by Tim Weaver
‘Wasn’t she supposed to show you some ID this morning?’ I asked.
‘That was one of the reasons we went to see her, yes.’
‘The ID that she forgot to bring with her to Charing Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘The ID that was supposed to prove who she was?’
Field sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘What about the hospital in Woolwich?’
‘What about it?’
‘Did you know she’s not an employee there?’
Field glanced at Kent and then back to me: ‘What did I tell you about playing detective, Mr Raker?’ As I responded with silence, she sighed a second time and said, ‘No, as far as we can tell, she isn’t an employee at Queen Elizabeth Hospital.’
‘As far as you can tell? She isn’t. So she lied about that as well.’
‘Well, we’re still looking into it.’
‘ “Looking into it”? Come on, she’s a liar.’
‘We’re looking into it,’ Field said again, firmly.
I kept my expression neutral, but inside all I could feel was a flood of relief. Field had asked the woman for ID, for confirmation of her details, and she’d bolted. A single day of lies was all she’d been able to muster before the foundations started to creak, the walls cracked and the whole thing came down. It still didn’t explain how she knew so much about me and about my marriage, it still didn’t explain why someone had got into my house and stolen documents from me – but I would find out those answers; I’d seek them out once the dust had settled. For now, it was enough that I’d been proved right: the woman was a con artist, a fraud, a charlatan. She wasn’t Derryn.
‘Where were you last night?’
Kent this time.
He hadn’t come over to the sofas. Instead, he was perched on the edge of the living-room table, so that I had to turn around to get a clear view of him.
‘What?’
‘Where were you last night?’ he repeated. His accent wasn’t strong, but it was local.
I glanced at Field. She was staring at me, her face a blank wall. When I returned my attention to Kent, he’d removed his own notebook.
‘I was here,’ I said. ‘Why?’
He opened his notebook and flipped through the pages. ‘Can anyone confirm that? Friends? Family? A girlfriend perhaps?’ He looked up from his pad. ‘Or a boyfriend?’ It was hard to tell whether he’d delivered the last question as an insult or not, because his voice remained completely neutral.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I was here alone.’
‘You said you had a death certificate for Derryn?’ Field asked.
‘Yes,’ I said to her.
‘In your loft?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you get it for us?’
I frowned again. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Can you get it for us or not, Mr Raker?’
‘I don’t know where it is exactly.’
Field didn’t seem surprised, just nodded and looked at Kent. Any respite I’d felt before, any brief feeling of exoneration, was gone.
‘The loft’s full of boxes,’ I said, uncertain where the words were taking me or how I might back them up. ‘But it’s up there. I’ll find it and drop it in.’
‘Mr Raker,’ Kent said, and waited for me to turn on the sofa to face him. ‘The woman claiming to be your wife called us last night, about an hour after she left the station. DS Field had left for the day, so I was the one that took the phone call.’
‘And?’
‘And she says you followed her.’
‘What? No. No, I didn’t follow her,’ I said, and then stopped myself. I had followed her. I’d watched her all the way to the front door of the flat in Chalk Farm, the Post-it note in her hand. It had been instinct to deny I’d ever been there, instinct built off the back of having to deal with the woman’s lies the day before. But I had followed her. I’d followed her there, and the cops would know it the second they pulled film off the local CCTV cameras.
‘Mr Raker?’
I looked from Kent to Field, kidding myself that I didn’t know where this was going. They were trying to work out why she wasn’t at the hostel this morning, as arranged; why she’d never turned up there in the first place; why, after so vociferously telling Field about the death certificate, about proof I held that my wife had been dead for eight years, I wasn’t making an immediate dash for my attic.
‘Okay, yes,’ I said. ‘I did follow her.’
The two of them stared at me, unmoved.
‘But I never talked to her. I never confronted her.’
Field rubbed a hand against her mouth, obviously suppressing a desperate urge to say something. She’d asked me to steer clear of the woman and I’d done completely the opposite. I must have made a mistake in tailing the woman, some tiny error that I hadn’t accounted for. I didn’t remember one, didn’t even recall her looking in my general direction, at any stage, but how else would she have known I was there?
Field said, ‘Where was it you followed her to, Mr Raker?’
It felt like a trick question, like they already knew the answer was the flat at Chalk Farm – after all, I’d seen them there myself this morning. And if they knew the answer was the flat, it meant that – at some point last night – the woman herself, or someone she knew, must have told the police that she’d gone there. The question was: what had they been told? What explanation had been given for her heading there first and not to the hostel? Whatever it was, it must have been the reason that Field and Kent had gone there this morning.
‘Mr Raker?’ Field said again.
‘Chalk Farm.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I followed her to a flat in Chalk Farm.’
Field tried to act surprised: ‘Chalk Farm?’ she said, glancing at her notes. ‘So you’re saying you went to Chalk Farm last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘She got into the taxi you booked for her and then got out again before it had even left the road. I wanted to find out why. I wanted to find out where she was going. I thought she might go back to Woolwich, but she ended up in north London.’
