Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  The hotel taxi drops me off, at my request, at the bottom of the hill, on Boulevard de Clichy, where the tourist village meets the real world with all its bars, peep shows and kebab shops. I walk up the hill towards the Sacré-Coeur and the serene beauty of the basilica standing out against the clear sky moves me, despite its commercial packaging. I ignore the hordes of Maghreb boys trying to sell me key rings in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, sets of postcards and garish T-shirts, and climb the steps up. Once I reach the basilica I turn round and the stunning panorama of Paris spreads before me like a gigantic tourist poster. The view feels familiar and yet it surprises me with its richness and intricacy every time I come to this city. For a while I watch a young guy cheered by the crowds as he climbs a lamp post and does death-defying stunts with a football, and then I move towards the Place du Tertre. The real starving artists moved on from here a long time ago because they couldn’t afford it any more and now the place is filled with commercial portrait sketchers and caricaturists who woo tourists with their pieces of prêt-à-porter art. I can’t resist an overpriced crêpe with chestnut filling and then escape the crowds and start walking down a set of steep steps. As I stop and stare at the beautiful roofs in the early evening light, something, or someone, catches my eye at the bottom of the steps. It’s the silhouette of a man, partially obscured by a big acacia bush, who looks just like the man I saw on Kate’s photo in Norfolk. His back is turned to me, but he seems familiar. The broad shoulders I know, the dark curls escaping a navy baseball cap. What is he doing here? I rush down the steps, just as he starts walking away. I nearly trip and fall, the steps suddenly seem steep and precarious, and by the time I reach the bottom, he’s disappeared round the corner. I sprint to the street junction and see him again, the navy baseball cap bobbing in the distance. I run, ignoring the reproachful stares of passers-by, and before he reaches the next corner I’m right behind him. I grab his shoulder.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout, perhaps a bit too loud.

  He turns and I see a handsome Arabic guy staring at me with a mixture of surprise and apprehension in his eyes. I don’t know him.

  ‘Je suis désolée de vous déranger,’ I mumble in my school French, ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  The guy’s face lights up in a smile.

  ‘No problem, mademoiselle, what is it that you want?’ His English is better than my French.

  ‘No, nothing, it’s a mistake . . . I made a mistake . . . I thought you were someone else . . .’

  ‘You are looking for someone? Are you lost?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, I thought you were a friend . . .’

  ‘I could be your friend.’ He flashes another charming smile.

  ‘No, thank you!’ I say, perhaps too abruptly, and waffle on, not to offend him. ‘I mean, you are very nice, but I have to go – I’m meeting my husband, you see.’

  ‘Ah, your husband . . .’ He seems genuinely disappointed.

  ‘Yes, my husband, he’s waiting for me.’

  ‘OK,’ he says, raising his arms in a surrender gesture. ‘Maybe next time?’

  ‘Yes, next time . . .’

  ‘It’s shame. Bon bah, salut, ma jolie.’ He turns away, shaking his head.

  As he walks away, I take in his baseball cap with a glitter skull logo, hip-hop jeans and electric green and orange Nike trainers. I feel mortified. Am I going insane? Accosting some strange guy in a foreign city? What am I doing?

