Déjà Vu

by Stephen Edger

  ‘He’s a good detective who knows how to follow the rules, Jake. I know he can be a bit...’ He paused as he tried to think of the most appropriate term.

  ‘Anal?’ Jake suggested. ‘Bitter? Twisted? Control freak?’

  ‘That’s enough, Jake,’ Tosh warned. ‘I was going to say a stickler for detail, but in something like this that’s exactly what you need. Don’t worry, I’ll warn him about his tone and manner before he calls you too. Do me a favour, Jake, and play nicely, will you?’

  Jake closed his eyes in frustration, knowing any argument would only make the DCI more determined to stick with the decision.

  ‘Hang in there,’ Tosh added. ‘As soon as I can have you back in here, I’ll be all over it.’

  The phone disconnected, and Jake pocketed it as the air conditioning finally started to cool his skin.

  THIRTY

  Pancake Day. Last year. Rob in the kitchen wearing that ridiculous chef’s hat and apron with the funny print on, but otherwise naked, with that cheeky grin and a frying pan in his hand. The video still made her chuckle, even though she’d seen it hundreds of times.

  ‘I could be the Naked Chef,’ he’d joked, as he’d emerged from the bedroom in just the chef’s hat. And he probably would have started had she not reminded him that frying pans had a tendency to spit the fat out. For preservation he’d reluctantly agreed to wear the apron, though his bum was still very much on display.

  ‘What would the neighbours say?’ Megan mouthed in time to her voice on the video.

  ‘They’d probably ask if I was planning to flambé the banana between my legs,’ he said, erupting with laughter. Typical Rob: always the first and loudest to laugh at his own jokes.

  Filming his awful efforts had been done with a view to watching the film back one day when they were both older and had long since forgotten about the incident. But it was one of the few videos she still had of him. The fire had robbed her of everything else.

  She had been lucky that someone had managed to retrieve the SD card from the melted phone or she’d have had nothing left. The photo albums had gone, and the only physical proof she had that Rob had been alive were the fifty or so photographs on the SD card and the four video clips.

  That’s the problem when you’re young and in love: you never think about that inevitable day when one of you will no longer be around. It’s always there, hanging over you like Damocles’ sword, but it’s a point in time too far away to see. Or at least it seems like that. Had she known what was to come she would have spent every minute capturing him for posterity; every time he’d told her he loved her; every time he’d kissed her gently on the neck; every time he’d wrapped a protective arm around her when she was scared of the thunder.

  In the footage, Rob demanded a drum roll, as he prepared for his first pancake toss. ‘The first one’s always the toughest,’ he commented, as he began to gently shake the pan to ensure the crepe wasn’t sticking.

  And then he threw it up in the air, catching it with the perfect accuracy of an archer. He turned to take his applause and bow. The video ended.

  She’d not managed to capture any more of his efforts as she’d been ravenous and had put the phone down to tuck in. Which meant she’d failed to capture his second attempt, which he’d undertaken left-handed, and still managed to land the crepe on the pan’s hot surface. Nor his third attempt where he’d actually spun around on the spot before catching the crepe.

  He’d always known how to make her laugh. Even when she’d had the shittiest day at work or was just feeling generally down, he was always the one to raise her spirits. Even now, from the grave, his recorded memory still brought a smile to her face.

  And tears.

  Megan was about to restart the video when the phone suddenly burst to life. She didn’t recognise the mobile number calling and was tempted to hang up, but it had been so long since anybody had called that she answered it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Megan? It’s Janice Walker. You know, from work?’

  Megan checked the number on the display again, remembering the coffee-stained business card Janice had handed her when they’d bumped into one another outside the burned carcass of the maisonette yesterday. But Megan was sure she hadn’t given Janice her number.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Sorry to call you out of the blue,’ Janice continued. ‘Is now a convenient time?’

  It was a tough question to answer. It wasn’t like she had anywhere else she needed to be or was expecting any visitors or other calls.

