by JJ Marsh
Wales. September. He would start with his panama. He rarely wore it in London, not with his linen suit, because the ensemble suggested Hannibal Lecter. But in Wales, that would hardly matter.
Chapter 19
“And she replied, ‘Don’t speak to me like that, Sergeant. I find it disrespectful’. Didn’t even look round. Nor did I, but I’d love to have seen his face.”
Dawn shook her head and picked up another piece of sashimi. “He sounds like a total baboon. He and Virginia Lowe deserve each other.”
Beatrice couldn’t quite agree. “The man is an utter ape, which is why I can’t understand her attitude to him. She may be a lot of things, but she’s not stupid. It was a glorious moment, though. That BTP Inspector, barely forty, a wisp of a little thing, slapping him down like an impertinent school boy. I could hardly contain myself.”
“I can imagine. What about the case? You any closer to nobbling Jack Flash? This tuna smells a bit off, I don’t think I’ll eat it. Check yours before you ... Beatrice, what is it?”
Her expression had given her away. She marshalled her thoughts.
“It’s hard to put into words, but the ... trivialisation of this case is at the heart of the problem. I know you mean nothing by it, but we are talking about a potential rapist, an assaulter of teenage girls. Calling him Jack Flash, or a dirty old man, or in any way diluting the threat of this individual is what allows him to get away with it for so long. Dawn, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get at you, of all people. I suppose I’m just articulating my own change in attitude.”
Dawn raised her brows, but looked away. Beatrice took a slice of pickled ginger between her chopsticks and placed it down again.
She made another attempt at explaining. “The thing is, there have been so many of these casual ...”
“Beatrice, it’s fine. Eat your food. I agree with you. Listen, Frances did a university project on inter-racial tensions last year. And one phrase from her dissertation leapt out at me and has kind of stuck. ‘Micro-aggressions.’ Those daily little put-downs, reminders of your place, flexing of superior muscle, you know what I mean? I’ve suffered from this myself. So have you. Obviously, Frances used it to talk about race.”
“An example?”
“OK. You’re at the sandwich counter. ‘Where are you from?’ you ask the white kid who serves you. ‘Leytonstone,’ he replies and you say you know it well. The next day, an Asian kid serves you. You ask him where he’s from. ‘Walthamstow,’ he says. ‘No, but where are you really from?’ Subtext: I belong, you don’t. It struck me as applicable to so many other situations.”
Beatrice chewed over both maki-zushi and concept.
“What I’m saying, Beatrice, is that I agree. You can belittle a person, a fear, even a crime by the language you use. The message came across louder still when I worked with abused women. Expressions like: ‘a little shake’, ‘only the back of my hand’, and my favourite, ‘an affectionate slap’. So I do get it and I’m sorry for being so tactless. I can’t even blame the sake, as I haven’t drunk it yet.”
“Well, it’s time you did. I apologise for getting snippy with you and I’m glad you appreciate my point. How do you say ‘Cheers’ in Japanese?”
“No idea. But Sayonara means ‘goodbye’ so that’ll do. Sayonara!”
Beatrice raised her glass but was interrupted by a loud tut of disapproval. The counter worker continued his rapid chopping, but glanced up at them under his white hat.
“Sort it out, ladies. If you’re saying goodbye, fair dos.” His accent was pure Gravesend. “But when raising a glass, in Japanese you say, ‘Kampai!’ Awright?”
Beatrice gave a respectful semi-bow. “Thank you. Kampai, Dawn.”
“And Kampai to you too.” They slugged the sake, the warmth hitting Beatrice’s cheeks seconds later.
Dawn’s complexion rose at the same pace as her smile.
“It works, this stuff, doesn’t it?” Beatrice asked.
“No doubt. Kampai, I must remember that one. I have to say, this place is an unexpected find. An oasis amid the madness. You should bring Matthew here next weekend –does he like sushi?”
“Most definitely. Even makes it himself. He is a passionate Japanese fan. But next weekend would have been my turn to do Devon.” An odd sense of unease slithered down Beatrice’s spine, an unpleasant sensation, all the more so for being familiar. She was nurturing a microscopic resentment, prodding it, fanning it and encouraging it to fester.
