Five Strangers Page 17

  ‘I see,’ she says, swallowing. She pauses and continues, her voice full of sadness. ‘I read that there are some reports that Victoria was pregnant. That her unborn child died that day too.’

  ‘Yes, I think she was,’ I tell her. ‘There’s one theory that Daniel suspected he wasn’t the father of the child.’

  ‘I see,’ she says blankly. There’s a certain intensity in her eyes though, as if she knows something, and she’s keen to keep that something back.

  ‘Would you mind going through what you saw, what you heard, again?’

  The idea sickens her, I can tell, but she is gracious and polite enough to agree. She takes me through the scene, step by step. I’ve heard it all before, but I’m listening for inconsistencies, gaps, small details that might make a difference. But, like with Julia Jones, there’s nothing new. I don’t know what I think I’ll gain from going over old ground, but I have an instinct that there’s something I have yet to learn that might help. I’m about to thank her for her time and say goodbye when I ask her to tell me about those final moments, when Victoria and Daniel were both on the ground, their lives slipping away from them.

  She looks at me as though I’m a sick bitch, but I try to smile sympathetically and encourage her to continue. I hate myself as I do this, as I know what I’m doing will cause Ayesha psychological pain. Perhaps I should drop the whole investigation. Perhaps I should listen to Annabelle. After all, it’s doing nothing but upsetting those who witnessed the terrible crime. I’m about to tell Ayesha to forget it, let’s pass over that question, but she begins to talk.

  ‘The knife cut into both carotid arteries, the arteries that run up the sides of the neck, which supply blood to the brain. You see if they are cut there is a tremendous amount of blood loss. If they hadn’t been cut, but the trachea had been, then there is a greater chance of survival. It’s still a traumatic injury as the blood ends up flowing down into the lungs, and there is a chance of drowning in one’s own blood. If the paramedics arrive in time there is a possibility that they can still do something to save a person’s life. But the severance of the carotid arteries cuts off the supply of blood to the brain and a person lapses into unconsciousness in less than a minute, soon followed by a heart attack and … death.’

  Her description is so clinical that it takes me aback slightly. ‘And did both – both Victoria and Daniel – die like this?’

  ‘Yes, it seems so,’ she replies. ‘Obviously, it’s up to the coroner to make his or her judgement on the matter, but that’s what I believe.’

  ‘And you’ll be giving evidence at the inquest?’

  She nods her head, obviously distressed at the idea of having to do so.

  ‘I suppose all of us who were there will be called, to give our testimonies about what happened.’

  I wonder again what I should do about Laurence. If I go to the police with the video then he would be forced to appear. He would have to explain, on the record, about what he was doing on the Heath that day and why he ran away. I question whether I could endure the public scrutiny that would inevitably come when he confesses that he once had a relationship with one of the other witnesses – me. And whether he would talk about why our love affair broke down. Perhaps Bex is right, and we can deal with him ourselves.

  ‘You may as well know now because I’m going to talk about it at the inquest,’ says Ayesha.

  ‘Sorry, I was just thinking about … about that day,’ I lie. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just that I may as well tell you now, about what Daniel Oliver whispered to me as he was dying.’

  I feel as though I am being injected in the arm with a shot of adrenaline. My heartbeat races and I feel my eyes widening.

  ‘I don’t know if it makes any difference or what it means really,’ she continues. ‘I’d done what I could to save both their lives, but as I knelt down by Daniel I could hear that he was trying to say something. I leaned towards him and … it was obvious he didn’t have much time left. I asked if he wanted to tell me something. He tried to nod, but he couldn’t. I leaned further in, with my ear almost pressed onto his mouth. He didn’t say anything for a moment or two and I’d thought he’d gone. But then he said, in a voice so slight and weak it was hardly even a whisper, he said …’

  She goes quiet.

  ‘Ayesha, what did he tell you?’

  ‘He said, “That … that was him.”’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’

  Ayesha shakes her head. ‘No, no he didn’t … and then, well you know what happened. That bastard died.’

  44

  BEX

  I’m sitting with Jen in the ground-floor café of Tate Modern. Through the line of silver birches I can see the dome of St Paul’s across the river, imprisoned by a square of brutal architecture. One of the baristas is talking loudly about how the coffee is roasted by hand in a Second World War Nissen Hut within the grounds of Tate Britain. A woman at the next table is telling her friends about how Brexit has ruined the property market in London – she hoped to sell this year, but instead she’s resigned herself to building a glass box on the back of her property. I’m hearing all of this as I pretend to listen to Jen, who is telling me in great detail about what Ayesha has just told her.

  I’m trying to support Jen, I really am, but at times I have to acknowledge that sometimes it’s a pretence; all the details about the murder–suicide get a bit too much for me and, for the sake of my own sanity, occasionally I have to switch off and zone out. I take out my phone and check it.

  She must notice my attention is drifting away from her because she says, with a note of irritation in her voice, ‘I’m sorry, you must be sick of this.’

  ‘That awful woman at the next table – she’s got such a loud voice,’ I say. ‘Shall we go on somewhere else so I can hear what you’re saying?’

