‘Nothing really. I’m sure you don’t have time…’ She had the look of a child now, a girl with a secret she needed to spill before it ate her alive. It made no difference to her if she saved him from misery or caused it.
‘I’ve got time,’ he said.
PART THREE
SAINT OR SINNER
by Ellen Saint (cont)
Chapter 30
Vic betrayed me – well, you knew that.
When you write your history, you find that you identify – and scatter – clues you couldn’t possibly have seen when you were living events in the present. Which means what’s blindingly obvious to you reading this now was unfathomable to me at the time.
Until, finally, it was not. When I stepped back from the cliff edge that Friday afternoon in late November, I already had an instinct that his deception concealed another – and then another – and so it proved. It was a set of matryoshka dolls. Not telling me he’d been informed that Kieran was still alive was the outermost, the one I saw first, but inside it others nested, the innermost being that he’d never wanted Kieran dead, not like I had.
He’d never craved justice.
I won’t detail the showdowns. There was one in the park, when he hoped he could get away with a half-confession. It pains me to recall the nub of his defence: Be grateful I stopped this.
Be glad you are not a monster.
I knew then that he had allowed himself to forget who the real monster was.
Then there was a meeting with Danny, who – I know, you got there first – knew nothing about the contract killing I’d been so profoundly grateful to him for having facilitated.
Albanians, my ass.
Then, our final clash in the lobby of Vic’s building, a shiny and soulless tower in East Croydon. That was when he confessed fully. ‘I want my money back,’ I told him and he recoiled at the animal urgency in my voice. ‘As soon as possible. In cash.’
I was crying as I travelled home, but at least I knew the truth by then. I knew what I had to process. Make no mistake, it takes courage to come to terms with the knowledge that the person you thought you were bound to – by love, by grief, by crime – is scarcely more than an actor. It takes time.
But you know what? After my pride healed and my blood cooled, I saw that none of what I’d discovered in those distressing confrontations actually put me in a different place from where I already was. I already knew Kieran had survived. I already knew I would be acting alone in getting the job done a second time.
Because this story has always been about me versus Kieran Watts. The others – Vic, Justin, Freya, even my precious Lucas – they are all minor characters.
* * *
I am a great believer in the saying that when one door closes, another door opens. It was Alexander Graham Bell who said that, did you know? People usually forget the second part of his statement – that we spend too long looking at the closed door to notice the open one – but I, for one, have no intention of doing that.
Especially when the door in question is in The Heights itself.
Selena’s contact Asha lives on the fifth floor. Having been caught in Vic’s avalanche, I’ve almost forgotten about her when she phones and asks when I’m free for a consultation.
‘I’m free now,’ I say.
When I arrive at the building it’s as if I’ve known it all my life. The carved stone panel with its elegant lettering, the antique brass plates, the glass doors that kiss shut behind you as your heels clack across the marble lobby. Lift on the right, stairs on the left. Heart in my mouth.
Asha is a sleek and fashionable mid-thirtysomething, one half of a high-earning young couple. She is very sure of her ideas, which exceed the updating of kitchen and bathroom and amount to the creation of a space for entertaining that will require planning and building work. As I outline the process, I cast a wary look at the half-open main window – I hadn’t realized they are designed to slide open to reveal a Juliet balcony over the water. Directly opposite, Jacob’s Wharf obscures the view of Tower Bridge, but the top of the Shard is visible, a switchblade catching the light. ‘Do all the flats in this building have the same layout?’ I ask, though I know the answer.
‘All except the top floor. That has a massive skylight over part of the living room and a spiral staircase up to the roof terrace.’
‘Have you ever been up there?’
‘A few times, when the owner lived there himself. He knew what a space like that was for, he had these epic parties. But the new guy’s a bit of a hermit. Has everything delivered, groceries and takeaways – not that that’s unusual, there are people round here who’ve never once used their kitchen.’
‘Does he not have any friends?’
