Five Strangers Read online

‘Why is that?’

  ‘I wrote a column, about my life, confessional stuff, very light. Nothing that would change the world.’

  ‘I see – you talk about it in the past tense. Why is that?’

  ‘I’ve moved on to pastures new, as they say.’

  After a little more small talk – about the house and the Da Silva business (a chain of successful restaurants, food imports, property) – Mr Da Silva asks me about what I witnessed on Valentine’s Day. I describe the events as best as I can, obviously leaving out anything too graphic or violent. The last thing I want is to upset him or his wife. Mr Da Silva wants to know how quickly the police turned up. I tell him it seemed like an age, but it was only a matter of minutes since that first call. Did they do everything they could to save Victoria? I assure him that they had. Luckily, he doesn’t ask for my opinion on whether his daughter had or had not suffered. I’m not sure I could have answered that question honestly.

  ‘Here, have a cup of tea, it looks as though you need it,’ he says, as the housekeeper returns with a tray. ‘Ana, will you have some too?’

  The housekeeper pours tea for the three of us, but the teacup sits untouched on the table by Mrs Da Silva.

  ‘It must have been a dreadful thing for you to witness,’ says Mr Da Silva. ‘And the police told me about what you did to try to stop … stop it. I’m grateful you did everything in your power to help. You and that other man – what was his name?’

  ‘Jamie Blackwood,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, him, he was very brave too. But what of the other men at the scene? The police told us that there was a jogger who ran away – and then there was a teenager who fled too? Who were they, do you know?’

  I don’t want to lie to Mr Da Silva, but I can hardly tell him about what I know about Laurence. ‘I think the police are still looking for them,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘Cowards,’ he says under his breath. ‘If they had helped, all this could … well, it could have turned out very differently, don’t you think?’

  I agree with him and I’m about to ask him a question when Mr Da Silva begins to talk about his daughter: what she’d been like as a child, how funny and clever she was, how talented – she was a wonderful flautist, he said, and a fabulous artist. She had some lovely friends, both from school (she had gone to City of London School for Girls) and university (Durham).

  ‘And Daniel, what was—’

  Mr Da Silva holds up his hands and cuts me off. ‘I refuse to have his name mentioned in this house,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, Jen, but it just causes too much pain for me, and for Ana too.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say, looking over at Mrs Da Silva. I suppose she must be on some kind of medication or sedative. I can’t imagine what she must be going through. My natural instinct is to thank the Da Silvas for their time, stand up and say goodbye, but then I think of Penelope and what she will say to me when I get back to her house. I had to toughen up, she had told me. I had to forget about myself and my own opinions. I had to get to the rotten heart of the story.

  At the root of this particular story was a mystery, she added. It was not only a case of why: what was the motive behind the killing; was it, as the police maintained, driven by jealousy, or was it something else? But it was also a case of who: namely, who was responsible for the crime? Could there be any truth in the suggestion that Daniel Oliver didn’t kill Victoria Da Silva? And even if that allegation turned out to be baseless, why would someone else want to try to shift the blame away from Daniel?

  But my immediate concern as I’m sitting here across from Mr and Mrs Da Silva is what to do next. What do I say to this grieving father and mother?

  ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling,’ I say. ‘I know it’s not the same, but I lost both my parents when I was fourteen. They died in a car crash.’

  As soon as the words are out I immediately want to swallow them back down. I think of Bex and how angry she would be with me. I think of the expression of disappointment on the face of my therapist. I think of my poor mum and dad. I stand up to leave.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ says Mr Da Silva. ‘Please, stay a little longer.’

  I do as he says, feeling a blush creep across my cheeks.

  ‘That must have been awful for you, to lose your parents at such a young age,’ he says, before turning to his wife. ‘Imagine that, Ana.’ But still there is no response and so he faces me again. ‘There’s a natural order of things – parents aren’t supposed to bury their children. And to be taken from us in such a way. By someone who said that they loved her.’

  I clear my throat and ask gently, ‘Did Victoria think she would marry … him?’

  ‘At one time I think she planned to,’ he says, softening now. ‘I admired his energy. His ambition. But Ana here, she wasn’t so keen. She was suspicious of his good looks. She always said a woman should avoid marrying a handsome man, because in the end they will betray you. And, well, he,’ he says, still refusing to use Daniel’s name, ‘he was as handsome as they come. Victoria was infatuated.’

  ‘And how did they meet?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know – it could have been through her friend, Caro – is that right, Ana?’

  His wife looks like she is about to say something, but the effort proves too much for her.

  ‘Caro Elliott,’ he continues. ‘Lovely girl. A friend from university. Works in public relations, I believe.’

  I make a mental note to look her up later.

  ‘She’s devastated by the … by what happened,’ he says. ‘She was in tears when she phoned here …’ His voice trails off and he stares into the vast garden. ‘Vicky always said she wanted to be married here, in the back garden. We’ll never have that now, will we? No, the only party we’ll have for her here will be her wake.’

  Tears come into Mr Da Silva’s dark eyes. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you today,’ I say.