  I look around and realize I’m lost. It’s much quieter and dirtier here than in Montmartre, the smell of urine wafting from the pavement. I know vaguely I should be heading east. I pass a few brasseries, buzzing with local life, some ethnic restaurants that look shut, a handful of shops filled with bric-a-brac. And then the vibe changes and I’m in a Maghreb village, with groups of Arab men standing on street corners, talking loudly, as if arguing. It’s Barbès–Rochechouart and something tells me I shouldn’t be walking here on my own at this hour, but I persist, my sense of danger anaesthetized by the adrenaline from my earlier encounter. I cross the main street, looking for the Métro sign or a free taxi, but can’t see any. I turn off into what seems like a street leading to somewhere and continue, trying to look confident and walking purposefully. Suddenly a group of teenagers surrounds me, having a fight, pushing and shoving each other. One of them staggers and bumps into me, the others crowd round, I feel a tug and they run off as quickly as they appeared. My small travel bag, which I carried on a strap on my shoulder, is gone. I stand in the middle of the pavement, pushed by people squeezing by, trying to understand what has happened. I’ve been robbed. It’s never happened to me before. I try to remember what was in my bag. My iPhone, my sunglasses and my wallet. Luckily, I have a habit of keeping a selection of wallets, designated for different currencies. This was my Euros wallet, with no cards or IDs inside. My proper UK wallet with all my cards is locked, together with my passport, in the hotel safe. The thieves made off with about a hundred Euros, no big deal. My hotel card key is in the back pocket of my jeans. But the real problem is the loss of my iPhone. Although I have all the contacts backed up on my Mac, it’s the hassle of having to report it stolen, then getting it blocked and replaced that I dread. It also means I’ll be phoneless until I get back to the UK tomorrow. I return to the main street, looking for a taxi, and quickly realize it’s simply impossible to hail one here. My best bet is finding the nearest Métro station. And there it is, on a busy and dirty junction a few hundred metres along the street, Barbès–Rochechouart. I cling to the wall map of the Métro and plan the route: line number 2 to Charles de Gaulle–Étoile and change for number 1 to Franklin D. Roosevelt. This, I hope, will take me more or less back to the hotel. I’m sure there’s a faster way of getting there, but my nerves are frayed and I opt for the route that looks the simplest on the map. I have enough change from the Montmartre crêpe in my pocket to buy a single ticket. Both trains are hot and smelly, but they get me to the hotel at last. I speak to the concierge about the incident. As nice and apologetic as he is about my ‘expérience terrible’, all he suggests is going with my passport to the commissariat de police of the arrondissement in which the theft took place and filling out a constat de vol. This means going back to Barbès– Rochechouart, which is the last thing I want to do. I thank the concierge and go to my room. I’m upset and tired. I’ll deal with the whole issue when I’m back in London, I decide. I open my laptop and see a solid block of unread emails. I can’t be bothered with them right now. I just email Claire, letting her know my phone got stolen in case she tries to get in touch with me tomorrow morning before I get to the office, and close my laptop. I lie down on the bed, thinking of my unfortunate escapade. I chased a guy because I thought he was someone I knew. I’m not even sure who I thought he was. Andrew? James? Someone from work? Tom? Now I see how stupid the whole thing was, imagining that a young guy in his hip-hop gear was some kind of a stalker. I realize I’ve been seeing glimpses of ‘the guys I know’ all over the place. Now I know they’ve all been figments of my imagination. I can sort of understand my brain trying to trick me into believing James was close by. Perhaps subconsciously I still haven’t separated from him. Or maybe I want him back? I must admit that in moments like this it would be comforting to have him around, full of his masculine protectiveness, making sure ‘his lady’ was all right. But seeing Andrew who, as far as I know, is four thousand miles away in New York? Or Tom, most probably tucked up in bed with Samantha as we speak? Well, lady, you wanted your freedom, and now you have it: you’re on your own. With a flick of a switch I turn off all the lights in my deluxe room and fall asleep.

  Four Days Later

  Just as I thought, the morning train to London is full of French businessmen going on a work day trip across the Channel. I nibble on my breakfast, working on the meeting report for Julian. I’m supposed to meet him at 11 a.m., which means I have to have the whole thing ready before I get off the train. Going back seems faster and before I know it the train is entering St Pancras. I
let all the businessmen disembark in a hurry and then I grab my bag and get off. I join a stream of passengers on an escalator going down and follow the crowd as they file though customs and border control. No one is being stopped, but there are a couple of official-looking plain-clothes guys watching people. I’m just about to pass them when I hear my name.

  ‘Ms Wright?’

  I stop and look at them.

  ‘Yes?’

  The taller of the guys, with mousy hair and tired eyes, shows me his ID.

  ‘I’m DI Brown and this is DS Kapoor. I was wondering if you could accompany us to our office in the station.’

