Five Strangers Read online

  ‘Don’t say that – look, you know you’ll always have me,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘If you ever left me I don’t know what I’d do.’

  ‘Thanks – for a moment on the Heath, after I said, well, after I’d stupidly accused you of stalking me, I thought I’d never see you again.’

  ‘Well, just don’t push your luck,’ I say in a mock-aggressive fashion. ‘Now, tell me, what do you want me to do?’

  37

  JEN

  I was expecting the call. It’s Mr Da Silva. I answer and raise the phone to my ear, preparing myself for a mouthful of abuse. But instead there’s a quiet, broken voice, full of grief.

  ‘We … we told you in confidence,’ he says.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Mr Da Silva, but you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that it wasn’t me.’

  He carries on as if he hasn’t heard me. ‘My wife, she trusted you. She said that you had a kind face. That you wouldn’t betray us. And now the papers are full of …’

  His voice trails off and I picture him crying, standing in the grand hallway of his opulent, expensive home.

  ‘I know it may be hard to believe, but it wasn’t me who leaked the news,’ I say.

  ‘How can I believe a word you say? You’re a journalist. I was a fool to trust you in the first place.’

  ‘Look – I know nothing I say will convince you. All I can do is give you my word – for what it’s worth.’

  The line goes quiet before I hear the sound of him sniffing. ‘If you didn’t tell them … then who did? I’m not sure who else knew.’

  I blush as I think about Penelope. ‘What about the friend you mentioned, Caro? Caro Elliott?’

  ‘Caro would never betray us like that,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know that you and your colleagues have taken whatever dignity we had from us. Goodbye, and good luck in your career, Miss Hunter. I hope you feel satisfied with what you’ve done.’

  ‘But Mr Da Silva—’

  The line goes dead, the words leaving a nasty sting. They remind me of what Laurence said to me the night we broke up: ‘You must be very proud of yourself.’

  I consider ringing Mr Da Silva back, pleading with him to understand that I hadn’t betrayed his confidence, but what’s the point? I have to take responsibility. It was me who told Penelope about Victoria’s pregnancy. I feel another surge of anger rising up, directed towards her. How could she have done it? However, I have to acknowledge that I knew what she was like. She lives for news, for the thrill of the chase. What a fool I had been to ever trust Penelope. I had left without a note or forwarding address. I hoped I would never see her again.

  I find Caro Elliott’s details online and write an email to her, explaining that I was a witness to the attack and that I’d like to speak to her. I don’t say anything about the fact that I’m a journalist. I just hope that Mr Da Silva hasn’t already warned her that I might try to contact her.

  I go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. Bex is out at the shops, getting in some food – and drink – for later. Although this flat is small, and hasn’t any of the fancy furniture or aesthetic flourishes of Penelope’s, I realise how much more at home I feel here. I can relax in this cramped attic flat in a way I never could at Penelope’s. I take a couple of deep breaths. But I know that, for all of Bex’s kindness and protestations that I can stay here for as long as I like, that this is my permanent home, I still have to forge a future for myself.

  As I sip the tea and look out over the rooftops of Kentish Town I feel a sense of purpose. Despite the attack on me and the unpleasant phone call from Mr Da Silva, I tell myself that I am going to do something with my life. Perhaps getting to the bottom of what really happened between Victoria Da Silva and Daniel Oliver is the first step.

  I can do this.

  Now that I have Bex’s support I don’t need to rely on Penelope. I’ve got someone who believes in me – my oldest friend, someone I know will never let me down.

  I take my tea over to my laptop and write to Julia Jones again. I send another email to the junior doctor, Ayesha Ahmed, asking for her to get in touch, and begin to do an internet search for Steven Walker. I work quickly and efficiently, buoyed along by a wave of adrenaline. Just then an email pings into my inbox. It’s from Caro Elliott. I scan it quickly, reading it for words such as ‘sorry’, ‘I’m afraid’, and ‘impossible’, but instead she talks about how awful it must have been for me and what a shock I must have suffered. Of course, she will agree to see me. Just name a day and a time and she’ll be there.

  38

  BEX

  I tell Jen I’ll be her shadow, that I won’t let her out of my sight. She doesn’t need to feel afraid when she’s got me by her side. And, true to my word, I’m sitting at the next table to her in the café at the National Gallery. I have my phone and a book, which I’m pretending to read. I try to keep my head down and look inconspicuous, but I listen to every word.

  Caro Elliott is of a type you often see around London: tall, leggy, blonde, glamorous. If I had to make a judgement about her based on her looks I would write her off as silly and superficial. But as she talks I get the sense that she is far from that. She begins by asking Jen about how she is coping. She doesn’t want to hear about the incident itself – she read Jen’s account in the news, she says, and that’s enough – but she is keen to talk about Victoria. She wants to remember her for all the good she did in the world. For her beauty, her intelligence, her sense of life, her loyalty. She doesn’t mind if Jen wants to use any of what she says for a piece. She says she knows Jen from her column, of course. She is a fan.

  ‘But I haven’t seen it for a while – are you having a break?’ asks Caro.

