Rebound (21 page)

There are two possible interpretations. The most likely is the apocalyptic one: Julian has decided to get rid of me and he’s grooming Gary as my replacement. But Gary is the element that
doesn’t fit. He’s a bumbling plodder with no management skills and Julian knows it. This points to scenario number two: Julian wants to keep me and is using Gary as an easy scapegoat,
who will be sacrificed as soon as he ceases to be useful in the restructuring game. Of course, there might be scenario number three that only Julian is privy to. Time will tell. One thing is
certain: I’m not going down without a fight.

I tell Claire to call in an urgent meeting of my department for 1.30 p.m. It’s a bitch of a time for a meeting as it eats into people’s lunch break, but that’s exactly why I
chose it: to show that my ‘busy’ is more important than other people’s ‘busy’. It’s time to remind everyone who’s the boss. And to embrace my inner
bitch.

As the meeting starts I feel I’m back on top of my game. It gives me great pleasure to cut Gary down to size and re-establish the hierarchy of the place. I might as well enjoy my power
while it lasts. I know I’m not a bad manager. I read somewhere that there are essentially three types of managers: those who need to be liked more than they need to get things done, those who
need to achieve and don’t care what others think about them, and those who are interested in power. It’s the power-hungry ones who are in fact the most effective managers, in control of
their goals and teams. I’d like to think I fall within the third category, of managers who gain power through influencing people around them. By the time the meeting is over I hope I’ve
exerted my influence enough to last a few weeks longer without the need for more drastic measures.

I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on emails, making sure I copy Julian into all the ones that work in my favour. I’m just about to wrap up for the day when my mobile rings.
It’s a US number I don’t recognize. A woman with a Midwestern accent asks for Anna, and for a moment I think it’s someone from the better, American side of our corporation.

‘It’s Candice,’ she says and pauses, as if to give me time to place her. ‘I got your number from Michael.’

‘Candice, of course, Bell’s told me about you . . .’ I stumble awkwardly. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

We’re both silent, not sure what to say next.

‘Bell is . . . was very important to me,’ she says eventually and I can hear she’s on the verge of tears.

‘I know . . . You were important to her. She’s told me a lot about you.’

‘I’d like to come over and say goodbye to her.’

‘Of course,’ I say and my mind is racing. Did DCI Jones say anything about releasing the body? When is the funeral? I need to speak to Michael . . .

‘The funeral is on Friday morning,’ she says as if hearing my thoughts. ‘I’ve booked my flight for tonight and will arrive at Heathrow tomorrow lunchtime. It’s all
a bit last minute, but otherwise I’d miss her funeral.’

‘I’ll pick you up, just email me the details.’ A wave of guilt is making me volunteer.

‘Oh, it’s fine, I can take the underground from the airport. I’ve found a room on Airbnb somewhere in East London. Errmm . . . Leyton? Would that be close to where she
lived?’

‘Bell lived in Stoke Newington. Leyton is not exactly round the corner. It would be much easier if you stayed at mine. Actually, I insist, I’ll pick you up and you must stay at
mine.’

‘I don’t want to inconvenience you.’

‘No, it’s no problem at all. It’s the least I can do for Bell’s . . .’ Should I say girlfriend? Partner? Lover?

‘It’s very kind of you, thank you. I’ll email you the details of my flight.’

I give her my email address, she asks again whether her visit won’t inconvenience me and I assure her it won’t. I put the phone down feeling totally ashamed of myself. What kind of
best friend am I? How could I have not known when Bell’s funeral is? I should be the one arranging it, getting in touch with Candice, calling Bell’s friends. What is wrong with me? I
feel I can’t face Michael, who has clearly stepped in and taken over all the arrangements. Shame, shame on me.

As I drive home I mull over my egotistical nature. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own survival, my own grief, that I have totally ignored what my friends must have been going through. It
makes me sick with shame to realize how wrapped up in my own little world I’ve become. It’s unforgivable and I know Bell would have given me a right ticking-off. I promise myself to be
less self-centred and to give more time and thought to my friends. I’ll check on Michael, take care of Candice when she comes over, get in touch with Bell’s friends, speak to Kate, find
out if Sue’s resisted the temptation of the Big T. I should probably get in touch with Nicole and see how she’s doing and if she’s going to come back to London and
dog-walking.