  ‘Is it about the theft of my phone?’ I look at my watch, wondering how they’d know about it so quickly. ‘I have to be at work by eleven.’

  ‘I’m afraid this is rather urgent,’ says DI Brown.

  They don’t say anything else as I follow them through the station to the British Transport Police office. We enter a small room with a table and four chairs around it. DI Brown pulls one of them out for me and we all sit, facing each other.

  ‘My apologies for stopping you like this, but we’re aware that your phone was stolen while you were in Paris, so we didn’t have any means of contacting you earlier.’

  Ah, so it is about my phone, I think with relief. DI Brown clears his throat and continues.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a murder.’ He pauses as if to give me time to process what he’s just said. Still, I wonder what it has to do with me. ‘We understand you are a friend of Ms Belinda Young.’

  ‘Bell? Something happened to Bell?’

  ‘Her body was found on Hampstead Heath yesterday morning.’

  What he’s just said doesn’t sink in straight away. I look at him, half-expecting him to smile, to apologize for his terrible joke, to reassure me she’s fine. But his tired eyes are unsmiling, his expression sombre.

  ‘We’d like you to accompany us to the station.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ I ask stupidly.

  ‘Of course not.’ There’s a hint of some feeling, perhaps compassion, in his eyes now. ‘But your help would be invaluable to our investigation.’

  A wave of weakness hits me and for a moment I’m afraid I’m going to faint. DS Kapoor, a slim, dark-skinned man with big, sad eyes, hands me a plastic cup of water. I take a sip. It’s lukewarm and tastes of dust, but it does help me regain my composure.

  ‘What about my work?’ I ask, too shocked to realize the absurdity of my question.

  ‘We’ve informed them of the situation.’

  I nod, although I’m still not able to grasp the full extent of ‘the situation’. DS Kapoor takes my suitcase and they lead me through the station to an unmarked car with a driver, parked right by the exit on double yellow lines.

  No one says anything as we travel through London. I look out of the window, not registering where we’re going, my mind churning around the few horrible facts I’ve been told, unable to make any sense out of it. We arrive at an ugly, concrete and glass building that turns out to be Kentish Town police station.

  I’m led to a room that looks very much like the one at St Pancras and offered tea or coffee. I ask for tea, which DS Kapoor brings in a paper cup. It’s milky and sweet. I take the first sip, then the door opens and a tall woman with short curly hair walks in. She’s dressed formally, in dark trousers and a white blouse, but she’s not wearing a uniform. I recognize her from the broadcast about the Heath rape.

  ‘DCI Vic Jones,’ she introduces herself and her handshake is dry and strong. ‘I do appreciate you agreeing to come here.’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice.’ It’s more of a statement of fact, not a complaint on my part. ‘But there must have been some terrible mistake.’

  DCI Jones shakes her head sadly. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But it can’t be true.’ I want her to say something, to finish this awful game they are playing, but she says nothing. ‘How . . . how did you find me?’

  ‘We found a mobile phone in the pocket of Ms Young’s raincoat and by checking her contact list and most frequently called numbers found you. We have also retrieved a voice message you left for her on Monday evening.’

  Oh God, my message.

  ‘Was she . . . was she already . . .’ I can’t finish the question.

  DCI Jones nods. ‘She was already dead when you rang her,’ she says quietly.

  I let out a sob I can’t control. DCI Jones waits for me to compose myself.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says quietly.

  Eventually I take a sip of the sweet tea and look at her.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  She nods and pauses, as if deciding what to tell me.

  ‘The body of Ms Young was found yesterday morning, about seven a.m., by a dog walker, in the area directly behind the Ladies’ Pond on Hampstead Heath.’ I feel a wave of nausea and force another sip of tea down my throat.

  ‘We’ve established the time of her death between seven p.m. and ten p.m. the night before. Her body was partially hidden in the bushes, hence it remained undiscovered for so long, even though the area is not particularly isolated. But it was pouring with rain that evening and dusk, so not many people ventured out to the park. From your message we understood she was staying at your house while you were away, looking after your dog.’

