Rebound (26 page)

‘She may have ingested the poison several days ago without you noticing it. Two to five days usually.’

I shake my head again, unable to think that far back.

‘There are several types of rat poison: some of them kill instantly and some are cumulative and require multiple feeding to kill a rodent. We are hoping this is the kind she’s
ingested: an anticoagulant that thins the blood and causes spontaneous and uncontrolled bleeding. Her bleeding nose and gums would suggest that. This is actually good news. If she had ingested
another type of poison she’d be dead by now.’

I gasp and he gives me a tiny, reassuring smile.

‘We are giving her a blood transfusion and Vitamin K to restore normal blood clotting. It’s a very common type of poisoning in dogs and most of them, given the right care, manage to
pull through. In Wispa’s case I hope we’ve caught it in time. But she’ll have to stay in intensive care for a while.’

Overwhelmed by a tearful wave of gratitude, I thank him profusely. He walks me out to the reception and tells me they’ll ring me later today to update me on Wispa’s progress.

As I drive back home, I’m trying to think where Wispa might have picked up the poison. It most likely happened on Chiara’s watch and I’ll never know. But wait, two days ago
– the mad chase on the Heath and the note behind Wispa’s collar. The Dior Man. Why on earth would he want to harm her? I slow down and the car behind me honks and flashes headlights in
annoyance. Was this supposed to be a message for me? Meaning what? No, this is crazy. As I pass Highgate Cemetery another image flashes in my memory. Bell’s funeral. A guy in a hoodie
crouching next to Wispa. Oh God. It was him. He looked vaguely familiar, but who was he? Is it possible that someone actually gave Wispa the poison? That it wasn’t her penchant for eating any
old rubbish that nearly killed her? Is it possible that someone was evil enough to want to kill my dog?

Deep in thought, I park the car and walk to my front door. I jump when I see a figure sitting on my doorstep. It’s DCI Jones, strangely informal in a pair of black jeans and a purple
fleece. It strikes me she looks very much like Bell’s lesbian friends in their fifties: fleece, no frills, make-up free, avuncular.

‘Good morning, Anna.’ She gets up and notices my puffed-up face. ‘Are you all right?’

‘My dog has been poisoned.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. . .’ For once I can see she doesn’t know what to say. ‘Wispa, isn’t it? Is she all right?’

‘Don’t know yet. I found her in the kitchen this morning. She’d had a haemorrhage . . . I’ve just come back from the vet . . .’

‘Are they looking after her?’

‘Yes.’ I don’t want to talk to her, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to get rid of her easily.

‘Anna, we have to talk.’

‘What time is it?’

She looks at her watch. ‘Nearly ten.’

Shit, I’ll be late for work again.

‘I’m afraid you will be late for work,’ she voices my thought. ‘But it’s rather urgent.’

‘Do come in.’ I unlock the door and let her in. ‘Would you mind helping yourself to some coffee in the kitchen? I need to take a quick shower. It’ll only take five
minutes.’

Without a word she looks at her watch again and nods. I dash upstairs and jump into the shower. As the hot water runs down my head and body, my stress eases off enough for me to remember the
bloody mess in the kitchen. But when I come down the floor looks like it’s been wiped clean and there is a wet mop standing in the corner.

‘Thank you.’ I smile gratefully at DCI Jones and she instantly goes up in my estimation.

She gestures towards the kitchen table. It looks like she’s made coffee for both of us. Even more points for her. As we sit down she gives me a quick appreciative glance, taking in my
fresh-from-the-shower look, and I know there’s still life in the avuncular DCI Jones. Then, it’s all business.

She opens a black folder and removes a postcard-sized photograph. She slides it across the table, until it’s by my coffee mug.

‘Do you know this man?’

As I look at the picture, my heart stops for a second, then starts thumping as if it wants to jump out of my chest. It’s a photograph of the Dior Man. I pick up the photo, biding my time.
I notice that my hand is shaking and I put the photo back down. Have they caught him? Is he the Heath killer after all?

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m afraid it’s my turn to ask questions.’ She sounds stern.

I look at the photo again. It’s a casual snapshot. He’s smiling at the camera, hands in his trouser pockets, some blurred office furniture in the background. I’ve never seen
him smile. DCI Jones is watching me closely. I have to give her something.

‘I may have seen him while jogging on the Heath . . .’

‘When?’

‘I’m not quite sure . . . Definitely before . . . it all started.’

‘Could you try to concentrate and give me a more specific timeline?’

‘What is it all about? Have you caught him? Is he the Heath killer?’

She looks at me without saying anything, as if mulling a decision over. Then she reaches for the photograph.

‘You have probably heard that there was another killing on the Heath last Sunday. This man,’ she points to the photo, ‘was the victim.’

