by Zoe Caldwell
No. I’ll have to leave it for now, and pray that this blows over, becoming yesterday’s news, like all my other kills. I close my laptop and try to sleep.
10
Couture.
I eye the familiar sign. The letters are engraved in honey-coloured stone, embossed in gold above tall plate glass panels that frame revolving doors. I walk through these doors every day. On good days, I barely register this building – pristine and imposing – with its gleaming entrance sealed from the public with an intercom system, security passes, CCTV, and alarmed locks. On good days, the air-conditioned, wide, marble foyer with an ostentatious flower display in the centre, soaring ceiling and twinkling chandelier barely even registers. On good days, I pound the marble with my heels, sashaying through the security barriers, arrogant, rushed, like I belong. And yet on days like today, I see it all. An outsider looking in. I see the affluence all around me and I feel like an interloper, wearing someone else’s shoes, dressing up in someone else’s clothes. I feel like a nobody.
I walk unsteadily in my Jimmy Choo stilettos towards the entrance, fumble in my bag for my pass, present it to the sensor. The revolving door clicks, its latch freeing. I push my way through and try to look casual. Couture is my world now. My Mayfair flat is my home. London’s most exclusive streets are my domain. The past was just a bad dream. The girl I used to be is dead. I take a deep breath, trying to centre myself, trying to feel strong.
I make my way across the light-filled foyer, swiping my pass against a security barrier.
‘Morning, Camilla,’ says a doorman who’s here all the time, but whose name I don’t know. He’s been here for years and the moment when it would have been appropriate for me to ask passed a long time ago.
‘Morning,’ I reply, forcing a smile.
I head over to the lift, my heels clacking sharply against the marble floor. My mood starts to lighten a little. I breathe in the clean air, which in the morning always smells of the bleach the night cleaners use. I step inside the glass lift, press the button for the newsroom. The doors close and the lift swoops up the shaft, lifting me higher into this bubble of luxury, a place that usually makes me feel okay, that makes me feel far, far away from dead rapists and police officers. I’d probably go insane if I was knocking around my Mayfair flat all day, with nothing to do apart from have sex and get up to no good. Couture might feel strange to me sometimes, but I’m grateful for it. It grounds me. It turns me into Camilla the editor – a force to be reckoned with. The light shifts as the lift climbs higher, growing darker as the lift rises further into the building, dense with offices, workers. My job may ground me, but it’s also the ultimate alibi. How could a woman like me possibly be the person I am? No one would believe that someone as glamorous and poised as myself could be so depraved. My job’s the perfect cover-up. Perhaps it doesn’t do me any good at all. Perhaps it doesn’t ground me, but simply facilitates my madness.
The lift doors ping open. The office is empty apart from a few early birds: Dennis, a page designer, and Anita, a sub. They glance my way as I cross the newsroom. They smile in acknowledgement, but they visibly stiffen, straightening their backs.
‘Morning,’ I say as I stride to my office.
‘Morning,’ they echo.
It’s 6.35am. Usually, at this time, I’m showering at home, or I’m doing an early morning workout at the gym. I’m never usually in the office this early, but I’ve been awake since 4am, when I woke in a panic, having been dreaming about being locked in a prison cell. I lay in bed as the grey, early morning light filtered through my curtains and I felt like my mind was closing in on itself. I tossed and turned and tried to get back to sleep for a bit, but it was no use. I got up, showered and got dressed, putting on a bold outfit unlike anything I’d usually wear – a red and yellow Salvatore Ferragamo shirt dress – in the hope that the bright colours might distract me from my melancholic mood. And distract others too.
I sit down at my desk and scroll through page mock-ups of the magazine on my screen. Features on luxe winter coats, ways to style the puffed sleeve trend, and Meghan Markle style inspiration go over my head. I gaze out of my office towards Victoria, where the Met Police HQ is based, the address of which was on Detective Wheelan’s card. I wonder what he’s doing today. Is he doing background checks on me? Has he got any more leads?