  ‘My dog . . .’ I mumble.

  ‘A chocolate Labrador named Wispa?’ She looks at me with a tiny hint of a smile in her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s fine. It was actually DS Kapoor who found her on the Heath yesterday.’

  I sigh with relief, feeling selfish for being happy my dog is fine while my friend is dead. And then an awful realization hits me.

  ‘It’s my fault she’s dead. I made her come to my house and look after my dog while I was away. If I hadn’t asked her, she’d be alive.’

  ‘No, Anna.’ She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. ‘You are not responsible for your friend’s death. You shouldn’t feel guilty.’

  ‘But I do.’ I can’t control my sobbing again.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she says quietly.

  There’s a knock on the door and DS Kapoor looks in. DCI Jones nods and he disappears, closing the door. We sit in silence as I dry my eyes with a tissue DCI Jones has given me. Then the door opens again and Wispa bounces in, followed by DS Kapoor. She runs straight to me, puts her front paws on my knees and licks my face. I can’t help but laugh through tears.

  ‘Oh, puppy, you’re OK.’

  She dances around the room, her tail wagging, runs to DS Kapoor, then comes back to me.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile at him.

  He nods, smiles back and leaves the room.

  ‘Anna,’ DCI Jones looks at me, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name . . .’

  I shrug and shake my head.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some more bad news. Your house has been burgled.’

  I look at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘It probably happened on Monday night and we have reasons to believe it’s connected with Ms Young’s murder. Our forensic team is there now, finishing their investigation. It means you won’t be able to go back to it tonight.’

  I just stare at her, completely numb.

  ‘Is there anyone you could stay with tonight? We can, of course, provide temporary accommodation for you, if that’s what you’d prefer.’

  ‘Michael,’ I whisper.

  ‘OK.’ She takes out a pen and opens her little notebook. ‘Could you give me his surname?’

  ‘Oliver. I’ll call him . . .’ I say and remember I don’t have my phone. ‘I have his number on my laptop.’

  ‘It’s OK, we’ll get in touch with him for you. If you’d excuse me for a moment.’

  She leaves the room and I’m on my own with Wispa, who looks at me, whining quietly. I hug her and kiss her big head. Then I realize she must have seen it happen. She knows who Bell’s killer is.
She paws me, as she always does when she’s trying to tell me something.

  DCI Jones comes back to the room and sits down again. She looks at me, her face kind and compassionate.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s one more thing. We’ve been trying to locate Ms Young’s immediate family, without much success . . .’

  ‘She was adopted by an older couple when she was a kid. Both her adoptive parents died a few years ago.’

  ‘No brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A partner?’

  I hesitate briefly, then say no again. DCI Jones nods and marks something in her notebook.

  ‘You two were close?’

  ‘Yes. She was . . . my family.’ I feel the tears choking me again.

  DCI Jones remains silent for a while, then clears her throat.

  ‘In the absence of next of kin, I’ll have to ask you to formally identify Ms Young’s body. I know how hard it’s going to be for you, but would you mind doing it for us?’

  I don’t say anything, just nod, trying not to think about what lies ahead of me.

  ‘Thank you.’ She sounds like she really means it.

  ‘Did she . . . Was she—’ My throat tightens with grief and I’m unable to speak. But DCI Jones seems to understand what I want to know.

  ‘She was fully clothed and there were no signs of sexual assault. She’d been strangled.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’ I can’t keep the tears in any longer. They come out in a flood, while I sob like a child. DCI Jones puts her hand on my arm and lets me cry. After a while, when my sobs begin to subside, there is a quiet knock on the door. DS Kapoor again.

  ‘Mr Oliver is on his away.’

  ‘Thank you, Navin.’ She nods at him, then turns to me. ‘Anna, we’ll pick you up from Mr Oliver’s tomorrow morning, if that’s OK.’

  I agree, my life suddenly being taken over by the police investigation.