Follow You Home

by Mark Edwards

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Anyway, while we’re waiting to hear, I want to go through everything else you told me. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. Got any paper? Or are you one of those people who only has screens?’

  I grabbed a few sheets from my printer and he spread them out on the table between us.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’re going to write down all the questions, all the things that don’t make sense, and then we’re going to answer them as best we can, see if we can make this puzzle fit together.’

  Between us, we spent the next twenty minutes writing out these questions in block capitals and sorting the sheets of paper into order. Apart from our voices, it was silent in the flat, so quiet you could hear the hum of the electrics, the creaking radiators, the occasional voice from the street below. It felt good to do this, better than tapping out the list of problems on my phone. I felt a growing sense of gratitude towards Edward, wished I’d found someone to help me like this earlier. I was able to push my anxiety—about my drunken visit to Laura and her messages, and what the police in Breva would find—to the back of my mind while we worked on this task. It reminded me of the nights when I would sit up working on my app, problem-solving, everything else in the world fading to grey while I concentrated on the puzzle before me. At one point, I heard the sound of tyres skidding on the road outside, the thump of a car door. But I was concentrating too hard on what I was doing to look out of the window.

  After we’d filled each sheet with text, Edward sat back and surveyed them, rubbing a forefinger back and forth across his chin. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

  The top left sheet of paper contained the words WHAT WAS CAMELIA LOOKING FOR?

  ‘First of all,’ Edward said, ‘we don’t know if Camelia is connected to the events near Breva. We assume she is because she’s Romanian, but that could be a coincidence.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ I said.

  ‘But we can’t assume.’

  ‘If you say “When you assume you make an ass out of u and me” I’m going to fire you.’

  ‘You definitely didn’t meet or see her while you were over there?’ he asked.

  ‘No, definitely not. I’d recognise her. She’s a very memorable girl.’

  ‘Hmm. She certainly sounds it. Now . . . tell me exactly what Camelia said to you on both occasions you met.’

  I recounted our conversations as well as I could remember them.

  ‘So the first time you met her, she asked if you’d ever had a bad experience with Romanian women.’

  ‘And when I said I hadn’t, she asked if I was sure. Fuck.’ I exhaled. ‘And the second time, she kept asking me if I’d done anything illegal, broken the law. Over and over.’

  ‘Trying to get you to confess to something you don’t know about.’

  ‘We did break the law,’ I said, sitting up straight. ‘Going into that sleeper carriage without a ticket. Maybe she was trying to get me tell her about that.’

  ‘Daniel, that’s hardly stealing the Crown Jewels, is it? It can’t be that.’ He thought about it. ‘Let’s assume that it definitely was Camelia on that CCTV video and that she was responsible for the burglary too. When she came into your flat, she ransacked the place the first time, didn’t she? Like she was looking for something.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Edward went back to scrutinising the sheet of paper, as if the answer was hiding between the words. ‘Let’s think. We’re pretty sure she’s broken into your flat three times. Her and whoever she’s working with. Once to ransack the place . . . and steal your laptop. Then to bring the laptop back. And then when they came back with the dog.’ He rubbed his chin again. ‘If they were searching for something, it makes sense that they turned your flat over. But why bring the laptop back? And why come back with a dog?’

  ‘Because they wanted to hurt me. They thought the dog would kill me.’ My whole body went cold as I said these words.

  Edward went quiet for a few moments, then looked at me. ‘Let’s come back to that. I just need to . . .’ He trailed off. ‘How did Camelia get the key to your flat?’

  ‘I have no idea. I haven’t lost any keys.’

  ‘What about Laura? Has she had any keys go missing?’

  ‘I . . . hang on. Yes, when we got back to the UK, Laura didn’t have her keys. We thought they’d probably gone missing at some point on our trip. But the thief who took our passports must have taken them.’

  ‘That never crossed your mind before?’

  ‘No. There was a lot going on in our heads when we got back. It didn’t even cross our minds that the person who robbed us would take the keys to our flat.’

  ‘Well, at least that explains how they got into your flat.’

  ‘And makes it seem even more likely that Camelia is connected to what happened on the train, to the theft.’

  ‘Well, maybe she was on the train. She, or her partner in crime. They took your keys so they could come over here and rob your flat.’

  I shook my head. ‘That seems a bit . . . unlikely. Travel all across Europe to rob a flat? And why wait three months? Plus it doesn’t explain all the questions. And they brought the most valuable stolen item back anyway. Why?’ I thumped my forehead. ‘None of it makes sense. I need another coffee.’

  I went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, made two more mugs of instant coffee. I’d bought Nescafé again. Jake would be looking down now, shaking his head and muttering about baby milk.

  As I waited for the kettle to boil, Edward’s mobile rang. He looked up at me. ‘It’s a call from Romania. The police.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Laura had paced the strip of carpet between the bed and window in her room at Erin and Rob’s so many times now that she was surprised it hadn’t worn away to reveal the floorboards. As she paced, she chewed the skin around her fingernails, sucking the blood from her thumb, pacing, chewing, sucking, pacing . . . She had a word stuck in her head: Putrescent. She didn’t know why, or where it had come from, but it repeated over and over: putrescent, putrescent, putrescent. Pace, chew, suck, pace, back and forth, up and down, round and round and round.

