Dark Eyes of London

by Philip Cox

  ‘You’re not the next of kin, you see,’ she continued.

  ‘Of course not,’ Tom replied, thinking aloud more than responding to what Green had said. ‘That would be her sister - Jane - or her parents, I assume.’

  Green glanced into the file. ‘Yes, her sister Jane. She’s coming down from...’

  ‘Newcastle,’ said Tom as Green ran her eyes down the paper in the file.

  ‘Newcastle. That’s right. Insisted on doing it herself, not their mother. Said it would be too much for her. Apparently their father died last year. But you probably knew that anyway.’

  Tom looked up. ‘No, I didn’t. We didn’t keep in touch much after the divorce.’

  Green looked at him for a moment. ‘Okay. Well anyway, I’m just trying to put together the facts of what happened last night. You were on our list of people to call as it happened. We’ve got her mobile, and were working down the contacts list. So you would have got a call from us anyway. You just saved us the trouble.’

  She drank some more tea. ‘Since we spoke last night, we’ve retrieved Ms Kennedy’s voicemails and you left a couple, referring to a meeting you were going to have with her last night. Is that the case, Mr Raymond?’

  Somehow, her use of Tom’s name at the end of her question put him on the defensive. ‘Yes, but that’s nothing to do with it, is it?’ he snapped back.

  Green reached out and touched his arm. ‘Please, Mr Raymond - Tom? - I’m merely trying to piece together Ms Kennedy’s last few hours. You said you didn’t keep in touch much after the two of you divorced, but you were due to see her last night. How so?’

  ‘She phoned me yesterday afternoon. It was out of the blue. I hadn’t heard from her in months, maybe since last year.’

  ‘So it was quite a surprise, then? To hear from her after all that time?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Where did she call you? At work or at home?’

  ‘I was at home. Working.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I work in my local public library, but in my spare time I am studying for a PhD, and yesterday afternoon I was at home working on a thesis.’

  Green took another sip of tea and spoke, both hands on the mug. ‘She rang you on your mobile, I assume,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. I hardly ever use my landline.’

  Green put the mug back on the desk and leaned back in her chair. ‘So, she called you out of the blue, and said what?’

  ‘She didn’t say much, really. Said she didn’t have much time.’

  ‘Not much time? What do you think she meant by that?’

  ‘I assumed not much time to talk. She didn’t want to chat. And she was talking quietly. I got the impression she didn’t have much time to talk to me, as she was at work herself.’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘She said she needed to talk to me about something and could we meet.’

  ‘Did she say what it was about?’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’ Tom broke off to take a mouthful of water. ‘She said she wanted to talk about something, and it had to be face to face.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘Well, we arranged to meet at - I can’t remember the name of the place now - an old coffee shop we used to go to when we first met.’ He paused a beat. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember the name. It was Italian.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Go on. Where is this coffee shop?’

  ‘Very near to Waterloo Station. In Lower Marsh, I think it is.’

  Green nodded. ‘Yeah, I know where you mean.’

  ‘Funny thing is,’ Tom went on, ‘when I got there, now it’s a Café Nero. Anyhow, I waited there for about an hour, but she didn’t show. I left a couple of messages which you’ve probably heard -’

  Green nodded her head.

  Tom continued, ‘And made my way home.’

  ‘Why did you call again later that night?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, really. Guess I just did it on impulse. I was sort of intrigued as to why she wanted to meet me, why it had to be face to face. I was disappointed in a way when she didn’t show. I was just about to go to bed and thought I would give her one last try. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to pick up.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Green. ‘You sounded surprised.’

  Tom gave her a weak smile and ran his hands through his hair.

  ‘You said she called you from work. She works around Canary Wharf, I understand?’ Green asked.

  ‘That’s right, I think. Like I say, we’ve had little contact recently.’

  ‘I’m just trying to work out her journey to you. She presumably planned on seeing you straight after work.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yes. At six that evening.’