  ‘I’ve been laid off – budget cuts,’ Jen replies, looking down at her notebook.

  I have to admire Jen’s technique. She’s gentle, lets Caro lead the conversation, and listens carefully with an empathetic manner, only speaking when she needs to, and even then she keeps her questions short and to the point. She tries to maintain eye contact, even as she writes down the odd note. But I know what’s coming and I’m waiting for it.

  In the meantime, they continue to talk about how the two women met – at university – and I can’t help but think back to my own first encounter with Jen.

  ‘And Vicky was happy – with Daniel?’ asks Jen.

  Caro doesn’t answer immediately. I look over and I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. She casts me a look, and I shrink back into invisible anonymity.

  ‘I suppose they must have been,’ continues Jen. ‘After all, I heard there was talk they were going to get married.’

  Caro leans forwards and lowers her voice. I have to really concentrate in order to hear what she’s saying.

  ‘Promise you won’t … you won’t include this in anything you write,’ she says.

  Jen nods her head. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘It can be off the record.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes, look – I won’t write anything down.’

  Caro stares at Jen as she decides whether to trust her. ‘You probably know, there was that awful story in the MailOnline, but Vicky was thinking of leaving Dan.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ says Jen. ‘She was serious about that? About leaving him?’

  ‘Yes – she’d met someone else. She wasn’t quite sure how her new man felt about her though. Whether he was serious.’

  Tears come into Caro’s eyes and she rustles through her handbag to find a tissue. ‘I still can’t believe she’s not here,’ she says, dabbing her eyes. ‘That she’s not coming back. God, why did that bastard do that to her? I wish now she’d told him to fuck off months back.’

  ‘Do you regret introducing them?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Dan and Victoria – I thought you were the one who introduced them?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t me. Don’t know who it was actually.’

  ‘Okay … And did you want her to leave Dan?’r />
  ‘Too right I did. He was a bully. Not that I saw him hit her or anything. If I had, I would have reported him to the police. But … I was afraid how Dan would react if he ever found out about … It’s right what the MailOnline said. Vicky was two months pregnant, you see. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected that the baby wasn’t Dan’s.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure how often they … how often they made love.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I suppose somehow Dan must have discovered that she was pregnant. If only Vicky had come to stay with me. Or gone to live with her parents. God, she really was the sweetest, nicest girl you’re ever likely to meet. And I’d hate you to think that Vicky was the kind of woman who was … well, who was promiscuous. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. But she wasn’t into one-night stands or flings.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’ asks Jen. ‘Her new boyfriend?’

  ‘No, but she told me a lot about him. Tall, older than her, but nice looking still.’

  ‘Do you know what he did for a living?’

  There’s another pause. But I know what’s coming.

  ‘Architect, I think.’

  I close my eyes. I can’t bear to look over at Jen’s face. But I imagine her trying to keep a stoic expression as inside she falls apart.

  ‘Did she … did she tell you his name?’ Jen asks in a low, barely audible voice.

  ‘Yes, she did. Let’s see if I can remember,’ answers Caro.

  I know what she’s going to say.

  ‘I never knew his surname, but his Christian name was … No, it wasn’t Luke … That’s it, yes, it was Laurence. Not with a “w”, but with a “u” – I remember her telling me that. She also said she’d met the love of her life. But, as I said, she was worried that he didn’t feel the same towards her.’

  ‘Did you ever … ever see a photo of him?’

  ‘Yes, I think she did show me one once.’

  Jen, her hands trembling, takes out her phone and swipes a finger across the screen.

  39

  JEN

  It seems I have all the evidence I need. I feel nothing but numbness, a sense that everything inside me is dying. I try to give Caro a reassuring smile, but I’m afraid it’s more of a scowl than anything.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I manage to say.

  I look over at Bex at the next table, she has her head down and is playing with her phone, but I know she must have heard what Caro just told me. My instinct is to jump up and seek out comfort from Bex – a hug, a reassuring word – but I have to continue to sit here opposite Caro, pretending my world hasn’t just fallen apart.

  Of course, I had no right to determine who Laurence should or should not date – after all, although we had been due to meet up, we hadn’t been seeing one another since the previous summer. But I still feel jealous, jealous of a dead woman. For a moment, I understand how Daniel must have felt when he found out about the affair. I imagine myself holding a knife, pressing it to Laurence’s throat. But then I stop myself. What am I thinking? The revelation has unsteadied me, I tell myself, and it’s threatening to warp my perception. I have to be careful, I know that. I take a sip of sparkling water and do what my therapist says I must do if I find reality slipping away from me: I have to ‘return to the moment’.

  But suddenly an awful thought occurs to me. ‘How long had this man … Laurence … how long had he been seeing Victoria?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Caro. ‘Anyway, I’d rather not dwell on that, if you don’t mind. As I said to you, I want to make sure that Vicky’s positive side comes across. You do promise me nothing of this, what I’ve just told you, will come out?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I promise,’ I tell her.

