by T. M. Logan
‘Absolutely not,’ she says. ‘You’re coming to stay with us.’
‘That’s really kind of you, Tara, but I know you’ve got your hands full with the boys and I don’t want to put you in danger from—’
‘No excuses, the spare bed’s already made up and I’m opening the wine now. I’m not taking no for an answer, so you might as well get yourself over here.’
My heart swells at the compassion in her voice. ‘Thanks, T.’
*
She greets me on the doorstep with a deep, enveloping hug, her smile turning to shocked concern when she sees the dressing on my neck and the fading bruise over my eye.
And so I find myself in my best friend’s spare bedroom with nothing but an overnight bag, a cat carrier and the clothes I’m standing up in. This is it: the sum total of what my life amounts to now.
I put my stuff on the bed and open the cat box to coax Dizzy out. He steps out slowly, cautiously, sniffing the unfamiliar air and rubbing his furry face against my knuckles.
‘Just for a few days,’ I say to him. ‘Then we’ll be back home.’
I turn and find we’re being scrutinised from the doorway. Three boys arranged in height order, tallest to shortest. Tara’s sons are used to seeing me on a regular basis – I’m godmother to all three – but the sight of Dizzy is a rare novelty for them. My cat positions himself at the end of the spare bed like a grumpy sphinx, eyeing the three boys with suspicion.
Noah, Tara’s oldest, is a serious six-year-old who likes Bake Off and memorising flags of the world and has always seemed older than his years. He takes a few tentative steps into the room and looks at up me, big chocolate-brown eyes behind his Spiderman glasses.
‘Can I stroke her?’
‘Sure.’
He considers my answer for a moment, his face solemn, still standing at arms-length from the cat. I rarely have the boys over to my little house – it’s always easier to babysit at Tara’s, where all the boys’ stuff is – and he’s only seen my cat once before.
‘What’s her name?’ Noah says.
‘Dizzy.’ Originally called Daisy, I explain in a roundabout way, until a first visit to the vet had revealed certain undeniable male characteristics.
‘Will he bite or scratch me?’ Noah asks.
‘No,’ I say with a smile. ‘He’s just a bit nervous around small people, but if you’re gentle, he’ll be fine.’
Noah turns to his brothers, hands up like a teacher getting the attention of his class.
‘You have to be nice to him,’ he instructs the younger boys as they crowd around to stroke the cat. ‘Because he’s sad about not being at his own house.’
They each take turns stroking Dizzy carefully, even the smallest of the three siblings, Charlie, who’s a bit of a loose cannon at the best of times. Dizzy sits and takes it all with the patience of a saint, eyes front, ears up, big paws tucked beneath his chest. Not purring, but not growling either.
Lucas, the middle son, stares up at me after he’s taken his turn.
‘We’re not allowed pets,’ he says.
‘We are,’ Noah corrects him. ‘We’ve got Baby Shark.’
‘Fish don’t count.’
‘Do.’
‘Don’t,’ Lucas says, as if he’s ready to fight his corner on this important point of principle. ‘Because you can’t stroke them.’
Noah gives Dizzy a final little stroke.
‘Are you going to live with us now?’ he says. ‘And your cat?’
‘Just for a little while,’ I say. ‘Maybe a day or two.’
Tara calls up the stairs to summon the boys for their tea and I’m reminded as they stampede out – just like I am every time I visit – how far our paths have diverged over the last decade. Tara and I met in the navy, in the first week of training at the Royal Naval College in Dartmouth, homesick and disorientated by the sudden segue from student life into a military environment. Both graduates whose dads had been in the service, both competitive and sporty. She had done eight years and I had done twelve, but after she left the navy for a career in journalism we had stayed in touch. Then, once I rejoined civilian life, we ended up living close enough for Friday drinks, meals out, cinema trips. We were chief bridesmaid at each other’s weddings, thoughts turning to families of our own in our early thirties. She got pregnant within months of coming off the pill and our lives started to diverge more quickly, like railway lines splitting at a set of points. One son became two, then three, Tara’s life shifting to accommodate the continuous demands of night-feeds and nurseries, of maternity leave, weaning, potty training and school runs. We’ve worked hard to keep in touch, to remember why we first became friends, but it isn’t always easy. Since Richard left, she’s been the one I’ve confided in more than anyone else.
With the boys’ tea finished and Tara’s husband, Dave, watching In the Night Garden with them in the playroom, Tara opens a bottle of Pinot Grigio and pours two sizeable glasses. She sits me down in the lounge and I tell her about the last three days, starting with my appointment with the fertility specialist and going through everything that has happened since. Tara nods, eyebrows raised as I talk, and refills both our glasses when they get low.
I’ve almost finished the story when my phone rings. I answer, expecting someone from the burglary squad.
‘I just got your message,’ Gilbourne says, sounding breathless. ‘Where are you? Are you safe?’
‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘Just a bit shaken up.’
‘Listen, I’ve managed to get you a place in secure accommodation. It’s mostly used as a halfway house for victims of domestic violence, but it’s tucked out of the way and you’ll be safe there. I’ve talked to the manager personally and there’s a room for you tonight. Can I give you the address?’