‘The only person we’ve ever seen going up is this older guy, maybe his father?’
James Ratcliffe.
‘You should ask him if he’ll swap,’ I joke. ‘Then you can have the parties.’
‘I wish.’ Asha laughs. ‘But, listen, Ellen, we are having a party, a Christmas party. I’ve just sent out the invites. You should come. Bring your architect, see the space when lots of people are here and get a sense of what we need. Then we can talk time frames in the New Year.’
This is not the first client party I’ve been invited to – there’s a certain cachet in having ‘your’ interior designer or architect on the guest list – but it’s the first in a building that houses a man I once hated enough to plot his murder.
‘When is it?’ I ask.
‘December the nineteenth. It’s a Thursday. I know, it’s not great, but everyone leaves town on the Friday.’
I accept her invitation without hesitation.
I’m not sure I believed in signs before, but I do now. The nineteenth of December is, of course, the anniversary of Lucas’s death.
* * *
A day or two later, I receive a package through the door containing twenty fifty-pound notes. A scrawled message is enclosed: This is all I can get for now I’m sorry.
Believe it or not, this is Vic’s first apology to me in this whole crisis, and I’m not sure I’m inclined to accept it. The money, yes. I add his contribution to the £1,500 I’ve amassed from cashpoint runs, kept in an unused drawer in the bedroom that used to be Lucas’s, and then I phone him.
‘Is that really all you can scrape together? After everything you’ve done?’
Everything you haven’t done.
‘I’ll pay you back, Ellen, I told you that.’ How utterly sincere he sounds. Almost sheepish. ‘But you need to realize it will take me months, maybe years. You know what small businesses are like, they don’t turn a profit for ages.’
He’s right, I do know that. But I’m feeling spiteful (can you blame me?). ‘That’s not good enough. You’ve already had this loan for two and half years. Maybe I should add interest, eh?’
An edge of impatience enters his tone. ‘If you need money fast, can’t you get it from Justin?’
‘Of course I can’t. He’ll want to know what it’s for.’
‘What is it for?’ There’s a pause. I can tell he half-wishes he hadn’t asked, but can’t help himself. ‘Is it what I think it is?’
‘Why? You said you’re not interested anymore.’
‘You called me,’ he shoots back. ‘I assumed you wouldn’t want to speak to me again after everything.’
Everything. The word, all that it encompasses in our shared lives, drives a spear right through me. For all my grand pronouncements when we parted, calling Vic, talking to him, however briefly, is part of the rhythm of my world. I might not be able to forgive him, but I won’t silence him. I will never expel him. ‘I phoned about the money,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’
Maybe he hears the concession in my tone, because he responds by making a sudden confession – yes, a new one. ‘Look, Ellen, since we met, something’s happened. I’ve seen him. Kieran. I’ve been up to his flat and spoken to him. James Ratcliffe was there as well.’
I feel blood
flood my face. ‘How did you arrange that? He just let you in?’
‘That doesn’t matter. But he’s scared of you, that was obvious. He’s defensive – and defence can turn to attack very quickly. I think you need to watch out for yourself.’
‘What do you mean?’ I demand. ‘What did he say, exactly?’
Vic lowers his voice and I have to strain to catch what follows. ‘He said he had his suspicions about your part in the threat to his life when he came out of prison and he’s worried what you’ll do now you know where he’s living. He seems to think you might turn up at his flat and assault him.’
I inhale sharply, try to process this. ‘ “Had his suspicions”? What did you say?’
‘I said you had no intention of harming him and never have.’
I exhale. ‘Thank you. The last thing we need is him going to the police about what happened back then.’
‘He won’t do that,’ Vic says. ‘Ratcliffe wouldn’t let him. He won’t do anything that jeopardizes this deal they’ve done with Saurus. There’s sure to be a big launch and they won’t risk Sam Harding being connected to Kieran Watts. We might be the only people who know besides Ratcliffe.’
