Into the Darkest Corner (39 page)
For another two weeks, everything was fine. The new warehouse had its official opening ceremony and all the supervisors and warehouse staff we’d recruited were busy finding their feet and doing really well. The CEO sent a letter thanking us for all our hard work.
I had weekly therapy with Alistair and worked on getting the checking down to nothing. I’d managed it a few times. When I did check, it was for the things that might have been moved in the flat. But after that night we’d found Mrs. Mackenzie’s door open, there had been nothing. No noises in the night, no evidence that he or anyone else had been in the flat. Nothing at all.
Stuart had been busy completing his research project and had been working late on it before getting home. I’d been sleeping in my flat so that he could sleep undisturbed when he got in. As a result, I’d hardly seen him all week.
Caroline and I were enjoying a cup of tea and a chat, something we hadn’t had much time to do in the last few weeks. She was asking me about Stuart when I got a text:
C—Forgotten what home looks like. Trying to get weekend off. Love you. S x
A few minutes after that, my work phone rang. I half expected it to be Stuart, but it wasn’t. To my surprise, it was Sylvia.
“Hi,” she said. “Sorry to call you at work, but I don’t know your home number.” Her voice sounded strange, an echo to it, and I could hear traffic in the background.
“That’s okay. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, “I’ve only got a minute. Would you meet me for lunch? Today?”
“I’m a bit busy, Sylvia.”
“Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
I glanced at my desk calendar—a meeting at 2 p.m., but I should be back well before then. “All right, then. Where do you want to meet?”
“John Lewis, Oxford Street—the coffee shop on the fourth floor. Know it?”
It wasn’t the typical place you’d expect to see Sylvia, but her tone was so familiar—she expected everyone to move at her pace, meet her in her world, as if the planet revolved too slowly around her. “I’ll find it.”
“Twelve?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“See you then. And Catherine—thank you.”
Breathless at the end, still sounding as if she was in a cavern somewhere, she hung up.
I thought about it all morning. It felt like a trap, but a clever one. I shouldn’t be afraid of meeting someone in a place like that—very public, busy, lots of entrances and exits, no way Lee could take me, difficult for him to follow me in and out. Unless she helped him. If she’d invited me around to her flat again, I would have refused.
I thought back to the sunny Sunday morning all those weeks ago, when I’d caught her by surprise, and probably him, too. I didn’t see where he could have been hiding, in that flat, but there was something about the way she’d looked into the dark cool interior that had made me certain that he was listening, that he was there.
In any case, whether it was a trap or not, I was going to go.
Out of the air-conditioned office, it was surprisingly warm. The sun was shining and the streets were full of office workers heading to the parks and green spaces to get some sun. I walked three streets, crossing the street a couple of times, and then on a whim grabbed a solitary taxi. I don’t know why; if Sylvia wanted to meet me, then it was clear he would know where I was going, if he was watching me. In all probability he was already at John Lewis, waiting for me. Maybe this meeting was going to be her way of getting us together for some sort of civilized chat on neutral territory. I wasn’t afraid, but I did feel more than a little bit queasy—unsettled, as though I was heading for something terrible and unpredictable.
I sat enjoying the breeze through the open window as the taxi stopped and started its way through the streets. Ten minutes later, I was in a side street, outside one of the back entrances to the department store. It was cool and shaded, the breeze blowing around my bare legs.
The fourth-floor coffee shop was crowded, and, having had a quick look around, I thought I’d gotten there before her. But then as I turned to go I saw her, rising from her seat, her hand lifted in a wave. She was sitting right at the back, near the restrooms, but that wasn’t why I hadn’t noticed her. She was wearing a black skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, black pumps. I’d been looking for her usual peacock-brilliant colors, and here she was dressed almost like an office intern.
“Hello,” she said, to my surprise offering me her open arms and her cheek to kiss.
“I nearly didn’t recognize you,” I said.