  ‘Good idea,’ she says. Just as she stands up her phone pings. She takes it out of her pocket, and, as she presses her finger down on the home button, her face freezes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s him again,’ she says. Her eyes scan the café, darting from face to face with the desperation of a woman hunted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just got another message – look.’

  She passes her phone to me as she continues to look around her. It’s from @WatchingYouJenHunter.

  Love the blue blouse. Sexy.

  I know already what Jen is wearing, but still I find myself focusing on her blue blouse. I also know it’s from Zara, as we were together when she bought it. A moment later another message comes through.

  What did the doc tell you?

  ‘There’s another one too,’ I say, as I pass the phone back to Jen.

  ‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘I thought he’d stopped messaging you.’

  She doesn’t reply. Instead, she storms out of the café, nearly knocking over her coffee in the process, and begins to run around the front of the building, weaving in and out of the silver birches, checking the faces of the people sitting on benches. She approaches one man who, from the back has something of the look of Laurence about him, and reaches out to touch him on the shoulder. He turns around, startled and appalled.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbles Jen, holding her hands up as she backs away. ‘I know he’s here, somewhere. He’s watching me.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say, as I try to take hold of her arm.

  ‘No!’ she shouts, brushing me away. ‘I’m going to find that fucker and tell him to leave me alone.’

  She starts to sprint along the front of the embankment, in the direction of the National Theatre, banging into tourists. I try to follow her and apologise in her wake.

  ‘Help me, Bex – help me find him,’ she says, between breaths. ‘He’s got to be here somewhere.’

  ‘I can’t see him,’ I say. ‘Perhaps if we wait in one place then—’

  But she’s off again, changing direction as she runs along th
e embankment and up onto the wobbly bridge. There’s some maintenance work going on, and signs restricting the flow of pedestrians have narrowed the access. Everyone is walking in single file in both directions, but Jen runs through the lines, banging straight into a woman carrying a baby in a sling.

  ‘Sorry, so sorry,’ I say, as I try to pass through the crowds. I continue to apologise as I try to catch up with her.

  Finally, I reach her and force her to stand still. ‘Jen, you’ve got to listen to me,’ I say. ‘Whoever sent these, they’ve gone now. You need to calm down. Take some deep breaths. You know, you nearly knocked over a woman with her baby back there.’

  ‘I … I don’t care, I need to find him.’

  Her phone pings again. It’s another message.

  You shouldn’t get so worked up. It doesn’t suit you.

  Her head swivels from side to side as she studies the faces of the pedestrians on the bridge. She starts to run towards the St Paul’s side of the river, before she lurches back towards the South Bank. Again, she bumps into a pedestrian, this time an old woman with a walking stick.

  Again I apologise for the behaviour of my friend. ‘Stop,’ I say, grabbing Jen’s shoulders in a desperate effort to make her keep still. I’m seriously thinking of having to slap her around the face again. ‘Jen, listen to me. If he’s here, we’ll find him together. I’ll help you. Honestly, I will. But you need to pull yourself together. Can’t you see he wants you to fall apart. He’s getting off on this.’

  I don’t know what she’s thinking, but it seems as though the message is beginning to sink in. She stands by the railings of the bridge, the east side that looks down towards the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. She takes a couple of deep breaths. Her head stops moving in such a manic fashion.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘A few more deep breaths.’

  Her eyes begin to relax a little. I take hold of her shaking hand.

  ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s upset you,’ I tell her. ‘You can get your own revenge.’

  She turns to me, a glint in her eye. I can tell the idea intrigues her. Her phone beeps again. She holds it out to me.

  You look hysterical. Deranged.

  And then a moment later, there’s another.

  No wonder nobody loves you. You drive everyone away.

  Now she has the look not so much of the hunted as the hunter. I think of her surname. I’d never considered Jen as a predator before. In fact, for many years she had played the part of the victim. But now I realise she could be dangerous.

  45

  JEN

  We are standing outside Laurence’s house. It’s already dark even though it’s only just after four in the afternoon. After the scene down by Tate Modern and on the bridge, Bex managed to calm me down, but only just. Wherever I looked I seemed to see Laurence’s face staring back at me. I would spot him amongst the crowds, convinced he was there. I’d rush forward, almost feel as though I could smell him, reach out and touch him, only to be met by the shocked face of a stranger. Each encounter was like a little death, a small stab in the heart.

  Bex had led me away, back across the Thames to St Paul’s. She bought me some water and made me sit on the steps of the cathedral. She kept telling me to take deep breaths, that she would help me, that she would be by my side no matter what. I tried to talk about the messages, repeating fragments from them, wondering how Laurence could be so cruel. What was he trying to do? Drive me insane? I’ve read numerous thrillers and watched countless films in which a man tries to gaslight his wife or girlfriend. This was not happening to me, I told myself, it couldn’t be happening to me.

  ‘What the fuck is Laurence playing at?’ I said.

  Bex went silent before she said, ‘Are you sure it’s him? I mean—’

  ‘What are you even saying?’ I interrupted. ‘Of course it’s him, who else could it be?’