‘When I met Ratcliffe, that was definitely his concern. He was worried I was going to blow the whistle in some way, expose Kieran’s identity. I told him I have no interest in doing that.’
‘I said exactly the same.’
There’s a silence as if we’ve startled ourselves by being in agreement. To a point, anyway. What I haven’t added is that I wouldn’t waste my time damaging Kieran’s reputation, not when it will only draw attention to me later.
But Vic doesn’t want to know about later.
‘I’d better go,’ he says. ‘Be careful, Ellen, okay? And don’t be surprised if Kieran sends you some sort of warning.’
Chapter 31
Freya comes home from university in early December. It is exactly two months since I saw Kieran on the roof of The Heights and exactly five years since Lucas came home after his first term at college.
Once a home bird, my daughter is sociable now, out most nights seeing old school friends and new college ones, going to pubs and clubs and house parties. Like all parents of new students, I’m relieved she’s survived the first term, thrilled to see she’s popular, busy, motivated. Justin’s done a good job. While I’ve been distracted by tragedy, he’s raised a fantastic young woman.
But a week or so in, I notice a trace of artifice in her farewell as she heads out for another evening with friends, a greater eagerness to get out of the door.
‘Where’re you off to tonight?’ I ask. It’s obvious she’s dressed with care, a fitted black dress visible under the long mustard suede coat she found the day before in a vintage shop in Crystal Palace – whoever she’s seeing warrants more than her standard jeans and puffer. Proper knee boots with zips and heels, too, not her go-to Chelsea boots. I thought she’d given up on her adolescent ritual of full-face make-up, but it is back for the occasion, glamorous and eye-catching, her hair blow-dried.
I compliment her as she checks she has her keys. ‘Is this a date?’
‘No, just a drink with a friend,’ she says, shrugging.
‘From round here?’
‘No, in town. Near Tower Bridge.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a client in that area. What street?’
‘I don’t remember, but it’s on the water, apparently. One of the docks in Shad Thames.’
My hackles rise. I’ve never heard her mention any friend living in that part of town before. A coincidence? Or the malevolent, black-hearted opposite? Since her return for the holidays, Justin and I have made no reference to Kieran’s unwelcome reappearance in our lives. ‘Lucky them,’ I say. ‘Cool area.’
She lingers, sensing my trepidation, trying to read my face. ‘You’re not going to follow me, Mum, are you?’
I feel myself flush. ‘What?’
‘I know you used to and I understand why.’ Her smile is forgiving, but conditional. ‘But don’t, not anymore. I can look after myself.’
‘I know you can, sweetheart. Don’t be silly.’
Justin interrupts then, from the top of the stairs, and I realize he has been listening. ‘You heading out, Frey? Have fun. Just let us know if you’re going to be late.’
After she’s gone, I can tell he is waiting for me to say it, and so I do. ‘Did you hear where she said she was going? Shad Thames, on the water. You don’t think…?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t think. And nor should you.’ He moves past me, ignoring my expression, which states, very clearly, that I find his trust dangerously misguided. ‘Come on, let’s get dinner started.’
* * *
We eat griddled tuna and asparagus and wedges of sweet potato roasted with Cornish salt. I have a glass of Picpoul. To an outsider, we look like empty nesters focusing on the finer things, on ourselves.
Afterwards, leaving Justin to trawl Netflix for a half-decent movie, I take my phone to the bathroom to make a call. My finger hovers over ‘Asha’ – no, I mustn’t jeopardize my party invitation – before selecting ‘Selena’.
‘Do you happen to be at home?’ Work has continued on her flat (I told you right at the start she’d have a beautifully lit apartment and so she will) and I know she often decamps to her boyfriend’s place in North London.
‘I do happen to be, yes. And I’m thinking, oh God, will this ever be finished?’
After I’ve gone through the motions of assuring her of our excellent progress, I say, ‘This is very unprofessional of me, but can I ask you a favour? Could you just look out of your window and see if that guy’s in? The one we were talking about who lives in The Heights.’
