‘In which newspaper?’
I clench my fists by my side. ‘In the Gazette.’
‘And where do you think our competitors advertise?’
‘Okay, you’ve made your point.’
‘Have I, Zoe? I’m a little concerned that you don’t seem to know how this business works. Because if you’re finding it hard to understand, I’m sure I could find another office manager with bookkeeping skills.’
Checkmate.
‘I do understand it, Graham.’
His lips stretch into a smile. I can’t afford to lose my job, and he knows it.
I buy a magazine on my way home from work, determined not to even pick up a copy of the Gazette. The station is rammed; winter coats making everyone seem twice the size. I push my way along the platform to my usual spot, the extra effort worth it for the time I will gain when I change for the Overground. Beneath my feet I feel the bumpy surface installed to help blind people; my shoes protrude just beyond the yellow line and I shuffle back as far as the swell of commuters will allow. I look at the cover of my magazine, filled with increasingly impossible headlines.
MEET THE GRANDMOTHER WHO CHEATED DEATH – THREE TIMES!
I MARRIED MY SON’S WIFE!
MY TEN-MONTH-OLD BABY TRIED TO KILL ME!
I feel the rush of warm air on my face that tells me the train is seconds away. A deep rumble builds from within the tunnel and my hair blows across my face. I put up a hand to brush it aside, apologising as my arm makes contact with the woman next to me. Another raft of commuters push their way on to the platform; the bodies around me move more tightly together. I take a single step forward, less by choice than by necessity.
The front of the train fills the tunnel and I roll up my magazine into my hand. I’m trying to slot it into my handbag when I lose my balance; falling fast towards the edge of the platform. I register a solid shape between my shoulder blades; an elbow, a briefcase, a hand. I feel the bumps beneath my feet as I trip forward; the movement of dirt from beneath the tracks caused by the draught from the oncoming train. I feel a sensation of weightlessness, as my centre of gravity tips forward, my feet no longer anchored firmly on the ground. I see, coming into sharp focus, the train driver, and I register the horror on his face. We’re surely both thinking the same thing.
There’s no way he can stop in time.
Someone screams. A man shouts. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. There’s a screech of metal on metal and a roaring in my ears. I feel a sharp pain as my shoulder is wrenched back and my body twists round.
‘Are you okay?’
I open my eyes. There’s a cluster of concern around me, but the train doors are open and commuters are in a hurry. They melt away, and the train completes its exchange of passengers and begins to move.
Again, more urgent this time. ‘Are you okay?’
The man in front of me has thick grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He is tall enough for me to see the speck of congealed blood to the left of his Adam’s apple. I take an involuntary step backwards and he grabs hold of my arm.
‘Steady – I’m not sure I can handle two rescues in one day.’
‘Rescue?’ I’m trying to process what just happened.
‘You’re right, rescue’s probably an exaggeration.’ He gives a self-deprecating grin.
‘It’s you,’ I say stupidly. He looks at me blankly. ‘From the District line this morning.’
‘Oh,’ he smiles politely, ‘right. I’m sorry, I don’t …’
I’m caught off guard. I’d been so sure he was following me this morning. But he wasn’t watching me. He doesn’t even remember me.
‘No, well, why would you?’ Now I feel stupid. ‘I’ve made you miss the train. I’m sorry.’
‘There’ll be another along in a minute.’ Since we’ve been talking the platform has filled up again with people jostling to be at the front of the queue, clusters forming at regular intervals down the line, behind commuters with inside knowledge of where the doors will open.
As long as you’re all right.’ He hesitates. ‘If you need support there are people who listen … the Samaritans, maybe.’
I’m confused, then I realise what he’s saying. ‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself.’
He isn’t convinced. ‘Okay. Well, they’re there to help. You know, if you need them.’
Another burst of warm air; the rumble of an approaching train.
‘I’d better …’ He gestures vaguely towards the tracks.
‘Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you. And thank you again. I’m going to walk, I think. Get some fresh air.’
