The Strangers We Know

by Pip Drysdale

  ‘Yes, Charlie, I did. It was very sad,’ he said, shaking his head with supposed remorse. ‘I told Oliver he should tell you about it, but he seemed to think it might upset you. That you might feel responsible.’

  ‘What do you mean? How could I be fucking responsible?’

  ‘She took her own life, Charlie,’ he said. ‘She was always quite vulnerable, but after Oliver left she really went off the rails. It was very, very sad.’

  My throat tightened and the walls swayed in towards me. This news had caught me entirely off guard. Was this somehow my fault?

  All I could manage was ‘When?’

  He shook his head as though in mourning, even though he’d never had a good word to say about her. ‘It was last summer, I think.’

  That was just after she saw us in Sainsbury’s. And that made sense. There was a sadness that clung to Oliver around that time. I’d thought it was because of me, because I hadn’t trusted him, but this made more sense. He’d felt guilty. Responsible.

  Was that why he’d asked me to marry him so quickly? A way to atone?

  ‘Now, I really do need those documents,’ Justin said, his blue eyes boring into me.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, my eye on the exit. Standing up, I took the envelope and left it on the table. ‘Here you go.’

  And then I all but ran to the stairs as fast as I could. When I got to the top I looked around. There were red London buses and beeping motorbikes and a cab right there in front of me dropping someone off. I needed to get out of here before Justin had time to call the police (or come and yell at me) so I lunged towards it, plastered on a fake smile and said to the driver ‘I’m heading to Notting Hill Gate’.

  7.22 pm

  I walked down the alley to the back entrance of the shop, keeping my face angled down and my pace unremarkable, unmemorable. An irate text message had come in from Justin in the cab. What the hell are you playing at? Attached was a snap of the headshot and script I’d left in the manila envelope. But I didn’t care if Justin was angry with me. I could see through his façade now: he was hiding something, something that could keep me out of prison. And his words haunted me: She took her own life, Charlie.

  How had all this happened?

  Oliver was dead. Alyssa was dead. Justin was lying. I was going to have to chat to DCI Holland soon but I still had very little to tell her.

  The sun was going down and I was getting cold but the shadows left me feeling a little less exposed. Almost everything had closed an hour and a half ago so there weren’t many people around. It was risky coming to the shop – the police might be watching it, but surely they couldn’t watch everywhere all the time. Besides, only an idiot would go somewhere they worked when they were on the run from the police, right?

  The other option was to use my credit card and book into a hotel but that seemed even riskier. They’d be watching my cards if they had any sense. They might be tracking my phone soon too. But as it was still within 24 hours of the murder I figured I probably had a little longer before that happened. There would be paperwork to sort through, red tape to navigate. And I hadn’t formally been arrested or charged so there might be privacy issues that could stand in their way at this point.

  I lifted my keys from my bag, slid the big one into the lock and pushed it open. The air smelled comfortingly familiar – like dust and dry cleaning and the Pomegranate Noir room spray from Jo Malone that Grace loved. I closed the door behind me as quietly as I could and crept through to the front room. Reaching into the front display I’d put together with so much love, I pulled out the grey blanket that lay on the floor and then reached for the light blue velvet cushion that sat on the chair before heading out the back to the storage room.

  I was exhausted. I needed to sleep. I needed to be left alone.

  I pushed open the door and flicked on the light. It was too bright and startling after my eyes had become so accustomed to the shadows. There was a green velvet sofa with stained cushions against the far wall. I was planning on sleeping on it but as I drew near I realised there was something there, sparkling under the globes. I moved towards it: a chocolate bar, a salad from M&S with a little plastic fork and a folded piece of paper.

  I opened it, my pulse quickening.

  Just in case you come here. Grace x

  You see, that’s the thing with people: they always surprise you eventually. Every single person in your life right now is a stranger you know. But every once in a while, the surprises are good.

