We order what we always have – pizza for Simon, seafood pasta for me – and it arrives too quickly for it to have been cooked from scratch.
‘I looked at the adverts in the Gazette this morning. Graham had a pile in his office.’
‘They haven’t promoted you to page three, have they?’ He cuts into his pizza, and a thin trickle of oil oozes from the topping on to his plate.
I laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the necessary attributes for that. The thing is, I recognised the woman in the advert.’
‘You recognised her? You mean it’s someone you know?’
I shake my head. ‘I saw her photo in another newspaper – she was in an article about crime on the Underground. I told the police about it.’ I’m trying to keep it light, but my voice breaks. ‘I’m scared, Simon. What if that photo in Friday’s paper really was me?’
‘It wasn’t, Zoe.’ There’s concern in Simon’s face; not because someone put a photo of me in the paper, but because I think they did.
‘I’m not imagining it.’
‘Are you stressed about work? Is it Graham?’
He thinks I’m going mad. I’m starting to think he’s right.
‘It really did look like me,’ I say quietly.
‘I know.’
He puts down his knife and fork. ‘Tell you what, let’s say the photo was of you.’
This is how Simon addresses problems, boiling them down to their very essence. A couple of years ago there was a burglary in our street. Katie became convinced they were going to break into our house next, and the thought stopped her sleeping. When she eventually dropped off she had nightmares, waking up screaming that there was someone in her room. I was at my wit’s end. I’d tried everything; even sat with her till she fell asleep, like she was a baby again. Simon took a more practical approach. He took Katie to B&Q, where they bought window locks, a burglar alarm, and an extra bolt for the garden gate. Together they fitted security measures to the entire house, even coating the drainpipes with anti-climb paint. The nightmares stopped instantly.
‘Okay,’ I say, finding the game oddly cheering. ‘Let’s say the photograph really was of me.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same question.’
‘You’d notice someone random taking a photo of you, surely?’
‘Maybe someone took it with a long lens,’ I say, realising as I do how ridiculous it sounds. What next? Paparazzi outside the house? Mopeds zooming past me; a photographer leaning to one side, in an effort to get the perfect shot for a tabloid splash? Simon doesn’t laugh, but when I acknowledge the absurdity of the suggestion with an embarrassed grin, he cracks a smile.
‘Someone could have stolen it,’ he says, more seriously.
‘Yes!’ That seems more likely.
‘Okay, so let’s imagine someone’s used your photo to advertise their company.’ Discussing the advert like this, in such a rational, dispassionate way, is gradually calming me down, which I know was Simon’s intention all along. ‘That would be identity theft, right?’
I nod. Giving it a name – and one so familiar – instantly makes it feel less personal. There are hundreds – probably thousands – of identity fraud cases every day. At Hallow & Reed we have to be so careful, double-checking ID documents and only ever accepting originals or certified copies. It’s frighteningly easy to take someone’s photo and pass it off as your own.
Simon is still rationalising what’s happened.
‘What you have to consider is this: would it really hurt you? More than – say – if someone used your name to open a bank account, or if they cloned your card?’
‘It’s creepier.’
Simon reaches across the table and puts both his hands over mine. ‘Remember when Katie had that problem at school, with that gang of girls?’ I nod, the mere mention of it filling me with fresh rage. When she was fifteen, Katie was bullied by three girls in her year. They set up an Instagram account in her name; posted photos of Katie’s head, Photoshopped on to various images. Naked women, naked men, cartoon characters. Infantile, puerile stuff, that blew over before the end of the term, but Katie was devastated.
‘What did you tell her?’
Sticks and stones, I said to Katie. Ignore them. They’re not touching you.
‘The way I see it,’ Simon says, ‘is that there are two possibilities. Either the photo was simply of someone who looks like you – although not nearly as beautiful’ – I grin, despite the cheesiness of the compliment – ‘or it’s ID theft, which – although irritating – isn’t doing you any harm.’
I can’t argue with his logic. Then I remember Cathy Tanning. I produce her as though I’m playing a joker. ‘The woman I saw in the newspaper article; she had her keys stolen on the Tube.’ Simon waits for an explanation, his face registering confusion.
‘It happened after her photo appeared in the advert. Like the photo of me.’ I correct myself. ‘The photo that looked like me.’
‘Coincidence! How many people do we know who have had their pockets picked on the Tube? It’s happened to me. It happens every day, Zoe.’
‘I suppose so.’ I know what Simon’s thinking. He wants evidence. He’s a journalist, he deals in facts, not supposition and paranoia.
‘Do you think the paper would investigate it?’
‘Which paper?’ He sees my face. ‘My paper? The Telegraph? Oh, Zoe, I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not really a story, Zoe. I mean, I know you’re worried by it, and it’s a curious thing to happen, but it’s not newsworthy, if you know what I mean. ID theft’s a bit old hat, to be honest.’
‘You could pitch it, though, couldn’t you? Find out who’s behind it?’
