Five Strangers Page 10

  Laurence fell silent as he realised something was wrong, something much more serious was unfolding before him than a nasty row with a drunk girlfriend.

  ‘Oh my God, Jen, I think I need to get you some help,’ he said.

  As he reached out to comfort me, I smashed his hand away. He must have rung Bex then, I think, and told her to come.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ I shouted. ‘I’ve ruined everything. I want to die.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. That’s the problem.’ I started to lash out, sending the glasses, cheese plates, knives, a pot of fig chutney, onto the floor.

  He tried to take me in his arms, to restrain me. At that moment, as his left arm circled around behind my head, I bared my teeth and, feeling like an animal in a trap, I bit deep into his arm. He tried to push my head away, but my teeth remained locked into his skin.

  He screamed, and hit me around the face. But still my jaw refused to dislodge itself. I felt someone wrench open my mouth and something soft being forced into it. I bit down hard until I wanted to choke.

  The sensation brought me back to the awful reality. What the fuck had I done?

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whispered, feeling sick at the taste of blood in my mouth. I wanted him to hit me again. I didn’t deserve to live. ‘Just kill me,’ I said. ‘Put me out of my misery.’

  20

  BEX

  I’m not entirely joking when I tell Jen that she is one of the most fucked-up people I’ve ever met. It makes her laugh, which is good. But thank goodness I know how to handle her. She talks about that night, the night of her break-up from Laurence. I remember getting a panicked phone call from him, asking me to rush over. Jen had gone absolutely mental, he said.

  I threw some clothes over my pyjamas – it was a hot night so I didn’t need a coat – and I ran up Lady Margaret Road towards his house. I’d been worried about Jen, about how she would tell Laurence the truth about her sacking. His voice sounded frightened, I hoped she wasn’t going to hurt herself – or him.

  By the time I reached Laurence’s house I was out of breath. I rang the bell, kept my finger on it until the door opened. I couldn’t take in the figure standing before me – Laurence, his white shirt soaked through with blood, pressing a tea towel to his arm.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Jen – she’s having some kind of breakdown.’

  ‘What did she do to you?’ I said.

  He didn’t answer, but led me into the kitchen. Smashed glasses and plates littered the floor. There was a huge red stain on the table. Jen was crouched in a corner of the room, a handkerchief clamped in her mouth, her hands pressed onto her head with such pressure it looked as though she was trying to squeeze out her brains.

  ‘Jen?’ I asked softly.

  I gently removed the handkerchief from her mouth before stepping back. She took in a series of deep breaths as if she had just emerged from a long spell under water. It took her a while to know what was going on, but when her eyes focused on me she started to howl like a wild animal.

  ‘Oh my darling, it’s okay,’ I said. I crouched down beside her and tentatively held her.

  ‘I’d watch out if I were you,’ said Laurence, taking the tea towel away from his arm. ‘When I tried to calm her down she did this.’

  ‘What?’

  Laurence took me through the rough sequence of events and how the argument had culminated in her biting him on the arm.

  ‘And did she tell you?’ I asked. ‘About the fact that she lost her column?’

  Laurence looked dumbfounded.

  ‘She was sacked – yesterday,’ I added.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Those miserable bastards and their fucking cuts.’

  I thought it was not up to me to tell Laurence the truth just yet. And so I left it there, for the time being, and helped Jen to her feet.

  21

  JEN

  ‘So let’s get this straight,’ says Penelope. ‘The man who was up there, on the Heath, the mystery jogger, he was Laurence, your ex-boyfriend?’

  I tell her that’s right and I show her the film again. Nothing shocks Penelope – she has seen and done everything. She has witnessed horrific violence and observed at close quarters how human beings can inflict hurt and harm and pain, sometimes for the most idealistic of motives.

  ‘And you think he may be the one who is sending you these odd tweets?’ she asks.

  I outline my theory, but she rejects it straight away.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a man like Laurence would do,’ she says. ‘From the little you’ve told me about him he seems to be a chap who would just come out with it straight. If he still has feelings for you, as you believe, would he not ask if he could have another chance?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say. ‘Before all this happened we were supposed to be meeting up for lunch.’ I haven’t told Penelope the whole story about that awful night and how I tried to take a chunk out of his arm. No doubt if I did she would be less likely to believe me. Why would a man want anything more to do with a woman who had done such a terrible thing?

  Penelope begins to reminisce about some of her lovers. There had been the famous war correspondent, married with children, whom she had met in Vietnam. He was on the point of leaving his wife and family for her when he was shot and killed. She thought she would never recover, but then one day in London she had met a handsome man in publishing at a boozy party in Notting Hill. Six months later they were married. They’d had two children, had bought this house in Hampstead when the area was full of bohemian types, not the awful moneyed people you get today. Bankers had a lot to answer for, she said.

  ‘And talking of bankers, do you know any more about the one behind the attack, Daniel Oliver?’

  ‘Not much more,’ I say.

  ‘I think it’s about time we paid a visit to see his family, or the family of Victoria Da Silva, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to solve this if we just wait for answers to come to us.’