“Oh, you mean this?” She gave her tinkly laugh. “I just bought it. I’m off to interview the head of legal services in a minute; sometimes it pays to dress down a bit. If you get my meaning.”
She’d already bought me a tea, and two cinnamon buns sat on the table waiting for us. “Just like old times,” she said, as I sat down. “It reminds me of the Paradise Café.”
I glanced around at our surroundings; I couldn’t imagine a coffee shop less like the Paradise Café, but didn’t say it.
“So,” she said brightly, chewing, “how’s things?”
“Good, thank you,” I said. Waiting.
“He didn’t get the job, then. Mike, I mean.”
Mike.
“No. Not enough experience, in the end. I mean, running a bar in Spain for eighteen months—hardly useful work experience for warehousing, is it?”
She shot me a look.
“It wasn’t my decision, I’m afraid. Everything gets scored, and, well, he didn’t score as well as the others. That was all. Nothing I could do.”
Sylvia shrugged as if to say it was no skin off her nose, and watched me as I drank my tea. It was barely lukewarm. I wondered how long she’d been sitting here. I fought the urge to look behind me, around the room, through the entrance to the floor. He was here somewhere, I was pretty sure of it.
“It was me,” she said, “in case you were wondering.”
“What was?”
“It was me who told him how to find you. I saw that job advertised in the
Evening Standard
, and your name and contact details. ‘For further information and an application form, please contact Cathy Bailey . . .’ I just thought it was likely to be the same Catherine.”
I considered this for a moment. “Well, you were right. It was.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said, still not sure which bit of the immense betrayal she was referring to. “How are you, anyway?”
She never had the chance to tell me, because just then her phone, which was sitting on the table between us, rang. She almost jumped out of her skin and snatched it up, answering it with a nervous, “Hello?”
I pretended not to listen.
“Yes. No, I’m just having coffee with a friend.” She looked at me then, and tried to smile. “No, nobody you know. Why, do you want to join us? . . . Okay, then. No, I left it at work. Why? . . . All right. I’ll see you in a bit.” She hung up and looked almost relieved.
“Sorry about that,” she said. She was pale, I noticed, the makeup she usually wore not as bright. She looked as if she’d been washed too many times on a hot cycle. She looked faded. I wanted to ask if it was him, but there was no point, I already knew. It was a setup, I decided. He wanted me, for some bizarre reason, to trust Sylvia, to confide in her. The phone, sitting on the table, was bugged, recording our conversation.
“Boyfriends,” she said. “You know what they’re like—always checking up on you.”
I shrugged, and smiled. “Are they?”
“Anyway,” she said, trying to sound upbeat, “I can’t stop long. I just wanted to say hello, see how you are.” She downed the last of her coffee, leaving the rest of her bun untouched. When she stood, I saw she’d lost weight, even just in the weeks since I’d last seen her.
“You’re going?” I asked.
“Yes, sorry. I’ve got that interview to do. I’ll be in touch, okay? Keep yourself safe, Catherine.”
Her voice was strange, quiet, as though she was holding back something vast and uncontrollable. For a moment I caught her eye and saw something in there I hadn’t expected to see.
She hugged me, held me tight for a moment longer than I’d expected her to, then picked up a large shopping bag that had been tucked under the table, and that seemed to contain a jumble of jewel-bright fabrics, and some red patent high-heeled shoes with a gingham flower on each toe.
I watched her go, skipping between the tables and disappearing into the crowd of shoppers lined up at the register with trays and bags of designer clothes and Egyptian cotton bed linen.
I didn’t find the note until just now, a whole four days since I met Sylvia in the coffee shop. Stuart was at work and I got around to doing my laundry.
It was tucked into the pocket of my loose skirt, so small that I might never have found it had it not been for the force of habit making me check every pocket for tissues before shoving my clothes into the bag for the Laundromat.
