by B P Walter
He ended up wandering away, saying he was going out for some fish and chips for dinner and that he’d get me some. I shouted back my thanks and set about taking my laptop from my bag and plugging in the charger at the wall, then doing the same with my phone lead. I sat down at the same desk where I wrote my school essays twenty years previously and navigated to Instagram on the laptop’s browser. I remembered the account handle with no problem – it was burned into my mind from when I first saw it. I went through, picture by picture, studying each frame, each colourful golden-hued square, every single one primed to show off the perfect life. His perfect life. Their perfect life. After twenty-five minutes, I heard the front door go; Dad was back from his fish-and-chip-shop run.
‘Only me,’ he called up.
Well who else would it be? I thought to myself. Everybody else is dead.
Five minutes later he called up to say the food was ready. I didn’t mind. I’d found out what I needed to know. Everything was there to see.
I had a hurried meal with Dad in the dimly lit lounge. Dark, depressing, it irritated me he never switched the lights on until he really had to. ‘What’s the plan, then?’ he asked, eyeing me as if I were a strange, dangerous animal he’d only ever seen in films but never up close.
‘The plan,’ I said, crunching a bit of the batter from the huge fish he’d served me, ‘is to move to London.’
His jaw literally dropped.
‘London?’
‘Yes,’ I said, grabbing the salt. ‘London. There’s … a photography course I’d like to do there. I was thinking of getting back into it. It’s been over a year since I properly photographed anything.’
He seemed to be mulling this over. ‘I suppose … I suppose there’s more of that sort of thing going on. In London.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, there is.’
‘But … honestly, love, I’ve been and it really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There are these gangs of boys on bikes that stab people with knives. I’ve seen them on the news. And there are terrorist attacks almost every day now.’
‘They’re not every day,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘And we get stabbings here in Bradford.’
‘Not that many, love. Not as much as London.’ He said this whilst wagging a finger to me as if he was the only one who knew how the world works.
‘I’m going, Dad. I’ve got that bit of money from Mum still put away. I’ll use it to rent a flat there.’
He looked distressed at this. ‘You always said you’d use that to start up another gallery of your own. Support local artists.’
I couldn’t bear the thought of having this conversation again. ‘Because that worked out so fucking well last time, didn’t it!’ I put my knife and fork together and stood up.
‘Here, don’t go mouthing off at me. The recession wasn’t my bloody fault.’
‘I know that, Dad. I know. I’m sorry for snapping. I need to go back upstairs. I’m looking for flats and it may take a while. Don’t wait up for me.’
I offered him a small, sad smile, then left him there, in the gloom, on his own.
Once I’d got back upstairs, I woke up my laptop and looked at the Word document I had open next to Instagram on my browser. On it, I’d written down all the key locations from the past few months of photographs that Charlie Allerton-Jones had posted. One thing was immediately clear: aside from a few daytrips and holidays, the family lived and spent the vast majority of their time in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. If they weren’t there, they were either in Belgravia, Pimlico, or other parts of Central London. They seemed almost never to venture to East London or very far south, or at least if they did, they didn’t document their trips there for all the world to see. Charlie had been careful enough not to show their exact address, but a comment under one said, ‘Tough life for the Carlyle Square Crew’ with a wink emoji under a photo of Charlie in a hammock in what was presumably their garden. From the interaction between Charlie and the user, it sounded like they were friends – and this friend had given away an important detail. I googled Carlyle Square, discovering it was indeed in Chelsea, SW3, just off the King’s Road.
I set to work on my research on flat rental sites. The prices were horrendous. I’d known, of course, that London was expensive, but the rates people were expected to pay for a one-bedroom flat with a kitchen and bathroom shocked me. After half an hour, I was close to crying. I couldn’t bear the thought of living in a flat share – the thought of being with a bunch of ‘young professionals’ in their twenties horrified me. They’d all be twenty-five, skipping off to work, full of the optimism of youth and all the things I’d thought I’d have when I opened my gallery and believed I could actually be a photographer and run a business and people would actually care. Maybe it was all a dream.
