I See You (8 page)

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.’

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.

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.

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.

Cannon Street Tube station is full of suits. I weave through the crowded platform until I’m nearly at the tunnel; the first carriage always has fewer people than any other, and when we reach Whitechapel the doors will open directly in front of the exit.

On the train I pick up today’s
Gazette
, abandoned on the grimy ledge behind my seat. I flick straight to the back pages, where the classifieds are, and find the advert with its invalid phone number:
0809 4 733 968.
Today’s woman is dark-haired, the hint of a full bust visible at the bottom of the picture, and a broad smile showing even white teeth. Around her neck is a delicate chain with a small silver cross.

Does she know her photograph is in the classifieds?

I haven’t heard from PC Swift, and I tell myself her silence is reassuring, rather than unnerving. She would have called straight away if there was something to worry about. Like a
doctor, ringing with worrying test results. No news is good news, isn’t that what they say? Simon was right; it wasn’t my photo in the newspaper.

I change at Whitechapel, to take the Overground to Crystal Palace. As I walk I hear footsteps behind me. Nothing unusual in that; there are footsteps everywhere on the Tube, the sound bouncing off the walls, amplifying and stretching until it sounds as though dozens of people are walking, running, stamping their feet.

But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something different about these footsteps.

That they’re coming after me.

When I was eighteen I was followed on my way home from the shops, not long after I fell pregnant with Justin. Impending motherhood had made me hyper-aware, and I saw danger at every corner. The cracked pavement that could trip me up; the cyclist that would surely knock me over. I felt so responsible for the life inside me that it seemed impossible I could even cross the road without putting him in danger.

I had gone out for milk, insisting to Matt’s mum that I needed the exercise; wanting to do my small bit to thank her for taking me in. It was dark, and as I walked home again I became aware I was being followed. There was no sound, no sensation; just a certainty that someone was behind me, and worse, that they were trying not to be heard.

I feel the same certainty now.

Back then I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. I crossed the road: the person following crossed too. I could hear their footsteps, then; gaining on me, no longer caring about being heard. I turned and saw a man – a boy – not much older than Matt. A hooded top; hands thrust deep into the front pocket. A scarf covering the bottom half of his face.

There was a shortcut to Matt’s house; a narrow street that ran behind a row of houses. Little more than an alleyway.
It’ll
be quicker
, I decided, not thinking clearly; just wanting to be safely home.

As I turned the corner I broke into a run, and the boy behind me ran too. I dropped my shopping bag, the plastic top bursting off the milk container, sending a giant white spray across the cobbles. Seconds later, I fell too, stumbling to my knees and immediately putting a protective arm across my stomach.

It was over in a moment. He leaned over me, only his eyes exposed, and reached a hand out, searching roughly through my pockets. He pulled out my purse and ran off, leaving me sitting on the floor.

The footsteps grow closer.

I pick up my pace. Stop myself from running, but walk as fast as I can manage, the unnatural gait throwing me off balance and making my bag swing from side to side.

There’s a group of girls some distance in front of me and I try to catch up with them. Safety in numbers, I think. They’re messing around; running, jumping, laughing, but they’re not threatening. Not like the footsteps behind me, which are loud and heavy and coming closer.

‘Hey!’ I hear.

A male voice. Rough and harsh. I pull my bag in front of me, keep my arm over it so it can’t be opened, then panic that if someone snatches it they’ll drag me with it. I think of the advice I always give the kids; that it’s better to be mugged than injured.
Give it up without a fight
, I always tell them.
Nothing’s worth getting hurt over.