  ‘Now is fine. Listen, if this is about the bingo, it’s kind of you to invite -’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not about that,’ Janice replied, a nervous edge to her voice. ‘Though you should definitely come with us next time. No, this isn’t a personal call, I’m afraid. Well it isn’t impersonal, but it’s work-related.’

  Janice was getting herself into a tizz, and Megan could picture her sat at a desk in a quiet office reviewing the procedure on the screen as she tried to put it into less-formal language, and failing miserably.

  ‘The purpose of my call is to check how you are feeling at the moment. As a responsible employer, we have a duty of care towards you – the employee – and that is the purpose of my call today.’

  Megan was confused. Not that work were calling, but that Janice specifically was calling. Working at the Eastleigh store, Janice had no reason to be making such a duty of care call.

  ‘We want to make sure all of our employees are fit and healthy and whilst there is no pressure intended we would be keen to see you back at work when you are feeling fit to do so,’ Janice continued, sounding less sincere with every syllable.

  Megan hadn’t donned her uniform since the fire, and though the burns on her hands were starting to heal, the emotional scars were still raw. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to return to work, but she was nowhere near ready to do so. Not yet.

  ‘Megan, are you still there?’

  Her hands felt unnaturally clammy. ‘Yes, I am...Janice, I don’t understand why you’re calling.’

  ‘I told you: as a responsible employer we have a duty of care -’

  ‘No, I understand that,’ Megan interrupted, her voice raised. ‘What I don’t understand is why you are phoning Janice. I don’t work in Eastleigh.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ Janice laughed nervously. ‘Ordinarily it would be the Personnel Manager at your own store who called, but...given...the circumstances...what I mean...given...’

  Whatever it was Janice wanted to say, she was making a pig’s dinner of it, and that only served to heighten Megan’s anxiety.

  ‘Just spit it out, Janice.’

  ‘Well, because of how long you’ve been off and because of the nature of why you’re off, it was just thought...oh I don’t know how to say this without coming across badly.’

  Megan didn’t need work making things any more complicated.

  ‘You’d have thought with my background I’d be better at this,’ Janice laughed to herself. ‘Can we start again?’

  Megan’s throat was dry. ‘What do you want, Janice?’

  ‘Just to know that you’re on the mend, and that it won’t be too much longer before we see you back and able to fulfil your role again. We’re prepared to make whatever accommodations are necessary.’

  Megan was running out of patience. There had to be a reason they’d asked Janice to phone. Maybe they thought that whatever history the two women shared would be enough to apply pressure. Or maybe there was something else...

  Why was the room suddenly so small?

  And what was that buzzing sound: was it on the phone or overhead...

  Rob catching the crepe.

  A siren.

  Janice’s scratchy voice in her ear.

  And then the phone was slipping from Megan’s ice-cold grasp.

  Chest tightening.

  Breaths shallow.

  Flashes of red and yellow dancing on the wall.

  ‘Megan? Megan? Are
you there?’ Janice’s voice was distant.

  And in that moment, everything became so suddenly clear, but Megan was now on the carpet, the wheelchair upturned and one of the wheels spinning of its own accord.

  Grabbing the phone, Megan put it to her ear once more, hearing Janice calling her name.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m here,’ Megan panted breathlessly.

  ‘Oh thank God! I thought you’d keeled over for a minute. In all my years in HR I’ve never known anything like it. Listen, Megan, we go back and I understand what you’ve been through but it’s in both of our best interests to get you back to work. Being home alone, cooped up, it’s just not good for you.’

  The anger began to climb her throat. ‘Who are you to tell me what is good or not for me?’

  ‘Come on, Megan, we both know you’re more than capable of scanning a few items of shopping, even with everything that’s gone on. Why don’t I come to see you tomorrow, so we can chat about what you need? Better still, why don’t you come in to the store? I’m sure everyone would love to see you, and I’m sure you’ll find it’s easier than you expect.’

  ‘I’m not ready for -’

  ‘Thing is,’ Janice interrupted, the nervousness returning to her voice, ‘the company won’t give you sick pay forever.’