Suddenly the surface of the table, DCI Jones and my kitchen seem very far away. I take a deep breath, aware that I might faint. Slowly everything comes back into focus and I see DCI
Jones’s expectant face.

‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ I mumble. ‘He’s dead?’

‘We believe he was killed by the same person who attacked Belinda and all the other women in the park.’

‘But he is . . . was . . . a man.’

‘Yes.’ She nods and a strange expression flickers across her face.

‘It . . . doesn’t make sense . . .’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ She puts the photograph down. ‘Anna, I believe you haven’t been honest with me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know exactly what I mean. I think you’ve been withholding vital information. You know something about the Heath killings. You are somehow linked to the deaths.
And,’ she taps the photograph, ‘you know this man.’

‘Are you going to arrest me?’ The more she pushes me, the more belligerent I feel.

‘If need be.’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Anna, listen to me. I’m not saying you are responsible in any way for the killings. Absolutely not. You are not a suspect. But
you know there is a link between the killings and yourself. And this is the thing you’re not telling me.’

She picks up her mug and gets up, trying to hide her frustration.

‘Do you mind if I make myself another coffee?’

‘Help yourself.’ I wave in the direction of the Nespresso machine. ‘Actually, I’ll have one too.’ I get up and join her. As the coffee maker goes through its
slurping cycle, she looks at me.

‘I’d like you to accompany me on a walk through the Heath. And a visit to the latest crime scene.’ She puts her hand on my shoulder when she sees me recoil in horror.
‘Don’t worry, the forensics are done with it. It’s just a piece of grass cordoned off by white and blue tape.’

‘When?’

‘Now would be a good time.’

‘I need to go to work . . .’ I protest feebly.

‘I’m afraid this takes priority over work. Please let them know you’ll be late. Unless you want me to contact them on your behalf?’

‘No, thank you.’ I get up in search of my phone. There are eleven unanswered calls and six new voicemail messages on it. I speed-dial Claire’s number and leave her a
message.

‘Well, we might as well go now, if you insist.’ I’m not attempting to hide my annoyance.

‘Thank you.’

As we leave the house I’m expecting DS Kapoor to be waiting for us in a marked car. Instead I’m being led to a red Mini Roadster. There’s definitely more to DCI Jones than
meets the eye. She’s a fast and confident driver and she clearly enjoys the drive. She parks the car in Merton Lane, exactly where I’d park if I ever drove to the Heath.

We walk down towards the pond. I’m determined not to say anything and eventually she breaks the silence.

‘I do appreciate you coming here with me, Anna. As you may have guessed, this is not an official enquiry, more of an informal chat.’

She leads the way, following exactly my usual running route.

‘In order to catch the bastard who’s killed all these people I need your cooperation, Anna. I need your help.’

There is something so sincere in her voice that my belligerence begins to evaporate.

‘I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Ms Jones.’

‘Vic, please.’

‘What do you want me to say, Vic?’

It feels strange calling her by her first name, but somehow appropriate now.

‘You knew Belinda. And I know there is a connection between you and the last victim.’

‘Who was he?’

‘You don’t know?’ She looks at me incredulously.

‘I have no idea,’ I say honestly.

She stares at the horizon, hesitates.

‘What I’m going to tell you is still confidential, but it’s bound to come out in the media soon.’

She hesitates again and I can barely contain my curiosity. Who was he?

‘The last victim’s name was Mark Thomas. Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas.’

It slowly sinks in.

‘You mean he was a policeman?’

‘My Chief Super.’

This is too much to take. I stagger towards a bench and sit down heavily. DCI Jones sits down beside me. I’m desperately trying to think, to make some sense of what she’s just told
me, but my mind’s gone blank.

‘He was your boss?’ I ask her at last.

She nods.

‘Was he involved in the investigation?’

‘Not directly. But he was kept informed of all the developments.’

I struggle to comprehend what I’ve just heard.

‘I can see it’s come to you as a shock. Why?’

I shake my head and say nothing.

‘Anna, we have evidence that links you to DCS Thomas,’ she says quietly. I look at her, uncomprehending.

‘Evidence?’

Vic doesn’t answer, observing me. I feel my arms and legs go numb as I try to breathe normally. That’s it then. There’s no point lying any more. I don’t even want to
speculate what kind of evidence they’ve got.

An unexpected sense of relief washes over me as I start telling her about the Dior Man. At last I can unburden myself, share my secret with someone who’s not going to run away screaming or
moralize. Vic may charge me with obstructing the police investigation or withholding information, but I know she’s not going to pass judgement. I skip a few steamy details, but stick to the
story pretty much as it happened. I’m not hiding the fact that I instigated the encounters and try to be succinct and matter-of-fact.

