You know these things: and I know them, too.
I know you buy the same paper from the same shop; your milk at the same time each week. I know the way you walk the children to school; the shortcut you take on your way home from Zumba class. I know the street where you part ways with your friends, after a Friday night in the pub; and I know that you walk the rest of the way home alone. I know the 5 km circuit you run on a Sunday morning, and the precise place you stop to stretch.
I know all these things, because it’s never occurred to you that anyone is watching you.
Routine is comforting to you. It’s familiar, reassuring.
Routine makes you feel safe.
Routine will kill you.
6
Kelly was leaving the briefing room when her job phone rang. Number withheld meant it was almost certainly the control room, and she held the phone between her ear and her right shoulder as she zipped up her stab vest.
‘Kelly Swift.’
‘Can you take a call from a Mrs Zoe Walker?’ came the voice. Kelly heard the buzz of voices in the background; a dozen other operators taking calls and resourcing jobs. ‘She wants to speak to you about a theft on the Circle line – something taken from a bag?’
‘You’ll need to put her through to Dip Squad. I finished my attachment there a few days ago; I’m back on the Neighbourhood Policing Team now.’
‘I did try that, but no one’s picking up. Your name’s still attached to the crime report, so …’ the operator trailed off, and Kelly sighed. The name Zoe Walker didn’t ring a bell, but in her three months with the Dip Squad she had dealt with more victims of stolen wallets than she could possibly remember.
‘Put her through.’
‘Thank you.’ The operator sounded relieved, and not for the first time Kelly was glad she was at the sharp end of policing, not stuck in a windowless room, fielding calls from irate members of the public. She heard a faint click.
‘Hello? Hello?’ Another voice came on the line; this one female, and impatient.
‘Hello, this is PC Swift. Can I help you?’
‘Finally! Anyone would think I was trying to phone MI5.’
‘Not nearly that exciting, I’m afraid. I understand you wanted to talk to me about a theft on the Underground. What was it you had stolen?’
‘Not me,’ the caller said, as though Kelly was failing to keep up. ‘Cathy Tanning.’
Calls like this were a regular occurrence whenever a police officer was quoted in the paper. Contact from members of the public; often with no relation whatsoever to the article itself, as though possession of your name and shoulder number alone made you fair game.
‘She had her keys taken from her bag when she fell asleep on her way home,’ Mrs Walker went on. ‘Nothing else, only her keys.’
It was the type of theft that had made the job unusual. On her way to take the initial report Kelly had been in two minds about whether it should have been reported as a theft at all, but Cathy had been insistent the keys hadn’t been lost.
‘I keep them in a separate compartment in my bag,’ she had told Kelly. ‘They couldn’t have fallen out.’ The pocket was on the outside of a rucksack-style handbag; a zip and a leather buckle stopping them from falling out. Both had been undone.
CCTV footage had showed Cathy entering the Underground at Shepherd’s Bush, the buckle on her rucksack pocket apparently securely fastened. By the time she left the station at Epping, the strap hung loose, the pocket gaping slightly open.
As jobs went, it was a straightforward one. Cathy was the perfect witness: she always took the same route home from work, even choosing the same carriage on the Central line and sitting – where possible – in the same seat. If only everyone was so predictable, Kelly remembered thinking, it would make her job so much easier. She had picked up Cathy on the CCTV footage within minutes of looking for her, but it wasn’t one of their core nominals moving in on her. The biggest offenders on the Underground right now were the Curtis kids, but they wanted wallets and iPhones, not keys.
Sure enough, when Kelly seized the footage from the train Cathy had been on at the time of the theft, she almost missed the culprit altogether.
