by A J Waines
We walked down to the crime scene.
‘You said you had a message to come here.’
‘Yes - have a look at this.’ I pulled out the phone from my running top.
He handed it back and rubbed his head. ‘What time was the message left?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t think of that.’ I pressed a few buttons. ‘9.30pm - I forgot to check it before I went to bed.’
‘You’ve got to tell the police,’ he said. ‘Someone knew about this…’
‘But, it’s all so vague and I can’t even be sure the text was meant for me.’ As he walked close beside me, I detected his distinctive sugary smell. The one that played havoc with my blood pressure. I also noticed a series of scratches on his neck, like the doodle of an angry child. They looked fresh. ‘What’s happened here?’ I said, reaching up towards his collar. I knew Andrew didn’t have a cat, nor would he take any interest in one.
‘Nothing,’ he said, pulling away. ‘Leave it.’
‘I was only —’
‘Well don’t.’
There was an awkward moment when I was torn between pursuing it and apologising. Instead, he changed the subject.
‘Look, there’s a police officer over there, go and say something.’ He nudged me in the back. I shivered, but didn’t move forward. The officer was talking to people and taking down notes. ‘Someone meant for you to come here,’ said Andrew. ‘They knew something was going to happen. Maybe the woman was dead even before the text was sent to you.’
‘But, what does it have to do with me?’
‘You get a good look at her?’
‘Yeah. But, it’s very hard to tell. She was… you know…in a bad way.’
‘Not one of your clients?’
I shook my head.
‘Nothing about her clothes? What was she wearing?’
I stared at the sandy towpath for a moment. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I’d taken pictures.
‘You know, I can’t remember…a sort of long anorak, I think…dark…not wearing jeans…tights of some sort.’
Andrew shrugged. ‘What does that tell us?’
‘I don’t know… she was youngish? She had money?’
‘Come on, you’re the queen of detection.’ He jogged my arm.
‘I didn’t see it…her…well enough.’
The officer turned and looked like he was heading back to the patrol car.
‘You’re not going to say anything are you?’ he said.
‘Not yet, no. Anyway, it can’t help her now and I’m sure it’s all a mistake.’
Andrew put his hands on his hips and I almost looped my arm through. ‘There’ll probably be a photo and a name in the local rag in a day or so,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that might shed some light on it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Then you’ll know for sure if it has anything to do with you.’ I squeezed my lip. ‘I wonder what happened…’ he said. ‘If it was suicide.’ He leant over the bridge. ‘Or maybe, she was killed first and then dumped downstream. She could have travelled a long way with the incoming tide.’ Andrew was watching the water, as if trying to judge how fast it might be flowing.
‘Stop it!’ I snapped. ‘Either way, I want to know what it could possibly have to do with me.’
‘It’s really creepy, Jules, that someone contacted you about it.’ He put his arm around me, as we walked back to the bridge. It didn’t occur to me to duck away. He was being a good friend when I needed one, that’s all. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’ he said, pointing over the bridge. ‘I know for a fact that the pub across there does a mean breakfast.’
I was tempted to add that they also served a mean Scotch whisky, but it felt unfair to be sarcastic when he’d come all this way.
I tutted. ‘Typical,’ I said. ‘An awful business like this and all you can think about is food.’
‘It’s a bloke thing,’ he said.
Chapter Three
Having slept on it, I knew Andrew was right. First thing, I handed in my phone at the police station on Shepherds Bush Road so they could trace the text. I’d downloaded both photos, printed off copies and made sure I deleted them, first.
I was making poor progress through a bowl of cornflakes when an officer, DI Roxland, rang my landline and gave the impression he thought the anonymous text and the incident at the bridge were a coincidence. Every part of me wanted to agree with him.
I was due at Holistica all morning, offering others supervision this time, so I didn’t have a chance to look at the pictures properly straight away. I left them on the kitchen table and headed out. By leaving them in plain view, there was no way I would be able to avoid them when I returned.
Clive, the clinic receptionist, buzzed me inside.
‘Dying of boredom here, darling,’ said Clive, swinging his bare feet onto the desk. He was busying himself straightening leaflets and waiting for the phone to ring. Clive was petite with bed-head blonde hair and a pre-pubescent face. I was convinced he used eyeliner to hatch in the appearance of stubble to make it clear which gender he was. He was in his early twenties, but looked about sixteen. I wondered whether if I’d had his cheekbones, they’d work the same magic on me. The phone rang and he switched on his ever-so-helpful and slightly camp tone to answer it.
All my supervisees that day mentioned the fatality; they’d heard it on the news or seen the front page of London Daily. Just before I left, I heard Cheryl Hoffman talking about it in the cloakroom.
‘At least she didn’t drown…’ she said.
I thought I’d misheard her, but by the time I’d taken in what she’d said, she’d gone.
It took me back to the time when Cheryl and I had our first proper chat; a supervisee hadn’t shown up and she’d invited me to her room to share a tuna sandwich. I learnt straightaway that Cheryl wasn’t the sort to bother with small talk; two minutes in and we were talking about New Age philosophy, interpreting dreams and whether I believed in an afterlife. I said I wasn’t sure. I didn’t mention Luke.