‘It was a pleasure to meet you …’ he closes with a question.
‘Zoe. Zoe Walker.’
‘Luke Friedland.’ He offers a hand. I hesitate, then shake it. He steps on to the train; smiles politely as the doors close and the train pulls away. I see a flash of a smile before the carriage disappears into the tunnel.
I don’t walk. I wait for the next train, taking care to stand well away from the edge of the platform. The thought that has been lurking at the corner of my mind finally takes shape.
Did I trip?
Or was I pushed?
14
DCI Digby hadn’t changed much in the four years since Kelly had last seen him. A little greyer around the temples, perhaps, but still young for his age, with the sharp, perceptive eyes Kelly remembered so well. He wore a well-fitting suit with a pale grey pinstripe, and shoes that shone to military standards too engrained to ever be forgotten.
‘Golf,’ he said, in response to Kelly’s compliment. ‘Always swore I’d never spend my retirement on the golf course, but Barbara said it was that or a part-time job – she didn’t want me under her feet all day. Turns out I rather enjoy it.’
‘How long have you got left?’
‘I retire in April next year. I thought about staying on, but the way we’ve been shafted lately, I’m glad to be going, to be honest.’ He took off his glasses and rested his forearms on the table between them. ‘But you didn’t call me out of the blue to find out my retirement plans. What’s going on?’
‘I’d like a secondment to Operation FURNISS,’ Kelly said.
The DCI didn’t speak. He looked appraisingly at Kelly, who didn’t flinch. Diggers had mentored Kelly when she had first joined the job, taking her on as a DC on the Sexual Offences Unit, where he was the detective inspector.
Outstanding candidate, her board feedback read. A tenacious and perceptive investigator, with high levels of victim care and clear potential for the next rank.
‘Sir, I know I messed up,’ she began.
‘You assaulted a prisoner, Kelly. That’s more than messing up. That’s six months inside, on D wing with the narks and the nonces.’ Her stomach knotted: the ball of shame and anxiety that had followed her around for the last three years.
‘I’ve changed, sir.’ She’d had counselling; six months of anger management classes that had served only to make her more angry. She’d passed with flying colours, of course; it was easy to give the right answers when you knew the game to play. The real answers would have been less palatable to the police-payroll therapist, who claimed not to judge, but had visibly blanched when Kelly had answered the question How did it feel to hit him? with It felt good.
She’d kept the truth to herself from that point. Do you regret your actions? Not in the slightest. Could you have taken any other course of action? None that would have given me such satisfaction. Would you do it again?
Would she?
The jury was still out.
‘I’ve been back for two years, now, boss,’ she told Diggers. She tried a small smile. ‘I’ve served my time.’ Diggers either didn’t notice, or didn’t appreciate, the joke. ‘I’ve recently finished a three-month attachment to the Dip Squad, and I’d like to get some experience of a Murder Investigation Team.’
‘What’s wrong with doing that in your own force?’
‘I think I’d learn a lot from
working in a Met environment,’ Kelly said, the grounds for her request prepared in advance; slipping easily off the tongue, ‘and I know you’ve got one of the strongest teams.’
The corners of Diggers’ mouth twitched, and Kelly knew she wasn’t fooling him. She held up her hands.
‘I’ve already asked the Murder Investigation Team at British Transport Police,’ she said quietly. ‘They won’t touch me.’ She forced herself to maintain eye contact; not to show him how ashamed she was, how hard she found it that her own colleagues didn’t trust her.
‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘It’s not personal, you know.’
Kelly nodded. It felt personal. Other uniformed officers were seconded to CID and MIT when extra resources were needed. Kelly never was.
‘They’re worried about no smoke without fire. They’re worried about their own jobs, their own reputations.’ He paused, as though he was debating whether to say something. ‘And maybe they’re just feeling guilty by association.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice until Kelly could barely hear him. ‘Because there isn’t a man or woman in this job who hasn’t at least once wanted to do what you did.’
