In Her Image

by Adam Croft

  ‘Tomorrow sounds great,’ Simon replies.

  ‘But I wouldn’t recommend that new bar in town,’ I say, keen to keep well away from places Gavin knows I go to. ‘It’s not all that great, to be honest.’

  ‘Okay, no worries. There’s a new place near me that’s just been taken over. I mean, it’s a pub, but they do food too. Good food. If you wanted that sort of thing, that is. Entirely up to you.’

  ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘I’ll text you the details.’

  After the call ends, I feel somewhat more comfortable. No, not comfortable. That’s the wrong word. But I feel better. Just the thought that I might have something tiny to hold onto helps enormously. Something to take my mind off things. After all, there’s got to be a decent chance that Gavin Armitage will be steering well clear of me now. I try to recall that look on his face as I saw him through the large window at the police station. Did he look scared? Shocked? Worried? I don’t know. There was no emotion on his face whatsoever. I can only imagine he was stunned. He’d have to be stupid to carry on now that he realises I know he’s a police officer.

  Wouldn’t he?

  34

  After I get off the phone to Simon, I resolve to get something done. I call the locksmith. Not the same one as last time. I don’t fancy looking quite that stupid. I’ve already had the locks changed once, but it’s clearly not good enough. It needs more.

  He asks me if it’s an emergency, and the only reply I can come up with is ‘sort of’. I tell a little white lie and say that I’ve just moved in and that I don’t trust the previous occupants. I add that the locks seem really insecure and that I’d like to upgrade them while he’s here. I play the damsel-in-distress card and he agrees to come over within the hour with a selection of different options, not so subtly adding that it’ll be on emergency callout rates. I don’t even ask him how much that’ll be. I don’t care. I need it done, no matter what it costs.

  To his credit, he turns up about forty minutes later. I reckon he’s about sixty, and I imagine he’s been doing this job all his life.

  He introduces himself as Bob, then adds, ‘To be honest, I don’t know why I rang the doorbell. Would’ve been quicker to pick this thing.’ Bob points to the lock on the front door.

  I don’t know whether to be offended or not. That’s my door. It’s what’s been keeping me safe the whole time I’ve been living here. But at the same time I realise exactly how Gavin Armitage has got into my house.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ I ask.

  ‘These deadlocks are Mickey,’ he says, and it takes me a moment to work out what he means. ‘Don’t worry about a key. You’d be just as well off taking a paperclip out with you. Stick a sign on the door that says “Burgle me”.’

  I wish he’d shut up. I get the point. The lock’s shit.

  ‘Do you have anything better you can put on?’ I ask.

  He takes that deep intake of breath that all tradesmen do before they’re about to say It’ll cost you.

  ‘I have, but it won’t be a quick job. You might be better off having them done on day rates. If you book ahead, I can—’

  ‘No. No, sorry. I need it done today. Before tonight.’

  ‘Oh, I can do it. But it won’t be cheap. If you want top-notch security, most people will be better off replacing the door. This one looks fairly new, though. Christ knows why they’ve stuck this lock on it. I imagine the previous owners probably did it themselves, trying to save a bit of money. Stupid really, considering what they’re putting at risk.’

  I nod. Truth is, I didn’t even change the locks after I moved in. It didn’t cross my mind. In practice, the previous owners could have come waltzing back in any time they liked. Except for the fact that the old lady who lived here before me had died, of course. The state she’d left the place in — plus a timely inheritance from my grandmother — had just about made the mortgage affordable, even on my modest salary.

  ‘What you want on here’s a five-lever mortice,’ he continues. ‘Front and back doors, ideally. You could bump that back door pretty easily.’

  ‘Fine. Do it,’ I say, and I let him get on with the job.

  I sit in the living room with a mug of tea and try to relax, but it’s difficult. The locksmith’s drill sounds like it’s boring into my skull rather than the door, and I will him to hurry up and get it over with.

  In the end, it’s quicker than I thought.

  ‘Right. You’re now the proud owner of two five-lever mortices,’ he says as he assiduously places his tools back in their rightful spaces in his toolbox. ‘That’s about as secure as you’re going to get on those doors. If you’re really security conscious, I can recommend a good company in town. They do CCTV, alarms and monitoring, all that stuff.’

  He passes me the company’s business card.

  ‘Oh right. Thanks.’ I hadn’t even thought about CCTV or an alarm. They sound expensive, but what price do I put on my security right now? ‘How secure would you say the doors are now?’ I ask him.

  ‘As secure as they can be. I mean, unless you’re planning on adding whacking great steel deadbolts, reinforcing the door and sticking a sniper on the roof.’ He chuckles. It’s a throaty, sticky laugh that sounds like he’s recently given up smoking. ‘Seriously, though. If you’re that security conscious, you can’t go far wrong with an alarm and CCTV. Although, it’s always worth remembering the one golden rule of security.’

  He says it as if I’m meant to know what the golden rule of security is, but at the same time knowing damn well that I don’t and wanting me to ask him what it is.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, acquiescing.

