‘Don’t,’ I say.
‘Yeah, don’t,’ Mark taunts.
I put myself in the middle of the two men and, though Nick only has eyes for Mark, he takes a small step backwards.
‘Listen to your little girlfriend,’ Mark adds, still laughing.
‘We don’t know it was him,’ I say quietly to Nick. He glances to me, but there’s something dangerous in his eyes. He’s always been the quiet bloke down the hall and I’ve never seen this side of him.
‘Run along,’ Mark says, shooing us away with his hand.
There’s a moment in which I think Nick is going to jump around me. His arms are tensed and there’s a vein in his neck that’s bulging.
‘Can we go?’ I say quietly.
It feels like an age, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, Nick’s shoulders drop. He steps backwards towards the stairs, which only makes Mark laugh more.
‘Is that it?’ he sneers.
Nick mercifully continues to move away, but it’s only when we’re a floor up that the sound of Mark’s door slamming echoes through the hall and I breathe a little more easily. When we get back to Nick’s apartment, the embarrassment has started to set in. He mumbles something about keeping an eye on Judge and then heads inside and closes the door.
I’m in the hallway by myself, not quite sure what to do. Perhaps it was Mark who left the meat down for the dogs? Perhaps the meat isn’t poisonous at all and there’s a misunderstanding? I don’t know any longer. Mark did tell me to ‘watch yourself’ after I asked him to turn the music down. He’s not a fan of dogs, plus, generally speaking, he’s a bit of an arsehole. There is a difference between being an arsehole and deliberately setting out to harm another creature, though.
I move back towards my own door, but as soon as I start to push it open, Elton John starts singing ‘Rocket Man’ from Jade’s old apartment. I stop and turn. It can’t be a coincidence. Not this time.
It’s only a step across the corridor and then I knock loudly on the door. I’m not certain, but it feels as if the music is turned up a little after I knock. I try to peer through the eyehole, but get no more luck than I did the last time. Pressing my ear to the door gives no clues as to who’s inside, so I knock again; harder this time.
Nothing.
‘Melanie?’
The volume nudges up a little more.
‘Harry?’
I wait, but there’s no reply. There’s nothing else to do, so I stomp into my apartment and slam the door. Poor Billy scuttles off to the corner and watches me sideways in case I start throwing things. I fumble with my phone, almost dropping it twice, before finding Lauren’s name. She answers on the second ring with a cheery, ‘Hi!’
I tell her who I am and then add: ‘I need you to tell me about our new neighbour.’
There’s a gap of a second or two and I wonder if the call has dropped. Lauren is one of those people who is constantly softly-spoken, even when telling a person to get stuffed.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asks.
‘It’s their music.’
‘They’re playing loud music?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Sort of…’
‘Hang on.’
The line goes muffled for a moment and there’s a distant sound of Lauren chatting to someone else. When she returns, it sounds as if she’s been laughing.
‘I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do,’ she says.
‘Can you tell me who lives there? Is it a man? A woman? Just a name.’
I’m sounding desperate and weird; something at which I’m apparently good.
There’s another silence and, when Lauren replies, there’s pity in her voice. ‘There are privacy issues, Lucy. I can’t go around telling tenants the details of other tenants. If there’s a problem, I can deal with that…’
I could make something up – but I’ve already done too much of that in recent days. If I were to claim the music was loud, one of the first things Lauren would do is ask other tenants if they’ve heard anything. Regardless of their response, it wouldn’t get me the name of who’s on the other side of the hall. It all feels rather hopeless.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Sorry for bothering you.’
Lauren offers a brisk ‘no worries’ and then she’s gone.
I open my door a crack and listen as ‘Rocket Man’ loops back to the beginning. Aside from bashing down the door, I’m not sure what else I can do.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I lock my door and then wedge one of the dining chairs in front of it. Everything is a swirling mess of suspicion. There’s Harry, with whom I’ve had two dates. Is he some strange internet hacker and stalker? There’s the bloke with badges on his jacket who was hanging around outside the building and the memorial. Melanie’s coat was in the opposite apartment – and whoever’s in there keeps playing what was – at one point – my favourite song. Someone poisoned Billy – but was it Mark? Melanie? Harry? And then, beyond all that, someone left me more than three and a half thousand pounds for seemingly no reason.
I apologise to Billy, but he doesn’t seem quite ready to accept it. It’s not often I go around slamming doors and shouting at people. He remains in his corner and closes a single eye, watching me with the other in case I haven’t got the tantrum out of my system.
There are no emails from the person who put up posters about losing the envelope. The last one I received read a simple ‘See you at 11’ – except I waited at Chappie’s and nobody appeared. I send a new message:
Where were you?
I wait for a minute or two, but there’s no instant reply. After that, I go back through the CCTV photos from the bus again; looking through all the images, not only the ones with Harry. There are other people who are impossible to identify. Some are wearing caps or beanies; others are angled away from the camera and never turn to look at it. There is one image in which someone in a cap is between Harry and myself, but they are gone in the next shot. It’s hard to know what to think.
