Five Strangers Read online

  I think about the recent conversation I had with Jen about Laurence. I remember how he hurt her. I recall, once again, the horrific scene that night in his kitchen when Jen went to pieces. I wonder whether that relationship could ever have really worked. They are such different people, after all.

  Laurence glances at his wrist, most likely his Fitbit, and bursts into a sprint. I increase my pace, hearing my breathing quicken. As I run I begin to think about what might happen to him. A series of images flash into my mind. He’s being pushed in front of an oncoming tube train, his body mangled. I see him bludgeoned over the head, blood spilling from his temples. I imagine him running across the Heath, on such a morning as this. There are lots of isolated spots where it could happen. He’s passing through a stretch of woodland, he’s got his buds pushed deep into his ears, just as he has today. He’s unaware of the woman running up behind him. She has a knife. She plunges it deep into his neck, severing his carotid artery. There is a spurt of blood and he falls to the floor. He opens his mouth to talk, but nobody can hear him. He dies a lonely and a painful death.

  Whatever happens I’ll make sure of one thing: he’s going to suffer.

  29

  JEN

  I couldn’t sleep last night. Now it’s early in the morning – too early – and I’m on my phone. I can’t believe what I’m reading on MailOnline. I’m finding it difficult to catch my breath, as if the words themselves have the power to choke me.

  VALENTINE’S DAY MURDER VICTIM WAS PREGNANT

  I reread the headline, thinking that there must be some mistake or that it’s about another woman, a different case. But as my eyes scroll down through the short news report, and I see the accompanying photograph of Victoria, I feel as though I am going to be sick.

  • Victoria Da Silva, the daughter of multi-millionaire businessman Pedro Da Silva, who was murdered by her boyfriend, Daniel Oliver, was pregnant.

  • The beautiful 26-year-old was brutally stabbed on 14 February – Valentine’s Day – at a well-known viewing point on Parliament Hill Fields, north London.

  • Oliver, 28, a City trader, then stabbed himself to death.

  A source close to the investigation says, “Not only did Daniel kill Victoria, but that day he also murdered Victoria’s unborn child.” The source, who did not want to be named, did not know how long Victoria had been pregnant, or whether her family or friends knew whether she was pregnant at all, but suggests that this could have been a factor in the killing. “We’ve all been wondering why Daniel did such a cruel and terrible thing – it all seems so senseless, somehow – but there’s been talk that perhaps the baby wasn’t his,” says the source. “If he discovered this then it might have been enough to send him over the edge. Even so, of course what he did was completely indefensible. Victoria was like a beacon of light. She was such a lovely person.”

  The Metropolitan Police refused to confirm or deny Victoria Da Silva’s pregnancy. They told MailOnline that there would be an inquest held in due course. Mr and Mrs Da Silva, who live on The Bishops Avenue, refused to comment.

  Shit. I take a couple of deep breaths and throw down my phone in disgust.

  ‘Penelope!’ I shout, opening the door of my bedroom.

  ‘Yes, darling, what’s wrong?’ she calls up from the kitchen. ‘I’m down here.’

  I storm down the stairs, hardly bothering to use the bannister that snakes down through the space. As I run I think how easy it would be to fall; one false step and I could plummet down the hard, marble steps.

  ‘Normally, I wouldn’t be up at such an ungodly hour, but today I have to—’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ I interrupt, my voice rasping.

  She glances up from her breakfast of smoked salmon on toast and asks, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I know it was you.’

  ‘Me? Please tell me what I’m supposed to have done.’

  She has an amused expression in her eyes that infuriates me.

  ‘You gave a tip-off to MailOnline, didn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replies as she continues to eat her breakfast.

  ‘About Victoria’s pregnancy. Who else could it have been?’

  ‘I’m sure it could have been one of many people,’ she says, refusing to meet my gaze. ‘One of her friends, perhaps? What’s the name of that PR you told me about? Caroline?’