In the end, I had to stop looking for flats in Chelsea. There were some in the same borough, but I would be literally miles away, on the other side of Hyde Park, and I desperately didn’t want that. In the end, I found a flat in Westminster I could just about afford, so long as I lived like an actual pauper, surviving on discounted ready meals and tins of soup. It was on the Churchill Gardens Estate in Pimlico. It would take me about half an hour to walk from the flat to Carlyle Square. It wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly doable.
Could I really do it? I spent a few minutes debating this issue. Then I phoned up the agency listed on the flat details. After three rings a woman answered in a bored-sounding voice. ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound confident and committed to my decision, ‘My name’s Rachel and I’m interested in renting a flat on Churchill Gardens Road, Pimlico that you have advertised.’
Chapter Four
Charlie
The day of the murder
The police officer who comes to find Titus and me supervises the removal of our clothes, which are then placed in clear plastic bags. We’re handed plastic tops and bottoms which crinkle and feel slightly uncomfortable against the skin. Then we’re taken to Belgravia Police Station. And the questioning begins.
Titus and I are separated, although everyone is very kind and reassuring. I’m told by a kindly woman in uniform that this is all just procedure and how they just need to have a chat about what happened. ‘Titus is only fifteen,’ I tell them. ‘I want to be with him.’ I’m told this should be possible, and I’m shown into a room with sofas, with Titus sitting against the far wall alone. Another police officer follows me in and waits with us. Are they making sure we don’t start getting our story straight? Strategising? Or is all this normal?
I’m on edge, and the true reality of the situation is settling in. I’m furious at myself for not talking to Titus properly before the police arrived, but my chance has now passed and before long a man of average height and build with brown hair and a flushed face comes in. ‘Charles Allerton-Jones?’ he asks, looking at me.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘We need to get a formal statement from you about what’s happened. I understand this must be very difficult and you must be shocked by this ordeal, but rest assured we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of what’s happened. The woman who placed the 999 call is now in custody and has confessed to killing your husband. However, as I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s really important we get your side of the story, and your son’s, as quickly as we can.’
His words hit me like little pins, each one jabbing somewhere sensitive in my brain. Shocked. Confessed. Killing. At last, I look up at him properly and say, ‘I want to stay with Titus.’
DS Stimson looks over at the boy, who has his head down, staring at the floor.
‘We would prefer to speak to you alone, Mr Allerton-Jones. Titus will not be questioned without you being present or at least aware of what’s happening. Is there someone you can call to be with him?’
I nod. ‘My mother … but your colleague took my phone…’
‘You can use a phone out here,’ he says. He shows me out to the corridor. I give Titus what I hope is a co
mforting smile as I leave, but his eyes stay on the carpet.
I phone my mother, then my father, but to my fury neither of them picks up. I phone my mother again and leave a message telling her to come to Belgravia Police Station and that something awful has happened. When I end the voicemail, I feel bad for not clarifying that Titus and I are safe and unharmed, but still, I’m incensed I can’t get through to them straight away.
I’m then led into an interview room. Its aesthetic is drab and grey – more commonplace than the high-tech, space-age-style suites they show in TV dramas. DS Stimson varies his tone between firmly authoritative and compassionately sensitive. ‘Please, just start at the beginning.’
I take a deep breath, then look at him, unwavering, my eyes meeting his, and then lie through my teeth. ‘Rachel killed my husband. She interrupted our dinner, took a kitchen knife from the table, and stabbed him.’
Chapter Five
Rachel
The day of the murder
My interview with the police doesn’t last long. After going through the process of being arrested, cautioned, given clothes, my things being taken from me, and then being shown to a cell, I sit waiting for a few hours. Then Detective Sergeant Darren Stimson begins his grilling. Or tries, anyway.
The interview room is cold, the air conditioning blasting away. It seems those who manage the station haven’t yet twigged that summer has taken a decidedly chilly turn. Even so, DS Stimson seems to be having something of a hot flush, with his jacket over his chair and the occasional loosening of his tie. Perhaps he has high blood pressure, or maybe a thyroid issue.