My phone rings with a number I don’t recognise, which reminds me I’ve not been bothered by ‘Unknown’ for a little while.
When I answer, it’s a woman’s voice: ‘Is that Lucy?’
‘Who’s calling?’ I ask.
‘It’s Gloria, love. We spoke at the pub after the memorial.’
She’s right in as much as we definitely spoke – but that’s only half of what happened.
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
‘Sorry about the other day. I think we might have got our wires crossed somewhere along the line.’
‘Do you mean when you ran away after the memorial?’
‘Well, er… yes… I’m sorry about that. Things were a bit emotional after the service and…’
She’s presumably waiting for me to say it’s fine, but I stay quiet and she’s forced to fill her own silence.
‘I should’ve told you the other day, but I’m working on a documentary,’ Gloria says. ‘It’s all a bit hush-hush, so I’m sure you understand, but—’
‘I’m not interested.’
Gloria has barely stopped for breath but hesitates and then ends up almost talking over herself: ‘Sorry, did you say you weren’t interested?’
She sounds stunned at this development.
‘I don’t want to do it,’ I reiterate.
‘Ah, but you’ve not heard what I have to say. There’s a fee involved. Probably a few hundred. I thought—’
‘I’m still not interested.’
Silence.
When her reply eventually comes, Gloria’s forced sweetness of moments before is a thing of the past. ‘You know, Lucy, you could at least show a little gratitude. I’ve gone out a limb for you. I know your financial situation isn’t great, so I’m trying to help you out. The least you could do is—’
I hang up. Even on the best of days, I don’t have time for this sort of thing. It feels like such a long time ago that she phoned and wanted to talk about money. It seems so naïve now that I thought
she might have somehow been responsible for the envelope.
Gloria rings me straight back but I ignore the call.
Seconds later, a text arrives:
Did we get cut off? Can you call me back? X
I have no idea why she attached a kiss. I delete the text and then block her number. It’s not even about the documentary. I probably wouldn’t have been interested anyway – but if she’d asked in the right way, by explaining what it was about, I might have said yes. If it had the right tone, I’d have done it for free. I’ve never wanted to profit from the crash or what happened to Ben and I’ve had enough deception in my life. Approaching the relatives of people who’ve died to see who might tell their story for the least amount of money is hardly the right way to do things.
I return to my laptop, but there’s still no reply to my email from whoever put up the posters. I’m not sure what to do next. Confronting Harry doesn’t feel like a good idea – largely because doing that with Melanie gave me more questions than answers.
Billy is still a little wary of me and I find myself by the window, staring out to the road below. Groups of kids in school uniform are scuffing their way home and the light is starting to go. I always hate it when the clocks go back. It feels as if the final vestiges of summer have given up and there’s only cold, dark and grimness ahead. For as long as I live, I’ll never understand people who like winter. Summer is sun and light; it’s optimism and hope. Winter is everything summer isn’t.
Condensation is starting to cling to the glass and I feel my mood being pulled down to align with the murk outside. It’s as the gloom is settling, in more ways than one, that I spot a familiar figure standing on the opposite side of the road. I duck instinctively, only risking the merest of peeps over the ledge in case I’ve been seen. I crouch and almost crawl away from the window until I’m out of sight from the road. Billy eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame him.
I unwedge the chair from the door and, when I get onto the landing, the music from across the hall has gone silent. No time for that now. I rush down the stairs and head for the back door but am moving so single-mindedly that I almost bump into Vicky in the hall. She steps out of the way with an ‘oh’ and almost falls into her door.
‘Sorry,’ I say, still edging towards the door at the back.
Vicky reaches out a hand to stop me. There’s more clarity than when I last saw her in the laundry room. The tiredness has lifted.
‘Did you, um…’ She looks both ways and then leans closer. ‘Someone put money under my door. You’re the only person I told about being short on rent. I kept meaning to knock on your door and ask if it was you, but…’ The sentence meanders away into a nervous smile.
‘I won a bit of money on a scratch card,’ I say.
She glances over her shoulder to make sure nobody’s there and then turns back. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’ve got a job now. It all happened really suddenly. One of my friends saw a sign in a café and I went over there. Got chatting to the owner and started the next day. I think it might work out.’ She digs into her back pocket and comes out with a crumpled twenty-pound note, which she offers. ‘Here,’ she says.
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Please take it. I don’t want charity.’
She strains forward a little further and it feels as if I have no choice. I take the money and push it into my own pocket.
‘Can we call the rest a gift?’ I say. ‘Not charity. I had a bit of luck and I wanted to share that luck with you.’
Vicky presses her lips together and takes a small step backwards. ‘Okay,’ she says. Somehow, in that one word, there’s a crack in her voice.
‘I have to go,’ I say.
She nods and whispers ‘thank you’, before stepping to the side.