‘Ever heard of the Academy for Psychic Development,’ she said. ‘It’s near Sloane Square?’ She saw my head shake. ‘I do readings there and run a class. You should come.’
I said I’d think about it. I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by being psychic and we didn’t have time that day to go into it further. My father would have called anything of that sort ‘poppy-cock’ and my mother would have warned me against getting involved. ‘It’s dangerous to meddle with evil forces,’ she would have said. Luke would have laughed: ‘It’s all a con trick.’ I remained undecided. I’d had no personal experiences to pull me either way.
It was my second meeting with Cheryl, shortly after our first encounter, that unnerved me. She’d left a note in my pigeon-hole suggesting we meet at the local wine bar at the end of the day. We’d settled in a corner with two large glasses of Rioja and she started by telling me about her family. I’m ashamed to say I found myself drifting off, having listened to people’s life-stories all morning and undergone a heated discussion with my own supervisor, in the afternoon. I rubbed my eyes and found Cheryl looking at me, waiting for me to respond.
‘Sorry?’ I replied. ‘Can you say that again?’
‘I said, I know about the sadness in your life.’
‘Oh.’ I rolled the stem of the wine glass between my fingers. She’d caught me by surprise. She reached over and took my hand. I wanted to pull away, but her eyes were like pulsating bright lights, paralysing me. ‘I’m getting some sadness about a boy,’ she said. ‘In the family. I get the feeling he’s not with us anymore.’ She waited for me to say something.
I paused, struggling to understand her words as if she was speaking a foreign language. I didn’t blink for a moment. I cleared my throat.
‘That’s right - he’s not.’
‘I feel very hot,’ Cheryl continued. ‘Like I can’t breathe.’ She started rocking slightly. ‘There are flames.’
I snapped my hand away, not happy
about the way this was going. She seemed to know about Luke, the fire. As she spoke, I saw harrowing visions of that fateful night, a collage of flashbacks interspersed with tortuous scenes of my own making: the burning building, looking up and finding Luke missing, flashes and blasts forcing us back, crackling flames tearing out of exploded windows, smoke, water, steam belching into the night air, Luke’s pyjamas on fire, his skin blistering as the rest of us grabbed each other and watched transfixed. His death was still raw, still able to churn up my insides, even though the accident was nearly twenty years ago. I didn’t want to talk about it with a virtual stranger.
Cheryl’s face had turned pink. Perhaps she was reacting to the red wine. Maybe it was too hot in there. I grabbed a menu and started wafting it at her, hoping she’d laugh and draw her uninvited reading to an abrupt conclusion.
‘Am I right?’ she said, quietly.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ I said, looking down for my bag. ‘He died in a fire.’ I wanted to close the subject for good and leave. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Terrible business,’ said Cheryl, her head titled to one side in sympathy. ‘Must have been awful when you found out it was wasn’t an accident.’
I was taken aback. What was she saying? No, she’d got that bit wrong.
‘It was… it was an accident.’
‘That’s not —’
I shot to my feet, making the wooden chair squeal on the tiled floor and held up my hand.
‘Sorry, Cheryl. We’re going to have to leave it right there!’
Thankfully, she’d let it drop and I hadn’t spoken to her properly since. It was after that time that I noticed other practitioners at the clinic avoiding her. Had she tried similar antics with my colleagues? I’d been starting to think it would be wise for me to follow suit.
Cheryl’s chilling words had played over and over in my head ever since, but she must have been mistaken. At the time of the fire, there had been no suspicious circumstances; there was never any question that someone had started it deliberately. An electrical fault was what the police had told us. Something to do with the toaster; a common cause of domestic fires. Even if her psychic conviction was right and there had been a question-mark over the case, there’s no way I could find out more, so long after the event. No - Luke’s accident was beyond further scrutiny.
But I couldn’t say the same about the woman in the water.
* * *
Back at the flat, I sat at the kitchen table for twenty minutes staring at the photos. Nothing. I made a bowl of pasta and came back to them; watched a mindless TV sitcom and came back to them. I made a cup of coffee, put some music on and sat in front of them again. It was like waiting for a mechanical toy to come to life when it hasn’t been wound up properly. Nothing was happening. There was something about the woman in the river that was familiar and yet I couldn’t place her. Was it to do with the shape she made in the water? Did she remind me of someone?
Perhaps sleeping on it would help. Maybe in the morning, my brain would have a fresh take on the whole thing. I didn’t know if it was going to work, but I did know there was definitely something there. I just couldn’t see it yet.
There was a queue of women waiting to see me the following morning as I arrived at Fairways, the abortion clinic in Brixton where I’d recently taken on a few shifts. I had stuffed the photos into my bag before I left, but had to put them out of my mind immediately and switch into listening mode.
The first client was ushered into my tiny counselling room by her mother. Aysha looked like she was African Caribbean and had earphones pressed into her ears, which were already weighed down by large gold earrings. Her heavy breasts made her look over eighteen, but her eyes said she was much younger. Turned out she was fourteen. I knew she hadn’t switched off the music, because she continually twitched her shoulders to the beat. She also chewed in time to it. I gave the mother a stare, but Mrs Turner had a faraway look that suggested she’d long since stopped trying to tell her daughter what to do.