“Would have been? You have to work?” Dawn asked, with her natural gentle interest.
“I probably will. But he didn’t know that. I don’t even know myself yet. Nevertheless, he has extended his stay in Rome after the Ostia seminar, ‘just to shop and savour the atmosphere of Rome.’ And frankly, that whiffs.”
“Of what? Having a weekend of self-indulgence? It’s his summer holiday, he’s entitled. Come on, Beatrice. You must be due some time off. So when you’ve caught that rotten little shit from Finsbury Park, you can take a break and indulge yourselves together. What’s bitten you?”
“Nothing, really. Just being a petulant brat. Tell me about your weekend.”
Dawn set her chopsticks on their little china holder and rested her chin on her hand, eyes searching Beatrice’s face.
“Leave me alone,” muttered Beatrice, staring at her soy sauce. “I have nothing more to say. It’s up to him what he does with his weekends.” She picked up some sashimi. “Tuna tastes fine to me, you’re just being fussy. Oh for God’s sake!” She placed her chopsticks down and glared at her friend.
Dawn shrugged. “You may as well cough it up. And I’m not talking about the fish. Why have you wound yourself into a spin about Matthew having a couple of extra days in Rome?”
“Because it is just not like him. His seminar ends on Friday, but he wants to come back on Sunday. Why? He hates Rome in summer. Too hot, packed with tourists and all the restaurant prices go up. He forgets that when he agreed to present his research, he moaned to me for ages about having to go there at all. Now he wants to stay an extra day. And ... he’s got a look in his eye. He’s excited about something. Or someone.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “You seriously suspect Matthew of having an affair?”
“Lepers don’t change their spots.”
“Nor do leopards. And how can you, of all people, make such an accusation? Have you shared these thoughts with your counsellor?”
Beatrice swilled her sake around the glass. “Not yet. I suppose I should.”
Dawn’s face creased into an understanding smile. “Or better still, talk to Matthew.”
“Perhaps. I’m just afraid of what I might find out. All right. I’ll talk to him. It’s not healthy just to hypothesise and fret; I can feel myself getting sucked into it all again. You’re very good for me. And for the price of a plate of sushi, much cheaper than a session with James. I’m sorry.” Beatrice smiled, before returning her attention to her food.
Dawn picked up her chopsticks with an air of satisfaction. “Actually, I’m happy you told me. Friends rarely share their fears regarding infidelity, suspected or otherwise. They must think the subject too painful for The Betrayed Wife. Ian’s indiscretion has come to define me, for most people. But not you.”
Beatrice studied Dawn’s kind, open face. “That’s the half-full perspective. It could be that I’m a self-centred, thoughtless drain, who only cares about her own problems.”
“Trust you to spin yourself in a positive light. You didn’t eat that tuna, did you? How far are we from the nearest A&E?”
Beatrice reached over and helped herself to Dawn’s rejected fish. “If I’m having my stomach pumped, I may as well make it worth their while.”
Dawn laughed and pinched an Eskimo roll between chopsticks, popping it into her mouth and turning her gaze out at the street. She shook her head in a disbelieving gesture.
“Something wrong?” Beatrice asked.
“No, nothing at all. Good food, great company
. Nice little shot of liquor, and yet another amusing haircut for entertainment. Can’t complain.”
“Nor me. Which haircut?” Beatrice polished off her ginger slices. Somehow orchestral in its refined combination of flavours, one could almost applaud Japanese food.
“This horrible trend toward shaving above your ears, leaving a Davey-Crockett one-length hank from forehead to shoulder blades. You haven’t noticed? They’re everywhere; men, women and, worst of all, children.”
A bell rang in Beatrice’s consciousness. Picking up her sake, she focused on Dawn. “That night in The Speaker, when I came back from the loo, you said something about haircuts. Do you remember?”
Dawn’s smile faded, replaced by a concertina of concentration.
“Oh yes. While you were in there, a guy walked past the window. He spotted me and gave me a wink so I smiled back. He mouthed some words and held his hand like this, you know?” She extended her little finger and thumb and raised her hand to her cheek.