  So, nestled under that grey blanket, I peeled back the plastic from the top of the salad – baby spinach, salmon, potatoes, cherry tomatoes – and took a bite. I needed my blood sugar to be stable before I could do what needed to be done next.

  I needed to know if anything had been reported yet. I needed to know how bad things were. So I pulled out my phone, and with a mouth full of potato and mayonnaise, I conducted a garden-variety Google search: Charlene Buchanan; Oliver Buchanan.

  All that came up were my IMDb page, some outdated minor press, Oliver’s LinkedIn page, Hornsby Private Equity and, two pages in, our wedding notice. So far, so good. So I took another bite of salad and navigated to the Guardian website. A quick scan of the UK News page revealed nothing about me, nor Oliver.

  Next, I went to The Evening Standard. Clicked on News, then Crime.

  Nothing.

  Finally, I checked The Independent. Again, nothing.

  For all DCI Holland’s missed calls, for all her tracking me down via Tess and Natasha, it appeared I wasn’t important enough to make it to the news. This was a good, good thing. And so I went to sleep that night in a state of almost calm. But that didn’t stop adrenaline waking me at 4 am. We always know when something big is about to happen, even if we don’t know what it is.

  Episode 7

  TUESDAY, 12 JUNE 2018 (7.14 AM)

  The shop didn’t open until 10 am so I couldn’t afford to be seen by Meg as she made her way to the café across the road to prepare to open up at 8 am. So I put the blanket and cushion back in the window display, stuffed a black polo neck in my bag in case I needed it, and headed quietly out the back door by around 7.15 am. I may not have been the subject of press conferences and manhunts yet, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The only sign I’d been there was the note I’d left for Grace on the sofa: Thank you xxx.

  Then I headed to Ladbroke Grove and called an Uber. I got inside and slammed the door with relief.

  Next, I posted a picture to Instagram. That might seem like an odd thing to do, given the circumstances, and you’re right, it is. But I wasn’t sure if the police were watching my Instagram page or not, and it seemed like I should at least try to throw them off the scent, send them to a different part of London. So I’d been trawling through my photo reel, looking for something relevant, and I found a picture of a graveyard near our old flat in Kensal Green that Oliver and I used to walk through. The one we moved out of after the break-in debacle.

  It was: One. Two. Three. Big breath. Post.

  And it was done long before I got to where I was headed, the other side of town – far from where anyone would be looking for me. Somewhere I could get lost in I love London tourist t-shirts and people staring down at maps on phones. I was heading to Carnaby Street.

  Soon I was sitting in the same diner Tess and I used to go to all the time when we were regulars at Tramp. The air smelled of frying bacon and maple syrup, and I was drinking the familiar filter coffee that had been sitting in the pot getting stale for far too long, staring at my computer screen. Oliver’s files were all there in front of me and I was pretty sure that Justin had something to do with it all by now but I was losing faith in my ability to join the dots. Maybe if I were to hand everything over to DCI Holland together with my suspicions, she’d be able to make head or tail of it.

  Perhaps I should just do that. Go to the police station right now. Trust.

  I closed my eyes, imagining how it might play out in Utopia: DCI Holland might meet me at the door, tell
me she was so sorry for my loss, be kind. She might tell me they had a couple of leads and then pass me a card for a grief counsellor. My heart slowed to a slur of a beat as I realised it could all be okay.

  But then, it could also go very wrong, just like last time. She could take a few DNA swabs, present me with the evidence and caution me on my rights.

  Still, I wasn’t delusional – I knew I couldn’t run from the police forever. That had never been my intention. I just wanted to give myself the best chance I could at getting out of this mess.

  I took a sip of stale coffee and picked up my phone. A few more texts had come in from Tess and one from Grace. I ignored them all and clicked through to my emails. Tess had emailed me as well and guilt washed over me. I was about to deviate from the plan and reply when a new email popped into my inbox.

  It was a Google alert.

  I’d set them up a couple of years before in an attempt to not miss any of the glowing acting press I never ultimately received. But this one had nothing to do with acting.

