‘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.
‘Mum! Are you feeling better?’ She moves to make room on the sofa between her and Simon, and I sit down, exhausted by the effort of coming downstairs.
‘Not really. I’m totally wiped out.’ I haven’t felt this ill for years. My bones ache and my skin hurts to touch. There’s a stinging sensation at the bac
k of my eyes that only goes away when I close my lids, and my throat is so sore it’s a struggle to talk. ‘I think I’ve got flu. Proper flu.’
‘Poor baby.’ Simon puts his arm round me and for once Katie doesn’t say anything about what she calls ‘public displays of affection’. Even Justin looks concerned.
‘Do you want a drink of something?’ he says. I must look really ill, I think.
‘Just some water. Thank you.’
‘No worries.’ He stands up, then reaches into his pocket and hands me an envelope.
‘What’s this?’ I open it and find a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes.
‘Rent.’
‘What? We’ve been through this. I don’t want rent from you, love.’
‘Well, food, bills – whatever. It’s yours.’
I turn to Simon, remembering how insistent he’s been lately that Justin shouldn’t have a free ride. He shakes his head, as if to say it’s got nothing to do with him.
‘That’s really good of you though, Justin. Well done, mate.’ The colloquialism sounds forced on Simon’s lips and Justin looks at him scornfully.
‘I thought you were skint?’ Katie says, peering at the notes to see how much is there. I put it in my cardigan pocket, trying to ignore the voice inside my head that wants me to ask where it’s from.
‘Melissa’s put me in charge of the café so she can set up the new one,’ Justin says, as though he’s read my mind. ‘It’s only temporary, but it comes with a pay rise.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ Relief that my son is neither stealing nor dealing makes my response disproportionately enthusiastic. Justin shrugs as though the news is of no importance, and goes into the kitchen for my water. ‘I always knew he just needed a break,’ I whisper to Simon. ‘Someone who could see what a hard-working lad he is.’
I suddenly remember Justin isn’t the only one with job news. I turn to Katie. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t more supportive before your audition, love. I feel dreadful about it.’
‘Oh God, don’t worry about that now, Mum. You’re not well.’
‘Simon said it went brilliantly.’
Katie beams. ‘It was amazing. So, the agent didn’t take me on, because she already had a few on her books with my look and range – whatever that means, but I got chatting to a guy who was waiting in reception. He’s the director of a theatre company putting on a production of Twelfth Night, and their Viola has just had a skiing accident. I mean, how perfect?’
I stare at her, not following. Justin returns with a glass of water. He hasn’t let the tap run, and it’s cloudy and tepid, but I sip it gratefully. Anything to ease my sore throat.
‘Mum, Twelfth Night was the text we did for GCSE English. I know it inside out. And he said I was made for Viola. I literally auditioned then and there – it was the maddest thing – and I got the part! The rest of the cast have been rehearsing for weeks, but I’ve got to nail it in a fortnight.’
My head is spinning. ‘But who is this guy? Do you know anything about him?’
‘He’s called Isaac. Turns out his sister went to school with Sophia, so he’s not a complete stranger. He’s done stuff at Edinburgh, and – here’s the exciting bit – they’re going to take Twelfth Night on tour! He’s incredibly ambitious, and so talented.’
I spot something else in Katie’s face. Something other than her excitement over an acting job. ‘Good looking?’
She blushes. ‘Very.’
‘Oh, Katie!’
‘What? Mum, it’s all kosher, I promise. I think you’d like him.’
‘Good. You can invite him over.’
Katie snorts. ‘I only met him yesterday, Mum, I’m not asking him to meet the ’rents.’
‘Well, you’re not going on tour till you do, so …’ We glare at each other, until Simon intervenes.
‘Shall we talk about this when you’re feeling better?’
‘I’m feeling better now,’ I say, but my stubbornness is undermined by a wave of dizziness that makes me close my eyes.
‘Sure you are. Come on, you: bed.’
I remember his promise. ‘Did you call the police?’
‘Yes. I spoke to someone senior on the investigation team.’
‘Rampello?’
‘I think so. I said how worried you were about the advert – the one that looked a bit like you—’
‘It was me.’
‘—and the guy I spoke to said he could totally see why you were anxious, but at the moment they don’t think Tania Beckett’s murder is linked to any other crimes.’
‘There has to be a link,’ I persist. ‘It can’t be coincidence.’
‘You don’t even know her,’ Justin says. ‘Why are you getting so wound up?’
‘Because she’s been murdered, Justin!’ He doesn’t react, and I look at Katie in despair. ‘And because my photo—’
‘—it wasn’t your photo, sweetheart,’ Simon interrupts.
