Rebound (27 page)

Now I know how he knew my name. He was a police officer, indirectly involved in the investigation into the death of my best friend. What was he trying to tell me that day he chased me in
Kenwood? Had he worked out the connection himself and was trying to warn me? There is, of course, another possibility. I put the mug down as the thought strikes me. The violence on the Heath had
nothing to do with me, but with him. He was a policeman after all, dealing with all sorts of shady characters who probably held grudges against him. And who were capable of committing terrifying
acts of violence.

I need to speak to DCI Jones, tell her what I’ve discovered, talk to her about my suspicions. There is no point in hiding the remaining details: Samantha’s strange visit,
Alden’s recent freak-out, Ray’s behaviour which I witnessed in Upper Street, anything that can help solve this gruesome case. I must admit I’m also curious what DCI Jones will
make of my theories.

My phone rings. It’s Claire, asking whether I’m coming into work today. I glance at the clock. Good grief, it’s nearly one. I know I should be there, keeping my finger on the
pulse while all the fighting and scheming goes on, but I’m so preoccupied with my own investigation that I tell her I’ll be working from home for the rest of the day. Then I call DCI
Jones’s mobile number and leave a voicemail message asking her to get in touch as soon as possible. Chiara, who’s come to pick up Wispa, is horrified by the news of her poisoning and
swears to me that she always keeps an eye on the dogs when she takes them out. I have no reason not to trust her. Once she’s gone I eat some nondescript pasta dish defrosted in the microwave
and find myself pacing around the house, waiting for my phone to ring. When eventually it does, I grab it and answer without checking the caller ID. But instead of DCI Jones’s baritone I hear
a different female voice. It’s Laura, Julian’s assistant. She’s asking if I will be able to pop into Julian’s office tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Of course, I say, too
distracted to ask her what it’s about this time. As I put the phone down I suddenly remember the embarrassing scene in his office last night. Julian and Gary, what a sight. This explains, of
course, Gary’s recent transformation from an office plodder to a corporate star. I try to imagine Sue’s face when I tell her about it. Then I check myself: this is something I should
probably keep to myself.

My phone rings again and it’s the Beaumont Sainsbury Animal Hospital with an update about Wispa. She’s responding well to treatment and the vet is hopeful, but we’re not out of
the woods yet. I put the phone down with a cautious sigh of relief. Then it rings again and this time it is DCI Jones. I tell her I have the list and some new theories and she promises to come by
within the hour. That’s fast; she must think that whatever I know, consciously or not, about the case, is important. Which makes me feel both flattered and anxious.

She arrives exactly forty minutes later and I begin to wonder whether the Heath attacks are the only case she is dealing with at the moment. We go straight to the kitchen and she accepts my
offer of coffee, revealing she’s as addicted to it as I am. I present her with the list of dates I’ve made and she studies it for a long time in silence. When she puts it away I tell
her about Samantha’s visit, Alden’s abusive behaviour and my acquaintance with Ray. She listens carefully to everything I say, but I can tell she doesn’t consider my revelations
as important as the dates linking me to the Dior Man. Then I put forward my theory of the attacks being somehow linked to his life rather than mine and she nods.

‘We’re looking into it right now. But we have to bear in mind that you were linked to two of the victims, and DCS Thomas, as far as we can tell, only to you.’

She rubs her forehead and I notice that she looks tired. Having your boss murdered on your watch must be a nightmare. She finishes her coffee, puts my list away in her black notebook and gets
up.

‘Thank you, Anna, I really appreciate your help,’ she says and I know that this time she means it. ‘Do give me a call if you think of anything else. I’ll be in touch
anyway.’

I close the door behind her, feeling that I’ve done something useful and right.

I wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. Another nightmare. I find myself looking for Wispa, but of course she’s not in her usual place by my bed. The house feels
so empty without her. I turn the bedside lamp on and pad barefoot to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The dream is still vivid in my memory: a man was trying to break in through the bedroom
window, pounding on the double-glazed pane, leaving dirty handprints on the glass. I screamed at him and just as he managed to break the window and started climbing in, I pushed him out and he fell
from the first floor to the ground. When I looked out of the broken window he was lying on the patio below, spread-eagled on his back, a dark pool of blood seeping out from under him. The Dior
Man.