  ‘You’re threatening me with the sack?’

  ‘Why else do you think I’ve been given your case? Someone independent to assess whether you’re fit enough to return to work. Listen, my objective is to get you back in. Nobody is talking dismissal...yet...but all I’m saying is there are grounds within your contract should you not be cooperative with what -’

  Megan didn’t wait to her the rest, disconnecting the call, and flinging the phone at the wall, relieved when it didn’t smash, but seething at the implied tone in Janice’s voice. Weren’t work supposed to be understanding at times like this? Did they think she was skiving? Or taking the piss?

  None of them understood what she’d been through, so who were they to judge? But as she watched the wheel of the upturned chair still spinning, she couldn’t ignore the episode. Maybe PC Durridge had been right: maybe it was time to see Dr Patel again.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Lyndhurst: a town built on a hill for the mega-rich, with Maserati and Ferrari garages at one end, and a plethora of fancy delicatessens and bespoke artisan shops lining the narrow road, aimed at the thousands of tourists who passed through each year. Jake could feel his bank balance draining as he fought through the traffic and his eyes fell on each shop on this busy Thursday lunchtime. But once out of the town centre, traffic thinned on the narrow country lanes as the Satnav struggled to follow his movements towards the address retrieved from the PNC database for Charles Xavier.

  And what an address it was, as he pulled up outside the gated entrance, which revealed a small gravel driveway and a double-sized bungalow beyond. Jake parked across the gates and climbed out, assessing the outside of the detached property. He spotted CCTV cameras at the gate, neither of which tracked his movements, but both focused on the immediate space outside of the gates. The gates were attached to a large brick wall, maybe six feet high, but clearly the security measures were deterrent rather than preventative, as it wouldn’t take much for a skilled cat burglar to be up and over that wall. Jake had no idea how high burglary rates were in this part of the New Forest, but any of the properties on this road would be a thief’s paradise.

  Built into the wall which was at a thirty degree angle to the flat gate, was a metal grill, part of an intercom service, and presumably connected to the house. Jake pressed the buzzer and listened for a reply. But no response was forthcoming. Trying the buzzer again, he held his identification up towards the camera in case an occupant was monitoring the security feed. But still there was no sound of movement or effort to open the gate.

  Beneath the intercom was a small box for scanning a pass. Pulling out the key ring retrieved from the Jaguar’s ignition, Jake flicked through the keys looking for any kind of pass that would work, but as soon as the key ring was within three feet of the scanner, the gates suddenly whirred to life gliding open, scraping along stray stones which had been kicked free of the gravel enclosure. Leaping into his car, Jake quickly reversed and straightened before driving in through the gates. As he climbed out, the gates whirred to full closure, encasing him.

  The land the large bungalow stood upon was far wider than he’d first seen from the gate. To the right of the house, and perpendicular to the wall, a large triple garage stood, behind thick reinforced glass. Jake walked over, staring in at an older Aston Martin, a Lotus and a Porsche. Each car reflected its immediate surroundings such was the shine on them. One space remained vacant, presumably where the Jaguar had lived when not being driven head first into a lake. Charles Xavier was clearly a man who appreciated classic cars, but something told Jake that Xavier was the sort of person who could afford such an expensive habit.

  Returning to the front of the property, Jake rifled through the keys again, until he came across the largest, with a complex groove system lasered into it. He was familiar with the latest in secure property locks from a training course he’d been on last year, and he immediately recognised the brand. So confident were the company that their locks were tamper proof, that they guaranteed to pay up to fifteen thousand pounds if the lock was ever compromised. Not a bad line to quote to an insurance company.

  Inside, the ceiling was much higher than Jake had imagined it would be, particularly for a house with no upper floor. And the marbled floor that led through to a large kitchen at the rear of the property, sparkled beneath the sunshine flooding through the windows of the adjoining rooms. To the right was a large and spacious living room, adorned with large framed photographs on every wall. Pictures of a Charles Xavier, but younger. His mop of brown curls unmistakeable, but his eyes filled with youthful exuberance. And with him in each of the pictures was a young boy; a son perhaps. There were pictures of Xavier holding the boy as a baby, all the way up through pre-adolescence, but then no more.