“He wanted your phone number?” Beatrice’s incredulity was unmissable.
Dawn didn’t seem offended. “Apparently so. I pointed to my ring finger – he couldn’t see it from there – and shook my head. He just shrugged and moved on, and I noticed his haircut. Short, dark and almost normal at the front, but at the back, he had a blond ponytail. I’m not keen on ponytailed men at the best of times, but in a different colour? Why would anyone make such a hash of their hair?”
“And do you remember, when you mentioned that, I told you I had a story to tell? More sake, or shall we revert to old habits?”
Dawn turned to the counter-chopper. “Do you think we could have two large glasses of dry white wine over here?”
Chapter 20
Onto camera, 7.09 p.m., Blackstock Road. Turquoise mini dress, denim jacket, white heels. Chewing gum. As she waits to cross the street, she pulls her dress further down her thighs, and pushes her hair up at the temples.
Above her, a camera tilts and zooms. Her progress through the station is slick; she’s done this before. Oyster card, no hesitation, trotting down the tunnel and onto the escalator. She keeps walking and arrives on the southbound platform just as a Piccadilly line to Uxbridge thunders in. She looks pretty and fresh and expectant. And a bit nervous. Ticks all the right boxes.
In the surveillance van parked at the end of Station Place, Virginia and Beatrice watched the replay of PC Karen Harrison’s movements. Current footage from Finsbury Park’s Control Centre still streamed onto their system, yet their attention was on images recorded three hours ago.
Five cameras covered each stage of Harrison’s route, but the main object of interest was the central screen, which reflected whatever was on the main console at BTP. When the officer in the control room dragged an image onto his main screen, the same pictures popped up in the discreet black van down the street. Watching whatever the watcher watched.
“Girl done good.” The officer turned round with a grin.
“She did, Fitch. Some very nice little touches there,” Virginia agreed.
“And he watched her from Blackstock Road to the platform. Got a close-up and everything.” His face was lit, both by monitors and enthusiasm.
Beatrice smiled back at Fitch. She understood. There were few finer feelings than the first nibble on the bait.
Virginia seemed satisfied. “Check the record sheet for timings and find out exactly who was on the console. Double check there were no last-minute changes to the rota. And I want you to do the same after her return journey. Good work, PC Fitzgerald.”
“Don’t thank me, ma’am. It’s Harrison wants thanking.” His smile remained in place while he replaced his earphones and returned his attention to the screens.
“Should we get into position, Beatrice? It’s ten to eleven. She’ll be on her way back soon.”
Somerfield Road, a residential street of Victorian terraces, remained quiet although it was just gone chucking-out time. Their unmarked BMW, with tinted windows, fitted in perfectly with its surroundings. Listening to the updates on the police radio, the two women sat in attentive silence, until confirmation came – Harrison had boarded a northbound train from Leicester Square. Her job was to give the impression of someone who’d spent the evening dancing and drinking an excess of Smirnoff Ice.
In reality, the girl’s evening had been slightly more pedestrian. On arrival in Leicester Square, she had entered All Bar One, met a second officer in the toilets, changed her clothes and trudged down to Charing Cross Police Station, where she had spent three hours watching TV and drinking coffee. The reality of police work. Waiting. Watching and waiting and trying not to fall asleep. Dull diligence.
Virginia let her head fall backwards. “So we’ve got around half an hour before we’re likely to get a visual. God, I wish I still smoked.”
“No, you don’t. Concentrate on staying alert for Harrison, picking up every detail and in about an hour, we can go home to our beds.”
“Yes. Hold that thought. Bed, duvet, cat. I am exhausted. What have I done today? Push papers. But now, on the street, in the middle of the action, I’m knackered and I want to go home.”
Beatrice could sympathise. This week had been stressful for all of them, and as the weekend approached, signs of strain affected the whole team. Time was ticking away. In two more days, their man would become active again. She rubbed her face; her eyes were drooping. Small wonder: she’d been awake since four. Best thing would be conversation.
“It’s because you know nothing will happen tonight. He’s at work, so he can’t do anything. But we have to be wide awake, just in case. What’s your cat’s name?”