  ‘I know, I know, but just listen,’ she said.

  ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’ I stood up in a small act of protest, as if I intended to storm off, even though I had no intention of doing so.

  ‘Just sit down and let me explain,’ she said, taking hold of my hand and pulling me back down. ‘I know it seems as though Laurence is behind all of this, but you said yourself we need some kind of proof.’

  ‘What kind of proof?’

  ‘Just something that links him to this. Something on his phone or in his house.’

  ‘And how do you expect to get that? I doubt turning up on his doorstep and asking him to surrender his phone would work somehow. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not his favourite person at the moment.’

  There was a mischievous glint in Bex’s eyes that I recognised as a sign of trouble. She reached into her pocket and took out a key.

  ‘I may not have mentioned that I have … this – the key to Laurence’s house,’ she said, holding it up as a kind of miniature trophy.

  ‘Bex – where the hell did you get that?’

  ‘Let’s just say that I don’t always give things back.’

  ‘I thought he’d changed the locks after I moved out.’

  ‘He did … but I managed to get hold of a new one.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Once when he was away on a work trip he asked me to check on the house. I kept one of the spare keys, thinking one day it might come in useful.’

  ‘So what do you think we should do?’

  ‘We should go and have a look around, just to make sure that it is Laurence who is messing with you.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should go to the police?’ I asked.

  ‘You could do, but what would that solve? I mean, all they will do is give him a caution, at the most. And he’ll be there, free to walk the streets, free to spy on you from a distance. You never know how it might escalate or what he might be capable of.’

  I stared at Bex, certain that she could see the uncertainty in my face.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’ll be there.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Of course – I’m hardly going to send you into Laurence’s house by yourself, am I? And this way we may be able to find some kind of evidence, that we can take to the police.’

  I had dozens of doubts – the phrase inadmissible evidence came into my mind – but Bex told me that it wouldn’t be like a burglary, because I had once lived there and, if I was stopped by one of his neighbours, I could tell them that I was picking something up I had left in the house. An old laptop. A box of CDs from the 90s. Something sad like that.

  And so that’s why we are here, watching and waiting. My heart is beating fast, too fast, and my mouth tastes like sawdust. We’ve been here for the best part of forty minutes, and no one has put any lights on even though it’s gone dark. Bex whispers to say she’s confident that Laurence is not at home. And that we should go in. I start to explain why I think this is a bad idea, but then she goes ahead, walks down the street and into the front garden. She looks at me as if to ask whether I’m coming with her. She’s right, I tell myself. It’s the only way to know for certain.

  I try to think through the action of that day again, who was where, when, and doing what. Daniel must have planned something, as he had taken a knife with him. He knew about Laurence, as it seemed he recognised him. But why was Laurence there? Yes, he liked jogging, and Parliament Hill Fields was a regular spot for him, but more often in the evening after he’d finished work. Had he been following Victoria? Was he jealous of her relationship with Daniel? Did Laurence know that Victoria was pregnant? Perhaps some of these answers lie inside the house and so I take a deep breath and follow Bex towards the front door.

  She rings the bell, just to be on the safe side, and when no one answers she opens the door and walks inside. I hesitate for a moment because the sensation is like stepping back in time for me. I feel a little disconnected – I’ve learned to recognise the signs of what my therapist calls dissociati
on – and I try to do the exercises that help me bring me back to myself.

  ‘You’d better shut the door,’ says Bex.

  I blink and do as she says.

  ‘We may not have much time. Now you know the house better than me, so where should we start?’

  I think for a moment. ‘I suppose we could start with his office, upstairs. There’s a computer there.’

  ‘Great,’ she says.

  As we climb the stairs I inhale the smell of the beeswax. I see myself, the first morning after I had slept with Laurence here. I’m radiant with happiness. My skin is glowing. Everything seems sharper, brighter, more defined. I go into the kitchen and try to make a coffee for Laurence, who is upstairs, but I realise that his machine is beyond me. After five minutes of trying to make it work I’m considering searching for instant when Laurence comes into the kitchen. He sees the state of the coffee machine and the mess I’m in and laughs. He takes hold of me and leads me back to bed.

  All that’s gone now, I know that. But how could that sense of a love so deep it felt like a kind of hunger, how could that have turned into this?

  I show Bex the office. She starts to look through a filing cabinet while I switch on the Mac. Of course, it’s password protected. I tap in the password that Laurence used when we were together, a combination of the word, ‘Bauhaus’ and the year of his birth, 1972. The icon shakes its little head in refusal. I try using a lowercase ‘b’, but again I’m refused. I put the year first, the word second, but this doesn’t work. I try a series of other possibilities – the name of his mother, his first dogs, RexWhistler (yes, really), and then, saddest of all, my own name. But nothing works.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ asks Bex.

  ‘It’s not letting me in,’ I reply. ‘What about you – have you found anything?’

  ‘Nothing but work stuff,’ she says. ‘But I do have to commend him for his filing system. Talk about ordered.’

  ‘That’s Laurence for you. He always was. Used to drive me mad sometimes.’