  ‘So I’m assuming she would have got on the Jubilee Line from her office and gone straight to Waterloo. An easy journey.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. That’s why I can’t understand what she was doing at Green Park. I can only assume she dozed off or something, woke up and realised she had missed her stop, and got off at Green Park to get the train back to Waterloo. And somehow, on the way back - I don’t know - got caught up in the rush hour crowds and fell off the platform.’

  Sergeant Green leaned forward and rested her chin on her steepled hands. ‘Well, that’s one theory, for sure. And she may have got herself caught up in the rush hour crowds. But she wasn’t going back to Waterloo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was on the westbound Piccadilly Line platform.’

  Chapter Six

  Tom Raymond collapsed into the bench of the station platform. He looked up at the dot matrix indicator. The next train would not be arriving for seven minutes. He started to feel sick and claustrophobic. He tried to focus on the advertising hoarding the other side of the tracks, but it was blurred.

  He needed some air. As he strained his eyes on the hoarding he felt the rush of air and heard the sound of a southbound train arrive at the adjacent platform. He stood up and hurried through the passageway and jumped on the train.

  The carriage was full so he had to stand, but it was a short journey - four stops to Embankment. He alighted there, and hurried up the escalators to daylight.

  Ten minutes later, he was sitting on some steps in Trafalgar Square. He pulled his coat around his neck and shivered. It was cold, windy, and starting to drizzle. But at least there was some air.

  He looked around at what was going on around him. The traffic around the square consisted mainly of taxis and buses, periodically sounding their horns. The square itself was not as full of people as he had seen previously. There was what looked like a school trip around the King George IV plinth: a bespectacled young woman was lecturing a dozen or so girls, all dressed in green blazers and grey skirts. There was a young family walking across the square. One of the children was running about chasing the pigeons, his mother calling out for him to slow down. A Japanese couple stood at the foot of Nelson’s Column: he took a picture of her in front of the column, and then they changed places.

  Just an everyday scene, Tom thought. But of course, for him it wasn’t. It wasn’t every day that you get told that your ex-wife had fallen in front of a tube train. He kept getting an image in his mind of Lisa standing on the platform, then lying across the tracks.

  He started to cry. It was all his fault! She was on her way to meet him. If she hadn’t arranged to meet him yesterday....

  But his second question remained unanswered: what was she doing on the Piccadilly Line?

  *****

  That was what had puzzled Tom. Why had she changed lines?

  ‘She was on the westbound Piccadilly Line platform,’ Sergeant Green had told him.

  Tom sat up, puzzled. ‘The Piccadilly? What was she doing there?’

  Green shrugged. ‘You tell me. In fact, from what you’ve told me, there was no need for her to be there. If, as you say, she was at work in Canary Wharf and meeting you at Waterloo, it’s a straightforward journey - what, six or seven
stops? If we assume she missed her stop for some reason - dozed off, perhaps - then she would have been able to get off at Westminster and double back. If she missed Westminster, she would have done the same at Green Park. How long had she lived in London?’

  ‘Years,’ replied Tom. ‘Seven, eight, at least.’

  ‘So she could hardly have got off at Green Park and switched lines by mistake, could she?’

  ‘Why would she do that, then?’

  ‘Did she have any friends living or working in places the Piccadilly covers?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Hammersmith, Acton, even Heathrow?’

  Tom sat back again. ‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

  ‘In any case,’ the sergeant said, ‘I’m not sure why she changed lines is relevant. Our investigations, and the inquest, will just focus on what happened.’

  ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what’s to be investigated.’

  ‘You’re not saying she was pushed, surely?’ Tom leaned forward, hands resting on the table.

  ‘I’m not saying anything. Look, in cases like this, there are three possible explanations. One: She stumbled somehow, tripped, and fell. Two: she jumped. Three, and statistically this is the least likely: somebody pushed her.’

  ‘Pushed her?’

