Читать книгу The Verdict - Olivia Isaac-Henry - Страница 11

On returning from the park, I go back to my desk. All I can think about is the text, concentrating on work is impossible. Without leaving a cyber trail, I have to find a full news report about the body unearthed on the Downs. I’ve already been careless with Paulo and using my phone. I’m itching to leave but I must not arouse suspicion by any unusual behaviour. Why did you leave work early on 4th October?

Only two people on the planet could have sent that text, and both know not to contact me. We agreed, twenty-three years ago, how to behave if it ever came out: no phone calls, no unusual activity, no change in routine. Few people had mobile phones back then, and we made no specific stipulation regarding texts, but the principle remains. And it’s difficult to believe either of them could be so stupid.

Sitting at my desk becomes intolerable. I stare at the laptop, then remove my glasses and rub my eyes. The screen blurs into streaks of black and white. I replace the glasses and reread my current e-mail. It makes no more sense in focus.

How can I find out more, without using my phone or laptop? We were careful to leave no trace at the time. I can still smell the acrid fumes as we found every photograph and negative we’d ever taken in that place and burnt them. I must not be careless now, but I have to find out more. Do they have a name? Do they have suspects?

A pay as you go from a phone shop would accept cash, but they would probably have CCTV, and all mobiles have serial numbers so that each handset has an individual identification. How do criminals go about it? I think of the khaki-wearing drug dealer. He must be in constant communication with buyers and suppliers. I need to go and see him. I start to invent fake emergencies – burst pipes, a family death – just to get out of the office. I get lucky when Jonathan snaps his laptop shut.

‘Got a meeting with Ulrich,’ he announces.

He should be gone for a couple of hours at least.

I wait a minute in case he returns for his keys or wallet then leave the office. I check behind me as I pass the Sensuous Bean. The man in the padded jacket has gone. Probably, he was just someone passing through, another face in the crowd.

It’s raining hard now and the square is clear of visitors except for the man I’m looking for. He’s sitting on a bench, the glow of his roll-up just visible under a large golfing umbrella.

I cross the green to reach him. He looks up and smiles in recognition.

‘More coffee already?’ he says.

‘No. I came to see you,’ I say.

‘I see. And what can I do for you?’

He shuffles along the bench and pats the space next to him. The wood is dry beneath the umbrella and I sit down. He stinks of weed. I try not to wrinkle my nose.

‘Tell me,’ he says.

‘I was wondering.’ I’m suddenly aware of the formality in my voice, the clear and precise enunciation of my mother ordering a slice of Victoria sponge. ‘I need to get hold of a phone.’

His face splits into a broad smile.

‘Do you now – and what made you think I could help?’

‘I don’t know.’ I can’t admit to watching his drug sales. ‘I just thought you might.’

He gives the faintest nod. ‘You come here to drink coffee, one of those tech lot, been here a few months.’

No one in London notices other people’s comings and goings. One of the things I love about it. My mind returns to that feeling of being observed. I make a move to stand up. He places a hand on my forearm. It’s not a menacing gesture, it’s even comforting in some way.

‘Don’t worry, love. I’m not a stalker. Got to watch people in my game – keep an eye out – know what I mean? I’m Garrick, by the way. Everyone knows me around here.’

He extends his hand and I take it.

‘Garrick, like the theatre?’ I say.

‘My mother was a hoofer back in the Sixties. Tells me I was conceived there.’ He smiles. ‘And your name is?’

‘Audrey,’ I say.

I don’t know why I’ve given my mother’s name, perhaps because I’m speaking like her.

‘And what is it for, this phone, Audrey – up to a spot of adultery?’

I don’t answer. Garrick grins.

‘Not a problem, Audrey. No information required. It’s not as though you’re going to be moving in on my patch, are you now?’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘How about you go to the cashpoint up near the station, withdraw two hundred pounds, go for a little walk and by the time you come back I may have a phone for you.’

‘Two hundred?’

‘That’s the price.’

Two hundred pounds – I’ll be living off boiled rice for the rest of the month.

‘It needs to be a smartphone,’ I say.

‘Are you sure? Some people prefer the old-style ones, harder to trace.’

‘No. It has to be a smartphone.’

‘As you desire, milady.’

He takes a shallow bow and withdraws the umbrella, so that it no longer shields me from the rain.

‘I’ll be seeing you, Audrey.’

I stand and walk towards the Tube and the nearest cashpoint.

Garrick won’t want to speak to the police any more than I do. I look at the road behind me as I cross. A man in a dark-coloured padded jacket is standing at the corner of the street, under the newsagent’s awning. The same man as before? The rain leaves his face and figure indistinct. He could be anyone.

Once I’ve taken the money from my bank account, £14.38 is all that’s left before it hits my overdraft limit. God knows what I’m going to do for money. I can’t ask Audrey for any more. I could borrow from the petty cash until my next payday but knowing my luck I’d be found out and get dismissed, which is all I need. I stuff the money into my bra for safekeeping and turn around. A few people are milling about in the rain, but the man in the padded jacket is gone. I still can’t get over the feeling of being watched.