Cathy had been asleep, leaning against the wall of the carriage with her legs crossed and her arms folded protectively around her bag. Kelly had been so busy scanning the carriage for lads in hoodies; for pairs of women with headscarves and babies in arms, that she had barely noticed the man standing close to Cathy’s legs. He certainly didn’t fit the profile of someone running with the usual pickpocketing crowd. Tall, and well dressed, with a grey scarf wound twice around his neck, then pulled up over his ears and the lower part of his face, as though he were still outdoors, battling the elements. He had his back to the camera; his face turned resolutely to the floor. In one swift movement he bent down, leaned towards Cathy Tanning, then stood up; his right hand disappearing into his pocket too fast for Kelly to see what was held in it.
Had he thought there might be a purse in that outer pocket? Or a phone? A lucky dip, turning to disappointment, when he realised all he had was a bunch of keys? Taking them anyway, because returning them was a pointless risk; dumping them in a bin on his way home.
Kelly had spent her last day on the Dip Squad trying to track Cathy’s thief through the Underground, obtaining a still of such low resolution there was no point even circulating it. He was Asian, that’s all she could be certain of, and around six feet tall. The CCTV cameras were colour, and the quality was impressive – you could almost imagine you were watching news footage of commuters on the Underground – but that didn’t guarantee a positive ID. The cameras needed to be pointing in the right direction; be positioned just right for a full frontal image capture. Too often – as in this case – the offence happened on the periphery of the camera range. Zooming in for a better view meant a gradual pixellation of the image, until the all-important details blurred into a homogenous figure you didn’t stand a hope in hell of getting an ident on.
‘Did you witness the theft?’ Kelly asked, pulling her attention back to Zoe Walker. Surely she would have come forward sooner if she’d actually seen the offence take place. It occurred to her perhaps Mrs Walker had found the missing keys; that they could send them for forensics.
‘I’ve got some information for you,’ Zoe Walker said. She spoke formally, in an abrupt tone that bordered on rudeness, but there was an uncertainty beneath it which suggested nerves.
Kelly spoke gently. ‘Go on.’
The sergeant appeared, tapping his watch. Kelly pointed to her phone; mouthed Give me a minute.
‘The victim. Cathy Tanning. Her photograph was in an advert in the classifieds section of the London Gazette, right before her keys were stolen.’
Whatever Kelly had expected from Zoe Walker, it wasn’t that.
She sat down. ‘What sort of advert?’
‘I’m not really sure. It’s on a page with other adverts, for things like chatlines and escorts. And on Friday I saw the same advert, except I think it had a photo of me.’
‘You think?’ Kelly couldn’t stop a note of scepticism creeping into her voice. She heard Zoe Walker hesitate.
‘Well, it looked like me. Only without glasses. Although I do sometimes wear contacts – I use those daily disposable ones, you know?’ She sighed. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m some crackpot.’
It was so close to what Kelly had been thinking that she felt a stab of guilt. ‘Not at all. I’m just trying to establish the facts. Can you give me the dates of the adverts you saw?’ She waited while Zoe Walker checked the calendar, then scribbled down the two dates she gave her; Tuesday 3 November for Cathy Tanning’s photograph, and Friday 13 November for Zoe’s own. ‘I’ll look into it,’ she promised, although when she’d find the time, she wasn’t sure. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘No.’ Paul Powell was unyielding. ‘You had your three months swanning about in plain clothes, while the rest of us were picking up the
work; now it’s time to do some real policing.’
Kelly bit her tongue, knowing Sergeant Powell wasn’t worth making an enemy of. ‘I just want to talk to Cathy Tanning,’ she said, hating herself for the pleading tone in her voice, ‘then I promise I’ll come straight back.’ There was nothing more frustrating than a loose end, and even though Zoe Walker had sounded flakey at best, something was nagging at Kelly. Could Cathy’s photo have appeared in the classifieds? Was it possible she wasn’t a random victim of crime, but carefully targeted? Advertised, even? It was hard to believe.
‘It’s not your job any more. If there’s an enquiry to be done, send it to the Dip Squad. If you’re short on work you only have to say the word …’ Kelly held up her hands. She knew when to quit.
