I See You (31 page)

‘I didn’t follow her! I’m not a stalker. I just engineered it so I’d bump into her, nothing else. Look, all this’ – he waved an arm around, encompassing the penthouse – ‘is great, but I work
bloody hard for it. I’m in the office seven days a week, on conference calls to the States every night … it doesn’t leave much time to meet women. The website gives me a leg-up, that’s all.’

A leg-over, Kelly thought, catching Nick’s eye. ‘Tell me what happened on the platform at Whitechapel, the first time you spoke to Zoe Walker.’

That shifty look again from Harris; his eyes flicking up to the left.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve got a statement from Zoe,’ Kelly said, chancing her arm. ‘She’s told us everything.’

Harris closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he avoided eye contact, staring instead at an illustrated guide to Italy in front of him on the coffee table. ‘I’d tried to get chatting to her that morning. I found her on the Overground, right where her profile said she’d be. I tried to speak to her, but she ignored me. I decided if I helped her with something it would break the ice: I thought I could give up my seat for her, or carry her shopping or something. But nothing like that came up. Then I was behind her at Whitechapel, and she was standing really close to the edge of the platform, and …’ He stopped talking, his eyes still fixed on the book in front of him.

‘Go on.’

‘I pushed her.’

Kelly took an involuntary breath. Next to her she felt Nick sit up. So much for the softly, softly approach.

‘I pulled her to safety instantly. She was never in any danger. Women like being rescued, don’t they?’

Kelly bit back her instinctive response. She glanced at Nick, who nodded. Kelly stood up. ‘Luke Harris, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Zoe Walker. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court.’

PC
Swift rings me on Monday evening.

‘We’ve arrested the man you spoke to at Whitechapel.’

‘Luke Friedland?’

‘His real name’s Luke Harris.’ She pauses just long enough for me to wonder why he lied to me. The answer comes in the next breath. ‘He’s admitted to pushing you; we’ve arrested him for attempted murder.’

I’m glad I’m already sitting down, because the blood rushes from my head. I reach for the remote and mute the television. Justin turns to look at me, the half-formed reproach on his lips freezing when he sees my face. He looks at Simon and nods towards me.

‘Attempted murder?’ I manage. Justin’s eyes widen. Simon reaches out a hand and touches the only part of me he can reach; my feet, curled up between us on the sofa. On the telly, a nine-year-old boy with a fractured femur is rushed down a corridor on
24 Hours in A&E.

‘I don’t think it will stick,’ PC Swift says. ‘To charge him we’d need to prove an intent to kill’ – my breath catches in my throat and she rushes to finish – ‘and he claims that wasn’t why he did it.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Attempted murder.
Attempted murder.
The term rattles around my head. If I’d said yes to a drink, would he have killed me?

‘I do, Zoe. It isn’t the first time he’s used this technique to approach a woman. He … er … he thought you’d be more
receptive to being asked out, if you believed he’d saved your life.’

I can’t find the words to express how revolted I am that someone would think that way. I pull my feet under myself, sliding Simon’s hand off my ankle. I don’t want to be touched right now. Not by anyone. ‘What will happen to him?’

PC Swift sighed. ‘I hate to say it, but possibly nothing. We’ll pass the file to the CPS to look at, and he’ll be released on police bail with conditions not to make contact with you, but my guess is, he’ll be refused charge.’ She pauses. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we brought him in to shake him up a bit. To see if we could get any information out of him that would help us identify the ringleader.’

‘And did you?’

I know the answer before it comes.

‘No. I’m sorry.’

After she ends the call I keep the phone pressed to my ear, wanting to delay the point at which I explain to my partner and son that there is a man in custody in North London under arrest for pushing me in front of a train.

When I do, it’s Justin who reacts instantly, while Simon seems stupefied, unable to process what I’m telling him.

‘He thought you’d go out with him if he pushed you?’

‘White Knight Syndrome, PC Swift called it,’ I mumble. I feel numb, as though it’s happening to someone else.

‘They’ll harass kids on the street for hanging out, but they won’t charge someone who’s actually admitted to trying to kill someone? Pigs.’

‘Justin, please. Their hands are tied.’