There may be a witness who claims to have seen me with Julian and I may have slipped up blabbing his name in the office, but that’s not enough to convict me of murder. I should be fine. I didn’t leave evidence at the scene, I just didn’t. I may have blurted Julian’s name in the office, but I’m way too pro to leave evidence at a murder scene. The police can tear that scene apart and they won’t find a trace of me. They’ll be too busy wasting their time and resources on all the red herrings I left there – a fag butt I plucked off the patio of a known paedophile’s house, the old jumper I nicked from a rapist a few years ago and kept in my garage, a glove I swiped off the table in a bar once that belonged to this asshole who wouldn’t stop berating his girlfriend. I left them all on the roof of that council block, knowing the police would be all over them. Bagging them up, sending them off for forensic examination, running DNA profiles through their system, following up any potential matches, questioning suspects, seeking alibis, blah-blah-blah. And then, before they know it, someone else will have been murdered. Someone else’s family will want justice and they’ll have spent their budget and will be forced to move on.
I try to let my worries go and reply to emails instead, co-ordinate features, and sort out the final details for a shoot later in the week. Fashion takes over and I start to feel normal again. Camilla the editor is back, while Camilla the killer is in her box. Far away in her grotty Hayes garage where she belongs. I can hear the newsroom filling up beyond my office door as my colleagues start to arrive for work, the hum of chit-chat growing louder as I type away.
Suddenly, my office door bursts open, and Jess charges in, holding today’s newspapers.
‘Camilla!’ she gasps. ‘I didn’t realise you were here.’
Clearly, Anita and Dennis weren’t feeling chatty.
‘Just felt like getting a head start on everything after my weekend away,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, I see.’ Jess places the newspapers down on my office table.
‘How’s your mum?’ she asks.
‘Oh, she’s all right. Still a bit ropey but she’s got my dad to look after her, she’ll be fine,’ I say, with a careworn smile.
‘Aww, sounds tough,’ Jess comments sympathetically.
‘Yeah, she’ll be okay though,’ I insist, hollow inside.
‘Good.’ Jess smiles. ‘My mum got some stomach bug a few weeks ago. She was bed-bound for days. I came over with chicken soup and she made me watch pre-recorded Cash in the Attic episodes all afternoon,’ Jess tells me, rolling her eyes indulgently.
I laugh, as though I can relate. I feel I should add something, but I can’t think of a fake mum anecdote off the top of my head.
‘Oh, did you hear Rayna’s on the Woman of the Year judging panel,’ Jess says, distracting me.
‘Rayna? Really?’ I baulk.
‘Really!’ Jess confirms.
Rayna’s fresh out of fashion college. She’s only just released her first collection and yet she’s already on the judging panel for one of the most celebrated media awards events in the country?
Jess and I exchange a look and it’s clear that we’re both thinking the same thing: Nepotism.
Jess heads out of my office. Once she’s closed the door behind her, I google the Woman of the Year Awards page. The event has a media category. A few editors on competitor titles have been recognised in previous years. I’ve always wanted to be nominated, even to win. I used to daydream about it from time to time. The awards are held at the Grosvenor hotel, and it’s an incredibly glamorous, exclusive event. I’ve often fantasised about picking up one of the gleaming glass trophies, grasping it, clutching an emblem repre
senting the final stage of my metamorphosis: the moment I truly become Camilla Black. I check out the judges. The panel features half a dozen esteemed individuals, from all walks of life: philanthropy, the arts, fashion, the media, tech, politics. And there’s Rayna’s face. Her biography describes charity work she carried out in Moscow that I knew nothing about, before going on to detail her transition into fashion. Interesting. I decide we’ll run a six-page spread on her new collection instead of the four-page spread promised, organise a shoot. I email the team to let them know, hoping Rayna might remember the gesture when shortlisting winners.