I stared at it for a moment, knowing what it meant, before opening it slowly. Just four words, printed—they could have been written by anyone, and yet they could only have been written by her.
I BELIEVE YOU NOW
Four words, scrawled across the back of a John Lewis coffee shop receipt, folded and folded again.
It all dawned on me in a couple of seconds, the horror of it, and already I wondered if it might be too late. I thought about going around there, getting her out, running away. Where would we go? I thought about going to find him, taking a knife, taking him by surprise, finishing it the way I wish I’d finished it four years ago. I thought about phoning Stuart at work, asking him what I should do.
In the end I did the only thing that, realistically, I could do.
I went upstairs with my cell phone and let myself into Stuart’s flat. It was silent and empty without him. The sun was setting over the rooftops and his kitchen was bathed in golden light. I sat at the kitchen table and dialed the number.
“Can I speak to DS Hollands, please?” I asked, when the call was answered.
I had to wait a few minutes before she came on the line. In the meantime I listened to the background noise of the Camden Domestic Abuse office, someone talking on the phone, trying to calm someone down.
“. . . Try to take some deep breaths. No, don’t worry, take your time. I know . . . It’s very difficult. Not at all—that’s what we’re here for
.
”
“Hello? Cathy?”
Her voice sounded brisk, businesslike. I suddenly wondered if I was doing the right thing.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m worried about someone. A friend of mine. I think she might be in trouble.”
The Rest Assured was quiet this early on a Sunday evening, a few regulars at the bar, nursing pints of real ale and talking about the housing market. I was early, got myself a glass of white wine and sat on the same sofa where Stuart had held my hand and told me how Hannah had betrayed him. We’d both come a long way since then.
She was only ten minutes later than she’d said she would be. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I knew who she was as soon as she came in through the door propped open to let the evening breeze in. Jeans, black T-shirt, short natural blonde hair cut in a style that might once have looked like an early Lady Di, but which was too thick and heavy to maintain the necessary sweep to the side. Shorter than I’d expected, but with the build of someone you’d like to have on your side in an argument.
She breezed straight to the bar and got herself a half-pint of something, then came over. “Cathy?”
I shook hands with her. “How did you know it was me?”
She grinned. “You’re on your own.”
Sam took a glance around the bar and suggested we try the beer garden instead. I hadn’t realized there was one, but through an open door to the back of the bar, there it was. Just two tables, but enough of a breeze to make the temperature bearable.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. I’d been surprised by it, to be honest, the readiness with which she’d agreed to give up her evening to hear the whole sorry Sylvia story.
“S’okay,” she said cheerfully, “it’s too nice an evening to be stuck indoors.”
She took a swig of her beer and licked her lips, then looked at me expectantly.
I told her the whole thing. My friendship with Sylvia, how it had gone cold when she’d left for London and I’d been trying to get out of the relationship with Lee. How I’d seen her on the bus and how Lee was using her address as a base to try to get a job at the place where I worked. Then I told her about the visit a few weeks ago, and how I’d met up with her, and finally—the note.
I took it out of my pocket, unfolded it and passed it to her. She studied it for a moment and then handed it back to me.
“What do you think it means?” she asked.
I felt my patience fray a little. “Well, that she believes that Lee was violent toward me because he’s now doing the same to her.”
“Has she told you she’s in a relationship with Lee?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did she tell you she was afraid of him? Or give you that indication?”
“She didn’t tell me, but lots of things made sense. When she phoned me to set up the meeting on Wednesday, she called me from a public phone, not from her cell. Lee used to bug my phones and read my e-mails, that’s how he knew I was planning to escape, so he’s probably doing the same to her. The place she chose for us to meet was somewhere public, with lots of different entrances and exits, suggesting she thought either one of us might have been followed there. And when I met her she was dressed in the most peculiar clothes.”
Sam looked at me quizzically. She had deep blue eyes, big baby-blue eyes, yet set in a face that didn’t look innocent or beguiling.