  The headline read: WOMAN SOUGHT BY POLICE FOR QUESTIONING OVER HUSBAND’S DEATH.

  Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

  It linked to an article that had been posted two hours before on The Evening Standard website. My vision blurred as I clicked the link. Another window opened. And there I was. Blonde hair to my shoulders. White shirt. Light pink lipstick. Smiling amber eyes. A picture which could be described as ‘pretty and angelic’ was now rendered sinister and deceptive beside that headline.

  I looked around me at all the other people sitting in that diner. Shit.

  I minimised the browser window so anyone looking over my shoulder wouldn’t realise that the face on the screen matched the face that was looking at it.

  London actress, Charlene Carter, is being sought by police over the death of her husband, Oliver Buchanan, on Sunday night … My heart was racing as my eyes scanned down through the words: Neighbours report hearing a domestic row and a woman’s scream at around 7 pm. Fucking Natasha. Mr Buchanan’s body was found early Monday morning when a neighbour noticed the door had been left ajar.

  I closed the browser and immediately cleared my search history. There was no reason for this – I was just in that sort of mindset. My synapses were zinging, my forehead covered in a thin layer of sweat.

  The article said the door had been left ajar. That sounded a lot like someone wanted him to be found. Quickly.

  Someone who wanted me framed before too many questions could be asked.

  I realised that everything I feared most was true: I was the prime suspect. And all signs pointed to the fact that someone had set me up.

  And if I’d gone to see DCI Holland when she’d asked me to, I’d have been blamed. And so, no, I wouldn’t be going in to see her just yet. I needed a little more time to get my head around what this meant for my life.

  Was I really going to go to prison for my husband’s murder?

  Was there really nothing on that USB full of Oliver’s files that could help me? And if I didn’t go to the police, where was I going to sleep that night? If I was in the paper they would definitely be tracking my cards. And I couldn’t risk going back to Boulevard again. I’d been lucky to get away with going there once. Shit, were they tracking my phone by now? I should turn it to airplane mode. Or take out the battery.

  But as I went to reach for it, Brooke’s call came in.

  I almost didn’t answer, you know. But then I realised this was it: my out. I could go and stay with Brooke.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, keeping my voice down.

  ‘Hey sexy, just checking you are coming to Pilates tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, my voice quivering. ‘I’m so glad you called.’

  ‘Oh. Is everything okay?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘No, nothing is okay. Fuck, Brooke. Oliver’s cheating on me.’ As I said it I clenched my eyes shut, knowing that the illusion I’d woven was shattering in her mind, and praying that she hadn’t seen The Evening Standard story.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. Wow.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, do you need somewhere to come stay?’

  Relief pulsed through me. That was perfect. Nobody would look for me there. ‘Yes, that would be so helpful,’ I said, a wave of guilt rushing through me because I hadn’t told her Oliver was dead and I was being chased by the police. But how could I? Nobody would be comfortable harbouring a fugitive.

  ‘It’s all the way in Bow though.’ She laughed.

  My phone pinged. A message had come in. I assumed it would be Tess, checking on me again and my stomach clenched. I wanted to tell her I was okay but I also didn’t want her to need to lie if they asked if she’d heard from me.

  ‘I know. Totally worth the journey.’ I’d always refused to make the long journey before now, but when I needed her I was willing to. That made me selfish, right?

  ‘Okay, I’ll be home at around 5.30. I’ll send you my address,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’ And then we hung up and I glanced at my messages. But it wasn’t from Tess at all. It was from Justin: Hi Charlie, just checking if those documents had turned up yet. This is important!!!

  I stared down at my phone: what was wrong with him? His best friend had died 36 hours before, and documents were his highest priority? But it was good that I had that message now. I’d show it to DCI Holland, along with whatever else I discovered about him when I finally went to the police. The time clicked over to 8.23 am. I wasn’t meeting Brooke until 5.30 pm. What was I going to do all day?