‘The top flat? Sure.’
I hear the see-saw of her breathing as she moves from wherever she is to the waterside window, followed by the creak of a window opening.
‘I think he’s home. The skylight’s all lit up.’
‘Can you tell if he’s on his own or with someone?’
‘Sorry, unless he comes right up to the window or onto the roof, I can’t see him at all.’
‘Okay, thank you. Sorry, Selena, you must think I’m deranged.’
‘I think we’re all deranged,’ she says, which makes me smile.
I end the call. Justin and I settle on the sofa with our drinks and a comedy he’s chosen that I know I won’t be able to laugh at. I’m aware that I’m rationing my wine in case I need to drive, to pick up Freya from a crime scene.
‘You all right?’ Justin asks. If he could read my mind he would despair.
An hour in, my phone rings. It’s Selena. ‘I have to take this,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a client.’ I move out of earshot. ‘Yes?’
Her voice pours excitedly into my ear. ‘I thought I’d tell you he’s come out onto the roof.’
‘Oh!’ My pulse stutters. ‘Is he alone?’
‘No, he’s with a girl. He’s got the terrace lights on so I can see them quite well up there – I’ve zoomed in on them on my phone.’ She laughs. ‘You’ve got me acting like I’m on a stakeout here! Anyway, they’ve been outside a while now, they must be freezing.’
‘What does she look like, this girl?’
‘Tallish. Dark hair.’
‘Is she wearing a coat? A long, yellow coat?’
‘She is, actually.’ As I grapple with the sensation of a boot stamping on my chest, Selena gives another cackle of laughter. ‘How the hell did you know that, Ellen?’
‘I used to know him,’ I say, illogically, my throat constricted.
‘Well, I’d worked that much out. And he only dates girls in yellow coats, does he? That’s quite a fetish.’
The assumption that they are dating is so repugnant I almost heave. ‘What are they doing?’ I blurt. ‘Are they—’
‘Just talking, by the looks. Enjoying the view. Oh wait, you won’t like this bit: they’re leaning right over the barrier and looking down at the water.’
Sh
e’s right, I don’t like it. I picture Kieran making a sudden lunge and tipping Freya off her feet – already pitched forward in those high-heeled boots. Her lovely unsuspecting face contorting with terror as she makes her last ever eye contact… with him.
Just like Lucas.
‘Now they’re smoking – or he is. Want me to send you a shot?’ Selena asks.
I think of Justin in the next room, the movie paused. ‘No, don’t take any pictures. I’m sorry to rope you into it, it’s nothing sinister, I promise.’
But it bloody well is sinister, of that I am certain. Kieran was the one to initiate this meeting with Freya, I’m certain of that too. This claim on her is the warning Vic told me to expect, the warning I now realize I’ve been anticipating ever since that encounter with James Ratcliffe when I basically declared war.
She’s still not back when Justin and I go to bed – our latest night in a long time – but just as I’m turning off the fairy lights on the landing a text arrives. Our daughter is in an Uber, homeward bound.
Chapter 32
Freya is not yet up when I leave for a morning appointment and so I have to wait till the afternoon to confront her—
No, not confront. Consult. Advise.
I find her in her bedroom, lying on the bed and staring at her phone. Her blinds are down and her bedside table is crammed with mugs and Diet Coke cans. I have a sudden, acute memory of that morning years ago, when I tried to rouse Lucas for his maths exam, and feel bile rise through my gullet.
‘Frey, I need to talk to you.’ It’s a long time since I’ve been this nervous around her. She’s all I have; I can’t risk getting it wrong.
‘What about?’ She glances up. Her face is bare, every scrap of last night’s make-up removed, the better to express that uneasy blend of wariness and solicitude she reserves for me. There is a pink mark like a scar down one cheek where she’s been resting her face on the pillow.
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