Seconds passed, before Diggers broke away, shifting position and bringing his voice back to a normal level. ‘Why this case? Why Tania Beckett?’
Here, Kelly was on firmer ground. ‘The case is linked to a theft on the Underground I picked up while I was working with the Dip Squad. I’ve got a relationship with the victim already; I’d like to see the job through. If it hadn’t been for my input, the series wouldn’t even have been identified, yet.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Kelly hesitated. She didn’t know what the DCI’s relationship was with Nick Rampello. She hadn’t taken to the guy, but she wasn’t about to grass up a colleague.
Diggers picked up his coffee, took a large and noisy swallow, then set his mug down on the table. ‘Kelly, if you’ve got something to say, spit it out. If this was entirely above board you’d be speaking to me in my office, not ringing my mobile for the first time in four years and suggesting we have coffee in this …’ he looked around the café, taking in the shabby counter and the peeling posters on the wall, ‘glamorous establishment.’ A tiny lift at the corner of his lips mitigated the harshness of his words, and Kelly took a deep breath.
‘A woman called Zoe Walker contacted me to say a photo of Cathy Tanning appeared in the classifieds of the Gazette, and that her own photo had appeared a few days previously.’
‘This I know. What’s your point, Kelly?’
‘It wasn’t the first time she’d told the police about the two photos. Zoe Walker rang MIT the day Tania Beckett’s murder was reported.’ Kelly carefully avoided naming DI Rampello. ‘The team responded to the information by investigating Tania for connections to the sex industry but failed to draw any inference from the fact Mrs Walker’s own photo had been used in a similar advert without her permission, with no link whatsoever to chatlines or dating agencies. They didn’t accept we had a potential series; not until I insisted.’
Diggers didn’t speak, and Kelly hoped she hadn’t overstepped the mark.
‘They?’ he said eventually.
‘I don’t know who Zoe Walker spoke to,’ she said, taking a sip of her own coffee so she didn’t have to meet his eyes.
Diggers thought for a moment. ‘How long would you want?’
Kelly tried not to let her excitement show. ‘As long as it took.’
‘That could be months, Kelly. Years, even. Be realistic.’
‘Three months, then. I could add value, boss, I wouldn’t be a dead weight. I can handle the BTP liaison, all the Underground work …’
‘Will BTP release you for that long?’
Kelly could imagine how Sergeant Powell would react to such a request. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t asked. I hoped that with the right approach, at a senior level …’ she trailed off, meeting Diggers’ gaze.
‘You’re expecting me not only to authorise a placement for you, but to smooth the way with your own superintendent? Christ, Kelly, you don’t do things by halves, do you?’
‘I really want this, boss.’
The DCI fixed his gaze on her so intently she had to drop her own. ‘Will you be able to handle it?’
‘I know I can.’
‘I’ve got a good team up at Balfour Street. They’re a close-knit bunch, but they’re experienced detectives; they can all work on their own; they can all withstand the pressure of an intense investigation.’
‘I’m a good copper, boss.’
‘They can all handle emotionally difficult cases,’ he went on, and this time there was no ignoring the emphasis.
‘It’s not going to happen again. I give you my word.’ Diggers drained his coffee. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll make some calls now and if BTP will release you, I’ll take you on a three-month secondment.’
‘Thank you. I won’t let you down, boss, I’ll—’
‘On two conditions.’
‘Anything.’
‘One: that you do not work alone.’ Kelly opened her mouth to argue that she didn’t need a babysitter, but Diggers cut in again. ‘It’s non-negotiable, Kelly. Yes, you’re an experienced officer and a good detective, but if you join my team, you’re on probation. Do you understand?’ She nodded.
‘What’s the other condition?’
‘The second you feel you’re losing control – the second it happens – I want you out of there. I saved your neck once, Kelly. I won’t do it again.’
15
‘What do you make of Isaac?’