  ‘Caro, Caro Elliott,’ I say. ‘And I doubt she would have done something as low as that. And besides, you’ve got contacts there.’

  ‘Oh come on, Jen,’ she says, placing her knife back down on her plate. ‘Let’s get a few things straight.’ She shifts in her seat, turns to me, her eyes blazing. ‘One: I am not a liar. If I’m asked a direct question by a friend I tend to tell the truth. Two: I wouldn’t dream of getting in touch with MailOnline. If I wanted to tip someone off it would at least be one of the top editors at the paper, not some hack on the digital division. And three: I know this is your story, and I told you I would help, but I wouldn’t interfere.’

  ‘What, like when you went to pay Daniel Oliver’s mother a surprise visit without informing me? That’s not interfering?’

  ‘Oh, come on, you know that visit netted a valuable piece of information.’

  I could feel my face burning red now. ‘It may have done, but by doing it you went behind my back.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to help,’ she says. ‘I can always let you get on with this in your own, rather pathetic and half-hearted manner.’

  ‘I think I’d appreciate that,’ I reply.

  ‘And to think I thought you had something,’ she murmurs to herself under her breath.

  ‘Sorry? What was that you said?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ She bites into a piece of toast and crunches it, the sound seeming to amplify around my head.

  ‘If you’ve … if you’ve got something to say …’ I can feel my voice breaking, the words splitting apart. ‘I’d like you to tell me.’

  ‘Well, if you’d like to hear some home truths, let’s start with this,’ she says, taking up a white napkin and running it across her lips. As she puts it back in her lap, I notice there’s a trace of her pink lipstick. ‘You’ve got a nice way with words, you can tell a good story, but I think the years working as – what do people say now? – a confessional columnist, has rather corrupted your journalistic instinct. In my day, none of my contemporaries would dream of talking about, well, about some of the intimate aspects of one’s life. And if they did, it would never be classified as journalism, rather something more appropriate to what you’d see scrawled on the door of a public lavatory.’

  I am so shocked I can’t respond. So that’s what she really thinks of columns such as mine.

  ‘My advice would be to abandon this story altogether – it’s clear you haven’t got what it takes to pursue it, to do it justice,’ she adds. ‘Yes, I see now that your friend Bex was right. No wonder she was so worried about you. You’re not ready for this. Perhaps you never will be.’

  The mention of Bex’s name makes me want to cry. I want to call my friend and apologise. I want to hear her voice. If only we could have a glass of wine together. I feel for my phone in the pockets of my jeans, but realise I’ve left it upstairs. Penelope continues to talk – about the need for toughness, for objectivity, for distance – but I can’t stand listening to her a moment longer. I don’t want to humiliate myself by weeping in front of her. And so, without a word of explanation, I turn from her and make for the door.

  30

  BEX

  I let Laurence jog away, confident he hasn’t seen me. I’m good at hiding, making myself invisible. I always have been, ever since I was a child.

  I suppose it started at home when I had to make myself invisible out of necessity. Dad would come home, invariably wanting a fight. Mum, after too much wine, would say something inoffensive, but Dad would twist it into something else, and accuse her of nagging or criticising him
. Their voices would rise, and soon I would hear the noise of Dad’s fist smashing into Mum’s face. I can still remember the sound of something cracking. The splatter of Mum’s vomit as it hit the lino in the kitchen. The clatter of a couple of her teeth dropping into the sink. Once, I tried to intervene. I ran into the hallway to try to pull Dad off her, but he brushed me aside with such force that I fell into the stairs, bruising the side of my face.

  Since then I learned how to pass into a room unnoticed, and just stand there, unobserved, like a ghost watching the living. The skill has come in useful over the years, both at work and when I’ve been keeping track of Jen, watching out for her, making sure she is safe.

