by Tim Weaver
‘Tell him David Raker wants to speak to him,’ I said.
‘Does Dr McMillan have your number?’
I gave it to her.
A few moments later, my phone started ringing. On the display was a number I didn’t recognize, but an area code I did: Kingsbridge, south Devon.
Kennedy.
He wasn’t calling from the cottage. Why?
‘It’s me,’ he said, as soon as I picked up.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, immediately trying to allay my fears. ‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s just my day off today and I came into Kingsbridge, to the library, to use the Internet there and look at the news, and … and I just read about you.’ He sounded shocked, confused. ‘Did you know you’re in that “Crime and Punishment” blog on FeedMe?’
‘Oh,’ I said, and allowed myself a moment of respite: I thought he’d been compromised; that someone, somehow, might have seen through his new identity.
‘What the hell’s going on, Raker?’
I told him about being called into Charing Cross, about the woman, about the things she knew. I told him about Erik McMillan, about Field wanting me to take a medical assessment, and about how the woman had disappeared into thin air sometime last night, leaving behind some blood on a door frame.
‘Shit,’ Kennedy said.
‘Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.’
‘I saw her picture this morning.’
Her picture.
He meant the photo of the woman they’d used on FeedMe. What he didn’t say was, and she looks just like Derryn. Kennedy hadn’t known Derryn, had never met her, but I’d talked about her a lot in the time since we’d known each other, and he’d seen countless photos of her and been around me in those first few years when, some days, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to go on.
‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ I said, and I heard the desperation in my voice. I’d heard it a lot over the last twenty-four hours, and I’d tried to reel it back in as fast as possible when I’d been around Field or Kent. But with Kennedy, someone I trusted implicitly, I didn’t have to pretend. I did feel desperate. The woman’s similarity to Derryn was unquestionable, but that was all it was: a similarity. In fact, most people who looked at a clear photograph of Derryn and one of the woman, side by side, would be able to spot the physical differences. Yet that was just the problem: the only photograph of the woman currently in existence was the one that had run in ‘Crime and Punishment’ – and, in that, blurred and over-saturated, the woman could easily have passed for my wife.
‘You know, one of my team caught a case a bit like this once.’
I tuned back in. ‘What?’
‘That’s why I wanted to find a payphone and call you. I don’t know if you realize, but there’s actually a department at St Thomas’s that deals with stuff like this, and looks into it – did you know that? Or maybe not this specifically, but twins, genetic similarities, all of that.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about people who look alike but aren’t related – they call them “twin strangers” over there.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘One hundred per cent. It’s a thing. Google it.’
I pulled my laptop towards me and did as he asked. Inside a second, I saw that he was right: there was an entire department at St Thomas’s dedicated to twin research and to the study of genetic and environmental traits. Their database had 12,000 names on it.
‘There was a documentary about their work on Channel 4 last year,’ Kennedy went on. ‘You know, how they were also studying unrelated people who could pass as twins. Anyway, ten, twelve years ago, that was what we had in this case we landed, so we ended up speaking to one of the doctors there.’
I heard cars in the background, the muffled sound of conversations fading in and out as people passed his phone box.
‘I guarantee you,’ he said, ‘if you had a clear picture of Derryn and you could find this woman and get the cops to take her to St Thomas’s, those quacks there, they’d tear her story to shreds.’
‘ “Her story”?’
‘This physical similarity she has to Derryn. Maybe it looks like they’re the same, but they won’t be. The software they use there, it’s all maths-based, right? So they take a picture of these so-called doppelgängers, put them side by side and compare them, and the computer reveals all the things that aren’t the same: measurements, colour, how much bigger or smaller the nose is, where the ears are, distances between prominent features, all that sort of thing.’
‘Okay.’
‘But the thing is, when you put a human in front of the same two people, and not the computer, it becomes less absolute. They studied this too. This is what the documentary was about. In this murder case, we had these two guys who everyone on my team, including me, thought were identical – most of us honestly believed they were twins – and then one of the doctors put them through the computer and showed us hundreds of disparities. It’s because we don’t see people the same way as a machine does. This doctor told us that humans may actually be inclined to look past things – even fairly big physical differences that the computer would deem significant – if a person closely mimics someone else’s characteristics and traits. What I’m saying is, if you had a half-decent resemblance to another person – which this woman obviously does – but you absolutely nailed their gestures, their patterns of behaviour, qualities, traits, you could fool a lot of people. That’s clearly what she’s done.’
‘And it helps that she can cite private conversations too.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t have an explanation for that part. But I’m telling you, Raker: this is a bona fide branch of science. The cops will drop their trousers for these doctors if you can get them there.’
We were both quiet for a moment. If Kennedy was right, this could be a way of proving my side of the story – except I didn’t have the woman, had no idea where she was, and didn’t even have a decent photograph of her to use as a comparison against Derryn. Despite that, Kennedy’s call had offered me a glimmer of hope.
‘I appreciate this,’ I said to him.
‘I just thought you should know.’ He paused. ‘And for what it’s worth, I believe you. If you’ve lost someone the way you did, you don’t make up shite like this.’