‘Can I ask you if you’ve taken a pregnancy test, Aysha?’
‘Yes.’ It was her mother who answered.
‘And when was your last period?’
‘She can’t remember.’
Her mother continued to do all the talking and Aysha did the chewing. That was about as much as I was going to get out of her. We stumbled around with dates, until it became clear the girl was probably around eighteen weeks pregnant. That was late. It meant she’d need a general anaesthetic, but if she left it much longer, a more complicated procedure would be necessary. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Leave it too long, of course, and she would be too late for a legal termination altogether. I tried to reinforce the urgency of the situation, but it was like trying to score from the penalty spot with a ping-pong ball.
I ran through the required form, with the mother answering all the questions. At one point Aysha pulled the gum out of her mouth and twirled it around her index finger. I thought she’d removed it to say something, but it went straight back in again.
At the end of our short interview, as I held open the door, Aysha spoke for the first time.
‘I know what happens,’ she said, with a look verging on loathing. ‘I dun it all before.’
I sank down on the padded window seat once they’d gone, and rested my head against the frosted glass. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of life was in store for that girl. She was already caked in make-up, with a low-cut top and barely-there miniskirt and probably had no trouble getting into nightclubs. What had happened to her childhood? What had happened to swooning over pop-stars and fantasies of becoming a ballerina? I’d seen only one client and I was already wiped out.
My brain was crying out for a strong coffee. I went to the machine in the reception and came away with a poor substitute for one, then invited the next girl through.
By 3.30, the stream of clients began to tail off and I saw the chance for a break. I stayed in my room and pulled out the photographs. I’d been hoping for a spare moment to study them again. What is it I’m supposed to know? What connection do I have with any of this?
The two pictures were of the same scene: the water, the tangle of weed and the woman’s body, one slightly closer than the other. I focused on the close-up and scrutinised every detail. I tried to be dispassionate, tried to look with the clinical eyes of a pathologist, but I could almost feel the chill in the water, feel it seeping into my clothes making me heavy and unable to keep my head up. I wanted to shut my eyes, turn away, tear the pictures into tiny pieces, but I forced myself to stare, the pictures blurring as tears formed a glassy film over my eyes. Focusing like this was tortuous, but I had to find out why I’d been targeted. Who are you? What am I missing? I had to know.
I sprang to my feet as the door opened.
‘Sorry, Juliet.’ It was Dina. She was one of the receptionists, in her early twenties with cropped yellow hair and a ring through her nose. Her expression had a worn look about it that indicated she’d had enough of this kind of work. I tried not to look startled and laid the photos facedown on my desk. ‘You’ve got two latecomers left over from lunchtime. Shall I send the first one through?’
Annoyed at the interruption, I put the pictures back in my bag and cleared my throat. I’d have to come back to them later.
At the end of the day, as I left the room to head home, I could hear Dina laughing.
‘I nearly ran off with it, sorry,’ said Dina. She was pulling a jacket from her shoulders and handing it over to the other receptionist.
‘It’s easily done - they’re practically the same,’ said Amanda, slipping her arms through the sleeves. ‘See you tomorrow.’
As I left the building, I could have kicked myself. I’d got it. I knew exactly what connected me with the photographs. It had been staring me in the face all the time.
The coat, the blouse, the tights, the boots.
The dead woman in the water was wearing my clothes.
As soon as I got back from Fairways, I banged on Jackie’s door. Given that I was trying to move on from Andrew, she was the only other person to hand I could think of. She answered the door, chewing, holding something behind her back. Her long mousy hair was dripping onto the carpet. It looked like well-used rope and I wanted to reach across and squeeze more water out of it. I’d clearly caught her in the middle of getting ready to go out, but I decided my need was greater than hers. She cautiously invited me in, perhaps convinced of the urgency by the lack of colour in my cheeks.
I garbled my way through what had happened; the text message, the body under the bridge, the photographs.
‘It was only when the receptionist at work nearly ran off with Amanda’s jacket by mistake that I realised,’ I said. ‘The clothes she was wearing - they all used to be mine.’
‘Yours - how can that be?’ She was sitting on the edge of the sofa finishing off a doughnut.
‘She must have bought them. I remember taking a bag of clothes to a charity shop a few months back. There was a blue gabardine that was past its best and some woolly tights my Aunt Libby bought me. And the ankle boots, with a distinctive buckle - they’d been giving me blisters for months, so they went in the bag as well.’
‘And are you absolutely sure they’re yours and not just duplicates from M&S or something?’
‘No. I’m certain.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘They were sceptical at first. But they asked me to see the body.’
‘They let you look at the dead woman, just like that?’ Jackie was licking her fingers and her expression fell from relish to revulsion.
‘She hasn’t been identified yet, so the police are looking for any leads they can get. Once I saw her on the trolley, I knew for definite she was wearing my old blouse. I’d altered the neckline by hand. I recognised my own wonky stitching.’