‘No.’ His abruptness marks an end to the conversation, and I wish I’d never brought it up. I’ve blown this whole thing up to be more than it is, and driven myself insane in the process. I eat a piece of garlic bread and pour more wine to replace the glass I hadn’t noticed myself finishing. I wonder if I should do something about my anxiety levels. Mindfulness. Yoga. I’m becoming neurotic, and the last thing I want is for it to affect things between Simon and me.
‘Did Katie tell you about her audition?’ Simon says, and I’m grateful both for the change in subject, and for the softness in his voice that tells me he doesn’t hold my paranoia against me.
‘She’s been ignoring my texts. I said something stupid this morning.’
Simon raises an eyebrow but I don’t elaborate.
‘When did you speak to her?’ I ask, trying not to sound bitter. I’ve only got myself to blame for Katie’s silence.
‘She texted me.’ I’ve made him feel awkward, now, and I rush to reassure him.
‘It’s great that she wanted to tell you. Honestly, I think it’s lovely.’ I mean it. Before Simon moved in, when things were already serious between us, I used to try and engineer occasions when he and the children would be together. I’d remember something I’d left upstairs, or go to the loo when I didn’t need to, in the hope I’d come back and find them chatting happily together. It hurts me that Katie didn’t text me, but I’m glad that she wanted to tell Simon.
‘What’s the job?’
‘I don’t know much. The agency haven’t offered her representation, but she made a useful contact and it sounds like there’s a part in the offing.’
‘That’s great!’ I want to get out my phone and text Katie, to tell her how proud I am, but I make myself wait. I’d rather congratulate her in person. Instead I tell Simon about Melissa’s new café, and Neil’s contract at the Houses of Parliament. By the time pudding comes we’ve ordered another bottle of wine, and I’ve got the giggles over Simon’s stories of his time as a junior reporter.
Simon pays the bill, leaving a generous tip. He goes to hail a cab, but I stop him.
‘Let’s walk.’
‘It’ll be less than a tenner.’
‘I’d like to.’
We start walking, my arm tucked into Simon’s. I don’t care about the cost of a taxi ride home; I just want the evening to go on for a little longer. At the crossing he kisses me, and it turns into a kiss that makes us ignore the beep of the green man and have to press the button all over again.
My hangover wakes me at six. I go downstairs in search of water and an aspirin, and switch on Sky News, filling a glass from the tap and drinking greedily from it. When I’ve drained the glass I fill it and drink again, holding the side of the sink because I feel as though I’m swaying. I rarely drink in the week, and I’m reminded this is the reason why.
Katie’s handbag is on the table. She was already in bed when Simon and I got home last night, both of us giggling at the irony of trying not to wake the kids as we crept upstairs. There’s a piece of paper next to the kettle, folded in two and with ‘Mum’ written on the front. I open it, my headache making me squint.
My first acting job! Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Love you xxx
I smile, despite my hangover. She’s forgiven me, and I resolve to be extra enthusiastic when she tells me about the job. No mention of secretarial college, or training to fall back on. I wonder what the gig is; whether it’s extra work, or a real part. Theatre, I suppose, although I allow myself a fantasy in which Katie has landed a job in TV; a part in some long-running soap that will make her a household name.
The Sky News reporter, Rachel Lovelock, is reporting a murder: a female victim from Muswell Hill. Perhaps Katie could be a presenter, I think. She’s certainly got the looks. She wouldn’t want to read the news, but a music channel, perhaps, or one of those magazine-style programmes, like Loose Women or The One Show. I pour another glass of water and lean against the worktop as I watch the telly.
The image changes to an outside broadcast; Rachel Lovelock is replaced by a woman in a thick coat, talking earnestly into a microphone. As she carries on talking, a picture of the murder victim appears on the screen. Her name was Tania Beckett, and she doesn’t look much older than Katie, although according to the report she was twenty-five. Her boyfriend raised the alarm when she didn’t come home after work, and she was found in the park late last night, a hundred yards from where they lived.
Perhaps it’s my hangover, or the fact I’m still half-asleep, but I look at the photo on screen for a full minute before recognition kicks in. I take in the dark hair, the smiling face, the full figure. I see the necklace, with its gleaming silver crucifix.
And then I realise.
It’s the woman from yesterday’s advert.
How fast can you run?
When you really have to?
In heels and a work skirt, with your bag banging against your side: how fast?
When you’re late for your train and you have to get home, and you race down the platform with seconds to spare: how fast can you run?
What if it isn’t a train you’re running for, but your life?
If you’re late home from work, and there’s no one in sight. If you haven’t charged your phone and no one knows where you are. If the footsteps behind you are getting closer, and you know, because you do it every day, that you’re on your own; that between the platform and the exit you won’t see another soul.
If there’s breath on your neck, and the panic is rising, and it’s dark, and cold, and wet.
If it’s just the two of you.
Just you, and whoever’s behind you.
Whoever is chasing you.
How fast could you run then?
It doesn’t matter how fast.
Because there’s always someone who can run faster.
8
There was a hand over Kelly’s mouth. She could feel it pressing down on her face; taste the sweat on the fingers slipping between her lips. A heavy weight shifted on top of her and a knee forced her legs apart. She tried to scream but the sound stayed in her throat, filling her chest with panic. She tried to remember her police training – the self-defence moves they’d been taught – but her mind was blank and her body frozen.
