Three Steps Behind You (16 page)

At the mention of a complaint, she puts her hands down and steps back. A career woman. Wouldn’t want a blemish.

‘Besides, I got them from a charity shop, so the label would be meaningless,’ I say. I scratch my nose, then realise that means I’m lying. I put my hand in my pocket, then remember about the keys. I want to take my hand out again, but it will look fidgety so I leave it in there, brushing against the metal.

‘Just the autograph, then, Mr Millard. Please.’

‘For your daughter?’

‘For my daughter.’

‘What’s she called? Autographs need dedications.’

DC Huhne pauses. Then, very quietly, mutters, ‘Sarah.’

‘What?’ I ask, pretending not to hear.

‘Sarah,’ she says, more loudly. ‘Her name is Sarah.’

I take the proffered pen and paper. In my best copperplate I write: ‘To Sarah, with all best wishes for a speedy recovery. I hope they have a good library up there and you’re having fun. Best wishes’ – and I nearly write Luke – ‘Dan.’

I hand her the paper. She flaps it gently, to allow the ink to dry. She doesn’t read it. Then she folds it very carefully and puts it in the pocket of the coat. She puts on her gloves. Only then does she take back the pen, and put it into an evidence bag. She sees me see her do this. I don’t know why she bothers, unless she wants to scare me more, or unless she hasn’t done her homework. They have my prints from Feltham. No doubt Nicole would also like them to be on the car that killed Helen. But I doubt they would be, even if it were returned to the garage. We kept our cars clean. Jimmy was in charge of that. Amongst his other jobs.

I show DC Huhne to the door.

As we get there, she turns.

‘We all have different versions of the truth, Mr Millard. My job is to get to the facts.’

‘So is mine. I research for my writing, then I make the facts live.’

‘Research doesn’t tell you everything. You can miss bits out.’

I shrug. Ridiculous, but I don’t tell her. She doesn’t need to know how thorough I am.

‘Thanks, Mr Millard. My daughter will really appreciate this. See you soon.’

‘I hope not,’ I say.

She laughs, as if it’s a joke. As she crosses the road, I follow her with my eyes. Her hand moves up to her face, as if to brush away an eyelash. I see her get into a car. Her own car, this time. DS Pearce is no longer at the wheel.

Chapter 14

Miss bits out in my research? The suggestion stays with me after Huhne has left. All I do is about research. As if I can’t obtain facts from a simple Google! I go to my rucksack and pull out the articles I printed. There! Plain in black and white. In two articles:

‘When DC Debbie Huhne was in uniform a family tragedy struck her. Or rather, her family – a car knocked down her husband, 36, and daughter, 7, as they were crossing the road. The driver did not stop. Both husband and daughter died in hospital.’

And another one, from the time:

‘PC’s family killed in hit and run. The seven-year-old daughter of a policewoman, as well as her husband, were knocked down by a speeding car, which did not stop when it hit them. PC Debbie Huhne has been described as a ‘rising star’ by senior officers in the Met, who have all expressed their condolences. A funeral was held yesterday. PC Huhne did not attend. A colleague said, ‘Everyone grieves in their own way. Debbie obviously thought it would be too difficult to see her family buried.’

So. She is in denial. She hasn’t grieved and thinks (or pretends to think?) they are still alive. Does she go home and cooks for them each night, and wonder why they persistently fail to come to the table? When she masturbates does she think her husband is doing it? Has she stopped turning up at the junior school gates at home time, and goes to middle school instead? Her daughter would be, what, ten, now? The perfect age for autographs. Too young to read my books, though.

DC – sorry DS – Pearce always used to go on about his wife. Does she even exist? Or did he make her up, to cement the similarity with Columbo? I wonder how Pearce’s wife would feel about the way he talks to Debbie. It’s a good job for him that Debbie’s husband is dead, or he’d be sure to permanently snuff Pearce’s cigar. He looks strong in the pictures. Strong and kind. Strange that Debbie doesn’t remind Pearce she’s married if she thinks she is. Maybe she does when I’m not there.