‘Rachel, it really would help if you could give us a full picture. It may influence the outcome of how this plays out in court. If only we knew why you did what you say you did. Talk me through the evening, step by step.’
He’s said this already. Step by step. I see no point in doing what he asks beyond what I’ve told them already. So I decide it’s my turn to start repeating myself.
‘As I’ve said, I murdered Matthew Allerton-Jones. I stabbed him. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’
That last bit’s true at least. Because I really don’t want to go into it all with them, not now.
‘I think we’ll take a break,’ DS Stimson says, seeming eager to get out of the interview suite. Probably off to splash some cold water on his face.
Before I’m led out of my cell, I ask him when I’m likely to be charged. He gives me an odd look, like he can’t quite work me out. ‘That’s to be decided,’ he says eventually.
I curse myself as I sit down on the padded bench in my cell. Too keen, I think, leaning back against the wall, enjoying the clinking and thumping sounds of the police station around me. I need to be better at this. For this to work, I need to stay quiet and let the police do their jobs and see what they want to see. That’s all I need them to do.
Chapter Six
Rachel
Eleven months to go
Moving into my new rented London flat was an ordeal. I’d resisted buying any new suitcases or travel bags – I didn’t have that much stuff, and would need all the money I could save. I regretted this decision when the zip on my old suitcase split open at the seams while I was lugging it into the lift to go up to the third floor. My clothes went everywhere, mixing with the dirty footprints and discarded junk mail.
‘Oh, bad luck, dear. Here, I’ve got a few bags-for-life you can use.’ The voice came from an older woman who was smiling down at me. I was so grateful, I could barely whisper my thanks as I threw jumpers and socks into the large Tesco bags she’d handed me.
‘Are you moving in?’ she said, looking at the other two rucksacks I’d dropped in my efforts to get the main suitcase into the lift.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m trying to get to Number 32. I think it’s on the third floor.’
She beamed a wide red-lipped smile. ‘It is. That’s right next to us.’ She said ‘us’ as if there were someone else with her, so I presumed she must have a family or partner at least. I tried to guess her age, although it was hard underneath the make-up. There was something a little too strong in the colour of her red-brown hair, suggesting it was dyed, and looking closer I could see some substantial wrinkles around her eyes. She was probably well past fifty, maybe even in her sixties. ‘I’m Amanda,’ she said, warmly. I thought I detected a slight northern accent in her words, and I was tempted to ask where she was from, but worried it might sound rude. ‘Come on,’ she nodded at the lift, ‘let’s get your things upstairs.’
She helped me with my stuff all the way to the flat, and seemed happy to lug two of the bags inside once I’d unlocked the door. ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she said as we walked in.
She was lying to be kind. It wasn’t lovely. It was gloomy and small, with a scuffed carpet and a narrow corridor. At least the air smelled clean. I led the way down the corridor to the kitchen.
‘Is this like your place next door?’ I asked as I set the broken suitcase down on the countertop with a thud.
‘Yes, well, ours is slightly bigger, I think, but generally the same. I live with my husband, Neil. We’ve been wondering who would take up the rent on this one. We’ve had…’ she lowered her voice a little, ‘we had a bit of a problem before. With the other tenant, I mean. He would play this terrible music at an astonishing volume. I don’t know what it was; it sounded like a mix of bins being kicked over and livestock being slaughtered. We think he had a drug habit as well, but I don’t think that’s as unusual as we’d like to think it is.’ She shook her head.
I nodded, not sure how I should respond to this, but Amanda seemed quite content to carry on without encouragement. ‘And before him we had a young woman named Carly who,’ her voice now dropped to barely a whisper, ‘killed herself.’ She shuddered a little, as if the memory still bothered her. ‘Poor young girl. She had deep, desperate problems, I think. Drugs too, probably. Never had much to do with her, though heard she’d come over from Clapham. We had a suspicion she may have worked as a … well, you know, a … lady of the night. A lot of gentlemen callers.’