There is a parking space free just in front of my house and I decide it’s a sign I’m not all bad. I must have put some good karma into the universe and it’s decided to come
back at this very moment. I’m reversing into the tight space when I hear a sudden bang on the roof of the car. I instinctively step on the brakes, not sure what is going on. Have I hit
someone? I buzz down my window and look out. There is a familiar man on the pavement, a can of lager in his hand, a bright red scarf round his neck, swinging his leg to kick the rear tyre of my
BMW.

‘Alden! What are you doing?’

‘Yo, bitch!’ he shouts at me in a bad imitation of Jesse from
Breaking Bad
.

I switch off the engine and get out of the car, just as he kicks it again.

‘Alden, stop it!’

He turns to look at me and I can see he’s completely drunk.

‘Oh, yeah? And what will you do if I won’t? Call DCI Dyke? So she can question me again?’

‘Alden, you’re drunk!’

‘And I bloody deserve it! I’ve been helping with their enquiries all day.’ The lager spills from the can as he makes quotation marks in the air. ‘I’m such a helpful
guy—’

‘Alden, go home.’

‘You are evil.’ He looks at me with the sudden clarity of a drunk. ‘I thought you were cool, Anna, but you’re a bad person, you are. Evil to the core. I know everything
about you.’

‘You know nothing about me, Alden.’ I try to sound friendly, but firm. ‘We hardly know each other. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep, and we’ll meet up for a
coffee once you’ve sobered up?’ I reach out and pat him on the arm.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he yells, moving away, ‘you evil bitch!’

‘I’m not evil, but you are definitely drunk.’ I let the bitch part slide, but he doesn’t hear me, engrossed in his monologue.

‘You nasty little scheming slut! He’s warned me about you . . .’

My neighbours’ outside light comes on and Patrick, the nosy accountant, pops his head out through the front door.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, thank you, Patrick, my friend is just leaving.’

The neighbours’ door slams shut. With all the comings and goings at my house lately, my neighbours probably hate me by now.

‘Just go, Alden.’ I infuse my tone with motherly calmness. ‘Go home and sleep it off. Everything will look different tomorrow, you’ll see.’

I move away from him and go up my front steps. I can hear Wispa barking madly behind the closed door. Alden leans against my car and looks as if he’s going to fall over. I don’t care
if he does, I just want to get away from him and close the door behind me. I open my front door and block the exit, so Wispa doesn’t rush out into the street. Two seconds later I’m in,
double-locking the door from the inside. Wispa keeps barking and jumping up, nudging me with her nose. I go straight to the kitchen, pour myself a double whisky and drink it in a couple of gulps,
neat. As its heat goes down my throat and settles in my stomach I rush to the front room and peer through the closed blinds. It looks like Alden has gone, but the window on the driver’s side
is wet, smudges of frothy liquid running down the door and onto the pavement. I only hope it’s Alden’s lager and not something else.

I let the blind drop down into place and go back to the kitchen. DCI Jones has clearly taken our conversation seriously and is interviewing all the men I told her about. I instantly feel a wave
of guilt. Let’s face it, my statement was more of a smokescreen to cover up my encounters with the Dior Man. I don’t seriously think any of the men could be a rapist and a killer. But
then again, what do I know about rapists and killers? Why has Alden reacted so violently to being questioned by the police? And how did he manage to connect it with me? Has DCI Jones mentioned my
name while talking to him? That would be rather unprofessional of her, I think, drawing again on my knowledge of police procedure gained from watching too much
CSI
. Most importantly of all,
why does Alden think I’m a bitch? Was it him who sprayed the word on my car and slashed my tyres? And who has warned him about me? Tom? I’m really tempted to call DCI Jones, to tell her
about Alden’s behaviour and the missing keys. But my will to keep the Dior Man secret is stopping me from contacting her. I open the fridge door, but Bell’s bottle of Pinot Gris is
gone. I finished it the other night. I pick up the phone and dial Michael’s number instead.

‘Darling, how are you?’ He sounds pleased to hear me.