  Jen. I say her name to myself. I can’t continue being angry with her, and so I take out my phone and I’m about to ring her when I notice the time. It’s still quite early – I don’t want to wake her – and so I text her instead. I hold the phone, hoping that by looking at it I can will some kind of immediate response from her, but there’s nothing.

  I look up and see the back of someone I vaguely recognise. I quicken my pace. Yes, I’m sure it’s the teenage boy I saw yesterday with Jen. What was his name? Steven. I follow him at a distance, running on the spot when I sense that there’s a risk he might turn around. What’s he doing here this early in the morning? I don’t trust him. I didn’t like the way he was looking at Jen yesterday. And why was he following her, shadowing her, like that? Jen accused me of stalking her, but I was doing it out of a need to protect her, not like him. And why did he run off? He’s got something to hide, I’m sure.

  The realisation of what is happening stops me in my tracks. How could I have been so stupid? Steven is walking in the direction of Hampstead. And Jen.

  31

  JEN

  I still can’t believe what Penelope said to me. What a bitch. I’m so furious I forget to pick up a jacket or coat, and I’m freezing. But I don’t want to risk going back inside. God knows what I would do to her. Perhaps I should think about moving out, getting another place. But where would I go? I run through my list of friends. My stupid column had brought about the breakdown of most of my relationships. There was only Bex left.

  I walk as quickly as I can, both in an effort to keep warm and to dispel the hot ball of anger and frustration that burns within me. I hardly notice anything around me, and a few minutes later I realise I’m on the Heath. Perhaps I can pop over to Bex’s flat in Kentish Town. But no doubt she’s still cross with me after what I said to her. I reach into my pocket for my phone, but remember I left it in my room. Fuck. Could I just surprise her? If I turned up on her doorstep with something – flowers, some chocolates, a bottle of wine for later? – then she would have to forgive me, wouldn’t she?

  I start to make my way across the network of paths that lead across the Heath. Myriad thoughts cloud my head. My whole life has been a mess. At one point I thought I was so successful. It looked as though I had everything. An amazing wardrobe of designer clothes. I had a string of handsome and clever boyfriends, culminating in Lawrence. I had a voice: millions of people read what I had to say. And yet it was all a facade. My swish clothes served to disguise my inner demons. I drove those boyfriends away, and Lawrence ended up hating me. Even my name, which I’d changed by deed poll, wasn’t real. And my column? It served no purpose but to give a quick hit of Schadenfreude to the readers – they may have crap lives, but at least they’re not as batshit crazy as that Jen Hunter.

  Thanks to my therapy, I realise that I had become addicted to writing about my life, but also addicted to seeking out dysfunctional situations which made for better copy. And although I know I should look upon losing my column as an opportunity to start again, I still found the withdrawal process painful. ‘Think of it like giving up alcohol or drugs,’ my therapist had told me. ‘It’s not going to be an easy process, but you’ll be a happier person at the end of it.’

  Easier said than done.

  I thought following the story of Victoria Da Silva and Daniel Oliver might help. It would take my mind off myself, for one thing. On a practical note, I might actually be able to use it to relaunch my journalistic career. But after what Penelope said to me, I doubt my abilities. Perhaps it is better if I put it to one side. But then what would I do with myself? How would I earn a living?

  A vision of myself comes to me. I’m not that old, perhaps in my late forties. I’m living in a dump of a council flat somewhere, not even in London. All of my designer clothes have been sold off, and I’m sitting in a formless grey tracksuit. My face is free of make-up and I look pale and unhealthy. I’m on benefits and on medication, a toxic combination. I don’t have anything to live for. I have no job or friends. Even Bex has deserted me. A pile of yellowing paper sits in the corner of the room – my old columns, which I read and reread as a form of both escape and punishment. What is the point of carrying on? I’ve been stockpiling pills ready for the time when I end it all. I see myself as a corpse, lying on a cheap, stained mattress, a body that goes undiscovered for weeks on end until the neighbours begin to complain about the smell.