  She forced herself to stop, gulped down air, resisted her fingers as they called to her, urging her to bite them, shred them, make them bleed. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, imagined she could feel the rain that beat against it caressing her forehead, cooling her fevered brow, sure that she could smell her own rotting skin—

  putrescent

  —and aware of the thump-thump-thump of her heart. Last night, she had lain sweating beneath the sheets, like she often did just before she got her period, but this increased heartbeat, the shivering fear and unease that coursed through her, was worse than ever. Worse than in the first nights after she’d seen the dying women at that house, before she’d heard the gunshots that killed them and Alina. Killed the baby, the poor innocent sweet big-eyed baby.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. She could hear little Oscar downstairs, crying, could hear the voices of Erin and Rob and the couple who were visiting them, a woman Erin worked with and her husband. This woman—Laura didn’t know her name—was putrescent too . . . no, pregnant too—pregnant!—and Laura touched her own belly, wondering if she’d ever have a baby of her own. If she did, she would keep him or her sequestered away, give him or her the perfect life, unlike hers. The baby would be her clean slate, and she would keep her son or daughter safe from hands that meant harm, safe from ghosts, safe from the old man . . .

  She had seen him again yesterday. She was sure he wasn’t a ghost, too: he was real, all too real. He had been sitting in a shiny black car, parked across the road, watching the house. It was the kind of car the Devil drives in movies; the kind that pulls up at a crossroads on a highway in the middle of nowhere, inviting the hapless runaway to get in, o
ffering a deal, a one-way ride to Hell. She knew, even if she was losing her mind, that she was letting her imagination run riot, that there was no devil who drove around in a black BMW offering rides to doomed mortals. But the old man was real. When he saw Laura approaching he fired up the engine and drove away, the car gliding silently up the street, slipping out of sight.

  Laura had been stuck to the spot. Again, she was sure she had seen him before. Last night, when she’d finally entered a choppy, troubled sleep, the answer had come to her, shrouded by symbolism, and though she had grasped the meaning in the nightmare, when she woke up among cold, wet sheets she couldn’t recall it.

  She had told Alina about the old man, the devil, and the ghost had turned even paler, if such a thing was possible. Then she’d said Don’t worry. I’ll deal with him when he comes.

  Alina had slipped away before Laura could ask what the dead woman meant.

  Now, she opened her eyes and looked down at the spot where Daniel had stood last night, calling her name. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t bear to talk to him. It broke her heart to see him walk away. She wanted to run after him. More than that, she wanted to run so fast that she could stop time, turn the planet back, like Superman, and erase everything that had happened since last August. Change what had happened in that house. Then she and her Danny would still be together, still be happy.

  She realised her face was wet, that she was crying.

  Go and see him, a voice said. Talk to him.

  She found a tissue and blew her nose, rubbed her eyes. Was there any chance they could make it work? Even now?

  Downstairs, Oscar was crying, shrieking, and the sound penetrated Laura’s skull, made it impossible to think straight. She needed to get out. She grabbed her coat and, scrutinising the garden once more to see if Alina was there, but not seeing her, headed out.

  Now, thirty minutes later, she walked along the street where she’d lived not so long ago. The snow had been washed away by the rain, leaving a few patches of slush in the gutters, the odd frozen clump clinging to a hedge. Her legs had brought her here despite her head’s protestations. All the way, she kept thinking, I’ll stop soon. I’ll go back. In a minute. But she couldn’t stop walking, and now here she was. She had been happy here, had enjoyed such good times. Tears pricked her eyes again and she was almost overwhelmed by regret. If only . . .

  As she approached the building where Daniel lived she heard a noise and turned—the devil?—but it was just a fox, padding away from her across the road. A pretty fox. It stopped in the middle of the road and turned its face towards her. At that moment, a silver car, old, battered, the opposite of the shining black vehicle driven by the old man, screeched around the corner and barrelled towards the fox. Laura gasped as the car skidded to a halt, closing her eyes, certain she would hear the impact of metal against bone.

  When she opened them, the fox was gone. Under the wheels? She ran into the road, trying to see, ready to shout at the woman behind the wheel of the battered car, a woman who was staring at her, a smile on her face.

  What was so funny?

  The car door opened and a blonde woman with chunky silver rings on her fingers got out.

  ‘Laura?’ she said. She had the same accent as Alina.

  ‘Yes? Who are you?’

  ‘Get in the car.’

  ‘What?’

  The woman produced a knife from beneath her coat. ‘Get in the car.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Edward murmured into the phone, facing away from me, so I couldn’t really hear what he was saying. The police in Breva must have found someone who spoke English. As Constantin had been able to do. I was desperate to hear what Edward was saying, attempted to get in front of him, but he kept turning away from me, shooting me irritated looks until I gave up.

  The call ended.

  ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Have they been to the house? What did they find?’

  He ran a finger across his eyebrow. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘For God’s sake, tell me what they said.’

