Rebound (20 page)

Calling my car insurance is a start. I have a long discussion with ‘John’ from the insurance company about their definition of vandalism and what I need to do to arrange for the
repair. ‘John’ assures me their damage assessor will come this afternoon and the car will be fixed by the end of today. I check my work emails, but there isn’t much that needs
immediate attention. It almost looks as if they’ve rerouted all the important emails for someone else to deal with. I feel a tiny sting of paranoia, briefly consider whether I’m on my
way out, then decide I have more important things to worry about than losing my job.

My heart skips a beat when I hear someone at the front door. Wispa dashes to the door, wagging her tail. It’s Chiara, unable to get in because of the key in the mortice lock. I open the
door and an overjoyed Wispa greets her with so much enthusiasm I almost feel jealous. I tell her I’m working from home and I’ll take Wispa for her daily walk. As I close the door behind
Chiara a sudden thought hits me. Bell had a set of my front-door keys. They weren’t in the pile of her possessions the police have shown me. Where are they? I pick up my phone to call DCI
Jones, then put it down. If making me bump into the Dior Man at the station was some clever ruse, she’d be expecting me to call her at some point, to try to find out what’s going on.
Which is exactly what I’m tempted to do. Which is what I should avoid doing at all cost.

The Dior Man. My thoughts go back to him. I simply can’t imagine he could be the Heath killer. Or maybe I just don’t want him to be the one. I’m confused, unable to trust my
own judgement. What is worse, there is no one I can confide in. Oh, Bell, I miss you! Michael knows about my Heath encounters, but there is a huge difference between having anonymous sex al fresco
and having sex with someone who could be a rapist and a killer. He hasn’t brought the subject up since I told him about it and it’s best to leave it that way. I still don’t know
who the Dior Man is and I don’t want to know. Or do I? I feel I’m going round in circles. I need to clear my head. I grab Wispa’s leash and for the second time today we are
heading towards Waterlow Park. The Heath still feels out of bounds.

It’s a glorious afternoon and the park is filled with people who are not at work. Whenever I have a day off I’m amazed how many people are out and about when the rest of us are
behind our desks. I walk round the lake, then choose a bench in a quiet, shady spot. There is a brass plaque attached to it that reads, ‘To Adrian, who hated this park and all the people in
it.’ How refreshing, compared with all the people ‘who loved this place’. I wonder what must have happened to Adrian in this park for him to hate it so much. In my present frame
of mind I understand the sentiment totally. I hate the Heath and, maybe not all the people in it, but that one person who has poisoned it. My thoughts go back to the Dior Man and the unexpected
encounter with him at the police station. Why am I so vehemently refusing to believe he could be the Heath killer? Because I trust my instinct? Perhaps I’ve developed some weird kind of
bonding with him, a strange variant of Stockholm syndrome, and mistakenly interpret the fact that he hasn’t killed me yet as an act of kindness? I should be telling DCI Jones about him and no
one else, instead of wasting police time and spinning tales about other guys who I know have nothing to do with the attacks. But how can I be certain they are innocent? James is out of the country
and out of the picture, but Samantha’s behaviour has been suspicious. I could tell DCI Jones was interested in her and Tom. But my gut instinct tells me Tom isn’t capable of prowling
the Heath and attacking women. Could he be my stalker? I don’t think so. I know the type.

A sudden scream somewhere behind me makes me jump. I hear a woman’s voice shouting the word ‘murderer’ and my heart skips a beat. Unsure what to do, I get up from the bench and
edge my way towards the cluster of bushes the voice is coming from. Suddenly the park seems deserted. Where are all the people when you need them? My phone in hand, I cautiously peek through the
branches. There is a young couple in the clearing, a man and a woman who is talking loudly in a dramatic voice. I watch them closely, debating whether to intervene. It takes me a while to realize
the woman’s distress is theatrical. They must be actors, or students, rehearsing a scene from a play. The woman seems to be struggling with her delivery and the guy interrupts her and gives
her directions. She starts her lines again.

‘
It cannot be but thou hast murdered him.

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.
’

The rhythm of the verse and the woman’s emphatic delivery tell me it must be Shakespeare. Trust my luck to pick a bench next to the people rehearsing a play about a murder. A police
car’s siren somewhere in Highgate mixes with the woman’s voice and completes the scene. I’m ready to move on.