“Sylvia always wears really bright colors—she’s like some sort of bird of paradise, always in yellows, pinks, purples, turquoise—that sort of thing. Silks, cashmere, leather. Nothing plain, ever. On Wednesday she was wearing a black skirt and a white blouse. She told me she’d just bought them, that she was going to go and do a serious interview and wanted to tone down a bit. Her normal clothes were stuffed into the shopping bag she had with her. But I’d never known her to do that before. She thought her dress style made her stand out from the crowd—that’s why she did it.”
“So you think she was trying to blend in with the crowd?”
“Exactly. He must have been following her, the way he used to do with me. And she didn’t have her handbag with her. Just the shopping bag.”
“No handbag?”
“I didn’t think about it at the time. But it’s likely he’s put a bug in there somewhere, or a tracker. I know this all sounds crazy. It does until you’ve lived with someone like that.”
She gave a little shrug and nodded. “But she didn’t say anything about him, about being unhappy? Even though she didn’t have her bag?”
“No. I guess she was working up to it, when she got a call on her cell. I assumed it was him. And then she left almost immediately after that. We’d only been there a few minutes.”
“And you think she slipped the note into your pocket.”
“It was the receipt for the drinks and food she’d bought. Look—the date and time shows that it was when we met. She must have written the note before I arrived.”
Sam picked up the note again and regarded it, not the printed receipt but the words scrawled hastily on the back. I wondered whether she was considering that I could have written it myself.
“Look, why would she suddenly believe me? She testified in court that Lee hadn’t hurt me, that I was a complete psycho, that my injuries were all self-inflicted—and she was my best friend! What could have happened to make her believe me, all of a sudden?”
Sam Hollands took a deep breath in and let it out in a long sigh, casting a glance across the rest of the small yard before leaning a little closer to me.
“I called at the address you gave me, before I came here. There was no reply. I’m hoping that we don’t have anything to worry about, with this, but I’ll admit that it concerns me that Mr. Brightman does seem to be trying to make contact with you.”
“It’s not me you should be worried about,” I said boldly. “I know exactly what he’s like, what he’s capable of.”
She gave me a smile, reassuring. “I’ll do what I can, all right? I’ll make some inquiries, check on her, make sure she’s okay. In the meantime, I’m afraid there’s still nothing he’s done that we can prove as harassment, and until he does we can’t start considering an injunction against him to keep him out of your way.”
I shrugged. “The person he was pretending to be—Mike Newell. I was wondering if the police checked up on his CV, whether his friend in Spain would still be prepared to pretend he’s been working there for the past year. Although that still doesn’t prove that Mike Newell and Lee Brightman are the same person.”
“Leave it with me,” she said, finishing the last of her pint. “I’ll keep in touch. And in the meantime, I’ll check up on your friend, too.”
She stood up and stretched.
“Christ, it’s been a long day.”
“Are you off duty now?”
Sam nodded and smiled. “Yes. I’m going to have a curry and a long soak in the bath, I think.”
I walked with her as far as the junction with Talbot Street, then shook her hand as she turned toward the Underground.
“Don’t forget,” she said. “If you need help. Easter.”
“I won’t,” I said, and left her with a smile.
It was nearly dark by the time I got home. I was still smiling as I put the key in the lock on the front door, and it opened without me even turning it. Someone had left it unlocked.
The flat door was locked, as I’d left it, and there was nothing out of place inside. Nothing out of place, and yet still I was uneasy.
I stood in the middle of the living room, looking out toward the balcony doors and the yard beyond, the trees still, the air in here stale and stifling. I checked the balcony doors again—still locked and secure—and then opened them wide. The breeze that had chilled my skin in the yard of the Rest Assured had dropped, and despite the sun going down it felt warmer still.