  He held his hand out and waited for me to hand him his coffee. I was tempted to chuck it at him. ‘They found the house, but said it was deserted.’

  ‘What, you mean . . . like no one lived there?’

  ‘Exactly. He said that the whole place was empty. No food in the cupboards, a single, rusty bed in what would have been the master bedroom, with a bare mattress. No plates in the kitchen—or mugs. Certainly no sign of Constantin.’ He sipped his coffee and winced. ‘One weird thing: one of the bedrooms on the top floor appeared to have been decorated recently. It still had that fresh paint smell. But it was completely empty. They found some furniture in one of the rooms—some chests, a dresser, a few ancient chairs—draped with sheets.’

  ‘So he’s gone. And covered up the evidence.’ I swore under my breath, though to be honest I hadn’t been expecting the police to find anything. In a way, I was pleased. I wanted that place, any traces of what I’d seen there, to be wiped from the face of the earth. Of course, I wanted justice for those women, for Alina, for the babies who had died, but the possibility of that seemed so remote . . . Part of me wanted to hear the place had been burned to the ground. It was a place of evil, and this world would be better without it.

  Edward continued. ‘I asked him if there was any record of who lived there. He said the last resident, according to their equivalent of the Land Registry, was a woman who died in 1991. The place has been empty for over twenty years.’

  ‘Except it hasn’t.’

  ‘I want to talk to Laura,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to see if she’s been experiencing the same kind of things that you have. And . . . well, I want to check her version of events.’

  I stared at him, the anger, which had drained from me in the kitchen, simmering again. ‘You think I’m making the whole thing up?’

  ‘No, don’t be stupid. I want to see if Laura remembers anything that you don’t. Like, maybe she saw Camelia on the train. Maybe Laura has had contact with Camelia too, in the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘Oh my God. You’re right.’

  ‘What’s Laura’s address?’

  I told him and he wrote it down in his notepad. I said, ‘Maybe it was Camelia who tried to push Laura under the Tube train. Oh Jesus. I bet she killed Jake.’

  ‘Camelia? But why would she do that?’

  ‘Because she must have known I’d talked to him. And she went after him for information about whatever the hell it is she’s looking for, thinking I might have told him, and . . . had to kill him so he wouldn’t tell me she’d been to see him. Or maybe she murdered him because she was so angry with him because he didn’t have the info she needed.’ I paused. ‘And the only reason she hasn’t tried to kill me is that she thinks I’ll still lead her to what she’s after.’

  ‘But she did try to kill you, didn’t she? The dog.’

  ‘Maybe she was just trying to scare me.’

  ‘I don’t know, Daniel. It doesn’t make sense. Would a skinny, slight woman like Camelia be able to overpower Jake?’

  ‘She would only have to catch him off-balance to be able to push him off that bridge. And we know she’s not working alone. It was probably the man on the video. Both of them.’

  ‘This is all even more reason to talk to Laura.’

  ‘But she refuses to see me. I can’t go anywhere near her.’

  He gave me a wry smile.

  ‘Who said anything about you coming too?’

  Chapter Forty

  The blonde woman didn’t speak at all on the way to wherever it was they were going. She glanced at Laura in the rear-view mirror whenever they stopped at a traffic light. Laura had tried to open the door but the child locks were on.

  When Laura tried to talk, to ask the woman who she was, what she was doing, sh
e found that her voice box didn’t work. Not just that, but all the words in her head had vanished. All but one.

  putrescentputrescentputrescentputrescent

  ‘Stop fucking doing that,’ the woman snapped, shattering the silence.

  Laura’s eyes swivelled towards her.

  ‘Biting your fingers. Stop it.’

  putrescentputrescentputrescentputrescent

  Laura sat on her hands.

  The woman cursed. ‘This traffic.’

  Laura forced herself to get a grip, to start noticing things. She might need these details later. The driver was Eastern European, very pretty. She smelled of cigarettes. Her roots were poking through. She wore silver rings. She crunched the gears whenever she turned a corner and shifted down to second.

  The urge to pull her hands out from beneath her and start chewing them again was almost overwhelming.

  What else? The car was a Skoda, the type favoured by minicab drivers, and seemed pretty old, but not too old to have child locks. There was a rip in the upholstery beside her. And they were driving east, through Islington, up Essex Road and now they were in Hackney. Victoria Park wasn’t far from here. They kept going, stopping and starting, got stuck behind a bus for a long time, skirted the edge of Hackney Marshes. Now they were in East London proper. Leyton, squatting dejectedly beneath the colourless winter sky. And soon they pulled up in a quiet back street outside a house beside a vacant shop. The house had a boarded-up door and a front garden that was so badly overgrown that it was spilling onto the street.

  The blonde got out, came round and opened the passenger door, poking the knife towards Laura. ‘Out.’

  She led Laura round the back of the house, where the garden was even more jungle-like than at the front. The back door had several broken glass panes. The woman stuck her hand through the jagged hole and opened the door from the inside. Again, she jabbed the knife at Laura and told her to go inside.

  Laura thought about running, trying to escape. But for the second time that day, her legs wouldn’t obey her brain.