One thing is certain though: Debbie needs help with her grief. She needs something to make her face up to reality. Even if it’s all a ruse, a trick, her professional mode of getting personal with people, that she didn’t feel inclined to bury with them, it wouldn’t hurt to unsettle her. Maybe she even killed them herself, so she could use them without the misfortune of them existing. Must be demanding having to look after a family when you’re trying to have a career. Maybe not. I dare say it was an accident. Albeit a brutal one. Question is, what can I do brutal enough to jolt her into reality?

Pictures, maybe? Pictures featured large in book one. That was Adam’s doing. Not just pictures of queens being ejected from towers but of cars too. He was keen on cars, at the time. They hadn’t caused any sadness for him yet. He would pretend he was steering while he ran around the playground, school corridors, his home. Sometimes he would enlist me to beep as we turned corners, but more often he would just crash into whoever was coming round them.

‘Heavens above,’ Mrs Price, our form tutor, once said, as she picked up the marking Adam had sent tumbling to the ground. ‘Adam Lomax, I dread the day you get a real car!’

When he wasn’t being a car, he was drawing them. I’m not sure how accurate they were. Their main feature was that they were green. Not as in Eco friendly; as in the colour. Alien cars.

So what Debbie needs, I think, is a picture of one of these cars. Dig out Adam’s old crayon from the treasure chest – there! Now, let’s see. A car. Crumpled bonnet, check. Zoom marks next to the wheels, check. And darkened windows, check. Now the people. A couple of girl and a man (in stick form) flying up into the air, with crosses for eyes, and a bit of blood. Not bad, but maybe still not poignant enough. Give the daughter some plaits, make her look pretty – Debbie has to grieve fully for her loss. Couple of pink ribbons on the end. There. Done. Now to post it to the station for DC Huhne’s attention. That should help her grieve. Or at least, distract her from the case.

I run to the pillar box and deliver my missive into its red mouth. Chew on that, friend of Nicole. Then I run back to the house, lock and bolt the door, draw the curtains in my bedroom, and take book three out of the treasure box, while putting Ally’s keys in. I stroke book three. I would love to read it, pleasure in it, remind myself of past successes. But I must prioritise. I suspect my time to achieve Luke’s fulfilment may be limited. I have a few hours until my meeting with Luke’s lawyer. Time to check out the house for sale in Adam’s street.

Chapter 15

The estate agent is delighted by my interest. I tell her we currently have a house in Harpenden, with all the other commuting City workers, but want to be closer in. This delights her even more. Luckily for us both, she is able to pop across to the house with me that very minute – the owners are out at work and have left strict instructions they want a quick sale, so viewings must be arranged as soon as potential buyers want them.

‘It’s a beautiful property,’ she says. ‘Your family will love it.’

I don’t know why I suddenly look like a parent, but I don’t disagree. Luke might even have children one day. After all, Adam intends to, it seems.

Luke thought the house would be perfect for his son. He could imagine now taking the satchel from his son’s shoulder as they approach the gate. The strap would be a thick leather one, a shiny steel buckle holding it together. He would have to adjust the strap – his son couldn’t do it, the pin was so tough to get through the hole. He would wonder, while he was doing it, if he should remind his mother of the straps she had round her when they
—

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Millard. Did it fall down my shoulder again?’

I am holding the estate agent’s handbag. The strap buckle is undone in my hands. Another Luke reverie, then.

‘The buckle must have come apart,’ I say. ‘You should watch that. Someone could snatch it.’

‘Mr Millard,’ she purrs at me. ‘This is hardly Tottenham. The crime rate is very low in West Hampstead.’

I could easily disabuse her of this myth – it might lower the value of the house, make it affordable even before I have the book advance my work deserves – but she might cancel the viewing. Instead, I let her walk up the path and insert her key in the lock. We are almost in when there is a voice behind us.

‘Dan?’

It is Nicole.

Of course it is. I should have known. The front door is red. The house is allied with her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.

‘I wanted to see what it felt like to live here,’ I say. There is no need to lie unnecessarily.

‘Oh, do you already know people in the area?’ says the estate agent, at the same time as Nicole says ‘You want to move here?’

‘Yes, this is Nicole,’ I say. ‘She lives a few of doors down. Clearly just happened to be passing.’

‘Ah, so we have you to thank for encouraging Mr Millard back from Harpenden,’ crows the estate agent.

Nicole looks at me, spotting fiction. I nod my head. She nods too. Good. Maybe she is finally on side.