Email sent, I retrieve a bottle of sparkling water from my office fridge and pour myself a glass. I take a sip. As I head back to my desk, I grab a few of the newspapers Jess left on the table. I flick through a couple. No stories about Julian today – at least that’s something. It’s just warmongering and royals and storm forecasts. I read an article in the FT about the ‘political nervous breakdown’ the country is going through and find myself momentarily distracted from my own personal crisis. I put the paper down and pick up the free local paper that I like to read instead. Jess always finds it amusing that I’m interested in the parochial goings-on of the borough, with the paper covering everything from charity fun runs to cats getting stuck up trees. Jess doesn’t realise that the real reason I read the paper is to uncover weaknesses in the area that I can exploit – the dodgy mini cab scandal for example, cuts to council’s CCTV funding, derelict buildings, demolition projects – that kind of thing. I flick through, but today’s edition is pretty tame – a couple of concerts have been announced at the Royal Albert Hall, a socialite has launched a community centre for children with autism, a mosaic by local kids is being unveiled at Chelsea Old Town Hall. Even if my little bubble feels like it’s falling apart, at least life in Mayfair is hunky-dory.
I’m about to close the paper, but an advert for a mystic offering angel readings catches my eye and inspires me to flick through the ads. Occasionally, there’s something interesting hidden among the classifieds. I found the ad for the company I rent my garage from in Hayes while flicking through the classifieds tucked away in the back of the Metro. And I once found this ad an old lady posted where she was flogging a ton of old designer bags. I figured I may as well give her a call and as it turned out, I managed to get my hands on a ton of vintage Chanel, Hermès and Dior at absolutely bargain prices. I know I should be working, but I’m agitated and the weird ads from psychics promising curse removals and past life regression, and the dodgy personals from lonely men who ‘WLTM’ pretty/carefree/nice/young single women for long-term relationships or ‘fun’, are making me feel marginally better about my own fucked-up life. I’m about to close the paper when another ad catches my eye.
Piano tuition in Knightsbridge
Giles Bradshaw.
An experienced piano tutor currently accepting new students in Knightsbridge.
Thirty years’ experience of private tuition. Trained at the Royal Academy of Music. Has enjoyed a successful international career as a concert pianist, including performing for the Queen.
Lessons £50 for one hour.
No fucking way. I stare at the ad, the blood stilling in my veins. That fucking pervert, Miles Brady is out on the hunt again, posing as his alter-ego Giles Bradshaw to lure children for piano lessons and paedophilia. The shamelessness of him. So much for prison changing his ways.
I place the paper down on my desk. His advert lists his contact details. I gaze at it, thinking. I don’t know what I’m planning to do, but I have to do something. I can’t just sit back and allow that creep to prey on more kids. But I have to be careful. London with its anonymous crowds, labyrinthine streets and soaring crime rates may have been my hunting ground so far, but if I don’t play my cards right, this city could become my prison.
I pull my keys from my handbag and unlock a drawer on my desk. Inside is one of my burner phones. I turn it on and head over to my office door, twisting the lock so Jess can’t interrupt me.
I pick up my burner phone and dial Miles, or ‘Giles’s’ number.
It rings, two, three times, and then he answers.
I hear the husk of a throat clearing.
‘Giles Bradshaw,’ he says.
Slick. He must have a phone specifically for the purpose of answering calls from this ad.
‘Hi, Giles, I saw your advert in The Mayfair Chronicle,’ I tell him in a dumb-sounding high-pitched voice.
‘Oh, hello. Thanks for calling,’ he answers, his voice full of warmth, charm.
‘No problem! Your ad looked great. Incredible that you performed for the Queen,’ I gush.
‘It was a long time ago, but yes, it was definitely a career highlight!’ Giles replies, sounding modest.
A long time ago. Before he got banged up in a cell.
I loosen him up with a few more compliments and then start telling him about my fictional son.