  Green nodded. ‘It’s an option. Tell me, I know you’d not had much contact with her, but is there any reason you know of for her to take her own life?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘I have to ask: are you aware of anybody who would have a reason to - to push her?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Tom said.

  He sat quietly for a moment, then asked, ‘When will the verdict be decided?’

  Green exhaled deeply. ‘We have to interview the driver, and whoever witnessed it on the platform. And we study the CCTV footage. The results of our enquiries are presented to the coroner at the inquest, and the coroner gives his or her verdict.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom said slowly. ‘When is the inquest?’

  ‘No date yet,’ Green said, sitting up. ‘Look, I’ve no more questions for you at the moment. Is there anything else you need to ask me?’

  He stared at the empty table, and said slowly, ‘No. No, there isn’t.’

  She stood up. ‘If that’s the case, I’ll show you out.’

  Tom stood up and slowly followed her out. He stopped in the corridor outside.

  ‘Just one more question, if you can,’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  He paused a beat to get the words right. ‘Was she badly injured? What I mean is, did she suffer much?’

  Green shook her head. ‘This will all come out in the inquest, but I can tell you, it was relatively quick. There was some physical injury caused by contact with the train, but she was probably dead already.’

  ‘You mean before the train hit her?’

  ‘Possibly. You’re aware that there is a pit running under the tracks the length of each station?’

  ‘The suicide pit?’

  ‘Sometimes known as that, yes. Well, in Lisa’s case, she was falling into the pit. But her fall was obstructed by the central live rail. That rail holds just over two hundred volts, so as she touched it, she was either electrocuted straight away, or was at least rendered unconscious so she probably didn’t feel the impact of the train.’

  Chapter Seven

  It was well after nine when Tom got home that night. He spent around half an hour sitting in Trafalgar Square watching the passers-by. The fine drizzle turned to rain just after midday. He looked up at the sky, which was now filled with heavy dark grey clouds. He pulled his anorak hood up, and walked across the square. He didn’t feel like going home to an empty flat, so he decided to wander down Northumberland Avenue to the river.

  He slowly made his way along the embankment, past Westminster, Lambeth and Vauxhall Bridges. Then took the Nine Elms Lane over to Battersea. Looked at his watch: twenty to seven. God, he had no idea he had been walking so far and so long.

  Suddenly realizing he was hungry he called into a kebab take-away. Quickly finishing his meal, he decided to make his way home. He knew it would be a long journey: the 345 bus to Clapham, then an Overground the rest of the way.

  He slowly climbed the stairs to his flat, fumbled in his pocket for his door key, then let himself in. Threw his keys on to the kitchen worktop, a quick bathroom visit, and then flopped onto the sofa.

  He lay on the sofa for a while staring up at the ceiling, or what he could see of the ceiling as it was dark, the curtains were open, and it was only lit up by the light from the street lamps outside.

  After a while, he sat up and rubbed his face with his hands. He still couldn’t believe what had happened over the last day or so. It was surprise enough for Lisa to call him, for her to want to meet him; but for her to be gone like this was incomprehensible.

  Still staring, but now at a blank TV screen, he thought about what he should do next. They were divorced after all, no children to consider; no relationship legal or otherwise. Should he contact her parents, her sister? They would know by now, of course as the policewoman had told him, but was it up to him to call them? The inquest? The - he swallowed as he realised this - funeral? He wanted to go, but....

  He leaned back on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. So many questions, so much to take in. He closed his eyes.

  *****

  It was the sound of the next morning’s dustbin collection what woke Tom up. Stirring as he still lay on the sofa, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. It was daylight, the clock on the television said 07:35.

  ‘God,’ he mumbled. Sat up and ran both hands through his hair. Realised he was still wearing his coat from last night, he stood up and took it off. Cursing that his sofa was now damp from last night’s rain as well as his coat, he threw the coat on the floor and walked over to the large bay windows.

