by Gytha Lodge
She was surprised to find Lightman’s desk empty. In her five months with the team she’d never known him to arrive late, and it was difficult to imagine him having some kind of unplanned disaster. But just as she was thinking of asking O’Malley about it, she saw Lightman emerge through the door to CID, looking as unruffled as ever.
“Ben, my man,” O’Malley said, grinning hugely. “What happened? Did you oversleep?”
Lightman gave a small smile and dumped his car keys on his desk. “A few things to do, that’s all.”
“Ahhh,” O’Malley replied with a knowing nod. “A woman, then? One who didn’t let you sleep or leave the house?”
Lightman laughed and shook his head, but said nothing as he removed his coat and settled himself into his chair.
* * *
—
AIDAN FOUND HIMSELF searching for the Southampton police on Google when he should have been preparing for his tutor groups. Southampton, he read, was part of Hampshire Constabulary, which had its own website. He clicked through to it, though what he was looking for was anyone’s guess. He doubted they published details of cases or summaries of houses broken into to save injured women.
Of course there was nothing like that. Instead a series of big headlined boxes offered various options to the visitor, and he decided to click on the “Help and Advice” section. But there was nothing relevant there.
Back on the homepage his eye was caught by an option to report a crime online. If the Southampton police hadn’t taken his call seriously, perhaps he could try again this way.
The first thing it asked for was the postcode where the crime had taken place, which made him want to bang his head on the desk. There was no box to write “I don’t know the fucking postcode!” But it let him put “Southampton” and click onward.
Once he’d given the details of the crime, it asked for an email address or telephone number. Feeling that it couldn’t be a betrayal right now, he put in Zoe’s email address and hoped they wouldn’t lose time trying to check with her before they did anything about it.
And then he submitted the form, but felt no sense of relief. He couldn’t feel anything at all while Zoe might be dying. Might already be dead.
He couldn’t let himself think about that, and the denial made him feel worse. But at least he’d done something. He’d done something, and not just left her there.
* * *
—
BY MIDAFTERNOON JONAH had finished his report on the blackmail case and found his mind wandering back to that morning briefing. He was curious to know whether Heerden’s team had uncovered the truth about the singular murder report.
He found the case on the database and read that a constable from Heerden’s team had made some efforts to identify the possible victim. They’d found no Zoe Swardedeen anywhere in the UK, however, and there had been no reports of a missing person that day. The constable had suggested closing the case.
Jonah gave a small, dissatisfied sigh, wondering why the constable hadn’t tried other spellings, but also wondering why he cared so much.
Please help her. She could still be alive…
He found himself imagining the desperate tone of voice, and decided he’d like to listen to the original recording. It was only a minute long.
It was easy enough to open up the file and play it. The call handler’s voice boomed out, and he hastily turned the volume down. And equally hastily turned it up again when the caller began to speak. He was all but whispering.
Jonah felt goosebumps gradually rising along his neck and arms as he listened. He’d heard calls like this before, usually as evidence in courtrooms. The attempt to be quiet and the electric fear through the voice felt like a domestic-abuse victim hiding from a partner.
It jarred, hearing it from someone who had apparently only seen something online.
“I was online with her. I couldn’t see what happened, but I heard it. And someone entered her flat….”
The call ended shortly after the caller was asked for his name. Jonah listened to the muffled noises that came before the line was cut off and then sat, staring unseeing at his computer screen.
He was still in that position when a new file appeared on the database with a cheerful chirrup. A crime report filed that morning through the online system, which the crime desk had decided might belong to the same case.
Jonah opened it quickly and read what was a very similar report. This time the girl’s name was written as Zoe Swardadine.
He typed the new spelling into Google, and this time found image after image of a young woman with deep-brown skin and dark curly hair; when he clicked on one of them it took him to what seemed to be her website. It was a simple WordPress page about a Southampton-based artist who painted stylized figures on ominous backgrounds. There was a phone number low down on the page, which seemed a little trusting to him. But perhaps not many people stumbled across Zoe’s site.
He used the landline to call her. It rang eight times, and then a standard voicemail told him that the caller was busy, and asked him to leave a message.
He left numbers for the station and for his mobile in a light tone, asked her to call back, and then hung up, feeling an increasing sense of urgency.
It didn’t take him long to find Zoe’s father. Martin Swardadine was an investment banker at a firm called Knight and Maynooth. There was an intimidating black-and-white headshot at the top of the page, taken from one side in a way that exaggerated Martin’s strong jawline. Underneath there was a bio of the man himself. The last paragraph informed Jonah that Martin was married to an exceptional GP and had a daughter who was a budding artist.
Martin took Jonah’s call with the kind of strong, breezy greeting that implied he was taking time out of some very important things. Cheerfully important things; things that were making lots of rich people even more money.
“This is DCI Jonah Sheens. I’m calling from Hampshire Constabulary. We just wanted to check up on your daughter. A friend of hers was worried.”
“Check up on…on Zoe?” The honed manner slipped a little.