  She asks me why I have an image of Victoria’s lover on my phone. I tell her that he was a friend of mine and I try to smile as I say something banal about life’s strange coincidences.

  ‘Anyway, I really must be going,’ she says, clearly unsettled by my odd behaviour.

  I tell her that I will settle the bill. It’s the least I can do. She stands up, checks her phone, says goodbye. I watch her walk across the room, waiting, waiting for her to disappear around the corner, before I burst into tears. The release is immense. Bex rushes from her table to sit next to me.

  I can’t get the words out, but there’s no need. She tells me she heard everything.

  ‘Oh, Jen,’ she says, putting her arm around me. ‘What a shit. But at least you know now.’

  I take a deep breath and manage to spit out the words, ‘But what – what I don’t know – is how long?’

  ‘You think that they were together when you were …?’

  I can’t speak. The thought of that turns my stomach. It’s not so much the possible infidelity, but that’s bad enough. It’s the idea that Laurence could have been lying to me, about this, and so much else. I think of that email he sent me just after the murder–suicide. It seemed so caring, so nice of him. But in it he neglected to mention that he even knew Victoria, never mind that they were, or had been, lovers. What else was he hiding? He was there that day, at the top of Kite Hill. He must have known that his girlfriend was about to be attacked. And yet he ran away. He left her to be butchered. Was it cowardice that compelled him to act as he did, or something else, something more sinister? Images, thoughts, past conversations swirl through my head. I feel weak.

  ‘Let’s get you back to the flat,’ says Bex. She takes out her purse and leaves cash for both our tables.

  She helps me out of the café and calls an Uber. Mercifully, the traffic up Charing Cross Road and Tottenham Court Road isn’t too bad, and we get back to the flat within half an hour. She leads me to the sofa like a member of the living dead.

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ says Bex, plumping up a cushion. ‘I’m sure Laurence wasn’t seeing Vicky then, back when you were together.’

  ‘But how do we know?’ I mumble. ‘That could have been the reason why …’ I don’t complete the sentence as I search my memory for possible signs of his infidelity.

  There was that weekend he said he was going to a conference in Berlin. I know he went there, I saw some of the restaurant and bar receipts, but could that have been with Vicky? Then there were countless evenings when he said he had to work late. I never complained, of course, as I understood the pressures of his job.

  I begin to wonder too about my own behaviour. Had this unconscious knowledge – the vague but formless sense that Laurence was seeing someone else – shaped the way I reacted during that awful scene at dinner? Since having therapy I have learned to try to understand the invisible factors that influence me. I had suffered one rejection – the loss of my job in particularly humiliating circumstances – but was I afraid of another? The desertion by Laurence? Was that why I wrecked his kitchen and bit into his arm?

  Of course, it was all too late for Laurence and me. I know I could never get him back. Stupid of me to fantasise about ever reviving our relationship. But perhaps it isn’t too late for something else – it isn’t too late for revenge.

  40

  BEX

  I’m worried about Jen. Since arriving back at the flat she hasn’t said a word apart from the sentence, ‘But how do we know?’ She’s fixated on the idea that Laurence and Vicky were seeing one another while she and Laurence were still together.

  I go into the kitchen and think of what to do next. Jen is no good to anyone when she’s like this, least of all herself. And she was doing so well. The investigation had really given her some purpose. I have to focus her energies once more. I return with two large glasses of brandy.

  ‘Here, take this,’ I say. ‘It will help with the shock.’

  She holds out her hand, but it has all the vitality of a dead fish. Her eyes look lifeless too.

  ‘Take a sip,’ I tell her, but she simply puts the glass on the table next to her.

&nbs
p; ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ I snap. Before I know it my hands grab her around the shoulders. I force her to stand up, like a rag doll controlled by a sadistic puppeteer. I slap her around the face. I hear the crack of my palm on her cheek. Her eyes stretch wider, as if she is being woken from a deep dream. Her fingers travel up to her burning cheek. She can’t believe what’s just happened.

  ‘What …?’ she says.

  ‘You need to fucking snap out of it, Jen,’ I say.

  I know this is not how a trained mental health professional would deal with Jen. But I had lost patience with her. I needed her to act, not sit around wallowing, drowning, in a sea of self-pity.

  She starts to cry and I let her. At least she is having a reaction, feeling something. I pass her some tissues. After a few minutes she stops sobbing. She looks at the glass of brandy with an expression of surprise – as if to say Who put this here? – and gulps it down. Gradually, I see life begin to seep back into her. Her eyes light up and there’s a flush to her cheeks, a rush of blood not caused just by the slap I’ve given her. She looks around the room with a renewed animation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jen, but I did it for your own good,’ I say. ‘If you give into this thing you’ll let Laurence win. You told me that you wanted a purpose to your life. You need to direct that hatred, use it. That sense of anger and frustration can be channelled. I’m not going to allow you to be beaten by this. So what if Laurence was sleeping with Vicky behind your back?’ She winces at this. ‘You knew he was a coward – he ran away and left his lover to die. Now you know he’s a prick too, right? Do you really want to be with a man like that?’