  I had no idea. But I did know one thing: the moment Brooke’s address arrived in my inbox I’d memorise her postcode, remove the battery from my phone so nobody could track me, pay my bill and go somewhere far, far away from here.

  It was a strong plan.

  5.32 pm

  Here’s something you probably don’t know: in real life you can’t just whip a battery out of an iPhone. You need multiple tools, the hands of a surgeon and complicated instructional videos off YouTube. I had only one of those three things, so I’d settled instead on turning it onto airplane mode, turning it off and then hoping for the best. The driver took a sharp turn to beat the lights and my stomach got left behind. I looked up: the windscreen wipers were going and red tail lights reflected off the mirrored tar.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said into the rear view mirror. ‘Bad drivers everywhere.’

  I smiled back at him, dazed. I was exhausted after eight hours of staring at a screen full of Oliver’s files in a McDonalds, then a greasy spoon, then a library, then a slab of green space under darkening clouds, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this next document might be what I needed. And always being disappointed.

  Right now we were on Bow high street, driving past a mini-supermarket, a green signed drycleaners, a café, a sandwich bar, The Little Driver pub and a Texaco/Co-op store. As my phone was off, I was relying on the driver’s sat-nav to get me there, but I’d looked it up on my computer while connected to wifi and I was pretty sure the turn was coming up. And then there it was: Campbell Road. We turned right.

  Rain dripped down the window as I peered through at the blur of brown brick houses. But there was comfort in the rain: at least it fit the mood. At least it didn’t feel like nature was mocking me for a moment. Now we were heading down a series of small backstreets – rows of red brick semidetached houses and sensible small black and white cars all neatly parked in front of them – getting closer and closer to the address Brooke had given me. My heart pounded in my chest as we approached her corner.

  Was I making a mistake trusting Brooke? How well did I really know her? What if she called the police?

  Why would she do that, Charlie? She thinks you’re having a marital spat. Nothing more, nothing less.

  But what if she’d seen The Evening Standard by now?

  Still, it seemed unlikely that she’d see that and not mention it.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle and as the ca
b pulled over I scanned the numbers: eight. Hers was the one with the black door. Her building was cream and dirty looking, and there was a little dark green gate to the right with some wheelie bins in front of it. It looked like there might be a garden out the back.

  When her address had come in hours before, I’d told her I’d be there just after 5.30 when she said she’d be home.

  Please let her be home.

  I glanced through the front window and saw the light was on. This was good.

  ‘That’ll be twenty-four pound,’ said the driver.

  I handed him thirty pounds, he gave me my change and I saw Brooke’s front door swung open. There she stood, smiling at me, waving me inside.

  For the first time in 48 hours or so, I didn’t feel all alone. It felt like maybe everything was going to be okay.

  ‘Hiya,’ she called out to me as the cab drove away and I jogged towards her through the rain.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, and we went inside. She smelled familiar – Moroccan hair oil and vanilla perfume – and the air in her flat was warm. She closed the door with a gentle click and led me into the sitting room. Her flat was different to what I’d expected. There were no design books lying on the coffee table, no mood boards stuck to the walls or bright orange retro curtains. It was just a drab flat. A temp’s flat. The sitting room was all cream curtains, with a brown, comfortable looking sofa and chair set, a big rectangular TV and a glass coffee table. The carpet was that sort rental properties always have, the black-white-brown-beige-swirl type that doesn’t show stains, and the wallpaper was yellowing around the edges.

  ‘Tea?’ Brooke asked as she walked into a small kitchen at the other end of the room: turquoise and white tiles on the walls, ageing white wooden cabinets and a white tiled floor. She flicked on the kettle and its hum filled the room.

  ‘Sure, that’d be great,’ I replied, sitting down on a chair and glancing down the hallway. It led to what I assumed was her bedroom because I could see the end of a double bed, white sheets and a flash of turquoise inside. The bathroom, I decided, must be down that way too.