Five Strangers Page 4

  I text her and arrange to meet at the Coffee Cup in Hampstead. As she comes into the cosy interior – with its wooden panelling and red carpet it looks like something from the Fifties – she stares around her as if she’s being followed.

  ‘Oh my God, Jen, are you okay?’ I ask, even before she sits down.

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ she whispers, taking off her jacket. There is a crazed look about her eyes, as if she is being hunted.

  ‘What’s happened? You’re really worrying me.’

  ‘Last night, about ten-ish, I got this,’ she says, thrusting her phone at me.

  It’s a series of messages – tweets – from an account called @WatchingYouJenHunter.

  ‘Jen, that’s so weird,’ I say. ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ she says, running a hand through her blonde hair.

  ‘You do intend to, though? And you’ve blocked them, right?’

  ‘Yes, at some point I will, but I think it might be worth doing a bit of digging first.’

  ‘Digging?’

  ‘Just to see who’s behind this – and also to find out whether there’s any truth in it.’

  At that moment the waitress turns her attention to us. We order coffee and, after Jen checks out the other occupants of the café, we continue our conversation.

  ‘What – that Daniel Oliver didn’t kill his girlfriend?’ I give her a sideways, sceptical look that usually brings her to her senses. ‘But you said you saw it with your own eyes. And what about those other witnesses? There was that MP there. And that gay guy, what’s his name, the hedge fund manager. They saw it happen too.’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, and perhaps it is, but I have a hunch there’s something not right about this,’ she says. Her head swivels to the right, to the left, as she checks no one is listening to her. ‘Anyway, you know how tough it’s been for me since I lost my column. I just thought if I managed to uncover something, then it could make for a good follow-up piece, perhaps even a book.’

  ‘Oh darling, I know how tough it’s been for you, I really do,’ I say. ‘But I really don’t think this would be a good thing for you, after—’

  ‘What, after my breakdown, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes, after your … breakdown. The doctor said you should try to avoid stressful situations. If you do need to work, why not try for some more lovely interviews with actors and writers? You do them so well.’

  ‘Interviews with actors and writers!’ she says, spitting the words out. ‘I want to do some real work for a change.’

  ‘If you want to take your mind off things, I’ve always said you can start volunteering at the—’

  ‘I know, and I will,’ she says, sounding guilty. ‘I really will come to the food bank and do my bit, I promise. I realise it sounds selfish, and it is … but I need to start making my own living again. It’s the northern girl in me – you know me and my work ethic.’

  ‘But, seriously, what are you going to do about this?’ I ask. ‘I don’t like his Twitter handle, not one bit. Do you think it can be traced?’

  ‘I’ve asked – well, insofar as I’ve searched on Google – and no, it’s impossible, apparently,’ she says. ‘There’s no way of getting someone’s IP address – is that what it’s called? But if the user becomes a threat, obviously you can inform Twitter.’

  ‘And we all know what constitutes a threat,’ I say. ‘When it’s too late.’

  I see terror in her eyes.

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I’m sure you’ll be fine. But you mustn’t do anything rash. Or put yourself at risk – in any way.’

  Our drinks arrive – a black coffee for Jen, a skinny latte for me.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Jen, taking a deep breath. ‘Just to change the subject for a second, you know I was supposed to meet Laurence but then had to cancel because of my deadline?’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘I got a lovely email from him. He wanted to know whether I was okay. He seemed worried about me.’

  I feel there’s no need to answer.

  ‘He wants to make another date,’ she continues. ‘To meet up, for drinks or maybe even dinner. But I suppose he always was kind. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘That was thoughtful of him and it’s good that you can go forwards, as they say. You never know, at some point in time you could be friends again.’

  Jen’s mouth twists into a grimace as though she is trying to stop her lips from quivering. Is there something she’s not telling me?

  She takes a sip of black coffee and tries to pull herself together. ‘I know – after this, why don’t we take a stroll across the Heath?’