  ‘You haven’t disturbed us at all, my dear,’ he replies. ‘And please do come and see us again.’

  I thank him and stand to leave. I say goodbye to Mrs Da Silva, and he walks me across the room. But just as we are about to pass into the atrium I hear a weak voice. I turn back. It’s Mrs Da Silva. Her posture doesn’t change and her gaze is still fixed straight ahead.

  ‘Vicky was going to have a baby,’ she says, almost as if she is choking on the words. ‘She was pregnant when … when she died.’

  24

  BEX

  I watch him watching her. Jen is sitting on a bench at the front of Kenwood House. He is standing behind her, pretending to check his phone. Although I’m not certain, I think I know who he is. He’s the teenage boy who ran away from the scene of the murder.

  I didn’t notice him at first. Why should I? He must have been mingling amongst the crowd of tourists, young mothers with their children, and retired Hampstead types. He stood out because he wasn’t moving – he was just standing there, uncertain about what to do next – and because he kept glancing over at Jen, quick, furtive squints to begin with, and then longer, more intense looks. My first instinct was to go over and confront him, but I stopped myself. By watching him I knew I had the advantage. I had the chance to study him.

  I walk over towards him, but I’m careful not to let him see me in case he recognises me; he may have followed Jen during the times we were together. I take shelter behind a tree and notice every little thing about him. He’s wearing a pair of sandy-coloured chinos, a blue Oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. He’s not sporting the latest trainers, but a pair of brown brogues. I wonder whether he dresses like this all the time or whether he’s in disguise.

  Jen gets up from the bench and begins to walk along the path. The boy follows at a safe distance. I begin to shadow him. I consider messaging or calling Jen to tell her what’s happening, but I worry about her reaction. That maybe she’ll panic or cause a scene.

  I quicken my pace, hoping that the boy doesn’t look around.
I also hope that Jen doesn’t turn her head. We move away from the track, away from the crowds, and onto a stretch of pathway shielded by a long line of trees. The temperature drops a few degrees. There is a strange hush, as if the birds in this shaded spot have flown away and deserted us. If I can’t see anyone apart from Jen and the boy it probably means no one else can see us either. We are two women, alone on the Heath, and one of those women, a particularly vulnerable one, is being followed. I refuse to let the images I’ve seen in the newspapers and on television over the last few weeks – boys and girls, men and women stabbed to death at an alarming rate – get to me. But at the same time I have to be prepared to protect Jen.

  What if he has a knife?

  As I step forward I feel an obstacle in my path. My foot is stuck on a gnarled tree root and, before I know it, I’m falling. I swallow the pain as my palms make contact with the stony ground. I squeeze my eyes shut in the naive, childish belief that if I do so nobody will see me. I look up, half expecting to see the teenage boy standing before me, but he’s gone. I strain my neck and can see no sign of Jen. I push myself upwards, wince as I clear the cluster of small stones and twigs from my stinging palms, and run.

  25

  JEN

  I hear the sound of someone behind me. I tell myself it’s nothing to worry about, it’s my overactive imagination at work again. It will be someone and their dog, a mother with their toddler. But when I glance behind, I see him. He’s dressed differently to the time I saw him on Parliament Hill Fields, but I know it’s him. The boy who ran away from the crime scene.

  My first instinct is to get the hell out of here. I quicken my pace and take a path that I think leads away from the wooded section and into a more exposed space. I don’t want to look around, but I know he’s still on my trail. What does he want? Why is he here? And how did he find me? But instead of opening into an expanse of greenery, the path only takes me deeper into the wood. I hear the snap of a twig, the shuffle of some decaying leaves. I take a deep breath and slowly turn around.

  Standing by a tree is the boy. He begins to walk towards me. I look around for signs of other people, but there’s no one here. Just as I open my mouth to scream he puts up his hand to try to stop me.

  ‘I just want to talk,’ he says.

  Although my throat feels like it’s beginning to seize up, I manage to rasp out a couple of words. ‘What about?’

  ‘About what happened—last week,’ he says. ‘With that bloke and his girlfriend. I read your piece in the newspaper.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I saw you, at the place where it happened, and then I followed you back to where you live,’ he says. It’s obvious he is not proud of this fact. ‘I didn’t know how else to get hold of you.’

  I think of those Twitter messages. ‘What’s your name?’

  He hesitates slightly before he says, ‘Steven. Steven Walker.’

  He takes another step forwards, at which point I take a step backwards, steadying myself by a tree.

  ‘I’m not here to hurt you or to cause any trouble,’ he says.

  ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know I can trust you?’

  The questions seem to confuse him because he doesn’t answer. And so I ask a third question.

  ‘Have you got something to hide?’

  ‘No, what makes you say that?’ he says defensively.

  ‘I’m just wondering why you fled the scene of the crime. When the police arrived.’

  He runs his hand over his smooth, closely-cropped head. ‘I guess I was frightened,’ he says. ‘You might not have noticed it, but black kids haven’t had an easy time with it when it comes to the police, especially when a knife is involved.’

  The thought that he may have a knife hadn’t occurred to me, but the mention of one immediately makes me more fearful. But I realise that the person who I’ve been searching for is now standing in front of me. There are things I need to ask him.