I haven’t had so many nightmares since I was a child. But then I kept dreaming about monsters hiding under my bed, ready to snatch me as soon as I stuck my leg even an inch outside the
duvet. The nightmares were getting so bad that I started wetting my bed until one day my mum gave me a small brown bottle with a yellow label. ‘Anti-monster spray’ it said on the label
and it gave detailed instructions about how much spray one should use depending on the size and the type of the monster. I’d spray my bedroom generously every night and it worked like magic.
The monsters disappeared and my sheet and mattress remained dry. It took me years to realize the spray was the lavender water my mum used to make herself. Till this very day I connect the smell of
lavender with my childhood, monster-free bedroom. I wish I had the spray now.

It takes me hours to get back to sleep and when my alarm rings at 6.30 a.m. I feel exhausted. But I force myself to go for a short run, which feels sad and lonely without Wispa, take a long hot
shower, limit myself to two Arpeggios from my coffee machine and get to work half an hour before my meeting with Julian at 9 a.m. I have barely enough time to skim through the subjects of my
emails, opening a few that seem urgent.

He greets me cordially, enveloping me in the cloud of his aftershave. I’m pretty sure it is, ironically, Eau Sauvage by Dior. He leads me to his pristine leather sofa and the image of him
and Gary flashes through my mind. Is that why he invited me here? To somehow strike a deal about what I saw on Monday night?

‘Anna.’ His voice is full of compassion. ‘I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news.’

He pauses and I brace myself for whatever might come.

‘Your position has been made redundant.’

‘Excuse me?’

For a moment I think this is some kind of an elaborate joke and in a second we’ll both be laughing at it. But he is not laughing; there isn’t a hint of smile in his face, just
ruthless satisfaction.

‘Your position is no longer viable in our new structure.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He sighs and opens his hands in a gesture of hopelessness, so incompatible with his face.

‘I know. It’s been such a hard decision. Believe me. We greatly value your experience, your skills, your honesty and sincerity, and it will be a great loss to our company. And to me
personally. I have really enjoyed working with you and I’ll be very sad to see you go. But such are the times. They call for change, for tough austerity measures, for a new slim-lined
structure, and even for letting go of our best people.’

I tune him out and try to understand the implications of what he’s just said. Julian keeps talking and I watch his stony face, his hard, uncaring eyes and his thin mouth moving eloquently,
delivering my sentence.

‘. . . is a thankless task,’ he continues. ‘It is an emotional process and we’ve set up measures to help you go through it. I’ve arranged a follow-up meeting with
HR for you on Friday. Anthea will go through all the details with you, the redundancy package and your rights, of course. You’ll see how much we’ve appreciated your hard work.’
It’s intended as a promise but sounds like a threat. ‘In the meantime, go home, take the time to think of the future. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. Anthea will be in touch
regarding Friday.’

He gets up and I have no choice but to get up as well. The meeting is clearly over. He takes my hand in both of his and looks into my eyes with the compassion of an alligator.

‘I’m so sorry, Anna, but you’ll find it’s for the best.’

Shell-shocked, I leave his office and take the corridor to the emergency access staircase at the back of the building. I swipe my card and pull the heavy door open. The staircase is the office
sanctuary, used only occasionally by the maintenance staff and a few fitness freaks who prefer the stairs to the array of lifts at the front of the building. One can spend hours here without being
accosted by a single soul. I sit on the vinyl-covered step at the top of the stairs. As the initial shock subsides I see the reality of the situation. It’s really quite simple. I’m out
of a job. Just like that. And I’m dying for a cigarette. I haven’t smoked for years, but the sudden craving takes me all the way down to the underground car park and the office of the
security guys. I bum a Marlboro Light off one of them and stand outside by the car exit, inhaling the smoke greedily. As soon as the nicotine buzz hits me, I begin to feel better. I’m ready
to face the world. Well, almost. I take the back stairs up to my floor and go straight to my office. Gary passes my door and raises his hand in greeting. I wonder if he knows. Not that it matters
one way or the other. Soon everyone will know and the place will be rife with gossip and speculation. It’s better to leave as soon as possible, Julian was right about that. I log off my
laptop, pack my bag, grab the picture of Wispa that has been sitting on my desk since I started the job and leave, closing the door behind me. Luckily, Claire is not at her station, so I
don’t have to invent a lie about leaving work so early.