‘That’s kind of you, Inspector, but I think I’m OK.’
His voice takes on a firmer tone. ‘This is not negotiable, Ellen. You could have been seriously injured or worse. You need alternative accommodation until we catch the guy who did this.’
‘I’m not at home.’
‘Right, well that’s good,’ he says. ‘You’re sure I can’t persuade you though?’
I wonder again if I’m putting Tara in danger just by being here. Maybe it would be better for her if I was somewhere else, away from her boys.
‘Where is it, this halfway house?’
‘Burnt Oak. Not too far from you.’
‘And they have a bed spare?’
‘I can call them back right now to secure it for tonight.’
Tara catches my eye and very firmly shakes her head. She puts one hand over mine, pointing at me with the other.
You’re staying right here, she mouths silently. With us.
She squeezes my hand gently and I feel a lump come to my throat.
‘Ellen,’ Gilbourne says. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘It’s very kind of you, but it won’t be necessary.’ His concern gives me a little glimmer of warmth. It seems he’s going above and beyond the call of duty. ‘I appreciate you taking the trouble though.’
‘As long as you’re sure,’ he says with a sigh. ‘You can call me Stuart, by the way. So I’ve had a chat with the two officers who came to your house this afternoon. You said you weren’t able to describe or identify the burglar. Is that correct?’
‘No, I said he had a balaclava on.’
‘His face was covered the whole time?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But I know who it was.’
‘What? How?’
‘It was the guy from the train on Tuesday.’
‘Christ, Ellen.’ The firm tone is back. ‘Why didn’t you tell them that?’
‘I tried,’ I say. ‘He was looking for Mia. He was looking for her on the train that day, that’s why he followed me. He was in my house on Wednesday night and he came back today. He’s still after her. He claimed that he wasn’t the one who ransacked my house, that it was someone else and that the
y were looking for something in particular.’
There is a moment of silence at the other end of the line.
‘He said that?’ Gilbourne says slowly. ‘He said he was looking for her?’
‘He said I shouldn’t have handed Mia over to the police,’ I summon his words from memory again. ‘Because it was going to make her easier to find.’
‘I see.’
‘What does that mean, Stuart? Why would he want to find her? What’s going on here?’
He hesitates again, and I can hear the sound of a lighter sparking at the other end of the line.
‘It’s not a good idea for you to get involved in this, Ellen.’
‘I’m already involved, whether I want to be or not.’
‘You’ve seen the danger, what might happen,’ he says quietly. ‘You could have been killed today. You need to take a step back, let us do our jobs.’
‘In the last three days I’ve been followed, abducted, burgled and attacked in my own home. I don’t think taking a step back is up to me anymore. And I can’t protect myself unless I know what’s going on. So are you going to tell me, or do I have to figure it out for myself?’
I hear a deep exhalation of breath at the other end of the line as he blows smoke from his cigarette.
‘Listen,’ he says finally. ‘Can you come in? We should talk face to face.’
‘I left the car at my house, I didn’t trust myself to drive. The paramedic told me to rest.’
‘OK, all right.’ His voice goes quieter as if he’s got a hand cupped around the mobile. ‘How about I come to you?’
I give him Tara’s address in Harrow.
‘I’m on my way over,’ he says, and hangs up.
32
I go upstairs to unpack and check on Dizzy. By the time I get back downstairs, Tara has already let Gilbourne in and the detective is standing in the big parquet-floored hallway. Charlie, the youngest son, is keeping his distance, peering out at the stranger from behind Tara’s leg, but Noah and Lucas are sizing him up, staring at him with unalloyed admiration. I can see in Noah’s eyes that this is pretty much the most exciting thing ever: a cat and a real-life policeman in his house on the same day.
‘Where’s your gun?’ Noah says.
Gilbourne smiles down at him. ‘I don’t have a gun, but I do have this.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a black leather wallet, flips it open to reveal his Met Police ID. He hands it to the boy. ‘Warrant card. Much better than a gun.’
Noah stares wide-eyed at the ID, then back up at Gilbourne.
‘I’m going to be a policeman,’ he announces seriously, ‘when I’m big.’
Gilbourne ruffles the boy’s brown hair gently. ‘Good for you, son. What’s your name?’
‘Noah,’ he says. ‘I’m going to catch the bad men.’
‘Well, Noah, I think you’ll make an excellent policeman.’ He gives the boy a wink. ‘In fact, I’ll put in a word for you with the chief constable.’
Gilbourne looks a little fresher, his eyes brighter than the last time I saw him. Maybe it’s just because it’s not the middle of the night, under the anaemic fluorescent light of the police interview room, but he seems younger somehow. He’s had a shave, his dark hair is brushed back, and although the top button of his shirt is undone, the knot of his tie is only slightly below it. Maybe not a rumpled Willem Dafoe. Maybe more like a well-travelled James Franco with a few more miles on the clock.
I look past him, to his car parked at the kerb. ‘You on your own today?’
‘DS Holt is looking into a couple of other leads.’
Tara shows us through into the dining room, a pine table set with six high-backed chairs. It’s the one room that she likes to keep clear of the boys’ stuff, banishing toy cars and games, action figures and scooters.