‘They fucking should be. To a pipe at the bottom of the Thames.’

He leaves the room and I hear his heavy tread on the stairs. Simon is still looking lost.

‘But you didn’t go out with him. Did you?’

‘No!’
I take his hand. ‘He’s obviously nuts.’

‘What if he tries to do it again?’

‘He won’t. The police won’t let him.’ I say it more firmly than I believe. Because how can they stop him? And even if they stop Luke Friedland –
Harris
, I remind myself – how many other men have downloaded my commute? How many other men might be waiting for me on an Underground platform?

‘I’ll come to work with you tomorrow.’

‘You’ve got to be in Olympia at half nine.’ Simon has an interview with a trade magazine. He’s absurdly over-qualified for what even I can see is an entry-level journalism job, but it’s a job, nevertheless.

‘I’ll cancel.’

‘You can’t cancel! I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you at Whitechapel before I take the Underground, and again as soon as I’m out. Please, don’t cancel.’

He doesn’t look convinced, and although I hate myself for doing it, I twist the knife a little. ‘You need this job. We need the money.’

The following morning we walk to the station together. I throw a coin in Megan’s guitar case then slip my hand into Simon’s. He insists on putting me on the Overground before taking his train to Clapham, and I watch him looking around us on the platform.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Them,’ he says grimly. ‘Men.’ There are men in dark suits all around us, like badly lined-up dominoes. None of them are looking at me, and I wonder if it’s because Simon’s here. Sure enough, once Simon has left me and I’m sitting on the Tube alone, I notice one of the suits sitting opposite me. He’s watching me. I catch his eye and he looks away, but seconds later he’s looking at me again.

‘Can I help you?’ I say loudly. The woman next to me shifts
in her seat, gathering her skirt so it isn’t touching me any more. The man flushes red and looks down at his feet. Two girls at the end of the carriage giggle to each other. I’ve become one of those mad women on the Tube; the sort you go out of your way to avoid. The man gets off at the next stop and doesn’t look at me again.

At work it’s increasingly hard to concentrate. I start updating the Hallow & Reed website, but find myself listing the same property three times. At five Graham comes out of his office. He sits in the chair on the opposite side of my desk, where clients sit if they’re waiting for property details. Silently he hands me a printout of some particulars I typed out this morning.

I stare at it, but don’t see the problem.

‘At £900 per calendar month?’

‘Bugger, I missed off a zero. Sorry.’ I start to log on, to correct my mistake, but Graham stops me.

‘It’s not the only mistake you’ve made today, Zoe. And yesterday was just as bad.’

‘It’s been a difficult month, I—’

‘As for the other evening, in the car – I’m sure I don’t have to tell that I found your reaction extremely irrational, not to mention insulting.’

I blush. ‘I misunderstood, that’s all. I woke up and it was dark and—’

‘Let’s not go there again.’ Graham looks almost as embarrassed as I feel. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t have you here when your mind’s not on the job.’

I look at him in dismay. He can’t fire me. Not now. Not with Simon out of work.

Graham
doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘I think you should take some time off.’

‘I’m fine, honestly, I just—’

‘I’ll put it down as stress,’ he says. I wonder if I’ve misheard.

‘You’re not firing me?’

Graham stands up. ‘Should I?’

‘No, it’s just – thank you. I really appreciate it.’ He colours slightly but gives no other acknowledgement of my gratitude. It’s a side of Graham Hallow I’ve never seen before, and I suspect it’s as strange for him as it is for me. Sure enough, moments later business trumps sympathy and he retrieves a pile of receipts and invoices from his office, stuffing them into a carrier bag.

‘You can do this from home. The VAT needs listing separately; give me a call if it doesn’t make sense.’

I thank him again and get my things, putting on my coat and slinging my handbag over my chest before walking to the station. I feel lighter, knowing I have one thing, at least, less to worry about.

I’m turning left from Walbrook Street on to Cannon Street when I get the feeling.

A tingle down my spine; the feeling of being watched.

I turn around but the pavement is busy; there are people all around me. No one stands out. I wait at the crossing and resist the temptation to look behind me, even though the back of my neck burns under the gaze of imaginary eyes. We cross the road like sheep, tightly packed together, and as we reach the other side I can’t help but scan the group for a wolf.