Again, I had nothing to add to this, although it made me worry even more about what my neighbours might be like on the other side. Though this Amanda woman was gossipy and a bit full-on, at least she seemed relatively safe and normal. As if she could read my mind, she suddenly said, ‘Oh, but I don’t want to put you off, love. Pimlico’s a lovely area, really. I know we’re not exactly in the local beauty spot on the estate here, but there’s so much history around these streets. All sorts of interesting people.’ She gave me a big red-lipsticked smile. ‘Well, I’d better leave you to get unpacked. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’
I spent the rest of the day unpacking. It shouldn’t have taken long, but I was starting to get a familiar anxious feeling – of being out of my natural habitat and surrounded by strangeness and uncertainty. Folding my clothes carefully and putting them in the white IKEA drawers provided in the pre-furnished flat helped calm me a little. After that, I needed to think about food. I was pleased to find the fridge nice and clean – it looked brand new – and there was a surprising amount of cupboard space for such a small kitchen. I put the keys in my pocket, put on my coat, and set off back down the stairs and out of the building.
My block was in the centre of the estate, and it was a bit of a maze to find my way out onto a main bit of road. I walked for a bit until I got to a street named Glasgow Terrace. I was about to get my phone out to access Google Maps, but a group of boys with their hoods up started coming towards me and I thought it best not to put temptation in their way. They passed me without comment, and I carried on walking purposefully in the opposite direction. I waited until I was alone again, then did a quick Web search of supermarkets near me. There were two Sainsbury’s stores not far away, along with a massive superstore across the river in Nine Elms. It was a bit of a walk, but the sun had come out and although there was a slight chill of autumn in the breeze, it was still
a nice enough evening. I decided a stroll in the fresh air was exactly what I needed. I zipped my hoody up to my chin and set off down the street, following the course set out by the Maps app until it opened out onto a large, busy road.
The rush of traffic – all beeping horns and growling engines – was a change from the relative quietness of inner Pimlico. I walked along the road towards the bridge and carried on until I was halfway across it. That’s when I stopped and stared. Just stared. The sweeping surface of the Thames. The towering futuristic-looking apartment blocks of Vauxhall. The impressive sight of Battersea Power Station, surrounded by cranes. And, to the other side, a bit further down the river, the unmistakable shape of the London Eye.
I was here. In London. A place I had only visited twice previously in my thirty-two years. For a few minutes, I was entirely present in the moment, filled with optimism and hope and the thrill of the impressive change of scene I had brought upon myself. And then, as if a switch had been flicked, I remembered why I had done it. The purpose of the whole thing. You’re not here to have fun, I told myself. I took a deep breath of the cool late-afternoon air, and carried on walking across the bridge into Vauxhall to get my shopping.
Chapter Seven
Charlie
Eleven months to go
Matthew had been asking me to be a member of his book club for years. It was practically the first thing he asked me when we went on our first official date.
We’d gone for dinner at the Mango Tree as it was relatively close to the flat I was living in at that point in Eccleston Square. It was a dull little place, and my parents had been going on at me to buy something better, but a little place suited me just fine while my career in marketing started to take off. I’d arrived late (couldn’t find my shoes) and Matthew had been sitting there at the table, reading a book. That in itself was a major red flag for me. Who brings a book to a restaurant? On a date? I knew Matthew was quite quiet and bookish when we’d been at school together, but this was at a level I hadn’t prepared for. When I’d sat down opposite him, he did at least have the grace to appear a little sheepish, setting the book to the side before greeting me with his lovely, warm smile. I’d known then and there that we were on to something special. I knew I’d been right to take our mutual friend Archie’s advice and meet up with Matthew after all this time. This wasn’t going to be just some casual one-night stand with a vague past acquaintance. This was something more concrete. More real. When we’d started talking about books, Matthew had said, ‘You should come to my book club. There’s a bit of an odd group of us. But your godmother, Meryl, is always there, so you’d know her.’