‘Why were you even waiting there?’
I didn’t have an answer for that, or at least not one that would satisfy them, so I said nothing. It seemed to make things worse, my silence emboldening them both.
‘Had you ever been to the flat in Chalk Farm before?’ Field asked.
‘Never.’
‘Derryn didn’t mention it to you?’
It was hard to tell if she meant Derryn my wife, or the woman who purported to be her. I said, ‘No.’
‘You never lived there?’
‘No.’
‘Never knew anyone who did?’
‘No.’
‘Because that flat is empty,’ Field said.
I couldn’t admit that I knew that already.
‘Did you know that, Mr Raker?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘There’s no tenant there at the moment.’
‘So why did she go there?’
‘All I know are the facts: she told DC Kent on the phone that she was at the address in Chalk Farm; DC Kent asked her why, but she wouldn’t tell him. All she told him was that she thought you might be following her. DC Kent advised her to stay put, he drove out there to make sure she was all right, but by the time he got there, she was gone. DC Kent says that the woman sounded … distressed on the phone.’
I glanced at Kent. His expression had hardly moved but his eyes were the same as when he’d first entered the house: watchful of me, mistrustful.
‘Why would she sound distressed, Mr Raker?’
The insinuation weighed heavy in Field’s words, but I tried to head it off and turned to look at Kent: ‘You said she called you from the flat? How did she do that?’
His face finally moved as he frowned.
‘She doesn’t have a mobile, right?’ I looked at Field. ‘Right?’
&nbs
p; She nodded.
‘And if there’s a landline at the flat, it’s probably been disconnected because no one is living there at the moment.’ I made it sound like a guess, but I’d seen no phone in the flat earlier. ‘Right?’
‘She called from a prepaid mobile,’ Field said.
‘So she does have a mobile?’
Field shrugged. ‘We can’t trace ownership if it’s prepaid.’
Which was exactly why I’d used one to call Adam Reinsart the previous night. I pressed her again: ‘But you can see my point? She told you that she didn’t have a phone.’
She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she asked, ‘What time did you follow her from, Mr Raker?’
‘From when she left the station.’
It didn’t seem like it was news to them, but they put plenty of emphasis on it by saying nothing. I’d followed her; now she’d disappeared.
A moment later, I heard a rustle from Kent’s direction and saw that he was removing something from the inside pocket of his coat. It was a thin plastic package.
‘We need to take a DNA sample from you,’ he said, holding up the package.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Are you saying you need me to explain what a DNA sample is?’
‘Don’t patronize me.’
‘Mr Raker,’ Field said, her voice quiet, firm. When I looked at her, there was a steel in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. ‘Will you provide us with a DNA sample?’
‘If you tell me why.’
They looked at each other. The room was filled only with the soft tick of a clock on the wall: one that Derryn had bought when we’d spent a weekend in Bristol.
Quietly, Field said, ‘When we went to the flat this morning, we found something on the door.’
I thought of the peeling paint, all the dirt and grime I’d seen at the bottom of the door frames on both sides – none of which I’d looked at closely.
Now I realized it hadn’t all been dirt.
‘What did you find?’ I asked her evenly, but I thought I knew the answer and I was dreading it.
‘We found some blood spatters,’ she said.
24
‘Blood spatters?’
Field nodded.
‘And you think that blood’s mine?’
‘Or hers,’ Kent said.
‘You really think I would hurt her?’
Kent started opening up the DNA kit. Inside were a pair of gloves, two pots, and two samplers to take the swabs. He removed his coat and started to pull on the gloves: they were awkward and unyielding. He couldn’t blow into them to loosen them up or he risked contamination, so while he tried to lever his fingers in, Field came forward on the sofa and said, ‘We accessed the flat and searched it, and there didn’t appear to be any sign of a disturbance. We’re not accusing you of anything yet, but you will be well aware of how this process works. I have blood on the door frame at the flat. I’ve got a woman I can’t locate. Now you’re admitting you followed her home last night.’
‘That blood isn’t mine,’ I said, and then became less certain. Was this another set-up? How would someone have got hold of my blood? ‘It’s not mine,’ I repeated, although this time it was more for my benefit than theirs.
‘Well, let’s find out for sure,’ Field replied.
Kent had the gloves on now, had set the pots down beside one another on the table, and had already removed one of the samplers from its plastic. I thought about the consequences of refusing to give them a sample. I didn’t legally have to, I wasn’t under arrest, but I was a suspect and that made any decision not to help them look problematic. I’d provided a DNA sample the one and only time I had been arrested properly, but that was seven years ago, it was a set-up, and no charges were brought, so it was likely the sample I gave had been destroyed.
‘Are you ready?’ Kent said.
I nodded and he came forward. I opened my mouth, felt the sampler against the inside of my cheek, and then felt the same thing again when he took a back-up swab. The second time he pressed much harder.