  Jake continued through to the next room, a large dining table was the centre piece, surrounded by six mahogany straight back chairs. But a thick layer of dust on the once shiny table surface suggested it had been some time since anyone had dined there. Two book cases lined one wall, filled with a variety of titles, some English, some Spanish; Jake didn’t recognise any of the titles. And in a further cabinet a crystal decanter sat unused.

  Crossing the marbled hallway, Jake next found himself in the largest of the rooms, a king-size bed at one end and mirrored built-in wardrobes at the opposite, with a large bay window facing out into the rear garden. A large flat screen television was built into the foot of the bed. And again the walls were lined with pictures of Xavier and the boy, and some of just the boy alone. Opening the wardrobes, Jake found them lined with pressed designer shirts, tailored suits and the floors lined with sparkling barely-worn trainers. Not a single item of ladies’ clothing, nor any pictures of the boy’s mother apparently. An en suite bathroom included a toilet, bidet, large shower cubicle and basin.

  He checked the medicine cabinet for any trace of prescribed drugs, but all he found was paracetamol, ibuprofen and plasters. Pretty standard fare for the average homeowner. Checking the packets of painkillers, there were only a couple missing. There was no sign of syringes or small foil packets in the bin at the side of the basin, and Jake just didn’t get the impression that Xavier was a recreational drug user.

  The final room before the kitchen was the strangest room of the lot. Despite all the decadence of the rest of the property, this room hadn’t been so blessed. No effort had been made with the décor. The carpet was almost threadbare, the wallpaper, patterned with comic book characters was faded and peeling in places, and the thick curtains covered in footballs were closed, though thin enough to allow a significant amount of light to enter the room. There was no bed or wardrobe in here, just stack after stack of brown cardboard boxes.

  It reminded
Jake of his own house the day he and Isabella had first moved in. He could still picture Isabella striding from one room to the next informing him that they would get an interior designer in to do the job properly, but how she foresaw what each room would look like. And to be fair to her, the house had turned out exactly as she had told him. He’d been unable to see her vision, as all he’d seen was an unloved house full of boxes. But artistic creativity had never been his strong suit.

  Jake opened the box on top of the lowest stack, and peered inside. His heart skipped a beat when he spotted the faces of the Autobots staring back at him from inside. Jake had been a huge fan of the Transformers TV show as a child and had collected many of the toys, which his mother had inadvertently donated to charity on one of her many spring cleaning missions. He’d been gutted to lose the toys and memories, but now his mind was flooding with them as he lifted one of the figures out of the box. It was an original, though the adhesive stickers looked dated now.

  Even in a used condition and without their original boxes, toys like this could still fetch big money from collectors, and maybe it was a new hobby of Xavier’s. Or just as likely they could have belonged to the boy in the pictures, but the question was: who and where was he now? There was no evidence to suggest the young man had ever lived inside the property, and given Jake’s own impending custody battle for Gabby, he couldn’t help but think that maybe Xavier had lost a similar battle for his child.

  Closing the lid of the box, Jake moved to the kitchen, which spanned the width of the bungalow, and led out to a thick and unkempt lawn. The garden had to be at least forty metres in length, but little or no care had been taken with it. The grass was a good six inches tall, and the large oak tree at the far side of the garden looked in dire need of trimming back. What was the point in having such a luxurious space which captured the sun’s rays so well, and then letting it grow wild?

  A wooden table, sat in front of the French windows that led out to the garden. This had to be where Xavier tended to eat most of his meals. There were only two chairs, but scratches and stains on the table’s top suggested it had been used recently. At the opposite side of the kitchen, the worktops were marbled, with charcoal-coloured cupboard doors hanging above and below it. The largest charcoal door accommodated the built in standing fridge, which Jake opened, but finding only a lump of cheese, an unopened bottle of Prosecco, and a tub of low fat spread inside.