Simon Beckett - Where There's Smoke

“He’s already tried to set fire to where I live, for Christ’s sake!”

“If Ellis had been serious about trying to burn down your flat, he’s had enough experience to make a better job of it than that. If he’d used more petrol, perhaps pushed a few rags through as well, then waited for the fumes to build up, that little entrance hall would have gone up like a bomb. There are all sorts of different ways he could have done real damage. If he’d wanted to.”

“So you’re saying I’ve got nothing to worry about?”

“No, what I’m saying is — sorry, just a second.” There was a hollow whisper of a hand being put over the receiver. Kate could hear distant, muffled voices. The cloying smell of petrol oozed into her pores. She looked again down at the Jiffy-bag. Its mouth gaped, and the self-sealing polythene bag that had been inside was draped half out of it like a pale tongue. The oily black ashes that had spilled out when she had dropped it lay wetly on the desk. Kate knew she should clean them up before the surface was stained, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch them. Only one part of the poster had been left unburnt. She could imagine Ellis carefully turning the burning paper, until everything except her face had been consumed. Then he had soaked the ashes in petrol and sent them to her. There was a rattle as Collins took his hand away from the receiver. Then his voice was back. “Sorry about that. Where was I?”

“You were telling me why I’d nothing to worry about.”

Collins overlooked her sarcasm, which made her feel worse. “Try and look at things in perspective. The posters are upsetting and I know they’ve damaged your business. But they can’t hurt you.”

Kate wanted to believe him. “Can’t they? What about this?”

She waved her hand at the burnt remains of the poster, as though the Inspector could see it. “It’s like he’s telling me what he’s going to do! He’s psyching himself up for it!”

“Look, Kate.” The policeman spoke with weary patience. The unexpected use of her Christian name was somehow comforting. “I’m not trying to kid you that Ellis isn’t dangerous. But you’re taking every reasonable precaution that you can, and he’s made himself too conspicuous to get away with what he was doing earlier. He’s got to be more careful where he puts the posters because he knows we’re watching for him, and he’s going to find it more and more difficult to go out in public at all. He’s probably getting frustrated, so he’s looking for different ways to get at you.”

“But if he’s frustrated mightn’t that make him do something?”

Collins took a moment to answer. “I wasn’t going to tell you this. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up, but we’ve had a sighting of Ellis. It was last night, at Piccadilly Underground. A transport police officer spotted him. He was carrying a couple of plastic bags, and when the officer went to challenge him, he dropped them and vaulted over the barriers and ran out. There was a roll of posters in one and paste in the other.”

Kate remembered the bags the tramp had been carrying. “He got away?”

She felt a strange mix of adrenaline and disappointment, as though the outcome were still in doubt.

“Unfortunately, but it proves my point. Every time he pokes his nose out now, he increases the risk of being caught, and it won’t be long now before he is.”

That thought buoyed her up for the rest of the day. It was a fragile optimism, but better than the feeling of being buried alive. A uniformed police constable called around later that morning for the Jiffy-bag and burnt poster, and once that had gone Kate felt encouraged enough to venture out.

It was the first time since Clive had gone home that she had left the office without getting straight into a taxi. It had only been days, but it seemed much longer. The street seemed wider and longer than usual under the grey and agoraphobic plain of the sky. She walked out by the pavement edge, away from doorways and alleys, checking behind her every few minutes. When she reached King’s Cross she felt the uneasy relief that comes with a fading of tension.

She caught the tube for the three stops to Oxford Circus.

By the time she emerged from the Underground, a watery sun was shining through the cloud. Kate turned her face to it gratefully. People thronged past, intent on their own business. The rest of the world was still there, unchanged.

She called in at a café and had a cup of hot chocolate. After drinking it she decided she was hungry and ordered a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. The taste of olive oil made her think of summer. It would soon be spring, she realised, with surprise. The thought gave her a further boost.

Kate left the café and browsed outside shop windows. She stared into a display of baby clothes. There were tiny sweaters and jackets, miniature jeans and boots. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass and saw that she was smiling. Everything passes, she told herself.

She wasn’t confident enough to walk to the station that evening, though, or not to take a taxi back to her flat at the other end. As the light fell, some of her earlier fears revived. Kate asked the taxi driver to wait until she had unlocked the front door. Dougal was waiting outside by the step. He yowled irritably when he saw her. Even though he had rarely used it, he seemed to have taken the disappearance of the cat flap as a personal slight.

The tom cat ran upstairs ahead of her. There was always a moment of anxiety as she went from room to room, quickly drawing the heavy curtains before turning on the lights. But, as usual, the flat was empty.

She fed Dougal, and grilled herself a piece of plaice. She baked a potato in the microwave, putting it in the oven to crisp while she chopped carrots into strips, then blanched them quickly in boiling water and drained them out onto a plate. Dougal showed more interest in her fish than his own food, and eventually she gave in and flaked a small piece into his dish so he would leave her alone.

She took her plate through into the lounge. She had developed the habit of taking the fire extinguisher with her from room to room, but tonight she resolutely left it in the kitchen. Curling her legs under her, she ate with a fork while she read the brochures she had picked up at lunch-time. They showed push-chairs and prams, cots and cradles. Kate felt almost intoxicated as she looked at them. This was the future, this was what she should be focused on, not the petrol fantasies of a disturbed mind.

When the phone rang she thought it would be Clive. He had already called once, briefly, to say he would be away longer than he expected. His brother’s funeral had been the day before, and she guessed he would call again soon, if only to say he still didn’t know when he’d be back. She set her plate on a shelf, out of Dougal’s reach, and went into the hall to answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Kate?”

It was a man’s voice, familiar but not Clive’s, and she stiffened for the instant it took to place it. “It’s Paul.”

She put her head against the wall. Her heart thumped with anticlimax. “Are you still there?” he asked.

Kate straightened, wearily. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I just thought I’d phone, see how you are—”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” She was already lowering the phone.

“No, wait, wait, wait, wait! Please!”

It was that please that stopped her. She hesitated, then raised the phone again. “All right. I’m waiting.”

She heard him breathing. “Look, I’m — I know you don’t want to talk to me, and I can’t blame you. I just phoned because, well, because — oh, shit, look, I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

Kate was too surprised to answer. Paul waited a moment, obviously hoping she would.