Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

He sighed, as though wondering why I was bothering him with this tiresome conversation business. ‘I’m convalescing,’ he said. ‘Dislocated my shoulder and nearly lost an eye in a fight. Officially, I’m on light duties only until November, but as both you and DI Tulloch have been at pains to point out, I’m bored.’

Trev arrived back with drinks. He put a bottle of South American beer down in front of each of us. I hadn’t been asked what I wanted.

‘The look on your face says you’re not a beer drinker,’ said Joesbury, reaching across and pouring the contents of my bottle into a glass. ‘And the look on mine should tell you, I know that – you’re far too skinny to be a beer drinker – but it’s good for shock.’

I picked up my glass. I’m not a beer drinker, but alcohol of any description was starting to feel like a very good idea. Joesbury watched me drink nearly a third of its contents before coming up for air.

‘What brought you into the police?’ he asked me.

‘An early fascination with serial killers,’ I replied. It was the truth, although I didn’t usually advertise the fact in quite so blunt a fashion. I’d been intrigued by violent crime and its perpetrators for as long as I could remember and it was this that had led me, through a long and circuitous path, into the police service.

Joesbury raised one eyebrow at me.

‘Sadistic, psychopathic predators specifically,’ I went on. ‘You know, the type who kill to satisfy some deviant sexual longing. Sutcliffe, West, Brady. When I was a kid I couldn’t get enough of them.’

The eyebrow stayed up as I realized my glass was now more than half empty and that I really needed to slow down a bit.

‘You know, if you’re bored, you should think about golf,’ I said. ‘A lot of middle-aged men find it fills the hours quite nicely.’

Joesbury’s lips tightened, but he wasn’t about to dignify such a cheap jibe with a response. And I really had to get a grip. Winding up a senior officer, however unpleasant, just wasn’t me. I was low-profile girl.

‘Sir, I apologize,’ I said. ‘I’ve had one hell of an evening and—’ Movement at my side. The food had arrived.

‘Don’t call him Sir,’ said Trev, putting a plate of noodles with prawns and vegetables in front of me and something with beef and black beans in Joesbury’s place. ‘Young female officers calling him Sir turns him on something rotten.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ I muttered, thinking it probably shouldn’t be too hard. Joesbury was definitely not my type. I didn’t actually have a type. But if I had, he wouldn’t be it.

‘Now this is for Dana,’ Trev went on, putting a covered plastic dish on the table. ‘Give her my love, tell her to come and see me soon, and if she ever gets tired—’

‘Trev,’ drawled Joesbury. ‘How many times …?’

‘A man can dream,’ said Trev, as he made his way back to the kitchen. When I looked up, Joesbury was intent on his food.

‘How did he know I’m police?’ I asked, picking up my fork and pushing a prawn around in a circle.

‘You’re wearing an orange Andy Pandy suit with PROPERTY OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE on the collar,’ said Joesbury, without looking up.

‘I could be a villain,’ I said, putting the prawn in my mouth. It sat there, large and uncomfortably dry, on my tongue.

‘Yeah,’ said Joesbury, putting his fork down and lifting his eyes. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

7

I LIVE JUST OFF THE WANDSWORTH ROAD, LESS THAN FIVE minutes’ walk from Trev’s Chinese restaurant, in part of an old Victorian house. The letting agent who rented it to me called it the garden flat. In truth, it was the basement, accessible via a dozen stone steps that led down from the pavement, just to the right of the house’s front door. Out of habit, I checked the small area of shadow in the under-well of the steps. If I was unlucky (and careless) one night, someone could be waiting. It had never happened yet and I rather hoped tonight wouldn’t be the first time; I was hardly in the mood. The stairwell was empty and the padlock on the door of the shed where I keep my bike hadn’t been disturbed. I slipped my key into the lock and went inside.

I walked through my living room, past the tiny galley kitchen and into my bedroom. I’d changed the sheets that morning, as I always do on Friday. They were crisp white cotton, one of the very few luxuries I allow myself. Normally, getting into bed on a Friday night is one of the highlights of my week.

But I had just the worst feeling that if I lay down on them, when I got up again, they’d be stained the dark red of another woman’s blood. Stupid, I’d showered until my skin felt raw, but …

I carried on walking, through a sort of lean-to conservatory and into the garden. It’s long and very narrow, like lots of gardens behind London’s terraced streets, attracting practically no direct sunlight. Luckily, though, whoever designed it knew what they were doing. All the plants thrive in the shade and it’s full of small trees and dense shrubs. High brick walls on either side give me privacy. There’s a side door that leads to an alley. I keep it locked.

I closed my eyes, and saw pale-blue ones staring into mine. Oh no.

DI Joesbury, objectionable git that he was, had actually taken my mind off the events of earlier. Being with him, trying to find something to talk about, trying even harder not to say anything inappropriate, had given me something to focus on. Now, on my own, it was all coming back.

London is never quiet, and even at this hour I could hear the constant hum of traffic, the sound of people walking past in the street and high-pitched yelling from very near by.

There is a park not a hundred metres from my flat. When the sun goes down the teenagers of south London claim it for their own, swinging around the play equipment like monkeys, screeching and howling at each other. They were on form tonight. From what I could hear there was some sort of chase going on. Girls were squealing. Music playing. They were letting off some steam.

Which, exhausted or not, was exactly what I needed to do. And I had a playground of my own I could go to.

8

CAMDEN TOWN HAS LONG BEEN ONE OF THE TRENDIEST places in north London and especially so since the development of the Camden Stables Market. Once an extensive network of tunnels, arches, viaducts and passageways, the area was sold off to developers some years ago and transformed into a vast complex of shops, bars, market stalls and cafés. It’s popular in the daytime as a place to browse, eat and just hang out. At night, people flock here. At least once a week, usually on a Friday, I’m one of them.

My car had been taken away by the scene-of-crime officers so I’d had to travel by bus. As I approached the Horse Hospital, once stabling for sick or tired horses that worked on the railways, I took off my jacket and tucked it into the small rucksack I was carrying over one shoulder.

Horses, or rather their replicas, are the predominant feature of the Stables Market. Back in the days of the railway’s construction, hundreds of them were kept to transport goods and equipment to, from and around the site. Nothing so unusual in that, but in Camden the working horses led a largely subterranean life, moving from one area to another through tunnels, built specifically to allow them a safe and convenient passage around. At one time they were even stabled underground.

These days, the living, working beasts are long gone, but equine images are everywhere you turn. There are wall hangings, massive free-standing statues, motifs built into railings, on lamp posts, even on bins. I like horses, but even I’m inclined to feel the developers have overdone it a bit.