We were both silent for a while.
Finally, the line crackling slightly, he said, ‘Look, before you go, I know this sounds rich coming from me, the things I’ve done, the amount of times I’ve lost my head, but just …’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘Just be careful, okay? You’re emotional. I can hear it in your voice, and I understand why. I do. I get it. But when we’re emotional, we do stupid things and make bad choices. I’ve been there. I’ve done it over and over. I mean, my life down here is testament to that, right? When we’re grieving, or we’re angry, or we’re confused …’ He stopped again and I heard him let out a long breath, exhaling into the mouthpiece. ‘Ach, I don’t know, I never was very good at pep talks.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘The emotion will make me sloppy.’
‘It will if you let it.’
Sometimes it was hard to square off the man Kennedy was now with the man he’d been when I first knew him. Being alone, living in isolation – it had given him a lot of time to think. It had given him a lot of time to change too.
‘So what’s next?’ he asked.
‘Next?’ I looked down at the notes I’d made off the back of McMillan’s phone records and zeroed in on the one I’d circled: the call from the payphone near Plumstead Common. ‘Next, I’m going to try and get hold of some surveillance footage.’
I thanked Kennedy again and hung up, then grabbed my prepaid mobile and dialled the number for a man called Ewan Tasker. Task, like Spike, was an old source from my newspaper days. He’d worked for the Met and NCIS – a precursor to the National Crime Agency – and now he was semi-retired, doing part-time consultation wor
k at Scotland Yard.
‘Raker,’ he said, picking up, recognizing the number of my prepaid.
‘Hey, Task. How’s things?’
‘Pretty good, old friend.’
We talked for a while about things other than work, and then I steered us back to the point of my call: ‘How easy would it be for you to source some footage for me?’
‘Not very. But that doesn’t mean I can’t.’
‘I’m looking for footage from any cameras close to a payphone on the corner of Cavanagh Avenue and Plumstead Common Road.’
‘Are there definitely cameras nearby?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I was hoping you could find out for me.’
‘What dates are you looking at?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. The caller I want to identify made a phone call at four forty-five – so maybe an hour either side of that.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I was also hoping you could pull footage from any cameras close to the Winhelm Estate in Chalk Farm. I’m specifically looking for any around 2 Sovereign House, although I’m not sure how many working cameras are actually there. I’m after anything between 4 p.m. yesterday and 8 a.m. today.’
‘This is going to take some time.’
‘I know. I’d just appreciate anything you can do, Task.’
He didn’t reply for a moment, seemed almost hesitant, and I figured out what was coming: ‘Is this anything to do with that story on FeedMe today?’
Everyone’s seen it.
‘How did you guess?’ I said.
‘Are you okay?’
He sounded concerned.
‘I’ll be fine, Task.’
A second later, my main mobile came alive, buzzing across the table towards me. On the display was a central London number, but not one I recognized.
‘I’ve got another call waiting.’
‘I’ll get back to you about the footage.’
I grabbed my other phone and pushed Answer.
‘Hello?’
‘David.’ A man’s voice: quiet, well spoken. ‘It’s been a while, but it sounds like you might need to see me again. It’s Erik McMillan.’
#0635
Let me tell you the truth about Nora, Derryn.
My sad story.
I didn’t tell you much about her on that last day in hospital, because I never really had the chance. But if I’d had the opportunity, I think you probably would have got everything from me. I doubt I would have been able to look you in the eyes and hold back. I would have told you about Nora and what she did to me. I would have told you about how it ended with her.
Once we really get to know each other, we can share these kinds of things, can’t we? We can share the intricate, intimate details of our pasts – the full, gory details of our war stories. I’m sure we will tell each other everything.
For now, though, all you really need to know about Nora is that she was a cheat, a deceiver – as much as it pains me to say it. I mean, finding your partner in bed with someone else is such a cliché, isn’t it? But that’s exactly what happened to me. I got home early from work one day and heard voices coming from the bedroom, so I went to investigate and there she was: naked as the day she was born, half covered in bedsheets, on top of some guy that I’d never met before, with tattoos. He was big, maybe six two, six three, and as he gathered his clothes up, he gave me a look that said, ‘Come on then, if you think you can take me.’ I was so angry; so angry I could feel it going off like this siren behind my eyes.
But, to my eternal shame, I did nothing.
He walked past me, out of the bedroom, and I stood there – small, pathetic – and listened to him on the stairs, pausing at the bottom to zip up his trousers, and then the click of the front door. Nora got out of bed, sheet wrapped around her, almost bashful, as if I were some stranger who had just wandered in off the street.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ she said.
Not sorry she was having an affair, not sorry for having sex with another man in our bed, just sorry I had to walk in on them. I remember the next bit so clearly: I didn’t reply straight away, because the words wouldn’t form. The anger was like this blockage at the top of my chest. Instead, I looked around that terrible little flat we were renting at the time, the leaks from the roof, industrial units out the back, a main road at the front, the air filled with the constant stench of varnish and polish from the nail salon below, and I thought, ‘Is this it? Is this all I amount to? Is this all I’m worth?’ I mean, back then, I never would have imagined I might get the chance to meet a woman like you. My only reference point at the time was Nora, who I’d given a room to when she was drinking too much, who I thought had grown to love me – but who had, instead, taken my kindness and ripped it to pieces.