“Tallulah. A bad-tempered Burmese. You have creatures?”
“No. But the lack of four-legged, or even two-legged creatures makes my bed no less appealing. In some ways, it makes it more so.”
Neither spoke, matching words with impressions.
The radio continued its chatter and Grant’s voice confirmed all was calm at BTP Control Centre, everyone working their designated shift.
“From what I hear, we’re in a similar position,” Virginia said, folding her arms.
“In what way?”
“The men way. We both have a permanent partner, who is absent for most of the time. Or have I been misinformed?”
Beatrice considered how much she wanted to share. As a rule, she kept her private life ring-fenced and off limits.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Although I would express it differently. My partner and I spend weeks apart, and weekends together. ‘Absent’ smacks of neglect. Our arrangement is very much a mutual choice.”
“You’re lucky. Our arrangement is very much a mutual ‘no choice’. My husband works for BAE Systems and he’s based in Dubai. When we married, we both assumed the other one would give up the job. I thought a London lad, with a wife and home here, would be desperate to come back. He couldn’t see why I would want to continue working when I could live the luxury life of the expat housewife. He doesn’t want to stop working. Nor do I. So we see each other for two weeks every quarter. Plus the odd holiday and occasional weekend.”
“Hence the cat.”
“Tallulah and I were together long before I met Stewart.” Virginia turned to Beatrice with a laugh. “He’s a dog person.”
“Oh dear.”
“No, it’s actually fine. It’s just ... on paper, we shouldn’t work. He’s younger, by nine years. He’s serious, hard-working and loves being alone. I’m frivolous, feckless and can’t be without company. He likes white, I like red; I fancy beefcake, he has a concave chest; he’s attracted to large breasts, I’m a 32A. But the thing is, with him, I’m totally relaxed. He makes me laugh, in person, on screen, on the phone, and I miss him all the bloody time.”
“Well, that is a surprise,” Beatrice responded. “I’d have put you at 34B easily.”
Virginia snorted with laughter and gave her a sideways glance. “Well, that’s me in the spotlight. Your turn.”
/> “Would you feel terribly short-changed if I didn’t volunteer my bra size?”
Virginia made a mock-disappointed face.
“My story is simple and rather dull. Matthew and I have been together over twenty years and prefer to live apart. He has two daughters from a previous marriage, and one grandson. I’ve never been married, have no offspring and no regrets about it. Our relationship is based on room for independence, not to mention trust. And it has always worked terrifically well.”
The radio crackled, and Beatrice checked the time. Harrison should be approaching the Tube station now.
“I sense a ‘so far’ in that statement?”
Beatrice could go no further without a lesson in her personal history. “It’s complicated. Can I ask a question?”
“On your behalf, or Dawn Whittaker’s?”
Her defensive tone surprised Beatrice. Seemed like events at the award ceremony had left a bitter taste in several mouths.
“Mine. I’m curious. Where does Ty Grant fit into the picture?”
Virginia’s face hardened and she looked ahead. “He doesn’t.”
“I see.” Beatrice faced front. “Fair enough.”
Virginia slid her fingers up her face, dropping her forehead into her palms.
“Look, it’s the opposite of complicated. A bit of a flirtation, harmless way of passing the time. I’m not interested in Ty. I just get ... bored, you know?”
“Does Ty see it as a harmless pastime too?”
Virginia’s head swivelled. “He hasn’t said anything, has he?”
“To me? Good God, no. I just wondered if both sets of expectations were equally innocent.”
Virginia checked her watch and sighed. “No, Ty is trying to push it further. And I really like the guy. He’s exactly my type, but ...”
The radio hissed and distorted, before informing them they were about to get a visual on Harrison.
The street was silent as the poor girl maintained her persona right to the door of ‘her flat’. Stopping, swaying, almost tripping over, she looked like someone whose judgement was suspect, whose coordination was clumsy and whose radar was down. An excellent performance. Once inside, she could change, rest and enjoy the weekend. Because the following week she’d be doing it all over again, with every expectation of being followed by a pervert. She made it without mishap, and staggered inside. A faint round of applause came from the watching teams over the airwaves.