‘Easy as that,’ he said once it was over, but there was something in his voice, a cynicism, a distrust, that suggested he’d already made his mind up about what they were going to get back from the lab. As he sealed everything up, preserving the evidence, I watched him for a moment, trying to recollect if we’d crossed paths before on a case I’d worked. Was that the reason he didn’t like me? Was he another detective I’d upset because I’d hunted around in the shadows of a failed case and found the answers he’d missed? It was possible, even if I didn’t remember it. It was possible he might have been the person who’d given FeedMe the story about the woman. Or maybe he’d just heard conversations about me at the Met from friends and colleagues. I wasn’t sure what was worse: at least if he’d seen my work first-hand, he might admit to its logic or proficiency; if he’d only heard about me, that would be something different, because no one at the Met was talking about how capable I was.
I returned my attention to Field.
She wasn’t the same as Kent. If she’d heard about me, she’d chosen to ignore the whispers and judge me for my actions. I admired that, even if I knew I wasn’t ingratiating myself with her. I’d been emotional yesterday, had lost my cool; I’d gone against her instructions by following the woman home; now I’d dealt with the subject of the death certificate, all my proof, with a vague wave of the hand.
‘Is there anything else you want to tell us, Mr Raker?’
She watched me, her grey eyes like hard chunks of rock.
I thought before answering. Fleetingly, I even considered telling her that someone had been inside my house. But I couldn’t decide, in the fraction of time I had, whether it would help or hinder me, so I just said, ‘No, there’s nothing else.’
‘You said you don’t know where that death certificate is?’
‘No. Not exactly. I need to look for it.’
Those eyes lingered on me and then finally she nodded, looked past me to where Kent was gathering everything up, and stood, buttoning up her coat. It hadn’t been a white Christmas, but it had been bitter for days, the ground frozen, the wind biting. Her expression made it look like she’d brought the weather inside.
‘If you find that death certificate, it might be useful.’
‘I agree,’ I said.
It was the wrong choice of words, because her gaze stayed on me for a second too long, as if she understood the meaning of my response. Was she keeping something back from me? Did she and Kent know more than they were letting on?
‘The registrar here in Ealing is in India for Christmas,’ she said, looking away again, ‘but she lands in London on Monday. It’s a public holiday then, but we’ve spoken to her on the phone and, once she’s back, she’s agreed to open up the office for us. She says she’ll find their copy of the certificate.’
Monday was three days away.
Even though I knew there was little chance that the register office had been broken into in the same way as my house – that their digital archives would be secure and off-limits – it didn’t settle my nerves. Three days was a long time. In just under a day, a woman had turned my entire life upside down, someone had broken into my house, and I’d found a book with a message in it that I didn’t understand; and I couldn’t tell the police about any of it because I had no idea where it would end up taking me. Would I be better off telling Field? Would it absolve me of suspicion or increase my problems? Would it just dig me in deeper by somehow connecting me to the blood at the flat?
I didn’t know, so I chose to say nothing.
‘And if we don’t get anywhere with the registrar,’ Field went on, ‘we can always chase down the funeral director. They tend to keep records. Do you remember which company you used?’
I did, because I’d already considered the idea myself, but I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere: the company I used had gone out of business a couple of years after Derryn’s death. Their records probably existed som
ewhere, had perhaps been donated to a genealogical or historical society, but it wouldn’t be an easy lead to chase down. I told Field as much and then she just stared at me for a moment, as if the closure of a company was something else I might have had a hand in.
‘I need you to undergo a medical assessment,’ she said eventually.
‘What?’
‘An independent medical assessment.’
I shook my head. ‘I told you, I’m not sick.’
‘This woman’s story, there are holes in it,’ she went on, as if I’d said nothing at all. ‘I’ll admit that. It’s our job to find out which parts of her story are true and which aren’t. But I look at some of the things we’re getting from you and I’m concerned, Mr Raker. They’re inconsistent. Some of it doesn’t add up.’
‘I’m not sick.’
‘I need to know how to proceed.’
Her response threw me for a moment, but then I got it: she didn’t know whether to believe me, arrest me or hand me over to the hospital system. If it was the latter, if I really was sick, they needed specialist doctors, not police officers.
‘You’re going to take that assessment,’ she said, and then headed for the door.
As I watched Field and Kent return to their car, I tried to make sense of everything I’d just found out. The lies, the half-truths, the things that didn’t add up, the countless connections, but it was hard to even think straight. The only thing I knew for certain was that this was a map, a route taking me somewhere.
And it wasn’t leading me anywhere good.
25
After Field and Kent were gone, I called Erik McMillan’s mobile. It went straight to his voicemail: ‘You’ve reached Erik McMillan. Please leave a message.’
‘This is David Raker,’ I said. ‘Apparently, you know me, so I think you and I should talk.’
Next, I tried St Augustine’s and, this time, got through to someone, rather than just an answerphone. They said McMillan was on holiday and wouldn’t be back until the new year, and that they could either pass on a message to him or connect me to someone who worked for him.