Cathy Tanning had a house in Epping, not far from the Tube station. She had sounded pleased to hear from Kelly, suggesting they meet at a wine bar in Sefton Street when Kelly finished work. Kelly had readily agreed, knowing that if she wanted to pursue a lead on a case she was no longer officially attached to, she was on her own.
‘You haven’t found them, then?’ Cathy was thirty-seven; a GP at a practice near Shepherd’s Bush, with a direct approach Kelly suspected would get a few of her patients’ backs up. Kelly rather liked it.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I didn’t really expect you to. I’m intrigued though – what’s all this about an advert?’
The receptionist at the Gazette had been surprisingly helpful, emailing a colour copy of each of the pages appearing in the classified section of the paper, on the two dates mentioned by Zoe Walker. Kelly had examined them on the Tube, quickly finding the photo Zoe had identified as being Cathy’s. Only a few days earlier Kelly had watched the Metro photographer take a multitude of different shots, noticing the way Cathy’s fringe flopped to the right-hand side, and the slight furrow between her brows. The photo in the Gazette certainly bore a striking resemblance to her.
Kelly put the cut-out advert on the table in front of Cathy, watching the other woman carefully for a reaction. There was little information beneath the photograph, but the advert was surrounded by listings for escort services and chatlines, suggesting the ad offered similar services. Did GPs moonlight as chatline operators? As call girls?
The first thing Kelly had done on receiving copies of the adverts had been to type the web address – findtheone.com – into her browser. The URL had taken her to a blank page; a white box in the centre suggesting some sort of password was required, but giving no further indication as to what it might be, or how one might obtain it.
The surprise on Cathy’s face was genuine. A moment’s silence, then a short burst of uneasy laughter. She picked up the advert and looked more closely. ‘They could have chosen a more flattering angle, don’t you think?’
‘It is you, then?’
‘That’s my winter coat.’
The photo was closely cropped, the background dark with no discernible detail. Indoors, Kelly thought, although she couldn’t say why she was so certain. Cathy was looking towards the camera but not straight at it; she was gazing into the distance as though her mind was on something else entirely. The shoulders of a dark brown coat could be seen; a fur-lined hood loose behind her head.
‘Have you seen this picture before?’
Cathy shook her head. Despite her self-assurance, Kelly could tell she was rattled.
‘And I’m guessing you didn’t place this advert.’
‘Look, NHS conditions might be tough, but I’m not quite ready to switch careers yet.’
‘Are you registered on any dating sites?’ Cathy gave her an amused look. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but I wondered if the photos had been harvested from a legitimate site.’
‘No dating sites,’ Cathy said. ‘I’m not long out of a serious relationship and, frankly, getting into another is the last thing on my mind.’ She put down the photocopy, took a swig of wine, then looked at Kelly. ‘Level with me: should I be worried?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kelly said honestly. ‘This advert appeared two days before your keys were stolen, and I only found out about it a few hours ago. The woman who found it – Zoe Walker – thinks she saw her own photo in the London Gazette on Friday.’
‘Has she had something stolen too?’
‘No. But, understandably, she’s uneasy about her photo being in the paper.’
‘As indeed I am.’ Cathy paused, as if weighing up whether to continue. ‘The thing is, Kelly, I’ve been considering giving you a ring for the last few days.’
‘Why haven’t you?’
Cathy fixed her gaze on Kelly. ‘I’m a doctor. I deal in facts, not fantasy, as I imagine you do. I wanted to call you, but … I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Sure of what?’
Another pause.
‘I think someone’s been in my house while I’ve been at work.’
Kelly said nothing, waiting for Cathy to say more.
‘I can’t be certain. It’s more a … it’s more of a feeling.’ Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘I know – it wouldn’t stand up in court, right? That’s precisely why I haven’t reported it. But when I got in from work the other day I could have sworn I smelt aftershave in the hall, and when I went upstairs to get changed, the lid to the laundry basket was open.’
‘Could you have left it open?’
‘It’s possible, but it’s unlikely. Closing it’s one of those automatic actions, you know?’ She paused. ‘I think some of my underwear is missing.’