  ‘So … you want to help me?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re more than capable of getting to the bottom of this by yourself, but there’s nothing like a little sisterly solidarity,’ she says, her eyes twinkling at the prospect. ‘I know your friend Bex probably has your best interests at heart, but she’s never been a journalist. What does she know of the thrill of the chase?’

  Penelope talks about some of her past adventures, when she roamed the world with a blank chequebook or a suitcase of cash.

  ‘I feel sorry for young journalists today, I really do,’ she says. ‘Always chained to a desk and limited by the law and the boundaries of good taste. So much you read in the papers today is so goddamn boring.’

  ‘So what do you think I – we – should do?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you think it’s too early to contact the families?’

  ‘It may be,’ she says, batting her huge eyelashes, ‘but we’ll never find out unless we ask. That’s always been my first rule: it’s always worth asking the question.’

  I realise that I could learn a lot from Penelope. She has the personality – the ‘I’m not taking no for an answer’ attitude – and the experience, not to mention her contacts. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew some dodgy private detectives and bent coppers. But I would have to be careful that she didn’t suggest doing anything illegal. I didn’t want to end up being hauled in front of the Press Complaints Commission. Then everything about my past might come out.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she says, touching my arm. ‘I know what you’re feeling anxious about.’

  ‘You do?’ I say nervously.

  ‘Before we go any further, I want you to know that this is still your story,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to steal it from you. But it’s not every day something like this drops into your lap. It could earn you a good deal of money. And I wouldn’t drea
m of sharing any of the proceeds.’ She raises her hand. ‘I’m not going to argue. I know you’ve been a little down on your luck after losing your job. Oh, Jen, I can see I’ve shocked you a little, I can tell by your expression. I know I may sound a little cynical, mercenary even, but you’ll just have to get used to these little remarks of mine.’

  ‘No, I find it refreshing,’ I say. ‘I think I’ve been so caught up writing about myself – all that personal confession stuff – that I’ve lost a little of that journalistic spark I used to have. So I’d love it if you could give me some advice and help.’ I think over what’s happened since last Thursday. ‘So you really think there’s a bigger story here?’

  ‘It certainly looks like it,’ she says. ‘Especially the possibility that Daniel didn’t kill his girlfriend. Obviously, all the evidence and the witness statements point against it. Your own eyes – what you saw that day up on Kite Hill – tell you this can’t be right. That message you received sounds absolutely unbelievable. It could well be the work of some crank. But we won’t know unless we do a bit of digging. But that’s what makes it so delicious, don’t you think?’

  I’m not quite sure I would use that word. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say. ‘So what do we do next?’

  22

  BEX

  After Jen had bitten him, Laurence said he didn’t want to involve the police. He did, however, go to the Whittington Hospital, up the road in Archway, where he told the A&E staff that a stray dog had attacked him. He got his stitches, a tetanus jab, and was home by 3 a.m.

  I took Jen back to my flat. She was distressed, remorseful, still in a panic. I was worried that if I called a doctor there was a risk that she would be sectioned, and so I decided to look after her myself. I was certain that she wouldn’t try to hurt me. I made her comfortable in my bed, gave her a couple of sleeping pills, and told her not to think about what had happened. It would all be fine in the morning, I said, not believing my own words. I held her hand as she drifted off to sleep and whispered to myself, ‘What are we going to do with you, Jen Hunter?’

  The next morning I was awoken by a howl. I ran from the sitting room to find Jen sitting up in bed, her head in her hands. Clearly, she had just remembered something of what she’d done the night before. She looked awful, with dark shadows under her eyes, her skin all swollen and puffy.

  ‘Tell me it was just a bad dream,’ she wailed.

  ‘Oh babe,’ I said, going to sit by her.

  ‘Fuck – what happened? I remember some things, but a lot of it’s in a haze.’

  Quietly, and with as much tact and sensitivity as possible, I explained what Laurence had told me and what I had witnessed.

  ‘Fuck, did I really do … that?’

  ‘I think it was all too much for you – hearing the news about your job and then—’

  ‘Jesus – and I hadn’t taken any drugs,’ she joked. ‘Shit, the sad thing is, if I still had my column this would make for confessional gold.’

  ‘It sure would have been one hell of a column,’ I said, smiling.

  She fell silent for a moment before another thought occurred to her. ‘I can’t remember – did I tell him about my job? I mean, about why … why I lost the column?’

  ‘No, all Laurence knows is that the newspaper let you go, but he thinks it was because of budget cuts,’ I said. ‘And I didn’t tell him anything different.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘I’d rather be known as a cannibal than a liar.’ I could tell she was putting a brave face on things, but the comment made both of us laugh.

  ‘But seriously, Jen, I do think you need some help,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not going to send me away, though, are you?’ she said, sounding like a little girl.

  ‘No, you’re not going anywhere,’ I said.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  I watched as the tears spilled down her cheeks. I held her tight as she thanked me for being the best friend in the world.