  He looked down at the street. The yellow dustcart was further down the street, leaving empty bins in its wake.

  ‘Shit,’ he exclaimed, as he realised he had not left his bin out. ‘That’s another two weeks.’

  Looking in the other direction, he saw the couple two doors down leave for work hand in hand. He heard the door upstairs slam, heard footsteps running down the stairs, heard the building front door slam, then saw the weird punk’s boyfriend walk down the road.

  Watched a double decker bus - route 98 - pass by, then a 297 in the other direction.

  Looked at his watch. It was just before eight. Time to get up. In the bathroom, he undressed and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit him: the flats in this street were on the grotty side, for sure, but ever since the landlord had paid out for new plumbing the shower was the best. He ran his hands over his hair, dragging it back over his head. Eyes closed, he reached for the shampoo. As he massaged it into his scalp he recollected the times before and during their marriage when he and Lisa would shower together. In the early years of their marriage, that is.

  That thought brought back to him the reality of what had happened. He finished in the shower, shaved, and dressed.

  Over his breakfast of coffee and toasted stale bread he tried to find a contact number for Lisa’s sister Jane, or her parents. Neither was stored in his mobile’s address book, nor in his landline’s memory. He scratched the back of his head while he tried to recall the numbers, or where he might have them.

  He rummaged through the papers he kept in a kitchen drawer. Yes, there it was, he thought he had kept it. It was a business card Lisa’s sister Jane gave him. There was a contact number on it. A mobile number. He picked up his own mobile and dialled. There was one dial tone, then a bleep. The screen on his phone showed a red exclamation mark, and the message Number Not in Use. Tom ended the call and put the phone down. The numbers would be in Lisa’s phone; maybe if he called Sergeant Green she would give him the numbers. Or maybe not; she would probably cite confidentiality. In any case, he was not too keen on talki
ng to the sergeant again, unless he had to.

  He decided to wait, to see if either of them contacted him.

  He finished his toasted stale bread, and took his coffee over to the table, where he had left his thesis materials the other afternoon. He still had two more days off from work booked, and then it was the weekend. He opened the folder and looked at the papers inside.

  An hour later, he was still looking at the same sheet of paper. It was no good: he couldn’t concentrate on the thesis; there was too much going on in his mind. He thought about Lisa and what the police sergeant had said about the three possible explanations about what happened. Even though they had long parted, he had known her intimately for years: there was no way she would have jumped in front of the train. No way. As for someone pushing her, that was like something out of a movie or a TV show. It just didn’t happen in real life. He reflected for a moment: he remembered reading something in the Metro about somebody being stabbed in the street by a woman who had just been released from a psychiatric hospital, so it was possible, maybe, but pretty unlikely. So maybe she did just fall, if the platform was crowded and she got too close to the edge. Or she tripped...

  But why had she changed lines?

  ‘Oh Lisa, why?’ he said aloud.

  Feeling himself welling up, he decided he needed to do something. Not the thesis. Not today. He looked around the flat. Not particularly tidy. Books, newspapers, his damp coat all lying around. Three days’ washing up in the kitchen sink.

  ‘Right, must do something,’ he said aloud, getting off the sofa. Like a man with a mission, he spent the next hour frantically tidying, vacuuming and cleaning his flat. Not his favourite way to spend the morning, but it passed the time.

  Once that was done, he decided to go out. Had no idea where: just out. Somewhere. He called in at his local pub, The Grapes, which was dingy inside, but the food was adequate. At least better than toasted stale bread. After two beers and a sandwich, he decided against getting a tube or bus somewhere, but he would walk. Walk. Just to clear his head and think through how to deal with Lisa’s death.

  He walked nowhere in particular, just round and round the streets. Some places he passed twice. He stopped at a Starbucks for a Latte. By then it was just after five, it was almost dark, and beginning to rain again. Time to go home. He called in at his local supermarket and arrived back at his building around six-thirty, laden with two plastic bags full of groceries.