‘Can I join you in looking around?’ Nicole asks.

‘I shouldn’t really allow …’ the estate agent starts to say.

‘We completely understand,’ I say quickly. ‘Nicole, I can see you another time.’ I don’t want her here, cramping my method.

Nicole has other ideas.

‘He’ll need a second opinion about the move,’ says Nicole. ‘I’m sure I can help him make up his mind.’

‘In that case, I’m sure I can make an exception,’ says the estate agent, smelling a sale.

I follow the estate agent into the house, and Nicole follows me.

Luke comes home from a hard day in the City. Taking off his coat, he drops it to the floor. Now just in his shirt he—

‘Oh, I can hang that up for you,’ says the estate agent, picking up my coat.

She is beginning to annoy me.

Oblivious, she leads us through to the kitchen. Nicole’s footsteps shuffle behind me, almost so quiet that I might have to check she was there, if I didn’t know.

‘Oh, this is a gorgeous kitchen, Dan. You could cook us meals here,’ Nicole says loudly. The estate agent moves further into the room to show us how deep it is. While her back is turned, Nicole whispers to me. ‘What are you doing, Dan? What’s all this about?’

‘Research,’ I hiss back, then smile at the estate agent.

There is no need to tell Nicole that, when my work is famous, I will be able to afford to live here. That I will be almost as close as can be. That it is this domestic arrangement, as well as the work that will allow it, I am researching.

The granite gleams blackly at me, like the shine of Adam’s car. I trace my hand over it and walk to the French windows. I will be able to see Adam’s garden from the upstairs, I think.

‘We’ll be able to see you from our garden,’ says Nicole. It is true; she will not stop watching me.

As we walk from room to room, Nicole is always there at my heel. Even when we go into the bathrooms and linen cupboards, of which there are several, she is there on the threshold. I don’t need to look. I feel her eyes upon me.

In the master bedroom, as I survey the mighty four-postered construction in the centre of the room, with its crimson coverlet, I can sense her behind me. I turn round.

Luke regards this woman he must have. The bed is so close. He could be so close to her. In her, where others have been before. Patience, for now, though. He must exercise restraint. Restraints. He smirks to himself. Yes, there will be restraints when—

‘What’s so funny, Dan?’ Nicole asks.

I would tell her what so amused Luke, but she may not see the joke. I doubt she’ll find book four funny, when it comes.

The estate agent ignores our exchange and tells us to look out of the window. As I thought, I can see Adam’s garden from here. The grass has not grown much since I mowed it. My impact is still evident.

Nicole comes to stand beside me. ‘Do you know what I find funny, Dan?’ she asks, very quietly, in my ear. I know I won’t need to say anything for her to continue. I’m right.

‘I was going to search for something on the Internet earlier,’ she continues, ‘and two things I wanted to search for came up in our recent searches. Isn’t that odd?’

I worry that I know where this is going.

‘Do you know what I was searching for, Dan?’

If I meet her head on, it will remove her control. It will cease to be a revelation. But she will also know I am worried. I shrug.

‘If you’re underwhelmed by the garden, Mr Millard,’ says the estate agent, misinterpreting my gesture, ‘we’ll have to go out into it. The space really is very tranquil.’

I doubt anywhere with Nicole will be tranquil, but I nod my agreement. She leads us out of the room.

Nicole flanks us, whispering in my ear, continuing her story.

‘About the girl who died – was murdered – opposite us. And that Luke character.’

Does her tongue linger over Luke? Does she over-emphasise ‘character’?

I look at her. She is smiling, like she finds it genuinely funny.

‘It couldn’t have been Adam searching, because the browser history shows it was a little while before he came home. So I thought: Oh, has Dan been using our computer? Is he as freaked out as I am that, in the nights between us being on that street, a girl was murdered?’

I decide to meet her head on.

‘Yes, I’m freaked out,’ I say. ‘It’s really odd. If they’d chosen one of the other nights, we might have seen something. We might have seen something anyway, and not realised it.’

Nicole nods her agreement. ‘We should keep an eye on the story. See if it triggers any memories. That’s what the police did with Helen – showed her photo, a picture of her in cycling kit, to see if anyone remembered her, or any cars, from that night.’