Garrick’s gone when I return. I walk across the square and back to the main road but still can’t see him. I’ve started to circle back when I hear a whistle. I turn around. Garrick’s slouched in the doorway of one of the Georgian houses. As I walk towards him, he forks two fingers, peers down them and scans the road.

‘Sometimes I choose to stay out of sight,’ he says.

Considering the stench of weed, he’s remarkably lucid.

‘Do you have it?’ I ask.

‘If you’ve got the money.’

I pull the money from my bra, which raises a smile from Garrick. After I count the twenties into his hand, he raises the notes to his mouth, kisses them, leers at me and says, ‘I’ll treasure these.’

I step back, having visions of being dragged into the house.

‘I’ve brought the exact money and nothing more,’ I say.

Garrick looks amused.

‘No need to worry. I never harm paying clients – wouldn’t stay in business if I did.’

He disappears into the house and returns only a few seconds later with the phone. It’s an old Samsung Galaxy, badly scuffed, but I’m hardly going to have it on display.

‘I’ve turned the Wi-Fi off for you – no point to an untraceable phone if all your searches come up through your router. You’ll need to set a PIN. And there’s twenty pounds on it. If you want more, go to FoneFirst down the road. They’re very discreet.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Anything else, just ask.’

I’m about to turn away, hoping to God I’m never this desperate again, when I have a thought.

‘You know how you said you keep an eye out for people in the area?’

‘Necessity of the trade,’ he says.

‘You’ve not seen anyone new around?’

‘There’s always someone new.’

‘I think a man is following me.’

He leans back on the wall and lights a spliff.

‘Is that so?’ he says.

‘Have you seen anyone?’

‘That first time you spoke to me a fella was watching. Just being nosy, I think. Not police – I can always spot them.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘He didn’t come close enough to have a good look. All I noticed was that he was older, had grey hair and wore a dark jacket.’

‘A padded jacket?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

His eyes have moved beyond me, looking for his next trade.

I race back to the office and head straight for the toilet and lock the door. I take out Garrick’s phone and open the web browser. Body found on North Downs – is the headline on the BBC South East webpage. Underneath is a video link. I turn the phone’s volume to low and press play. The familiar rolling landscape comes into view. The journalist is wearing a green wax jacket and corduroy trousers, as if he were interrupting walking his gun dogs to give this report. Behind him stands a beech copse and behind that, a radio mast on a distant hill. Through the trees white tents are visible and people of indeterminate gender move about in plastics suits.

A body was discovered today by a student from the Environmental Science Faculty at the University of Surrey.

The journalist’s voice takes on a false gravitas. He wants to be the next John Simpson, reporting on international conflicts, not bypass protests and increased drunkenness in the town centre.

Police have confirmed that the remains are human. There’s been no comment on the cause of death, but it has been confirmed that it is being treated as suspicious.

Police refuse to speculate on whether this could be Hayley Walsh – the teenager who went missing in Crawley three weeks ago.

The shot changes to a man in late middle age, wearing a grey suit. At the bottom of the screen the caption reads: Detective Inspector Frederick Warren.

DI: We’re making inquiries into all missing people in the area.

Reporter: Is this a recent death?

DI: We’re not jumping to any conclusions right now.

Cut back to the reporter standing in front of the copse.

And that’s all we have to tell you at the moment. We’ll be keeping you up to date as and when we have more information.

The clip ends.

I remember that hill. It’s a little different now, perhaps the beeches have grown, but the copse stands on the route we used to take to the pub. On cloudy nights the only light was the streetlamps from the town reflecting against the sky – a lonely, dark, isolated spot.

I watch two more clips from different sites. Their reports are much the same. No clue as to the identity. But on a local newspaper site, one word differs from all the other reports.

It’s believed the remains indicate a violent death.

Violent. A lonely, violent death.

Someone bangs on the door.

‘You’ve been in there ages. Are you ill?’ Miranda’s voice.

‘I’m fine.’

I leave the cubicle and scuttle back to my desk. Jonathan’s back and, fortunately, hasn’t registered my absence.

I shift in my chair and look at the clock on the wall. The hands appear to be ticking backwards. I really have to go but Jonathan expects long hours. Miraculously, at six o’clock, Miranda becomes my unlikely saviour.

‘Anyone fancy a drink? I’m going to the Huntsman.’

She pronounces it ‘Huntsthman’. Jonathan looks up.

‘I’ve been here till ten, the last two nights,’ Miranda says defensively.

I expect Jonathan to roll his eyes, but he says, ‘Could do with a drink myself.’

I never socialise with work. Instead, I stay late to create elaborate charts that will go unread, and no one presses me to join their trip to the pub. I wait for the office to empty before pulling on my coat.

The sky’s a smudgy grey, and the drizzle diffuses what little light there is into a yellow haze. To the left I can see the fuzzy profile of two smokers standing outside the Huntsman. One of them looks like Paulo, though it’s impossible to be sure through the mist, and I turn in the opposite direction, towards the Tube.

A man stares out of the Sensuous Bean’s window. He lowers his head to his coffee cup as I pass. A padded jacket is thrown over the arm of his chair. Is it the same man as earlier, the one Garrick saw, or am I being paranoid?

I reach the entrance to the Tube and I’m about to pull out my Oyster card when my phone bleeps in my pocket.

The unknown number.

IT’S HIM.