  ‘The golden rule of security is there’s no such thing as security. Not total security, anyway,’ he says, raising his index finger like a primary school teacher. ‘If someone wants to get in, they’ll get in. You can’t stop them. All you can do is make it more difficult for them, or more likely that they’ll get caught if they try.’

  The thought is a sobering one. And all of a sudden I feel far less secure than I did a moment ago.

  35

  I meet Mandy at Bar Chico. I don’t trust Zizi’s any more. Not since Gavin Armitage started taking photos of me sitting inside.

  I’ve no way of guaranteeing he hasn’t somehow followed me here, either, but I have to trust my instincts. I’ve been much more aware of my surroundings recently. I clock everyone who’s walking on both sides of the street, I know exactly who’s following me and how far behind they are. I can spot someone sitting in a parked car from a hundred yards away. I think it would be fair to say the whole episode has made me paranoid, but right now that’s no bad thing. It’s the only thing that keeps me feeling anything like safe.

  I’ve started carrying a rape alarm, too. I don’t know what good it’ll do. I’m pretty certain I’ll never have to use it. After all, Gavin has never approached me directly, other than when we first met. It’s not his style. He prefers to lurk in the shadows and let me know where he’s been, without ever actually showing me at the time. Apart from at the police station, of course, but that can hardly be something he was in control of. Can it? No. It was my choice to go down there, my choice to speak to the police, my insistence that I wanted to put my side across to a detective. There’s no way he could have known any of that in advance. The only person who knew I was going there is Mandy, and I trust her implicitly. Still, the rape alarm adds slightly to that feeling of safety.

  I won’t feel completely safe until Armitage is caught, though. And after finding out what I found out earlier today, that’s going to be one hell of a lot more difficult than I thought. I need something. Some way of being able to convince the police that one of their colleagues is my stalker. That he’s been breaking into my house. That I’m not just some mad nutter on medication who doesn’t know what she’s saying. But how I go about that, I have no idea.

  I spot Mandy sitting in a booth on the other side the bar and I walk straight over to her. The bar’s
pretty empty, so I can keep a good eye on who’s in. So far, everything seems safe. I sit down and Mandy immediately drops the question.

  ‘So, what’s new?’ The words seem innocuous and ambiguous, but the way she says it lets me know exactly what she means.

  ‘If you mean how did it go today, not well.’

  Mandy’s face drops. I can’t tell whether she’s disappointed for me or angry at someone for some perceived slight or injustice.

  ‘What do you mean? Tell me.’

  I sigh and lean back into the red faux-leather padded bench.

  ‘They weren’t having any of it. Not at first, anyway. But I kicked up a fuss and demanded to speak to someone senior. They sent out this detective woman, and I sat down with her and told her everything. I think she’d already been briefed, because she jumped straight to asking about my medical situation, what tablets I was on, all that stuff.’

  ‘Are you fucking serious?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.’

  ‘That’s fucking insane,’ Mandy replies.

  ‘It’s not the least of it,’ I say.

  She looks at me quizzically, clearly able to tell there’s something on my mind; something else I need to tell her.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks.

  ‘You’re going to think I’m crazy.’

  ‘Try me.’

  I genuinely have no idea how to put this into words without sounding like a nutcase. ‘After I spoke to the detective, she took me back out to the reception area. You have to go down this corridor, with windows all down one side. You can see desks, workstations and all that sort of stuff. There were quite a few police officers milling around. And I saw him.’

  I can tell instantly that Mandy knows exactly who I’m talking about, but she asks anyway.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gavin Armitage. He’s a police officer.’

  For the first time since I’ve known her, Mandy is speechless. She just sits there, blinking at me.

  I continue. ‘I didn’t know what to do. In the end I passed out. They ended up carrying me back out to reception.’

  ‘Wait. I can’t get my head round this. I thought he was a photographer?’

  ‘Yeah. At the weekends, clearly. Don’t you see? That’s how he managed to get into my house. That’s how he’s been following me without me seeing him. Who looks twice at a police officer? And if you do, you only look at the uniform. He can go around taking photos of whatever he likes, whenever he likes.’

  ‘But breaking into your fucking house...’

  ‘He’d know exactly how to do it. If he was in uniform, who’d suspect a thing?’

  ‘I thought you said none of your neighbours saw anyone at your place. Even a policeman.’

  ‘No. They didn’t. But if they had, it wouldn’t have looked as suspicious as it would if it was a bloke in a black hoodie.’

  For the first time, I think I know what the look on Mandy’s face is. It isn’t the look of someone who can’t comprehend what I’m saying or make sense of it. It’s the look of someone who knows exactly what I’m saying, and knows exactly what the ramifications are. It’s the look of someone who’s scared.

  ‘You need to come and stay at my place,’ she says, placing her hand on mine and looking me in the eye. ‘You’ll be safer there.’

  I shake my head. ‘There’s no need. I’ve had the locks changed. I’d rather be at home.’

  ‘Alice, this isn’t right. Are you absolutely certain it was him?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely dead certain.’

  ‘Then you need to tell the police. There’s got to be something they can do. Police officers aren’t untouchable. You see it all the time, being dragged up in front of the IPS or whatever they call it.’