No one is paying me any attention.

I’m imagining the feeling, just like this morning, with the man on the Overground. Just like I assumed the boy in the trainers was running after me, when the truth was, he probably didn’t even notice me. The website is pushing me over the edge.

I
need to get a grip.

I walk briskly up the first flight of steps, my hand touching lightly on the metal handrail, keeping pace with the suits. Around me, people are finishing calls.

I’m just going into the station.

I might lose you in a minute.

I’ll call you when I’m ten minutes away.

I take out my mobile and text Simon.
I’m on my way home. I’m fine.
Up the second flight of steps and into the bowels of the station. Here, the sound of feet changes, bouncing between concrete surfaces. My senses feel acutely tuned; I can hear individual shoes as they walk behind me. A pair of heels, clicking ever louder as they overtake me. The soft pad of ballet pumps. The old-fashioned ring of steel on concrete; a set of Blakey’s segs fitted to a man’s shoes. He’ll be older than me, I think, distracting myself by imagining what he looks like. A hand-tailored suit; shoes made from a bespoke last. Grey hair. Expensive cufflinks. Not following me, just heading home, to his wife and their dog and their Cotswolds cottage.

The prickle on my neck is insistent. I take out my Oyster, but at the barriers I step to one side, standing against the wall by the Underground map. The barriers funnel the crowds of commuters to a walk, their feet marching virtually on the spot, as if they can’t bear to be standing still. Every now and then the flow is broken by someone who doesn’t know the rules; who doesn’t have their ticket in hand, and is rifling through their pockets or fishing in a bag. There are audible tuts from the waiting commuters, until the ticket is produced and the line can continue moving. No one pays me any attention.
It’s in your head
, I tell myself, repeating it in the hope that my body will believe what my head is telling it.

‘Sorry, could I just …?’

I move to let a woman with a small child look at the Underground map behind me. I have to get home. I tap my Oyster and push
through the barrier, walking on autopilot towards the District line platform. I start walking towards the end of the platform, to where the doors to carriage one will open, then I think of PC Swift’s advice:
Change where you sit. Don’t do what you always do.
I turn sharply on my heels and walk back the way I came. As I do so, something moves rapidly on the edges of my vision. Not something: someone. Someone hiding? Someone who doesn’t want to be seen? I scour the faces of the people around me. I don’t recognise anyone, but something I’ve seen feels familiar. Could it be Luke Friedland?
Luke Harris
, I remember. Let out on bail but ignoring the order to stay away from me.

My breath is quickening and I exhale through rounded lips to slow it down. Even if it is Luke Harris, what can he do on a crowded platform? But nevertheless I take a step away from the edge of the platform as the train approaches.

There’s a free seat on carriage five but I decline an invitation to take it. I manoeuvre myself to the rear, where I can see down the full length of the carriage. There are several seats dotted about, but a dozen or so people standing, like me. There’s a man facing the opposite way. He’s wearing an overcoat and a hat, but my view is blocked and I can’t see him properly. The same sensation creeps over me; a sense of the familiar, yet with a prickle of unease. I take my house keys out of my bag. The fob is a wooden ‘Z’ that Justin made at school. I grasp it firmly in my fist and work the Yale key until it pokes between my fingers, before putting my hand – with its makeshift knuckle-duster – in my pocket.

At Whitechapel I don’t hang around. I wait by the door as the train slows to a halt, impatiently jabbing the release button long before it has lit up. I run as though I might miss my connection, weaving between people who couldn’t care less as long as I don’t make them late too. I listen for the sound of running feet, but there are only mine, hitting the ground in time with each jagged breath.

I
make the platform just as my Overground train pulls in, and I jump on with seconds to spare. My breathing slows. Only a handful of people are on this carriage, and nothing about them makes me feel uncomfortable. Two girls with armfuls of shopping; a man lugging a television in an old Ikea bag; a woman in her twenties, plugged in to her iPhone. By the time we reach Crystal Palace I release my grip on the key in my pocket, and the tense feeling in my chest begins to dissipate.