tate Modern.

I collected the most recent issues myself, picking up a paper every day, but the back issues I got from the
London Gazette
offices on Friday. You’d think you could walk in and ask for old copies, but of course it’s not that simple. They screw you for £6.99 for each issue. I should have photocopied the copies I found in Graham’s office at work, but by the time it occurred to me it was too late; they’d gone. Graham must already have put them out for recycling.

I hear a creak upstairs and freeze, but there’s nothing else
and I resume my search. ‘Women murdered in London’ brings up mercifully few results, and none with photos that matched the adverts beside me. I realise quickly that headlines are little help; Google images are much more useful, and far faster. I spend an hour scrolling through photographs of police officers, crime scenes, sobbing parents, and mugshots of unsuspecting women, their lives cut short. None of them are mine.

Mine.

They’ve all become ‘mine’, these women beside me. I wonder if any of them have seen their own photo; if they – like me – are frightened, thinking someone is watching them; following them.

A blonde woman catches my eye. She’s sporting a mortarboard and gown, smiling at the camera, and I feel a glimmer of recognition. I look down at the adverts. They’re all familiar to me now, and I know exactly which one I’m trying to find.

There.

Is it the same woman? I tap my screen and the image becomes a news page – from the
London Gazette’s
own website, ironically.

POLICE PROBE MURDER OF WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN TURNHAM GREEN.

West London. District line, I think, trying to picture the stops. The other side of London from where Tania Beckett was killed. Could they be connected? The woman’s name is Laura Keen and there are three photos of her at the bottom of the article. Another in her graduation gown, standing between a couple who must be her parents. The second is less posed; she’s laughing and raising a glass to the camera. A student flat, I think, noting the empty wine bottles in the background, and the patterned throw used as a makeshift curtain. Finally there’s what looks like a work photo; she’s wearing a collared shirt and jacket, and her hair is neatly tied back. I make the photo larger, then pick up the advert and hold it next to the screen.

It’s
her.

I don’t let myself dwell on what this means. I bookmark the page and send the link by email to myself at work so I can print out the article. I change my search term to ‘sexual assaults on women in London’, then realise it’s a fruitless quest. The images that fill my screen are of men, not women, and when I tap to access the articles the victims are nameless; faceless. I find myself frustrated by the very anonymity that is there to protect them.

My attention is caught by a headline above a CCTV image:

POLICE HUNT FOR PERVERT WHO SEXUALLY ASSAULTED WOMAN ON EARLY MORNING LONDON UNDERGROUND TRAIN.

There is scant detail.

A 26-year-old woman was travelling on the District line from Fulham Broadway when a man inappropriately touched her. British Transport Police has released a CCTV image of a man they want to trace in connection with the incident.

I look at the adverts. ‘Did this happen to one of you?’ I say aloud. The CCTV still is absurdly bad: so blurry, and so fleeting it’s impossible even to say what colour hair the man has. His own mother would be hard pushed to recognise him.

I bookmark the article, just in case, then stare at my screen. This is pointless. Like a game of Snap with half the cards missing. I turn off the iPad as I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs. I start to gather up the photos, but the action causes several to float on to the floor, and when Simon comes into the lounge, rubbing his eyes, I’m still picking them up.

‘I woke up and you weren’t there. What are you doing?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

Simon looks at the adverts in my hand.

‘From the
London Gazette
.’ I start to lay them out again on the cushion beside me. ‘There’s one every day.’

‘But what are you doing with them?’

‘Trying
to find out what’s happened to the women in the adverts.’ I don’t tell him the real reason I’ve bought so many back issues of the
Gazette
, because to say it out loud would be to acknowledge that it could actually happen. That one day I’ll open a copy of the
Gazette
, and find Katie’s face staring out at me.