Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

I changed into warmer clothes, found what food I could and walked out into the garden. The night air would keep me awake. Anyone watching would just assume I was having trouble sleeping after the events of the evening. I looked at my watch. Fifty minutes before I had to leave. Stay awake, keep your nerve.

Then, as I closed the door of the conservatory behind me, music started playing. It was coming from somewhere very close, possibly even the garden itself. I stood there, listening to the clear notes of the violins, waiting for the moment when Julie Andrews would sing the first line.

She didn’t. I heard the click of a button being pressed and then the music stopped. In its place was the heavy silence of someone listening. Then, loud enough for me alone to hear, that same someone said my name.

57

WAS THIS IT THEN? WAS IT ALL GOING TO END HERE AND now? So many years since I’d heard that voice. It hadn’t changed.

On the other side of the alley wall, something scraped against the stone. It was a sound so soft it could almost have been a cat, even a rodent. I knew it was neither. I opened my mouth, tried to form the name on my tongue, but nothing came out.

From the main road came the sound of a police siren. On the other side of the wall, that of footsteps moving away.

‘No, wait. It wasn’t me. I didn’t call anyone.’

I had no idea whether I’d been heard. The footsteps had gone. It took me seconds to pull back the heavy-duty bolts on the gate and get into the alley. It was empty. Instinct told me not to run towards the street so I went the other way. Thirty metres and I’d arrived at a pathway that circled the park. Still no one in sight.

We were taught in training that it’s human instinct to turn left rather than right and that, with no other motivation, people will head to their left. That’s the way I went. The gateway to the park was open and I stopped to get my breath back. I could hear the music again. The tinkling tune, light as air bubbles, was trilling away from somewhere inside the park.

Careful now. The shrubs around the perimeter were tall and dense. Plenty of hiding places. On the other side of the park were recreation fields, several football pitches that became cricket pitches in summer. Every step now took me further away from people. I’d brought no radio with me, no phone, no weapon of any kind. I’d acted without thinking, running out here. I’d have been spotted leaving the garden but it would take time for back-up to arrive. In the meantime, my police-officer status would be no protection. I was just a woman, alone at night.

The park was long and narrow. Clumps of shrubs and ornamental trees prevented me from seeing the full length, but I knew it well enough. To my right was the young children’s play area. There were swings, a roundabout, a large treehouse complex with slides and stepping stones. Lots more hiding places. The eastern side of the park was aimed at older children and teenagers. There was a skate-board ramp and a BMX track.

Ahead of me was a circular structure of sheltered seating. In the darkest corner, I thought I could see movement among the shadows.

After the rain of earlier, the night was now dull, damp and mild, with no stars or moon that I could see. Just a thick covering of cloud. Not much wind either, and yet all around me the leaves that hadn’t yet been claimed by the autumn were shivering. I was shivering too. So much it was starting to hurt.

Then everything fell silent. Even the distant noise of traffic seemed to retreat and I had a sense of a defining moment approaching. I realized I’d stopped breathing and I began to wonder how long it had been exactly since I’d checked behind me.

I didn’t move.

‘I’m waiting,’ I said and could almost feel the hand reach out to touch my shoulder.

Then the silence broke, as though someone had waved a wand and brought the city back to life. I could hear traffic on the Wandsworth Road, leaves rustling like crisp packets, a car door being slammed.

And another police siren, one that – instinctively I knew – was heading this way. We were out of time.

I walked out of the park and back to my flat. As I left the alley I could hear footsteps running down the front steps and then someone banging on the door. I crossed my bedroom, picked up my rucksack and put it back on the wardrobe. I wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight.

I had things to do.

58

Tuesday 2 October

NEXT MORNING, I DRESSED CAREFULLY. I DON’T OFTEN wear a skirt but I have a couple of more formal outfits for when the job demands it. The smarter of the two, a dark-blue suit from one of the high-street chains, is plain but respectable. I wore it with a loose cream blouse and twisted my hair into a knot at the back of my head. It could almost have been a trainee barrister staring back at me from the bedroom mirror. From the neck down, of course.

My face was still a mess. My nose was swollen and discoloured and the bruising around both eyes, whilst fading, was still very much in evidence. The stitches were visible at my left temple and my lips were twice their normal size. Joesbury hadn’t been lying that night in hospital; my injuries were 90 per cent superficial and already improving. I was still barely recognizable though.

Every cloud, as they say.

I spent less than an hour in the office, drinking strong coffee, trying to summon up enough nerve for what I had to do. When the police left my flat the night before, it had been nearly two o’clock in the morning. They’d carried out a thorough search of the park and the alley leading up to it, but had found nothing. By the time they finished, the words ‘wild goose chase’ were practically hovering in the air above their heads. It wasn’t even as though I had anything concrete to tell them. Scuffling sounds and footsteps. It could have been anything. Anyone. I didn’t mention the music. To do so would have been to face too many unanswerable questions. I drank a third cup of coffee, collected Mizon from the next room and left the station.

First on the list were the Benn children, whose mother had been found dead the previous evening in a room sprayed liberally with her own blood. Out of respect for the immediacy of their grief, we’d arranged to see them at the home of friends, where they’d stayed overnight.

Felix Benn was twenty-six years old. I’d put his height at six two and his weight at around 180 pounds. He was a sportsman, it was clear from his walk, the way he held his shoulders, from the muscle visible through the pale-blue polo shirt. He was fair-haired, freckled, thin-faced. His younger brother, Harry, was similar but darker, maybe not so tall. Madeleine, at seventeen, was slender as a willow with long blonde hair. She was the only one who’d been visibly crying. I introduced myself and Mizon and said how sorry I was for their loss. They nodded and thanked me, three polite, well-brought-up kids.

‘Can you think of any reason why anyone might want to kill your mother?’ I asked, once I’d gone through the basics. ‘Why someone might want to kill Mrs Jones and also Mrs Weston – Mrs Briggs, as she was when you knew her?’

Felix shook his head. ‘My mother never did anyone any harm,’ he said.

I turned to Harry and Madeleine. ‘You both still live at home, I know,’ I said. ‘How did she seem yesterday morning?’

They looked at each other, then back at me. ‘Mornings are always a bit hectic,’ said Harry. ‘But she seemed OK.’

‘She was pissed off about that journalist,’ said Madeleine quietly. ‘The one that kept calling her.’

‘Someone was calling her?’ I asked.

Madeleine nodded. ‘A reporter. Calling about Geraldine and Amanda. She said she was talking to several of the mothers from the school, wanted to get a feel for what everyone thought, whether they were scared.’