Some of my momentum has been lost, but the fresh air of being outside reinvigorates my thoughts. I hurry along the back of Hamilton House and then loop around until I’m halfway along the road.
The man with the jacket that’s covered in sew-on badges is standing next to a postbox, partly in the shadows. His face is lit by the light from his phone, which at least means he’s not quite paying attention.
I move as quietly as I can along the street until I’m within a few metres of him. He hasn’t looked up from his phone and is busy typing out a message, when I grab his upper arm. He spins and reels back at the sight of me.
‘Don’t run,’ I say. ‘I’ll scream if you do, say that you attacked me.’
The street isn’t busy, but there are a handful of people going about their day. His gaze fizzes sideways as he weighs his options.
‘What do you want?’ I say. I’m trying to sound assured and in control, even though I feel anything but. I’m hoping the panic isn’t burned onto my face.
The man seems cornered. He glances across the street and there’s a moment I think he’s going to run. Instead, he pockets his phone and takes a breath.
‘I’ve got vital information,’ he says.
I can’t pick his accent, but it isn’t local.
‘Information about what?’ I reply.
‘About your husband?’
I stare at him and can see the realisation that he knows he’s made a mistake. ‘Not your husband,’ he says. ‘Ben Peterson.’
There’s something about hearing the name that always takes me by surprise. Like hearing the name of someone who was once at school a long time ago. Someone forgotten that never quite goes away.
‘You have vital information about Ben?’ I say, although the words don’t make sense.
The man nods. ‘His brother, too.’ There’s a falter and then: ‘Alex Peterson.’
‘What about them?’ I ask.
‘I think the government killed them.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m not sure if there’s a correct response to this sort of statement. The best I manage is ‘Er… what?’
‘The government,’ he repeats, as if this explains everything.
There’s a low wall near the postbox and I suddenly need to sit. It’s been a long few days and this goes far beyond anything in my comfort zone. I rub the bridge of my nose.
‘I think you should probably go home,’ I say.
The man is pacing on the pavement in front of me but then stops to sit on the wall at my side. ‘Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?’
‘You’ve been hanging around outside my flat for two days now. You were at the memorial service and then the pub afterwards. That’s stalking. You should tell the police what you have to say.’
‘I have!’
I turn to look at him, focusing in on the ‘believe in reality’ badge that’s sewn onto his jacket. It’s hard to guess his age. There are acne pockmarks around his cheeks but much is covered by his gingery beard. It’s the lack of wrinkles around his eyes that give away his youth.
‘You spoke to the police?’ I say, disbelievingly.
‘More than once. They don’t want to know.’
There’s a huge part of me that also doesn’t want to know, but it feels like I’m too far into the hole to turn back.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘Steven.’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘The train crash was faked,’ he replies.
I struggle not to sigh at this. From the moment he mentioned the government, I feared this was what was coming.
‘How do you fake a train crash?’ I reply. ‘I saw the wreckage. Everyone did – it was all over the news. There was a helicopter beaming live footage. There were photographers on the ground.’
‘The crash was real,’ Steven replies, ‘it was the reasons that were faked.’
‘What reasons?’
‘They said it was an issue with the signalling; then the lights and the brakes – but our research shows there was a Russian spy on board. It was an undercover job to kill the spy and make everything else
look like an accident. Everyone who died was collateral damage.’
I turn to stare at him, but he gazes back at me with such earnest certainty that I have to look away again.
‘It was an undercover job to make it look like an accident,’ he adds.
‘You believe the moon landings were faked, don’t you?’ I reply.
‘They were!’
‘And that 9/11 was staged. That the London bombings in 2005 were an MI6 plot.’
‘MI5,’ he corrects.
It’s hard not to sigh again. I rub my forehead, but Steven seems oblivious to my scepticism.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I ask. ‘Twenty-five people died in the crash and I only knew two of them.’
Steven shrugs. ‘Alphabetical order. A for Alex, B for Ben. The police weren’t listening and nobody was visiting my website. What else was I supposed to do?’
‘Leave it?’ I reply.
‘That’s what they want people to do.’
‘Of course they do.’
Steven doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or exasperation.
‘How did you know where I live?’ I ask.
‘Google and the electoral roll. I’m going to talk to everyone eventually.’
He holds up his phone to illustrate the point and I resolve that, as soon as I’m done here, I’ll put my first post on the secret Facebook page to warn people. I didn’t realise people’s addresses could be found so easily simply because they’d registered to vote. That’s assuming he’s telling the truth.
I figure I might as well get the full story from him in order to pass it on.
‘You’re saying “they” deliberately staged a train crash in order to assassinate a Russian agent?’ I ask.
‘Exactly! They say the driver died in the crash, but our sources have him living in Venezuela. He was in on the whole thing.’
‘Who’s “they”?’ I ask.
‘The government, the MSM, the NWO. All of them.’
‘And why is the driver in Venezuela?’
‘We’ve not been able to get proof of that yet.’
A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 20