‘His name’s Luke. His last teacher moved back home to…’ – I pluck a location out of thin air – ‘Spain, so now we need to hire another. Can I ask, do you do lessons at your home? We don’t have a piano in our flat unfortunately,’ I tell him.
‘Yes, I host pupils,’ Miles tells me. ‘I have a grand piano.’
‘Fab!’ I enthuse.
I ask if I can bring Luke over for a trial lesson to see how things go. Miles is keen. I grab a pen and a Post-it and jot down his address. Belgravia. Nice.
We arrange a time and I hang up, telling him that I can’t wait to introduce him to Luke.
I turn off my burner phone and look at the address scrawled on the Post-it. One step closer to Miles. So tempting and yet, I should leave it. I should walk away…
11
It’s been two days now and the police haven’t been in touch.
There have been no police cars outside my flat, no knocks on the door, no calls from Detective Wheelan. He’s clearly moved on to the next target. He’s probably getting all excited about one of my red herrings, running DNA tests on it. I shouldn’t have got so panicked about everything. The police are no threat to me. They never have been and they never will be.
It’s early evening. I’m out of work sooner than I expected to be and the sky isn’t yet as dark as it usually is when I leave the office. It’s inky blue, pretty. I feel free as I walk away from the office, but I have nowhere to go, aside from home. On a normal quiet Thursday night, I might see what Abay’s up to, but since he’s likely the one who witnessed me with Julian and reported me to the police, that probably isn’t the best idea. I could see what Vanessa’s doing, call the girls, but neither option feels quite right. I know where I want to go. I want to go to Belgravia. I want to check out Miles’s home.
I just want to see it. I’m not going to do anything. I don’t have any weapons on me for a start. I’m wearing the Furla handbag I wore on my date with Julian. The one with the dual pockets: Camilla Black, and my shadow self. It still contains my lock-picking tools, a couple of roofies, but not much else. I couldn’t take Miles down with that. Definitely not in the way I’d like to anyway.
I walk alongside Green Park on my way to Belgravia. Black cabs crawl past. Tourists pose with selfie sticks next to phone boxes. A busker strums a guitar. A man in an expensive suit checks me out as he walks past. I smile back, feeling a sense of belonging. On the surface, I’m a beautiful woman, walking through a beautiful city on a winter’s afternoon. I couldn’t feel more different to the insecure girl I was a few days ago, arriving at work feeling like an imposter, haunted.
I know Belgravia fairly well, but I check Miles’s street on my phone and orientate myself amongst the high pillars and tall white townhouses. I arrive at the end of Miles’s road. A man almost charges into me.
I step back, apologising.
He simply grunts, continuing on his way. I realise with a shiver of revulsion that it’s Miles. Pasty-faced, wearing a vile mustard-coloured blazer replete with pocket square, a striped shirt barely covering his
gargantuan stomach, and beige chinos. He waddles down the road. Probably going to a bar to drink the night away with his creepy friends. I can’t imagine he’d be doing anything else. Unless he’s had some more enquiries from his piano lessons advert and he’s heading out for an evening lesson to prey upon an innocent kid? The thought is vile. And not wholly inconceivable either.
I eye him as he approaches a turn off for another road. The sight of him is repulsive. How can he swagger around in one of the nicest parts of London in his Brideshead Revisited clothes, shamelessly showing his face about town, despite all the things he’s done? How is that justice? His victims will be traumatised. Raped as children by a grown man. Their dignity torn apart at the kind of age that’s impossible to recover from. What are they doing now, while he swans off to while away another day? How are they coping? I know what it’s like to be abused and you don’t simply bounce back. You don’t forget.
I look up and down Miles’s street. It’s nice. Really nice. A cute Belgravia side road, lined with pretty townhouses. A sleepy, almost villagey vibe in the middle of the one of the most expensive postcodes in Europe. A strange conceit. The neighbours have plant pots on their windowsills. One even has garden gnomes by their front door.