I remember there’s hardly anything left in my fridge and decide to stop at Tesco in the village on the way back. I walk up Highgate Hill, resist the temptation to buy flowers at the
expensive greengrocer’s and check out the window display at the local bookshop. I’m about to cross the street when I see a familiar figure in front of Tesco. It’s Tom. I stop,
unsure what to do. He seems to be aimlessly hovering outside the entrance, looking around. And then, of course, he notices me looking at him and moves forward in my direction. A car honks at him
when he steps off the kerb, he stops and moves back, just as the shop’s doors slide open and Samantha comes out, shopping bags in both hands. Thankfully, she doesn’t see me as she calls
out to him. He rushes towards her and grabs the bags. I turn and walk away in the opposite direction, abandoning the idea of shopping at Tesco.

When I get back home curiosity gets the better of me and I Google the lines the woman was shouting in the park. They turn out to be from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, a comedy with no
real murder in it. I look at the lines, uttered by Hermia accusing Demetrius of having murdered the man she loves and looking like a murderer. What does a murderer look like? I Google ‘serial killers’ and look at the mosaic of faces, some distorted and ugly, some bland and ordinary. Would I be able to tell if any of these people had killed another human
being just by looking them in the eye? The answer is no. And still my conviction that none of the men I’ve met recently is a killer is unwavering.

A new thought enters my head and I cling to it with relief. Perhaps the Dior Man is a witness, just like me? This would explain the casual way he entered the station. He wasn’t handcuffed
or restrained, in fact he looked quite in control. But if he is a witness, is he going to disclose the nature of our encounters on the Heath? A cold shiver runs through me at the thought. If the
police link me to him, then my game is over. I’ll be branded a liar and accused of obstructing a police investigation or even perverting the course of justice. My legal knowledge gained from
watching hours of
CSI
and
Law & Order
tells me I might be in big trouble.

I’m interrupted by the arrival of the damage assessor, followed in quick succession by a mobile tyre replacement van. Their efficiency is impressive, the tyres are changed and the rear
window scrubbed clean. By five o’clock they are done and I’m left with no more distractions. My thoughts go back to Bell, the Heath, the Dior Man. I need to talk to someone who’d
be able to understand the mess I’m in and offer sympathy. I’m reluctant to bother Michael again because I’m already so indebted to him for all the help he’s given me and
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repay it. I consider calling Kate, but decide against it. She’s too upright, too honourable, I’d be simply ashamed to show her my true
colours. Ray? I hardly know the man, but this could be a plus. A perfect case of railway carriage honesty, when you reveal the most intimate details about yourself to a stranger on a train. Well,
he’s not a complete stranger, but we could disappear from each other’s lives as quickly as we appeared in them. I dial his number but he doesn’t answer. I decide against leaving
him a message, as it would take away the element of spontaneity. I quickly put some make-up on, throw on a pair of skinny G-Star Raw jeans, a soft cashmere jumper and my Ted Baker cream leather
jacket, grab my bag and car keys, tell Wispa to be a good girl and head out. I’m going to catch Ray as he leaves his salon tonight.