‘You changed the locks, though, didn’t you?’ Kelly said. ‘You were waiting for the locksmith when you called the job in.’ Cathy looked sheepish. ‘I changed the front door lock. I didn’t get the back door done. It would have been an extra hundred quid, and to be honest I didn’t see the point. There was nothing on my keys that would have given away my address, and at the time it seemed like an unnecessary expense.’
‘And now …?’ Kelly let the question hang in the silence between them.
‘Now I wish I’d changed both locks.’
7
It’s almost 3 p.m. before Graham comes back to the office.
‘Working lunch,’ he offers in explanation, and I deduce from his relaxed demeanour that lunch was accompanied by at least a couple of pints.
‘Is it okay if I nip out to the post office, now you’re here?’
‘Be quick about it – I’ve got a viewing in an hour.’
Everything has already been franked and is neatly stacked in rubber-banded bundles on my desk. I tip them into a tote bag and put on my coat, while Graham disappears into his office.
It’s so cold outside I can see my breath, and I screw up my hands inside my pockets, rubbing my fingers against my palms. A dull vibration tells me I’ve got a text message, but my phone is in an inside pocket. It can wait.
In the queue at the post office I unzip my coat and find my phone. The text is from PC Kelly Swift.
Could you please send me a photo of yourself as soon as possible?
Does that mean she’s spoken to Cathy Tanning? Does it mean she believes me? No sooner have I read the text than another appears on my screen.
Without glasses.
There are six people ahead of me in the queue, and as many again behind. As soon as possible, PC Swift said. I take off my glasses and find the camera on my phone. It takes me a moment to remember how to turn it round to face me, then I stretch my arm as far out as I dare without making it obvious that I’m taking a selfie. The upward-facing angle gives me three chins and bags under my eyes but I take the photo anyway, mortified when the camera gives me away with a loud click. How embarrassing. Who takes a selfie in a post office? I send it to PC Swift and immediately see the notification that says she’s seen it. I imagine her marrying my photo up against the London Gazette advert, and wait for her to text to tell me I’m imagining the likeness, but my phone stays silent.
I message Katie, instead, to see how her audition went. She will have been finished hours ago
, and I know that she hasn’t been in touch because of the way I spoke to her this morning. I push my phone into my pocket.
When I get to the office I find Graham leaning over my desk, rifling through the top drawer. He stands up sharply as I open the door, the ugly red flush on his neck prompted not by embarrassment, but by annoyance at being caught out.
‘Are you looking for something?’ There’s nothing but an assortment of envelopes, pens and rubber bands in the top drawer, and I wonder if he’s been through the others. The middle one houses old memo pads, neatly filed in date order in case I need to look up something. The bottom drawer is a dumping ground; a pair of trainers from when I thought I might try walking to the river before getting the train; tights; make-up; Tampax. I’d like to tell him to get his hands off my personal belongings, but I know what he’ll say: it’s his business, his desk, his drawers. If Graham Hallow were a landlord he’d be the type to walk in on inspection day without knocking.
‘The keys to Tenement House. They’re not in the cupboard.’
I go across to the key cupboard, a metal box mounted on the wall in the corridor next to the filing cabinet. Tenement House is an office block within a larger complex called City Exchange; I check the ‘C’ hook and find the keys instantly.
‘I thought Ronan was handling the Exchange?’ Ronan is the latest in a long line of junior negotiators. They’re always male – Graham doesn’t believe women can negotiate – and all so similar it’s as though they simply slip in and out of the same suit, one appearing days after the last has left. They never stay long; the good ones move on as quickly as the bad ones.
Either Graham doesn’t hear my question, or he chooses to ignore it, taking the keys from me and reminding me the new tenants for Churchill Place are coming in to sign the lease later. The bell on the door jangles as he leaves. He doesn’t trust Ronan, that’s the problem. He doesn’t trust any of us, which means instead of being in the office, where he should be, he’s out on the streets, checking up on everyone and getting in the way.
I See You Page 6