The hand slid away, but the reprieve was momentary. It was replaced by a mouth; a tongue forcing its way inside her.
She heard his breath – heavy, excited – and a rhythmic knocking.
‘Kelly.’
The knocking intensified.
‘Kelly. Are you okay?’
The bedroom door opened and the weight moved from her chest. Kelly took a great gulp of air.
‘You were having another one.’
Kelly fought to get her breath under control. It was dark in her room; the shadow in the open doorway backlit by the light in the hall. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half past two.’
‘God, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?’
‘I’m just in off lates. You okay now?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
The door closed and Kelly lay in the dark, sweat running between her breasts. It had been ten years since she had sat holding Lexi’s hand, listening to her tell the police officer what had happened, then – later – watched her sister through a television screen, as her statement was videoed. Watched her twin sister cry as she recounted every little detail; every humiliating, painful detail.
‘I don’t want Mum and Dad hearing all this,’ Lexi had said.
Kelly had asked her once, years later, if she ever had nightmares. She’d said it casually, as though she’d only just thought about it. As though Kelly didn’t wake with the weight of a man on her chest; with his fingers inside her.
‘Once,’ Lexi had said. ‘A few days after it happened. But never again.’
Kelly’s pillow was drenched in sweat. She threw it on to the floor and rested her head on the sheet beneath. She was off work today. She’d go and see Lexi; maybe have supper with the boys. But first, there was something she had to do.
The London Gazette’s offices were in Shepherd’s Bush, in a huge but unprepossessing building housing several other newspapers. Kelly showed her warrant card to the receptionist then waited on an upright armchair far less comfortable than it looked. She ignored the knot of anxiety in her stomach: so she was working on an investigation in her spare time – it wasn’t an offence to do unpaid overtime.
Even in her head it didn’t sound convincing. Cathy Tanning’s bag dip was no longer hers to investigate, and Kelly should have reported this new development to the sergeant on the Dip Squad as soon as it came in.
And she would, as soon as she had something concrete to report. But the Dip Squad was as strapped for resources as any other department. With nothing concrete to go on, Cathy’s case might not be looked at for days. Someone had to make her a priority.
Three months before Lexi was attacked, she had gone to the police for advice. Someone had left flowers outside her room in student halls; there were notes in her pigeonhole that made reference to what she’d been wearing the previous evening.
‘Sounds as though you’ve got yourself an admirer,’ the desk officer had said. It was making her feel uncomfortable, Lexi had told him. She was too scared to have the curtains open in her room, in case someone was watching.
When her personal belongings went missing from her room, they sent someone out. Recorded a burglary. Could Lexi be certain she’d locked the door? There was no sign of forced entry. What made Lexi think it was the same person who left the notes; the flowers? There was no evidence to suggest they were connected.
A week later, when she walked home from a late lecture and heard footsteps too measured, too close to be accidental, she didn’t report it. What would be the point?
When it happened again, the following week, she knew she would have to go to the police. When the hairs on her arms prickled, and her breath caught in her throat from the fear that grew in her chest, she knew she wasn’t imagining it. She was being stalked.
But it was too late. He’d already caught up with her.
Kelly thought of all the crime prevention initiatives she’d seen
rolled out over her nine years in the job. Poster campaigns, leaflet drops, attack alarms, education programmes … Yet it was far simpler than that; they just had to listen to victims. Believe them.
‘Detective Constable Swift?’ A woman was walking towards her, her head tilted to one side. Kelly didn’t correct her. She was in plain clothes; DC was a fair enough assumption. ‘I’m Tamir Barron, I head up the advertising team here. Would you like to come on up?’
The walls of the sixth floor were lined with advertisements from the last hundred years, framed in thick oak. Kelly spotted adverts for Pear’s soap, Brylcreem and Sunny Delight, as Tamir swept her along the carpeted corridor to her office.
‘I’ve got the results of the enquiry you sent through,’ she said, as soon as they were seated, ‘although I still don’t see the connection to – what was it you said you were investigating? A robbery?’
There had been no violence, which meant the theft of Cathy’s keys was a theft, not a robbery, but Kelly decided to gloss over that fact, in case the severity of the crime was directly proportionate to Tamir’s level of cooperation. Besides, if Cathy was right and the offender had followed her home, and had since been using her key to gain access to her house, there was something far more serious going on. A shudder ran through Kelly at the thought of someone creeping around Cathy’s house. What had he been doing? Touching her make-up? Taking her underwear? Cathy had said she thought someone had been in her house when she was at work, but what if that wasn’t the only time? Kelly imagined an intruder moving quietly around Cathy’s kitchen in the dead of night; creeping upstairs to stand by her bed and watch her sleep.
‘The victim was on the Central line at the time,’ Kelly told Tamir. ‘The offender made off with her house keys, and we believe he has since used them to gain access to her property. The victim’s photograph appeared in the classifieds section of your newspaper two days prior to the incident.’ She hoped Cathy had now changed the lock on her back door. Would that be enough to make her feel safe? Kelly wasn’t so sure.