Once I start driving, the nicotine rush dissipates and suddenly I’m on the verge of tears. I drive on, looking for a place to stop. But the streets are busy, there are people everywhere,
and the only place I can think of that would give me some solace is the Heath. On autopilot I drive towards it and find a parking space off Highgate Road. I remember I’m in my work clothes
and shoes, which are not the best walking gear, but I don’t care. A path I choose without thinking takes me to the top of Parliament Hill. It’s a crisp, windy day, and the clouds are
swiftly moving above the city skyline. I take in the view framed by the autumnal trees, stretching from the Gherkin on the left up to the BT Tower on the right. It normally makes my heart sing,
overwhelms with the beauty of this mad, sprawling city. But today all I can think of are the people in office buildings everywhere, as far as I can see. Together they create this tight, humming
network of workforce: striving, achieving, winning, losing, always in a rush, forever on a treadmill. As I take the view in I slowly begin to comprehend that the network has spat me out; I’m
a small cog that has broken off, useless, discarded. Where is the fight in me, what’s happened to my usual resilience? I hope it’ll come back, but at the moment I feel defeated.

I rummage through my bag, find my phone and speed-dial Bell’s number. It is only when I get the ‘disconnected’ message I realize what I’ve done. Fighting back the tears,
I put the phone back in my bag. I miss you Bell, more than ever before.

A tiny Chinese tourist, dressed in colourful woollen clothes, asks me to take a picture of her with her camera. I oblige her and can tell she’s dying to have a chat.

‘You dressing like business, you no work?’ she asks me.

‘No, I don’t work,’ I tell her, the first person to learn of my new employment status.

‘You come here a lot?’

‘Yes, I do.’

She looks at me with her smiling, sparkling eyes. Then the smile is gone.

‘You alone in the soul,’ she says.

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ I reply, taken aback.

‘London dark place.’ She puts her two tiny fists together. ‘People push, people fight. But this place good for soul. Let the light in your soul and you see harmony.’ The
smile is back. She puts the camera in her bag, pats my arm and turns round. I watch her walking away, a small colourful dot against the greying landscape. Perhaps she’s right, but even the
Heath is not giving me any light for my soul today. I look around, searching for Wispa, then remember where she is. Please, please, let her be all right. I need her.

By the time I walk back to my car I’m frozen to the bone. I turn the heating on full blast and drive home, shivering. My street seems to be packed with cars and I keep driving around until
I get tired of hunting for a parking spot and dump my car on Highgate Hill. I walk up the hill, huddled against the wind, and when I get to my house I see a man standing in front of my door. My
heart instantly begins to pound. I’m ready to scream for help when he turns towards me and I see a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands.

‘Ms Wright?’ he asks and smiles with relief when I nod. ‘Flower delivery from Liberty’s.’

I take the bouquet from him and unlock the door. The flowers are stunning, a mixture of purple hydrangeas, lilac roses, blood-red dahlias and purple clematis. The letters on a silver ribbon
tying them together say ‘Wild at Heart’. I pull out a small envelope tucked in-between the flowers. ‘Wishing you all the best, Julian,’ it says. I put the note back in its
envelope, take the flowers to my rubbish bin outside and dump them, heads down. I slam the front door, go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of Aberlour whisky. I’m shaking, not from the
cold, but anger. How dare he, that evil cyborg of a man, invade my private distress? With a few more gulps of Aberlour my anger subsides. It’s being replaced by a new feeling, of
determination. I’m not going down without a fight.

I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. I stop at Sue’s number and dial. She picks up almost immediately.