  ‘IPCC,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, whatever. If you can prove it was him who was there that day taking those photos, and it’s him who’s broken into your house, they’ve got to do something.’

  I lower my eyes.

  ‘That’s the problem. I can’t prove a thing.’

  36

  Sleepless nights are becoming something of a regular occurrence now. Even the new door locks aren’t doing much for my peace of mind. I’d ring the security company the locksmith recommended and get an alarm and CCTV installed, but I barely have a penny to my name. My credit cards are all maxed out and work are starting to get heavy about my recent absences. It won’t be long before they fire me, I’m sure, but every time I think of going back in it fills me with dread.

  Besides, it’s Friday today. They won’t be expecting me back on a Friday. That gives me three days until I’m due back in, or until I can get a doctor’s note to prolong my absence. With that, they wouldn’t be able to fire me. It would be illegal. Sure, I imagine they could find a way around it, but somehow I don’t think they’d try that with me. Not when it’s my job to hire and fire people in the first place. I probably know the rules and regulations better than they do.

  First of all they’d have to discuss it with me in more detail. They’d have to offer ways in which they can help me manage work with my illness, whatever that illness were to technically be called. Stress, I guess. They’d only need a doctor’s note after seven days off work, too. On top of that, I’m entitled to take my annual leave as sick days. And I’ve still got more than a fortnight left. In short, NMFP. Not. My. Fucking. Problem.

  I have bigger fucking problems.

  Mandy’s right. I need to go to the police. But without proof, what good will it do? Are the police obliged to investigate and question someone purely on the basis of an allegation? I can only presume so. If I said someone I knew had assaulted me, they wouldn’t need CCTV evidence before they went round and asked the other person for their side of the story, would they? There’s always the possibility that things are different for serving police officers. I imagine they’re more protected against allegations. They must get them all the time. Police brutality, racism. You hear those allegations all the time.

  But then there’s the other aspect. If Gavin Armitage — or whatever his name is — finds out that I now know who he is, will that make him back off? If he’s spoken to or questioned and, as I imagine he will do, he manages to squirm away quite easily through a complete lack of evidence, will that be enough to ensure he keeps his distance? He’d be daft to try anything stupid after that, wouldn’t he? Knowing that eyes are on him. That his name is now linked to mine.

  Of course, if he’s a complete psychopath it could go the other way. It could make him think he needs to act quickly and decisively to avoid anyone uncovering anything. And, being a police officer, he’d know the right ways and means of doing that. He’d know how to doctor evidence or avoid anyone ever finding it in the first place. He has experience of both sides here, and can use that to his advantage.

  Whichever way I look at it, I can’t shake the feeling — the compulsion — that I need to speak to someone high up in the police and get this properly investigated. My parents brought me up to respect the police and to trust in them if I needed them. Until now, I never have. I don’t want my sole involvement with the police to end negatively, whatever that might mean.

  I call the station again. The phone rings and rings. As it does so, I think about what I want to say. I haven’t prepared at all. Do I speak to McKenna again? Or do I accept that she thinks I’m a fruitloop and go above her head instead? What are the chances of them putting me through to a superintendent or chief constable just because I phone up and ask? Slim, I reckon.

  Finally, someone answers the phone. I ask to speak to McKenna. It’s the only thing I can think of saying. I’m asked what it’s about, and I tell her it’s an active case. I give my name. I’m put on hold for a good three minutes. Eventually, McKenna’s voice comes on the line.

  ‘Hi, Alice.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, swallowing. ‘I wondered if I might be able to speak to you again. About what we spoke about yesterday. I have some new information.’

  There’s a moment’s silen
ce as McKenna considers this. ‘What sort of new information?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t want to sound weird, but I can’t really say on the phone. But I think I know who this Gavin Armitage guy is. Who he really is, I mean. His real identity.’

  ‘Okay. And why can’t you tell me over the phone?’

  ‘Can I just see you? Please?’ I ask, avoiding her question.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Alice. If you have information that might be pertinent to the case then we have to—’

  ‘Please,’ I say, my voice sounding far more desperate than I’d intended. ‘I can’t. Please.’

  This seems to trigger something in McKenna’s mind. Maybe she thinks I can’t say over the phone because the person is in earshot. I don’t know. But she seems to pick up that it’s security-sensitive.

  ‘Are you at home?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I go to add I’m in all day, but I don’t. Half because I don’t know what access Gavin Armitage will have to this call and half because I want McKenna to come round now.

  She sighs. ‘I’ll be round before lunch, alright? I’ll have a colleague with me.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  I have no idea how it’s going to go. I don’t know how McKenna will react to what I tell her. I can guess it won’t be Right, we’ll go and arrest him at once, but other than that I’m clueless.

  All I can do is cross my fingers and hope.

  37

  Sometimes I’m not sure what to make of you. Just when I think I know you, I realise you still have the capacity to surprise.

  I hadn’t expected to see you yesterday. And that’s putting it lightly. But I’m impressed. You’re becoming strong.

  I like to think I’ve helped you. Would you have been so brave, so insistent beforehand? Would you have had the courage to stand up for what you knew was right, for what you understood deep down was the just thing to do? I don’t think so.