  ‘Okay, that would be nice,’ I say.

  ‘I could walk you back to your place.’

  After the coffee we walk slowly down Flask Walk, past the little boutiques, artisanal bakeries, and gorgeous flower shops, and the charming, but frighteningly expensive, Georgian houses. When we pass the turning that leads down towards Penelope’s ridiculously large house I ask Jen whether she is happy with her living arrangements.

  ‘In a funny sort of way I’ve become very fond of Penelope,’ she says. ‘Of course, she’s very different to me, but I admire her achievements – and her spirit.’ She turns to me. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just that you know you can always come back and crash at mine,’ I say. ‘The sofa is yours whenever you might need it.’

  ‘It’s so nice of you,’ she says. ‘And in the fall-out from … well, you were an absolute godsend. But—’

  ‘But now that you’ve gone up in the world, living in Hampstead, you could never consider going back to a one-bedroom flat in Kentish Town,’ I joke. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Spot on,’ she says. Although she tries to laugh, the laughter is strained, artificial. ‘But seriously, I need to get my life back on track.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say.

  We walk down Well Walk and onto the Heath, a place full of buds and the promise of life even though it’s only mid-February. I make an effort to talk about things other than the case. Jen needs to take her mind off the Oliver–Da Silva thing. And so I rattle on about my job in the planning department of Camden Council, the cuts to local services, the problems with the bloody Tory government, the anxieties surrounding Brexit, until I realise that we are walking not down to the ponds but along the track that leads towards Parliament Hill Fields and Kite Hill.

  ‘We’re not going in this direction,’ I say, stopping in my tracks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jen, you know very well what I mean,’ I say. ‘Look, I realise what you witnessed was awful – truly awful – but going back over it all, raking it all up, returning to the scene of the crime. It’s not going to help.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I think it may do,’ she says. ‘The person who sent that message said that I’d seen the whole thing wrongly. That I was missing something.’

  ‘If you had, I’m sure the police would have spotted it, but the truth is that they came to the same conclusion you did,’ I say. ‘You wrote it yourself, in a national newspaper: it was a case of murder–suicide. Daniel Oliver was driven by jealousy.’

  ‘But what if he didn’t do it?’

  ‘Jen, you’re scaring me now.’

  ‘All I want to do is take a fresh look at the evidence. Perhaps there’s something I overlooked.’

  ‘But what you’re saying sounds … well, to be honest, it sounds mad. It sounds – you sound – completely fucking insane.’ I realise that my words are harsh, but I need to talk some sense into her. This cruel-to-be-kind approach has worked in the past, and I hope it will work now. ‘You saw him, everyone else there saw him. Who else could have done it?’

  ‘You can either come with me, or I’m going alone,’ she says. ‘It’s your choice.’

  I’ve learned from past experience that it is best not to indulge Jen when she is feeling like this. Even th
ough it’s painful, it’s important for her to realise how irrational she is being. ‘Call or text me when you get back to Penelope’s? Okay?’ Of course, I won’t really desert her. I’ll watch from a distance to make sure she doesn’t come to any harm.

  7

  JEN

  The area where it happened is still shrouded in a white forensic tent, contained within a larger circle of police tape. The specialist team employed to uncover the DNA evidence and the almost invisible traces of fibres have now disappeared, but there are still a couple of uniformed policemen standing guard. A group of Japanese tourists who know nothing of the attack look mystified as they come to rest by the viewing point. A crime scene is not on their list of must-see places in London.

  ‘What happened here?’ asks one of the men in the group.

  ‘A man killed his girlfriend and then himself,’ says a woman in a matter-of-fact manner.

  That’s the truth, surely? I run through the series of events again. I saw Daniel Oliver take that champagne bottle and smash it into Victoria Da Silva’s face. I remember how he had a knife in his hand and how he slit Victoria’s throat and then his own. The blood. Yes, so much blood. Ayesha Ahmed tried her best to save their lives, both of them. And then the paramedics and the police arrived. The couple was pronounced dead at the scene.