  Over the course of the following few weeks I barely left her side. I told my boss at Camden Council that I had suffered a bereavement in the family. I also had some holiday owing. I took her to the GP, waited for her when she went in to see her therapist, stood by her to make sure she swallowed her medication, cooked her meals and made sure she got plenty of exercise – walking on the Heath was her favourite. She really cut down her drinking too, which really impressed me. She was desperate to try to see Laurence again, if only to try to explain, but I advised her against it. I did allow her to send him a card and some flowers. She was hurt when she heard nothing back from him, but I told her that it would take time for him to forgive her.

  By the autumn she was showing progress. By the New Year she was like a different woman altogether. She went into February with a renewed sense of optimism and purpose. She wanted to get her life back. She moved out of my flat and into a rented room at Penelope’s. Her future looked bright. But then she got back in touch with Laurence, and witnessed that horrific incident on Parliament Hill Fields. That’s when everything changed.

  23

  JEN

  I’m standing outside the enormous house, or rather mansion, belonging to Mr and Mrs Da Silva on The Bishops Avenue wondering what to say. It’s exactly a week since the murder–suicide, and the sight of the house intimidates me. It is one of those buildings that, with its grand proportions, twin turrets and mellow brickwork, appears Edwardian, but actually dates from only five or so years back. It’s set behind tall security gates, equipped with video entry, and no doubt a whole host of other features all built as the estate agent would say ‘without regard to cost and expense’. Inside is a grieving couple, mourning the loss of their daughter.

  Penelope persuaded me to write a letter to the Da Silvas. We found their address on the electoral roll and I wrote to them telling them that I had witnessed the attack. I was honest and told them that I was a journalist, and included the link to the news story I had written. But I assured them that I didn’t want to interview them. Rather, I thought it might be helpful for them if they met someone who had been there at the scene of the crime. Perhaps they had some questions that they could put to me which the police had not been able to answer. Within a day I received a response – Pedro Da Silva sent me an email – and we made an appointment at the house.

  Despite the assurances I had given them in the letter, I still feel nervous and more than a bit of a fraud. I have to tell myself that I’m here not so much as a journalist but more as a concerned citizen. The message about Daniel Oliver not being the real killer of Victoria Da Silva has to be investigated, if only for it to be dismissed. And so I try to channel my inner Penelope, take a deep breath, and press the buzzer on the intercom. I feel a camera watching me. But what does it see? A smart, not that bad-looking blonde woman, wearing an expensive, dark navy Paul Smith wool suit – although I had never bothered to invest in property, I used my salary to purchase a nice collection of clothes over the years. Yes, I look good on the surface. But, of course, the camera is not able to pick up on what’s underneath – all the mental scars and well-buried miseries.

  A few seconds later I am buzzed in. I walk across the gravel path, past an extravagant fountain of dolphins spouting water from their mouths and to the front entrance. The door is opened by a sad-eyed old lady, who introduces herself as the family’s housekeeper, and then ushers me into a marble and gold hallway. She tells me that Mr and Mrs Da Silva are in the sitting room and she guides me past an elaborate staircase, through an atrium with a reproduction mosaic floor that looks as though it could have been copied from a Roman villa, and to a room that overlooks the expanse of the neat back gardens. Mr Da Silva gets up from his place on the white leather sofa, but his wife remains seated. There is a gigantic chandelier that casts its light into every corner of the space, but there’s something dark about the room. Grief casts its shadow here, and no amount of artificial light can banish that.

  ‘Miss Hunter
, so very pleased to meet you,’ says Mr Da Silva, stretching out his hand. He realises his tone is a little too upbeat and, after a quick but worried glance back at his wife, says more solemnly, ‘Thank you for coming to see us.’ He is a small man with a bald head and a carefully manicured beard. ‘Please, sit down.’

  I sit across from Mrs Da Silva and smile sympathetically, but she continues to stare down at her lap. She seems empty. The loss of her daughter has hollowed her out.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know whether it would be appropriate. But I …’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Miss Hunter,’ says Mr Da Silva.

  I tell him he can call me Jen. He bows his head in acknowledgement and he presses a buzzer for the housekeeper to bring us tea.

  ‘Now, before we go any further, I just want you to assure us that what we say won’t be repeated or printed in any newspaper or go online or whatever,’ he says. He talks now like the successful businessman he is. His words are not a question, but a statement of fact.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, choosing my own words carefully. ‘As I outlined in my letter, although I’m a journalist and I wrote a news piece about the … incident, I’ve no intention of including anything you say in any article I write.’

  He nods his head again. ‘You know, Vicky … Victoria – at one point, before she got into interior design, she thought about training as a journalist,’ he says. ‘In fact, I think she was even a fan of yours, isn’t that right, Ana?’

  His wife does not respond, and continues to stare down at her hands.

  ‘Sorry, I’m afraid my wife is … well, it’s all hit her rather hard, quite understandably so,’ he says. ‘But Vicky had the world at her feet. She could have done anything with her life.’

  ‘She seems like quite a remarkable young woman,’ I say. ‘And I’m pleased to hear that she liked what I wrote. Not that you’d describe what I did as real journalism.’