“Yes,” Jonah said. “I just wondered whether you’d been in touch today.”
“I— Not today, no,” her father said. “But I had lunch with her on…earlier this week. She’s probably messaged since. Hang on.”
There were a few friction noises down the line as, presumably, Martin checked his message history.
“She messaged yesterday evening.”
“Thank you,” Jonah said. “What time was that?”
“Eight-twelve, it says.” There was a very slight pause, and something in his voice was different when he spoke again. “Is there some reason to worry?”
“A friend of hers was trying to contact her and couldn’t,” Jonah said. “It could well be nothing. It often is. But would you be able to check with her friends, perhaps? Or with Zoe’s mother?”
“OK. I’ll…I’ll ask around.”
Jonah gave him the switchboard number and hung up. He read through the second report more carefully. There was no contact for whoever had sent it. The email address said [email protected], which was disquieting. No phone number, and the address of the crime said only Southampton.
Martin Swardadine called back seven minutes later to tell him that nobody had heard from her, and within ten more minutes, Jonah was out of the building and driving swiftly toward Zoe’s flat.
* * *
—
ANGELINE COULDN’T STOP shaking. The police car had started it. Until then she hadn’t really felt afraid. It had all seemed like a hassle, getting on her bike and heading over there, into a cold headwind, when she was tired and behind with her deadlines. She’d also failed to find any bike lights with charge in them, and it was a murky sort of two-thirty that threatened an early twilight. She’d felt angry for most of the ride over.
>
But the police car changed it somehow. She’d imagined the detective she’d spoken to as an ordinary person, not someone in uniform. He’d sounded so calm. He’d explained that he needed her to let a couple of officers into Zoe’s flat. That they just needed to check on her. That he’d be along shortly afterward and make sure everything was OK.
He’d been so calm, in fact, that she hadn’t been worried. But now, confronted with a police car and a male and female officer, both in uniform, she felt sick with fear.
She nodded to them, pushed her bike over to the wall, and tried to lock it. Her hands had a jerky shake to them, and it took her three goes before she managed it.
“Are you Angeline?” the tall, bulky male officer asked her. His black uniform didn’t suit him, she thought. The padded vest with its protruding pockets made him look even bigger around the middle than he really was.
“Yes,” she said. And then, in sudden fear: “You haven’t been in yet, have you?”
“No, we tried buzzing but didn’t get an answer. We’re just waiting for you and the key,” he said with a small smile. “If you can let us in, we’ll go and check on Zoe.”
Angeline nodded, a shudder running through her, and fished in her satchel for her big heavy key ring. She managed to separate out the little hoop that Zoe had given her, complete with its chunky security key and its smaller one for Zoe’s door.
She let them into the entrance hall, which still, a good two years since it had been built, smelled like new carpets. She inadvertently let the door swing half shut on the police officer and apologized, but he didn’t seem bothered.
“A bit nicer than your standard student accommodation,” he said to her in a light voice. He was trying to put her at ease, she could tell.
It made her feel worse. She felt utterly cold as she walked up the stairs ahead of them both.
On the second floor, she let them through the varnished fire door and onto the landing. She’d always found the door heavy, but today it didn’t seem to weigh anything at all. She remembered to hold it open behind her this time.
The corridor was empty. Zoe’s flat was marked 16 in big silver numbers. She paused in front of it, looking at her reflection in the numeral 6.
“Should I…?” she asked, gesturing at the door. At the female officer’s nod she knocked, her knuckles making almost no sound on the wood of the door. Then the bulky officer leaned past her and banged more loudly.
“Zoe?” he called, his head down as if he could hear better that way. “Are you able to come and let us in?”
There was silence, except for a very distant bass beat that must have been coming from another floor.
“OK,” the officer said. “If you can unlock it…”
Angeline somehow managed to get the key into the lock and turn it. She stepped back once the door had opened a crack.
“Can you…?” She couldn’t voice the awful dread of going in there. But they clearly understood anyway.
“We’ll just be a minute,” the officer said, glancing at his female colleague. They filed in through the wide door.
She folded her arms over herself and tried to stop the shaking and the squeezing thumps of her heart as she waited. She’d never known fear so acute. It felt like it might kill her, and the more she thought about that, the more she felt light-headed. Like her heart might be damaged already.
There was a very long silence inside. Then the click of a door opening somewhere in the flat, and, after a moment, a low voice that was answered by another.
And then there were quiet footsteps, and the female officer appeared.
“Is she OK?” Angeline asked, before she had a chance to say anything.
“It looks like she’s had some kind of accident,” the officer said gently. Through her speech, Angeline could hear the bulky male officer in the background. He must have been talking into a phone or radio.
“…ambulance and Scene of Crime.”
Angeline felt an awful coldness. She said nothing, but darted forward. She slid past the female officer, who told her sharply to stop. Angeline almost cannonballed into the bulky guy, who was listening to a crackling response on his walkie-talkie, his big form blocking the gap between the desk and the door. She went to move past him, too, but the woman suddenly had hold of her upper arm.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not a good idea,” she said.