  This is the reality of the situation, I tell myself again. A jealous man killed his girlfriend and then himself. The motive is as old as the hills. Perhaps Bex was right when she told me that I was ‘completely fucking insane’. I’ve had my low moments before, lots of them. The doctor advised me to avoid stress. My therapist, Annabelle, warned me about the importance of learning to distinguish fantasy from reality. And there are some nutcases out there. It will be better, I know, to let the police get on with their job, they will gather evidence, which they will present at the inquest, and I can move on with my life.

  But what life, exactly? I have no home, apart from a rented room. I have no job, apart from the occasional freelance piece. And although I like to think that the situation will change at some point in the future, the reality is that I have no boyfriend.

  As I look around me I’m taken back to that moment again. I can’t breathe, feeling as though an insect, a big one, is scuttling up my windpipe, closing off my air supply. My heart is racing, almost as if I’m having a cardiac arrest. I hold onto the bench, as I relive the slaughter. The panicked breathing of Victoria. The look in her eyes when she realised what was happening. The sight of the broken bottle cutting into her beautiful face. The screaming. The fight between Daniel and Jamie. The horrible silence that followed, the sense of relief that the attack had stopped. And then the glint of that blade in the sunlight. The skin flapping open on the neck, the slow ooze of blood, soon followed by a quick outpouring.

  I have to stop this. I force myself to take some deeper breaths, pushing the memories out of my brain. Were the other witnesses affected like this? Perhaps I’m the only one. And it was stupid of me to come back here. Bex was right, as usual. I should have listened to her. I will call her and apologise.

  It is important I think rationally. I have to get things straight in my head. Perhaps I should contact Julia Jones? I hadn’t needed to speak to her for my news piece – the quote was emailed over by her office – but she might be able to tell me more about what she witnessed. I won’t share with her the tweets that I received. But what reason can I give to Julia Jones for her to meet me? She’s a busy woman, she’s already issued a statement. Could I say that I’m doing a more in-depth piece about the murder–suicide?

  I sit on the bench, looking again at the mesmerising skyline, until I feel strong enough to push myself upwards and walk, slowly, away from the scene. I make my way back towards Hampstead and Penelope’s house.

  After a spot of lunch with Penelope, during which we discuss the possibilities of writing a more detailed feature, I go up to my room on the first floor and make a quick call to Bex.

  I sit in front of my laptop and draft a carefully-worded email to Julia Jones’s office requesting an interview. I set about trying to find the other witnesses and send emails explaining the basis of the possible feature to Jamie Blackwood, the hedge fund manager, and Ayesha Ahmed, the doctor. I include the news story I wrote, as well as some links to a few of my old columns.

  I had been there. With them. All of us were witnesses to the same crime. And I want to know what they saw.

  8

  BEX

  Jen called me when she got back to Penelope’s. She said she was sorry for snapping at me. She told me that I was right. She’d had a panic attack on the Heath. Now she is going to try to put everything behind her and forget that the murder ever happened. She will delete those tweets from that weird troll and confine them to the giant digital wastepaper basket in the sky.

  If this is the case then why do I spot her going into Julia Jones’s house? It’s Monday morning and my plan is to turn up at Penelope’s and surprise her with a box of almond croissants, her favourite. After all, she needs cheering up. But just as I’m turning the corner that leads down from Flask Walk I catch a glimpse of her. I’m about to shout out, tell her to wait, but then I notice what she’s wearing: a smart black suit, the kind of outfit she’d put on if she was about to do an interview. On her feet she’s wearing training shoes. The mix is one I’ve seen plenty of times in town, busy executive women who wear comfortable trainers on the Tube, but then swap them for high heels in the office.

  But I know Jen doesn’t have a job.

  What is she doing? Where is she going?

  And given her past record she will most likely never have a job, not in the closed world of the London media. I wonder how many people know about her. Although the official line is that Jen Hunter has been laid off due to cuts, surely someone knows the truth.