  The cry of a bird overhead brings me back to the present. I’m standing at the tumulus, a mound that I’ve heard described as an ancient burial site – some say it’s Boadicea’s grave – or an old battleground. It’s a deserted spot today, and the trees that surround it whisper an unknowable message in the wind. I go and sit on one of the benches and close my eyes for a second. If only I had had more sleep last night. I can feel myself drifting off, my consciousness fading. I’m vaguely aware of something rustling in the bushes behind me, but I assume it’s a bird or a rat. It all goes quiet, apart from the wind. But then I hear it again, but this time it sounds like footsteps. I open my eyes, but just as I do so I catch a glimpse of a figure in a mask. It’s a Guy Fawkes mask, used at demos like the Occupy movement. Everything happens so quickly. I open my mouth to scream, but something hits my head. I hear a crack and I’m falling to the ground.

  32

  BEX

  ‘Oh my God, Jen,’ I scream. ‘Jen, wake up!’

  I’m not sure whether I should move her or not and so I bend down and check to see if she’s breathing. I feel a faint flow of air coming out of her nose. She’s not dead. I run my fingers through her smooth blonde hair and when I withdraw them I see that they’re covered in blood. I look around me. I can’t see anyone.

  ‘Jen, oh please, wake up,’ I say again. I gently nudge her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for everything. You know how much you mean to me.’

  I see her eyelids begin to stir. She emits a low groan. I watch as she tries to focus. She brings her hand to her head and scowls as the pain hits her. Her face crumples like a toddler who has just hurt herself, but doesn’t understand why.

  ‘Do you know what happened? Did someone do this to you?’

  She can’t speak. She tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for her.

  ‘Shall I call the police?’ I ask, but there’s no answer.

  I hold her head as she retches into the grass. Again, I look around for signs of people, but all I can see in the distance are a couple of mums pushing prams, and an elderly man walking his dog. When she’s finished being sick I give her a sip from my water bottle. I help her onto the bench and examine the wound on her head. It’s not too deep, but still Jen will develop a nasty lump. There’s also the risk of concussion.

  ‘I think we need to get you checked out,’ I say.

  ‘Is it bad?’ she asks in a weak voice.

  ‘I’m not sure, but you’re bleeding,’ I say. ‘What do you remember?’

  She blinks as she tries to recall what happened to her. ‘I was sitting here – I remember I had my eyes closed. I was feeling so tired. And then I saw someone wearing one of those funny plastic masks, you know the Guy Fawkes one that people wear when they’re protesting.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ I say.

  ‘And then I just blacked out. I suppose they must have hit me with something.’

  ‘D
id you get any sense of who it was? Any other details – what he was wearing? How tall was he?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ she says, looking as though she has failed me.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I hesitate as I think how best to express what I have to tell her. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s something you need to know.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asks. She screws up her eyes as another wave of pain consumes her.

  ‘I was out for an early-morning run when I came across that boy who followed you yesterday – what’s his name? Steven.’

  ‘Steven was here? On the Heath?’

  ‘Yes, I saw him walking from the Dartmouth Park side of the Heath towards Hampstead. In your direction.’

  ‘Did you see him do this to me?’

  ‘No, because at one point he started running – I’m not sure whether he thought he was being followed or not. And although I thought I was quite a good runner, I’m nothing compared to a teenage boy.’

  ‘I don’t understand it – why would Steven want to hurt me?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but that’s not all,’ I say. I take her hand as I prepare myself to break the news. ‘There’s someone else I saw on the Heath earlier.’

  ‘Who?’ she whispers in a way that sounds as though she doesn’t want to hear the answer.

  ‘Laurence.’

  33

  JEN

  The name reverberates through my mind. I remember the moment when I saw the video taken by Alex at the scene of the murder–suicide.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ I say. I’m conscious of shaking my head as if I’m trying to get rid of what I’ve just heard. I tell myself that Laurence would never do anything to hurt me, not like this. ‘It must be a coincidence.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Bex.