‘Can I get some drinks?’ she says. ‘Tea, coffee? Something stronger?’
We both decline.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
I shut the door behind her and sit down opposite Gilbourne at the dining room table.
‘You’re a big hit with Tara’s boys.’
‘They’re nice lads.’
Somehow it’s on the tip of my tongue, the question people have asked me for years, a casual inquiry with the potential to slice through scar tissue and re-open old wounds. ‘Do you have children of your own?’
‘Four girls,’ he says. ‘Twelve, fifteen, eighteen and nineteen.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That must be—’
‘How are you really, Ellen? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?’
‘I’ve been better,’ I say. ‘But it’s all superficial. Nothing they’d do at the hospital that I can’t do for myself.’
He gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘You’ve had a rough week.’
‘What’s going on, Stuart?’
‘I thought you were owed an apology. For us giving you such a hard time in the interview the other day. And for the way DS Holt behaved with you.’
‘I thought giving people a hard time was what you did every day of the week?’
He shakes his head and places both hands palm-down on top of a black leather folder. His hands look strong, broad and tanned.
‘And I just wanted to see how you were doing.’ He looks suddenly reticent, as if he might be having second thoughts about coming here. ‘And to reassure you that we will do everything we can to catch the person who did this to you.’
Being here with him feels a million miles away from the airless grey room at the police station. That little interview room – much the same as a wood-panelled courtroom or a high-vaulted cathedral – felt like it was designed to make you feel small, insignificant, to intimidate you into honesty. But Tara’s dining room is neutral ground and it’s almost as if Gilbourne’s just a regular guy, someone’s husband, a friend, a colleague, and we’re simply having a chat.
‘I appreciate your concern,’ I say, grateful that he’s changed his tune since Tuesday night. ‘But you didn’t come here just to tell me that, did you?’
Gilbourne leans closer, elbows on the pine tabletop. He smells of chewing gum, minty, the cigarette smoke a musky undertone, not unpleasant. He unzips the black leather folder on three sides and opens it out on the table.
‘We’ve got hold of CCTV images which corroborate certain elements of your story.’ He pulls a sheet of paper from the folder and slides it across the table to me. A colour image of a man, dark jacket and jeans on a train station concourse. ‘Do you recognise this individual?’
I study the image. The quality’s not great but it’s clear that he’s thin, wearing a black jacket, black beanie hat, rucksack, para boots. A flash of memory from this afternoon, his hand coming up to my neck, agonizing pain lighting up every muscle in my body. I suppress a shiver.
‘That’s him.’ I push the paper away. ‘He was on the train on Tuesday and he attacked me at my house today.’
‘You’re one hundred per cent sure it was the same man at your house?’
‘Ninety-nine per cent.’ I swallow hard on a dry throat. ‘How did he find me?’
‘We’re looking into that, but let’s just say he’s got form for it.’
‘So you know who he is?’ I feel a glimmer of relief that finally, finally, he believes me. ‘What’s he got to do with Mia?’
He stands up, goes to the dining room door and opens it a crack. Looks out into the hallway and closes the door again before coming to sit back down at the table.
He holds out a hand. ‘Can I have your mobile?’
‘Why?’
‘Please?’
‘I’m not recording this conversation, if that’s what you think.’
‘Just indulge me,’ he says with a shrug. ‘For two minutes. I’m getting paranoid in my old age.’
I take my phone from the pocket of my jeans and hand it over to him. He studies it for a second and finds the power button, switches it off. Lays it face down on the table between us.
‘What
I’m about to tell you is strictly off the record, OK?’
33
Gilbourne rubs his face with both hands, looking suddenly older in the soft light of the dining room.
‘I’m not exactly flavour of the month with my boss at the moment and I shouldn’t really share anything else with you,’ he says. ‘But I’m going to anyway, because a) my boss is an idiot and b) I want to keep you safe, and frankly I’m worried that you’re going to put yourself in more danger if I don’t give you a little bit of background.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘And it’s appreciated.’
‘This is a live investigation, so I need your word that this won’t go any further. Not to your friend.’ He gestures with a thumb towards the closed door. ‘Not to anyone.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it.’
He considers me for a moment, taps the printout with his index finger. ‘This individual’s name is Leon Markovitz. Thirty-six years old. Last known address in Camden. Former tabloid journalist convicted in 2013 on various charges relating to phone hacking, burglary, breaches of privacy and bribing of public officials. Served three years in jail and then spent some time in a secure psychiatric unit after his release. No newspaper would touch him with a bargepole when he came out so he re-created himself as one of those true-crime fanatics, podcasts and what have you. He was one of our prime suspects in a serious criminal investigation last year, one of my cases. Arrested and questioned on two separate occasions.’
‘Questioned about what?’
‘A series of extremely violent offences – he had certain information about the victims and about the circumstances of those crimes. Information that was deliberately not put into the public domain, to separate the responsible party from the various internet nutters who ring in wanting to give a full confession. Facts that only the perpetrator would have known. Unfortunately the investigation ended up . . . falling short in other areas. In the end we didn’t have enough to charge Markovitz.’