It’s Tuesday lunchtime, and I’m meeting Melissa for a sandwich, midway between Cannon Street and her new café in Clerkenwell, which is undergoing a refit in preparation for opening day. She’s wearing skinny black cords and a black fitted shirt, and even with a faint coating of dust on her shoulders she manages to look stylish. Her hair has been swept out of the way with a large tortoiseshell clip.
‘I liked him. I’m guessing you’re not keen?’
I screw up my face. ‘There’s something about him that puts me on edge.’ I pick at my BLT.
‘You’d say that no matter who Katie was dating.’ She prises open her baguette and peers at the contents. ‘How they can charge £3.50 for this, I don’t know. There can’t be more than a dozen prawns in it.’
‘I wouldn’t.’ Would I? Maybe. I try to think back to the last boyfriend Katie brought home, but there’s been no one serious; only a handful of awkward teens with clammy handshakes. ‘It’s not just him, it’s the whole set-up. The idea of Katie – and the rest of the cast – working for nothing for weeks on end on the vague promise of some sort of profit-share once the ticket money comes in. It’s exploitation, if you ask me.’
‘Or a brilliant business strategy.’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘No one’s. I’m simply saying that, from his point of view – from Isaac’s – it’s a good strategy. Limited outlay, minimal risk … if I went to my bank manager with that sort of strategy he’d be delighted.’ She grins, but there’s an edge to it that’s almost a grimace, and I think I know why.
‘I take it your bank manager isn’t a fan of your expansion plans?’
‘I’ve got no idea.’
‘What do you mean? You haven’t taken out a business loan?’
She shakes her head and takes another bite of her baguette. When she speaks it’s as though I’m dragging the words out of her. ‘I’ve remortgaged the house.’
‘I bet that went down well with Neil.’ Melissa’s husband is so averse to the idea of debt that he won’t even open a tab for an evening’s drinks. Melissa doesn’t say anything.
‘You have told him, haven’t you?’
There’s a pause, and Melissa’s face changes. The confident, amused look disappears, and for a moment she is anxious and unguarded. The insight is oddly flattering, as though I’ve been allowed into a secret society. In the years we??
?ve known each other it’s rare that the tables have been reversed; that I’m the one able to comfort her. I wonder how she was able to take out a loan against the house without Neil knowing – I’m assuming they have a joint mortgage – then decide the less I know, the better. There’s no one savvier than Melissa, and if she’s borrowing money to finance a new business, she’s doing it because she knows it’s a sure thing.
‘Things aren’t great between us at the moment,’ she says. ‘Neil lost a major contract earlier this year, and he’s worried about money. The new café will make up for the lost business, but it’ll take six months or so before it pays off.’
‘He’d understand that, surely?’
‘It’s impossible to talk to him at the moment. He’s distant. Bad-tempered.’
‘He seemed on form at lunch on Sunday.’
Melissa gives a humourless laugh. ‘Maybe it’s just me, then.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous – Neil adores you!’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Not in the way Simon adores you.’ I blush. ‘It’s true. Rubbing your feet, cooking you supper, escorting you to work … that man dotes on you.’
I grin. I can’t help myself.
‘You’re lucky.’
‘We both are,’ I say, then realise how big-headed that sounds. ‘To have a second chance at happiness, I mean. Matt and I were together for so long we hardly noticed each other any more.’ I’m thinking out loud; putting into words what I’ve never really worked through before. ‘He slept with that girl because he was so used to having me around, it seemed unimaginable that anything could ever change it.’
‘It was brave of you to leave. With the kids so young, I mean.’
I shake my head. ‘Stupid. A knee-jerk reaction, fuelled by anger. Matt didn’t love the girl he slept with; I doubt he even liked her that much. It was a mistake. A symptom of a marriage we’d both taken for granted.’
‘You think you should have stayed?’ Melissa asks for the bill, and waves away my attempts to get out my purse. ‘My treat.’
I’m careful with my response, not wanting to give her the wrong idea. ‘I don’t think that now; I love Simon, and he loves me. I count my blessings every single day. But I threw away a good thing the day I left Matt, and I know the kids think the same.’