  ‘Look, as I said, I’m not here to hurt you,’ he insists. ‘I just want to talk.’

  He begins to walk towards me with an expression of desperation in his eyes.

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong, you’ve got to believe me,’ he insists.

  ‘Why do you think you might have done something wrong?’ I ask.

  He continues to move towards me. He’s only a few feet away now. He doesn’t seem like the violent type. If anything, there’s an air of sensitivity, indeed delicacy about him.

  An expression of disgust fills his eyes as he begins to recall what happened that day. ‘I shouldn’t have been up there, on the Heath,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have seen that happen. I should have been at school, William Ellis. I belong to the chess club which meets each Thursday lunchtime. But that day I’d had … well, I’d had a difficult morning.’

  ‘None of us should have seen what we saw,’ I say. ‘Tell me what you remember.’

  ‘I walked up to the top of the hill. I go there when I’m feeling stressed, when it’s all been too much, y’know? I like the view of the city. I don’t know, it makes me feel like I might achieve something one day. That my life isn’t completely useless.’

  I smile and encourage him to continue.

  ‘You see, I live with my mum. She’s ill. Mental illness. Started soon after my dad left. Anyway, that morning she had really kicked off. Started saying things she didn’t mean. Smashed some pots in the kitchen. I know when she’s like this that it’s not really her. Sometimes she misses her medication, right? I was supposed to have chess club, like I said, but I got these texts from her all morning. I was worried about her. And I know I should have gone to check on her. But I couldn’t face it. And so I came to the hill to get some air and clear my head.’

  He thinks for a moment while he assesses me. ‘You’re not going to write all this down, are you?’

  ‘Well, I am a journalist, that is my job.’ The response is more of an expression of wish fulfilment than anything else.

  ‘But you won’t print anything I tell you.’ An aggressiveness has crept into his voice now. ‘You won’t write those things I said about my mum.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Steven,’ I say. ‘I won’t write anything unless I clear it with you first. And no, I won’t write about your mother.’

  ‘I can trust you?’

  I think it’s odd that only a few minutes before I was asking him the same question. I still don’t know the answer to that. After all, he’s admitted to following me, to watching me. How do I know he isn’t the one sending those creepy messages?

  ‘Yes, you can trust me,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we go and grab a coffee somewhere?’

  He nods and smiles. Just as we turn to make our way out of the wooded area I hear the sound of running and someone calling my name.

  ‘Jen? Jen – are you there?’

  It’s Bex’s voice. What is she doing here? A moment or so later I see her coming towards us at top speed. Her face is flushed and there’s panic – and anger – in her eyes.

  ‘Get away from her!’ she screams.

  Steven doesn’t know what to do. He looks confused, scared, and his head turns from side to side as he tries to process what’s going on. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ she exclaims. ‘Get away from her!’

  ‘It’s fine, Bex, it’s only Steven, he was another witness – he’s trying to help,’ I shout back.

  But it’s too late. Steven takes one look at the fury descending towards him and he bolts with the speed of a frightened deer. I call out his name, try to explain, but it’s no use.

  ‘Oh my God, Jen, are you all right?’ asks Bex.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I knew something like this was about to happen,’ she says. ‘Thank God I was nearby. Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No, not at all, and he was about to tell me something important – about what happened that day.’

  ‘Was he following you?’

  �
�Yes, but I’m sure he’s not dangerous.’

  ‘How can you possibly know such a thing? Why was he stalking you?’

  ‘Obviously, he wasn’t the only one.’ My fingers fly up to my lips, almost in an effort to push the words back into my mouth.

  I see the amazement and then the distress in Bex’s face. She looks as hurt as if I’d just slapped her across the cheek. ‘Sorry, in the future I’ll just let you get cut up into little pieces by the next madman who follows you into a dark wood.’

  ‘Bex, I didn’t mean it like that, really I didn’t.’

  There is a hardness in her eyes. Bex hardly ever gets cross or angry, well, at least not with me, and to see her like this is frightening.

  ‘Do you know what, Jen? How about you try to take care of yourself for a change?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. It’s obvious that you’ve found my attentions a bit too much.’

  ‘It’s not that – it’s since witnessing the attack I’ve lost sight of—’

  ‘How many times have I watched your back?’ she asks. ‘How many times have I got you out of trouble?’

  ‘I know – and I’m grateful, really I am.’

  ‘And with all that business over losing your column and then Laurence …’

  ‘You’ve been so kind – the best friend anyone could want.’ I reach out to touch her, but she takes a step back.

  Her expression is harsh and cold, like she’s turned a light off inside of her. The effect almost winds me.

  ‘I suggest if you want a best friend you start hanging out with your new favourite person – go and ask Penelope for some support. And, by the way, good luck with that.’

  I can’t believe this is happening. She turns from me and starts to walk away. I keep expecting her to spin around, her face full of laughter as she shouts, ‘Gotcha!’ But she doesn’t. She just carries on walking, past the trees and out of the wood into the sunlight, while I’m left standing alone and in the dark.

  26

  BEX