‘Why did you do this to me?’ I asked her.
She shrugged.
I’m not sure she even knew.
I suppose that side of Nora was there all along, because our weaknesses are always humming close to the surface, aren’t they? But either I didn’t notice, or I chose not to look, until Nora’s weakness – this perpetual search for destruction, in drink, in drugs, in sex – eventually got the better of her. I think, perhaps, in a weird way, she wanted me to find her that day. Or maybe it was much bigger than that: maybe it was some form of providence.
Because without her indiscretion, I never would have left her.
And if I’d never left her, I never would have met you.
26
I headed for the Tube. It was bitterly cold, the open skies already setting to work across Ealing Common as its grass started to bead with tiny, hardened flecks of frost.
The conversation with Erik McMillan had been short, his voice pronounced and calm. ‘David?’ he’d said, when I hadn’t responded to him introducing himself. ‘You called me, so am I right to assume you would like to meet again?’
‘Again?’ I said. ‘We’ve never met.’
‘We’ve met many times.’
‘Except I don’t remember any of them.’
A pause. ‘I’m happy to explain the reasons why you think that.’
‘It’s because it’s the truth.’
‘You want answers. I understand that.’
I stopped myself from replying, even though I wanted to come back at him; any battle I fought on the phone was going to be a waste of time. He’d just bat everything off. What I needed to do was look him in the eye.
‘Where would you like to meet?’ he asked.
‘I’m open to suggestions.’
‘Well, I’ll be at St Augustine’s later.’
I delayed my response, trying to decide if it was some kind of ambush.
‘David?’
‘I thought you were supposed to be on holiday?’
‘Until Wednesday, yes. I’m just having some days off over Christmas and New Year,’ he said, ‘that’s all. The reason I suggested the hospital was because I thought it might be useful for you to see your file. I know this must be a very confusing time for you, but I really, genuinely want to help.’
Again, I chose not to respond.
‘I’m out with some friends for an early dinner at the moment, but I can either see you later on tonight or first thing tomorrow morning.’ He paused. I tried to listen for background noise to see whether he was lying to me about being out – but if he was in a restaurant, he was somewhere quiet. Or he wasn’t out with friends at all. ‘Which would suit you better, David?’
‘Later,’ I said.
‘Shall we say around 9 p.m.? I’ll have someone meet you at the front gate.’
Once I arrived at the Tube station, I found a bench while I waited for the next train, my thoughts switching from McMillan to my notes – to everything I’d compiled. I pored over them, refreshing my memory, arming myself against whatever McMillan had in store, and then wrote down a list of questions I hadn’t squared away.
There were a lot.
Why did the woman have an infecte
d cut on her arm? Had she really been in Woolwich trying to find a pharmacy? Why did she choose to go to Charing Cross police station? Why did she go to the Chalk Farm flat afterwards? Who did the blood on the door belong to? Did she use her own prepaid mobile to call Kent and tell him I was following her, or was it someone else’s? If it was someone else’s, whose? I kept going, raising queries about my loft, the missing death certificate and the book I’d found in there, until – finally – I was saved from even more questions by the train pulling in. But not before I’d, once again, seen the through-line in all of this: the woman claimed that the pharmacy was in Woolwich; she said she worked at the Queen Elizabeth hospital nearby; and the call that had been made to McMillan’s mobile yesterday had come from a payphone on Plumstead Common Road. All three were close to St Augustine’s – only a matter of miles away – and that put them close to where Erik McMillan worked.
As soon as I thought of that, on the spur of the moment, I changed plans and platforms: before going to the hospital, I was going to head south.
Fifteen minutes later, I got off the train at Kew and followed the eastern wall of the Gardens all the way up Kew Road. At the junction with the South Circular, I crossed and then went the long way round, so that I could approach from the direction of the river. There was a point to the diversion: if I came from the south, I wouldn’t get a good view of McMillan’s property until I was right next to it; if I came from the north, I could see it front on from a street away, scope it out, get a sense for the rhythms of the road. I wanted a good look at where he lived.
He wasn’t in, but because it was Christmas, people were at home with their families, and as the house came fully into view – looking exactly like the version of it I’d seen online – I could see his immediate neighbours were all at home: fairy lights winked in the windows, tinsel glittered, illuminated reindeers stood on patches of grass in the gardens and, a few doors down, someone still had a SANTA – STOP HERE! sign hanging from the front door knocker.
McMillan’s place was different.
There were no lights on at all.
Moving towards the house, I kept my eyes on his windows, looking for signs that he might actually be in, that he might be lying about being at a dinner, but the property was dark. I reached into my jacket for my picks – but then, any momentary buzz I might have felt about tearing into his life, his home, his secrets, soon died.