The gate at the bottom of the yard was open, half hanging on its hinges. It had been like that since a gale last February. I’d asked the management company to fix it, and they’d sent someone, once, who propped it up again. It was a halfhearted effort. Nobody used the yard anyway, in fact I’d never seen anyone else using the path that ran along behind it, so the fact that it was half-open wasn’t what was bothering me.
There was no sound at all, not a breath, not a birdsong, not a whisper. But it felt strange nonetheless. The air was close and heavy, the clouds gathering overhead.
I wondered what he was doing, where he was, whether Sylvia was locked in her bathroom, bleeding, waiting for someone to come and save her, the way Wendy had saved me.
Wendy had told me afterward that she’d been unpacking her shopping from the boot of her car when he came out of the front door. He looked dazed, she said, as if he was a bit drunk, as he got into the car and drove away. But that wasn’t what had disturbed her. When he’d turned to get into the driver’s seat she’d seen the blood on his hands and down the front of his shirt.
And, luckily for me, he hadn’t shut the door properly. When she was certain that he’d gone, she pushed it open, she told me, calling out “Hello?” up the stairs, finding me lying on the carpet in my spare room. She thought I was already dead. The recording of her 999 call was played out in court. Wendy, so together, so calm, so gentle, screaming for help and sobbing with the shock of finding someone naked, bleeding from a hundred different places and scarcely breathing. I found it hard to listen to. I think that might have been the last day I made it into court—I don’t remember much else from the trial, anyway.
Suddenly my phone rang from my handbag on the sofa, and it made me jump.
“Hello, you,” Stuart said, his voice unbearably tired. “I missed you today.”
“You, too. Are you nearly done?”
“Yup. I’m just writing up some notes, then I’ll be on my way. Shall I get us something to eat on the way home?”
“That sounds good,” I said. “Listen—I’m just going to pop out for a bit. I want to check something at work.”
I heard his voice change. “You’re going back to work?”
“Yes, don’t worry, it won’t take long. I’ll probably be back before you get home.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Cathy. You are okay? Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, putting a smile into my voice, “of course I am. I just want to get this out of the way so that I won’t be worrying about it all night.”
“All right,” he said. “Take your phone with you.”
“I will. I’ll see you later.”
“I love you.”
“You too,” I said.
When I hung up I stood for a moment, thinking about what I’d said and what it might have sounded like to anyone who might have been listening. I’d avoided speaking to Stuart in my flat before, just in case Lee had bugged the place, and was listening in. I wondered how long I could keep it up.
I found a bus that was going in roughly the right direction, South of the river. Traffic was starting to get lighter, and it was completely dark by the time I got to Sylvia’s street. I walked from the station where the bus had dropped me off, trying to remember which of the almost identical streets was the right one. It was nearly an hour since Stuart had rung me in the flat.
The painted black door was shut fast this time. I rang the buzzer for Flat 2. I could hear it ringing all the way from the back of the house, but there was no answer. I waited a moment, then rang again. I checked my watch. Ten past nine. Surely she should be at home? Most people were on a Sunday night, even in London. I rang again, and this time the intercom crackled into life. Not Sylvia, though—someone else.
“Look, she’s clearly not at home. Why don’t you piss off?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m supposed to be meeting her, would you mind letting me in?”
No reply—the intercom was silent.
Well, I couldn’t just sit here all night. I walked to the end of the street, turning left, following the gable end of the terrace to the inevitable alleyway running along the back of the houses. It was pitch-dark down there, no doubt full of dog shit, overturned trash cans and all sorts of horrors—but at least, somewhere down there, was the back of Sylvia’s flat and the backyard where we’d sat and drunk mugs of tea in the sunshine.
Two hundred and ten steps across rough ground, exactly the same number as it had taken me from the front of her house to the end of the street, and I was faced with a gate, overgrown with weeds at the bottom, and a dilapidated wall. I felt the rough bricks, ran my fingers along the top, shoulder-height, and pulled myself up, scraping my knee, trying to get a toehold with my sneakers.