‘—because my photo was in exactly the same advert as hers. So I think I’ve got every right to get wound up, don’t you?’
‘Those sorts of ads don’t normally come with premium-rate numbers unless they’re dodgy,’ Simon says.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Was she an escort?’ Katie asks.
‘Occupational hazard,’ Justin says. He shrugs and assumes his previous position on the sofa, phone in hand.
‘They said on the news she was a teaching assistant, not an escort.’ I think of the photo they used in the paper, of Tania with her boyfriend. I imagine the headline above a report into my own murder, and wonder what photo they’d put alongside it; whether they’d ask Graham Hallow for a quote.
‘The advert didn’t say anything about escort services, did it, Mum?’ Katie says.
‘It had a web address.’ I press my palm against my forehead, trying to remember. ‘Find the one dot com.’
‘Sounds more like a dating site. Maybe she was killed by someone she met online.’
‘I don’t want you going out on your own any more,’ I tell Katie. She stares at me, aghast.
‘Because of one murder on the other side of London? Mum, don’t be ridiculous. People are murdered all the time.’
‘Men, yes. Boys in gangs. Druggies and stupid risk-takers. But not young women on their way home from work. You go out with a group of friends, or you don’t go out at all.’
Katie looks at Simon, but for once he backs me up.
‘We want you to be safe, that’s all.’
‘It’s not practical. What about work? I don’t finish at the restaurant on a Saturday night till ten thirty p.m. and now I’m in Twelfth Night I’ll be rehearsing most evenings. There’s no alternative but to come home on my own.’ I go to speak but Katie interrupts me, gently but insistently. ‘I’m a big girl, Mum. I’m careful. You don’t need to worry about me.’
But I am worried. I’m worried for Katie, as she travels blindly home from work each night, her head in the clouds thinking about red carpet stardom. I’m worried for all the Cathy Tannings and Tania Becketts, who had no idea what life had in store for them. And I’m worried for me. I don’t know what those adverts mean, or why my photograph appears in one, but the danger is very real. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. And it’s getting closer.
You never know where you might meet The One. Perhaps they always have the window seat on the train on your way in. It’s possible you see them in front of you in the queue to buy coffee. Maybe you simply cross the road behind them every day. If you’re sure of yourself, you might strike up a conversation. The weather, to begin with, and the state of the trains; but then, as time goes by, you’ll exchange more personal snippets. Your hellish weekend; their slave driver boss; the boyfriend who doesn’t understand them. You’ll get to know each other, and then one of you will take it to the next level. Coffee? Dinner? The deal is done.
But what if The One sits in the next carriage to you? What if they bring their coffee in from home; if th
ey cycle to work; if they take the stairs instead of the escalator? Imagine what you’re missing, by not bumping into them.
A first date; a second date; more.
Maybe it’s not about The One; maybe you want something shorter. Sweeter. Something that’ll get your blood pumping and your pulse racing.
A fling.
A one-night stand.
A pursuit.
That’s where it started. findtheone.com. A way of making introductions between London’s commuters. A helping hand to bring people together. You could call me a broker; a go-between; a match-maker.
And the beautiful thing is that none of you even know you’re on my books.
10
I stay in bed for twenty-four hours, sleeping more often than I’m awake. On Wednesday afternoon I struggle to the doctor, only to be told what I already know: I have the flu and there’s nothing to do but drink water and take over-the-counter meds and wait for it to pass. Simon is amazing. He cooks for the children and brings me food I don’t eat, going out for ice cream when I decide it’s the only thing I could possibly swallow. He would have been a good expectant father, I think, remembering my pregnancy with Justin, when I sent a grumbling Matthew out in the snow to find nachos and wine gums.
I manage to call work and tell Graham I’m ill. He’s surprisingly sympathetic, until I tell him I’ll be off for the rest of the week.
‘Can’t you at least come in tomorrow? Jo’s off and there’ll be no one to man the phone.’
‘I will if I can,’ I say. When morning comes I send him a text message, ‘Sorry, still ill’, then turn off my phone. It’s lunchtime before I can face any food; Melissa brings me chicken soup from the café, and once I start eating I discover I’m ravenous.
‘This is delicious.’ We’re sitting in my kitchen, at the tiny table only big enough for two. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ The dishwasher needs unloading, which means everyone has ignored it and piled their breakfast dishes in the sink instead. A ring of empty packaging around the bin suggests that it, too, is full. The fridge is covered with family photos, held in place by the kitsch magnets it has become traditional to buy on holiday, as part of an ongoing challenge to find the cheesiest souvenir. Currently in first place is Katie’s nodding donkey magnet from Benidorm, its sombrero swaying every time someone opens the fridge door.