The rush-hour traffic seems to be going the other way and I manage to get to Islington in twenty minutes. I leave the car on a meter in a side street and stroll onto Upper Street. I casually
walk by Ray’s salon and quickly peer in. He’s busy with a client, cutting her hair, talking to her reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t noticed me and I don’t break my
stride. I find an outside table in a patisserie a few shops further down, order a latte and position my chair so I can see Ray’s salon in the distance. I take out my phone and pretend
I’m busy checking my emails. It’s nearly half past six, so he should be closing soon. Ten minutes later his client leaves the salon, looking pleased with herself. I must admit, her hair
looks good. Another five minutes pass and Ray appears in the street and begins to pull the shutters down over his salon front. I scroll down to his name in my address book and dial his number.
Let’s see how he reacts to seeing my name on his phone screen. It’s ringing and I can see him pulling his phone out of his pocket. He checks the caller ID and a little smile crosses his
lips. Bingo. He’s just about to answer it when a woman appears behind him. She’s young, glamorous and clearly very angry. I can’t hear what she’s shouting, but her words
make Ray step back and raise his hands, as if trying to pacify her. She grabs the phone he’s holding, waves it about angrily, then throws it on the pavement and kicks it. He says something
back and she steps forward and slaps him in the face. An elderly woman with a little Shih Tzu dog stops and appears to intervene. Ray turns towards her and shoos her away. The old woman shakes her
head and shuffles away indignantly, pulling her dog behind her. Ray grabs the young woman by both wrists, his face close to hers, his body language menacing. The woman tries to pull away, they
struggle, he suddenly pushes her away and she slams against the closed shutters with her back. She is crying. Ray grabs her by the arm, picks up his phone from the pavement and leads her down the
street, thankfully away from my table and the patisserie. What happens next makes me sit up in my uncomfortable patisserie chair. Ray and the woman get into a parked car. And no, it’s not his
BMW, but a blue Mini five-door hatch. And guess who’s driving? Ray. As the car passes me I can clearly see a baby seat in the back. I exhale slowly as I watch the car head towards Highbury
Corner. What have I just seen? A lovers’ spat? Or a confrontation with an angry wife? His or someone else’s?

Suddenly my impromptu escapade to see Ray seems like a bad idea. I leave a five-pound note by my coffee cup and walk away from the table. I don’t feel like seeing Ray ever again. The anger
and aggression of the scene I’ve just witnessed have left me disturbed and confused. Not to mention the baby seat. I didn’t see it coming at all. So much for your killer instinct, lady
man-eater. I realize I know next to nothing about most of the people I consider my friends and acquaintances. Any of them could have a flip side, a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality I haven’t got a
clue about. If I can’t even tell a player from a decent guy, how can I be sure there is no killer among the people I know?

I quickly go back to my car and drive home, feeling alone and tearful. I go straight to the kitchen and take out Bell’s bottle of Pinot Gris from the fridge. It’s nearly empty, but I
pour the few remaining sips into a glass and sit at the table. I imagine Bell sitting in front of me, watching me nursing the glass with sparkles of amusement in her eyes. ‘Hey, girl,’
she says, ‘don’t feel sorry for yourself, only assholes do that.’ It’s a quote from her favourite Murakami novel, I don’t remember which one. Oh, Bell, you have no
idea what an asshole I am.

I’m back at work and it feels as if I’ve been away for months. I notice belatedly that the restructuring machine has moved forward, mowing down its first victims.
All the freelancers are gone. I’m sure they’ll be back, as soon as Cadenca Global is done with us. No large media company can survive without freelancers, but for now their desks are
empty, dirty keyboards and broken pens the only remainders of their fleeting presence. Freelance desks are quite different from those of permanent staff. They are impersonal: no cute mascots, no
photos of spouses and kids, no secret stashes of nibbles or personalized mugs. It’s partly due to convenience and partly to self-preservation. As soon as you bring a personal object to put on
your desk, you’re hooked. You develop an emotional relationship with your workplace and it hurts like hell when they let you go. And they always let you go at some point. I remember when I
first started as a freelance producer and kept making the mistake of customizing the screen saver on my work PC with my favourite holiday snapshot. And how much it hurt to have to delete it once my
services were no longer required. Now I’m the one who is supposed to let others go, but somehow the first cull seems to have happened without my knowledge, while I was off work yesterday.
It’s a bit worrying, but it doesn’t take me long to find out how it happened. As I open the door to my office I see Gary parked in my chair, his legs splayed proprietorially under my
desk, his fat fingers round the receiver of my phone. He jumps up and puts the phone down when he sees me, a false smile on his face. In fact, there is nothing out of the ordinary about him using
my office, it’s standard practice to utilize the management’s glass boxes when they are not in use by their rightful occupants. But it’s his body language that gives his true
intentions away. Something has happened behind my back.

With Gary out of my office I quickly scroll down through my mailbox and find a chain of emails that explains his cocksure behaviour. Most of the emails come from HR, but the chain was originated
by Julian a week ago, on the day I got back from Paris. The day I learnt Bell was dead. The email chain has been picked up by Gary who, it seems, was instrumental in the cull of freelancers. I sit
motionless staring at the screen, processing the information.