Angeline twisted in her grip and was rushing onward, toward the bedroom and the open bathroom doorway immediately inside it.
Then there were two sets of hands on her, and she was being pulled firmly away.
“Come on, Angeline,” the bulky man said. “You can’t go in there. I’m sorry.”
“I need to see! Please let me see.”
But all the strength to fight them was leaving her, and she found herself being held up by them instead. They moved her out into the hallway, and she found herself sitting on the deep, low window ledge at the end of the corridor.
“We’ll find you some water,” the bulky officer said gently. “Or a tea. How about a cup of tea?”
She nodded, even though she wanted to shout at him and tell him that tea wasn’t going to make anything better.
“Zoe’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked, but neither of them answered.
March—twenty months before
It was six minutes past twelve by the time Zoe had finished with her eye makeup. Fourteen minutes to get out the door and into a cab so they were on time for the wedding. Plenty of time.
She slotted the brushes away, rolled up the nylon carry case, and pulled open one of the drawers of the jewelry chest. The new spiraling silver earrings gleamed as she picked them up, a match for her silver-dusted eyes.
The bathroom door opened on the floor below, and she called out, “How are you doing, Maeve?” as she fastened the earrings on.
“Ah, I’m getting there!” Maeve’s Northern Irish accent had the slightly harried fake cheer of the serially late.
“Are your clothes actually on you…?”
“Mostly!” came the reply. And then there were rapid footsteps heading toward Maeve’s bedroom.
Zoe couldn’t help laughing. Maeve’s problem was perpetually trying to cram too many things into any given day. To Zoe, a 12:20 taxi had meant a single hour of work after breakfast and then two hours of getting ready. For Maeve it had meant a long coffee date with a friend, followed by a run, and then a frantic twenty minutes of tearing her room apart to find her dress before hurling herself into the shower.
“Do you have tights, Zo?” Maeve shouted after a minute.
“Yes,” she called back. She looked herself over in the vanity mirror for a moment before opening up the top-left drawer in the big oak chest. “What kind?”
“Like…flesh color?” Maeve’s voice grew louder as she came to the bottom of the stairs. “Or maybe black?”
“Going to have to be black,” Zoe told her, deciding that it wasn’t the best time to have a conversation about how useless “flesh-colored” tights were when you were half-Kenyan. She pulled three pairs out of the unit, picked up her shoulder bag, and headed carefully down the stairs. The Christian Louboutin shoes may have been the most beautiful things she’d ever owned, but they sure as hell weren’t easy on stairs. Or uneven ground. Or over long distances. Zoe wasn’t sure she’d manage the whole day without putting on the ballet flats she’d packed in her shoulder bag, but she was determined to try.
Maeve was at least dressed by the time Zoe made it down the stairs. The tight little long-sleeve top and high-waisted, flared skirt made her look like a 1950s belle, though the wet hair dripping onto her shoulders wasn’t a great addition. Neither was a glob of mascara she’d just managed to get on her cheek while leaning into the mirror.
Zoe recognized the jerky, rushed hand movements that were only going to cause more mess. E
ye makeup never, ever went right if you rushed it.
Zoe threw the tights onto the bed. “I can do that,” she said, holding out a hand for the mascara brush. “You can blow-dry your hair while I do. Multitasking.”
“Thank you,” Maeve said with feeling. “I need eyeliner as well.”
Zoe waited while she switched the hair dryer on and fired it up, and then set to work on the smeared mascara with a cotton pad and cleanser. The mascara went on easily enough, despite Maeve blinking whenever the wand approached her eyes.
Zoe glanced at Maeve’s illuminated bedside clock before starting in with the eyeliner. Seven minutes. Time enough for a proper job. Maeve could get her tights on while Zoe went down to the cab.
She spent a moment looking thoughtfully at Maeve’s pale-blue eyes, trying to decide how to shape them to get the most out of them. Not an underline, she thought.
“Will you stop doing that?” Maeve said loudly over the hair dryer. “Makes me feel like you’re about to drop to one knee and ask me to marry you.”
“What if I am?” Zoe asked, grinning. “Right, you need to stay still for this bit.” She worked quickly, and then grabbed a jeweled hairnet to tame Maeve’s still-damp mouse-brown curls.
Maeve looked herself over in the mirror and gave Zoe a small, slightly grudging smile.
“All right. That looks a lot better than the pre-Raphaelite mess I was planning.”
Zoe’s phone buzzed, and she said, “Taxi,” before checking it.
“Fuck, I’ve still got to find my shoes,” Maeve said.
“Does your mammy know you swear?” Zoe asked with a grin.
“She taught me all the words,” Maeve replied, leaning almost entirely into her wardrobe and pulling out a series of odd shoes. “And I’ll be no time at all, seriously. You go ahead.”
Approximately eleven minutes later, Maeve came charging out to the taxi, looking no less gorgeous, Zoe thought, for the flush in her cheeks and the way the belt of her jacket had come loose on one side and was dragging on the path.