  I hope to God she isn’t having another episode.

  And so I follow her. I keep a good distance as she walks across the Heath, occasionally stopping behind the bulk of a tree or a long line of hedgerows in case she turns around and sees me. If she does, I have my excuse ready: I wanted to surprise her. Look – I have pastries!

  But as she makes her way across the Heath, past the tumulus, and down towards the ponds – this time avoiding the place where it happened – she doesn’t see me. She comes out onto Highgate Road opposite La Sainte Union school, walks past the Bull & Last, under renovation, and takes a turning down Woodsome Road. As I follow her down Boscastle Road through into Dartmouth Park Road I realise that I am stepping into a part of London that, although less than a mile from my flat, is a world away from Kentish Town.

  Kentish Town is gentrified enough, but Dartmouth Park is on another level altogether. Not just in terms of the physical proportions of the houses, which are wider, grander, many of them with imposing steps up to the front doors, but in relation to the inhabitants too. This is the land of corporate lawyers, bankers, and film directors.

  I kneel down behind a car and pretend to tie my laces. I watch as Jen bends down to take off her trainers, puts them in her bag, and slips on a pair of black heels. She climbs the stairs and presses the front door bell of one of the wedding cake houses. Jen is a little nervous, I can tell by the way she shifts from side to side as she waits. A moment later the door opens to reveal a small, generously proportioned woman with a neat bob and a welcoming smile. It is Julia Jones, the Labour MP, who I saw that day on the Heath.

  ‘So lovely to see you again,’ says Julia, stretching out her hand. ‘I’m afraid we couldn’t meet under more pleasant circumstances. Anyway, do please come in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Jen.

  I walk quickly away from the house, just in case anyone catches a glimpse of me. I go to the nearest shop, buy a Guardian, and take it with me into the pub opposite, the Dartmouth Arms. I pull out my phone to write a text to Jen, but then see a news alert to say that a group of MPs are abandoning Labour to form their own party. Fuck. Julia Jones is just the kind of woman who would do t
hat, but I can’t see her name among the list.

  I punch out the text.

  What are you up to? Fancy meeting for lunch? Xx

  I know not to expect an answer soon. But the reply comes forty-five minutes later.

  Sorry. Busy – in town today. Catch up later? Xx

  I don’t text back. I leave the pub, and as I do so I dump the box of almond croissants into the nearest bin.

  9

  JEN

  ‘Wasn’t it awful?’ says Julia, as she leads me through the hall to an enormous, book-lined sitting room. ‘I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. And you were so brave to try to stop him.’ She gestures to a large, bright orange velvet sofa. ‘Were you hurt?’

  ‘Just a little bruising, nothing serious,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s good. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?’

  ‘I’d love a coffee, thanks,’ I say, as I sit down.

  ‘Louisa, darling!’ she shouts. ‘That’s my daughter,’ she says to me in a quieter voice. ‘Gap year between school and university. Going to Oxford.’

  A slim, dark-haired girl with a bright smile appears in the doorway. As she introduces herself I feel a wave of confidence oozing from her, but the self-belief is tempered by easy charm and a touch of humour. She is the polar opposite of myself at the same age.

  ‘Your will shall be obeyed, ye mighty one,’ says Louisa, as she leaves the room to make the drinks.

  Julia apologises for not having more than twenty minutes to talk – despite the rumours, she’s been taken by surprise by the formation of the new Independent Group (‘what a fuck-up, just what we need right now’) before she returns to the matter in hand. She’s read my news piece, she says, but she’d like me to explain why I want to write a more in-depth feature on the incident. What good will it do? And why do I need her help? It’s obvious she’s no pushover. Have I contacted the families of Daniel Oliver or Victoria Da Silva? I tell her that I have not, that I think it’s too early, and that I believe they need time to grieve and that I respect their privacy. I tell her that their quotes came via a news agency.