I tell him about my day at work and Candice’s phone call.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I gave her your number. I wanted to offer her board and lodgings at mine, but she said she was getting a room through some website.’

‘Yes, in Leyton of all places. I persuaded her to stay with me. I’m picking her up at the airport tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘She sounds like a really nice woman. It’s so tragic that Bell’s never going to . . .’ His voice breaks.

‘. . . be happy with her,’ I finish his sentence and feel the tears welling up in my eyes. We both fall silent, then Michael clears his throat.

‘I wanted to speak to you about her funeral arrangements. She wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered from the cliff at Beachy Head.’

‘Beachy Head?’ I’m surprised, but then remember what Bell had told me. ‘I suppose it makes sense. She lived in Brighton as a student and used to go to the South Downs a
lot. She told me it was the happiest time of her life. How do you know it was her wish?’

‘I’m her will executor.’

‘Bell’s left a will?’ I’m taken aback. Why hadn’t she told me about it?

‘We spoke about it when Phil died and I suggested then she should make one. On account of her having no immediate family and being gay. I recommended my solicitor to her.’

‘Why didn’t she tell me about it?’

‘She said she didn’t want to worry you. Some people are funny about wills and talking about death.’

‘I suppose she was right. The whole idea of preparing for your own death freaks me out.’

‘I don’t think one is ever really prepared for it.’ Michael clears his throat again. ‘I thought we might all drive to the cliffs with her ashes on Saturday. You, Candice,
myself. Candice needs to fly back home on Sunday.’

‘Of course, it’s absolutely fine. I’ll drive.’

‘She also wanted Helen to be there.’

‘Big H? Her mad ex? The one who cheated on her and always had three girlfriends on the go?’

‘The same one.’

‘Well, it’s her will . . .’ I must say Bell doesn’t cease to surprise me, even after her death.

‘I know you’ve never been very fond of her, so I’ll contact her.’

‘Not fond of her is the understatement of the year. Remember, I was always the one picking up the pieces when Bell’s girlfriends turned out to be psychos. And Big H is in a category
of her own in that department.’

‘I know, but you’ll have to put up with her just once more.’

‘Do you think it’s safe to put her and Candice together?’

‘Apparently she’s a reformed character these days.’

‘It’s a recipe for disaster, if you ask me.’

The sound of my doorbell makes me jump. Wispa rushes to the hallway, barking.

‘Someone’s at the door, Michael, I have to go.’

‘Do you want me to stay on the line?’

‘No, sweetie, thank you, I’ll be fine. Talk to you later.’

I dash to the door, then stop, seeing a big dark silhouette behind the stained glass.

‘Who is it?’

‘Anna, it’s DS Kapoor.’

I unlock the door, holding Wispa by her collar. DS Kapoor is in his uniform and looks official.

‘We had a report of a disturbance at this address . . .’

Patrick, my nosy neighbour, of course.

‘I just wanted to check if you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I quickly calculate the risk of telling him about Alden and decide it’s minimal. ‘But why don’t you come in and I’ll
explain.’

He takes off his cap as he walks in. He pats Wispa’s head as she jumps around him, wagging her tail.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ I ask as I direct him to the kitchen.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

We sit down at the kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘It was Alden, one of the guys I mentioned to DCI Jones. I believe you talked to him earlier today. For some reason he’s taken umbrage at me . . .’

‘Has he threatened you?’ DS Kapoor takes out his police notebook and a pen.

‘No.’ I busy myself making tea, my back to him. ‘He did call me an evil bitch, though.’

I put a mug of tea in front of DS Kapoor and point to milk and sugar. He looks up at me from his notebook and I notice for the first time he’s quite good-looking, especially with the five
o’clock shadow on his chin.

‘Do you know why?’

‘No.’ I take a sip of my tea. ‘I thought you’d tell me.’

DS Kapoor raises his eyebrows, then nods slowly. ‘He was a bit agitated when we spoke to him today.’

‘Agitated enough to kick my car and call me a bitch?’

‘Your name wasn’t mentioned. Do you want to lodge a complaint?’

‘Nah.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is . . .’

‘Trouble? Why do you say that?’ He looks at me inquisitively and I can hear echoes of DCI Jones in his voice. Like a dog with a bone, I think to myself, and shrug again.