Once I finish, she doesn’t reply for a long time. I know my story has put her in a very awkward position. She’s learnt something about her deceased boss that she probably
didn’t want to know. Is she going to disclose it to the rest of the department or keep it to herself? Can she keep it to herself? Surprisingly, now that the story’s out, I don’t
care whether the whole CID knows about it. Well, that may not be entirely true.

Eventually she looks at me and I can tell she has a plan.

‘Thank you for being honest with me, Anna. Finally.’ There is a sparkle of emotion in her eyes, perhaps reproach, then she looks away. ‘I’d like you to do something for
me.’

‘Yes?’

‘I want you to go home and make a list of all the encounters with Chief– DCS Thomas. I want dates and times – try to be as precise as you can. It would also be helpful if you
could pinpoint the locations. Do you think you can do it?’

‘Of course.’

She gets up with new energy, a woman on a mission.

‘Let’s get going.’ She starts walking back to where we came from.

‘We’re not going to the crime scene, then?’

‘It’s no longer necessary.’

We walk down in silence, then stop by her Mini. There is a parking ticket behind the wiper on the windshield, which she removes, folds and puts in the back pocket of her jeans, without any sign
of annoyance.

‘Would you like a lift back?’

‘No, thank you, I think I’ll walk back.’

She nods and opens the driver’s door.

‘I’ll be in touch this afternoon. Please try to have the list ready by then.’

‘Vic?’

‘Yes?’

‘Was he married?’

She gives me a heavy look before replying.

‘Yes.’

I lean on her red Mini as she gets in and slams the door shut. She starts the engine and I move away. She drives off without giving me another glance. So that’s what she really thinks of
me.

He had a wife. He’d go home after our dirty sex in the bushes, have a shower and snuggle up to his wife. God, what a mess.

DCI Jones hates me. Of course she does. I’m this privileged slut who seems, in some inexplicable way, linked to the deaths on the Heath. What is she going to do? She strikes me as a
righteous person, a solid and grounded policewoman, who is not going to try to hide anything in order not to tarnish the name of a fellow police officer. Would my story really tarnish his memory?
The romanticized notion of the Dior Man has all gone, replaced by Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Thomas. Trust my luck to stumble upon a policeman in the bushes. A married policeman. A
policeman who is now dead. A cold shiver runs through me. She thinks I’m linked to the attacks on the Heath. Am I in danger? I instinctively pick up pace and cast a glance behind me. The lane
is empty. If I were at risk, wouldn’t she be sending a guardian angel, preferably in the form of DS Kapoor, to watch over me? I have a feeling I’m straying into the realm of
Murder
She Wrote
. This is real life, and Jessica is not going to come to the rescue. But there is something I can do to help the woman who hates me right now.

When I get home I go straight to the kitchen and get a clean sheet of paper. Then I fetch my Filofax from the bedroom. My well-worn, leather-bound personal organizer is a nostalgic throwback to
the eighties, totally obsolete and practically unknown to most people under the age of forty. But it’s served me well over the years and I have no heart to throw it away. So each year I
faithfully go on Amazon and buy a Filofax Diary Refill, then spend hours painstakingly marking the birthdays of all my friends on its pages in green pen. This is also where I mark all the events
that would never, ever make it into my iCalendar. And this is where I’ve written four tiny letters in the right top corner of each day I encountered the Dior Man on the Heath.
DIOR
. I count five
DIOR
, but I’m pretty sure I saw him twice before I started marking the dates in the Filofax, when I first saw him and the second time,
when we bumped into each other while running. Something tells me it’s the
DIOR
days that will be of utmost interest to DCI Jones. What will she do with them? Check
them against the dates of the attacks on the Heath? I grab my laptop and Google ‘attacks on the Heath’. It turns out there are plenty of places called the Heath in the world that have
been witness to all sorts of acts of violence. I keep narrowing my search until I have the right Heath and the right attacks. I check the two sets of dates, the attacks and the Dior Man encounters,
against each other. The sequence that emerges makes my blood run cold. The first rape happened four days after I had sex with the Dior Man for the first time. The second, on the day after I met him
for the second time. The rapist struck again two days later. I returned to the Heath after a break of nearly two weeks and ended up with the Dior Man at the Ladies’ Pond. Two days later Bell
got murdered. I put the pen down and look out through the kitchen window. There is a bird frolicking on the Japanese maple bush that seems on fire with its orange and brilliant-red leaves. It makes
me think of Bell. Fighting the tears, I get up and put the kettle on. Is the pattern I’ve just discovered coincidental or is there really a connection between my encounters with the Dior Man
and the horrible crimes on the Heath? With a mug of tea I go back to the table. There is one more
DIOR
mark in my Filofax. It’s on the day I saw the Dior Man for the
last time. The day he left a message under Wispa’s collar asking me to call him. Twenty-four hours later he was dead.