Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

‘We’re all struggling with this case,’ said Joesbury, in a voice that told me he intended to have the last word.

‘Yeah, well, we don’t all have eating disorders,’ I replied. ‘And we certainly don’t all have suicide scars.’

Joesbury took a deep breath and let it out noisily. He leaned slightly closer. ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with the way Dana has been leading this investigation,’ he said in clipped tones.

I leaned closer too, until I could smell vinegar on his breath. ‘I didn’t say there was,’ I came back. ‘I asked if she was OK. You’re not the only one who likes her, you know.’

Joesbury turned away from me, finished his meal and screwed up the paper. For a moment, I thought he was sulking. Then, ‘Those scars weren’t self-inflicted,’ he said, in a soft voice.

Now that I hadn’t expected. ‘Someone else did that to her?’

He gave a sharp nod. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it,’ he said, before standing up. ‘Are you done?’

I folded the greasy paper carefully and stood up. I’d got the message. We set off back and for a minute or two Joesbury didn’t speak. I had the impression, though, that he was thoughtful rather than angry.

‘Have you thought what you might do when you finish training?’ he asked me, when we’d deposited the chip papers and empty cans in a bin.

I was waving my fingers in the air to get the smell of fat and vinegar off them. ‘To be honest, I’m finding it difficult to see much beyond this case,’ I said, which was certainly the truth, if not the whole truth. For me, there was nothing beyond the case.

We set off again and before long were approaching the hotel. Leaving the shingle path, we re-joined the smooth red-brick one that would lead us to the front door. The path circled around another sculpture, this time a large brick circle decorated with massive rocks and cast-iron seagulls. Joesbury stopped walking and turned to face me.

‘We should have a chat,’ he said. ‘When this is all over. About where you go next.’

Not far from us, people were milling around outside the hotel. A couple getting into a taxi. Two middle-aged women smoking and shivering. A man strolling up and down, talking loudly into his mobile; in Welsh.

‘You’re offering me career advice?’ I said.

‘Let’s just say I have a couple of ideas,’ he replied. ‘As does Dana, by the way. If she survives this case, she’ll be after you for the MIT.’

The wind was picking up. My hair blew across my face and I reached up to push it away. Joesbury’s hand got there first, brushing against my right ear. I pulled away and turned to face the bay.

‘What have I said?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’ On the sculpture in front of us, some of the iron seagulls had broken off. Only their feet remained, clinging to the rocks.

‘How has that upset you?’

I swallowed hard. Both he and Tulloch were assuming I had a future in the Met. Shit, I could not cry.

‘Lacey Flint, you are one weird girl.’ He’d moved closer.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘I still think you’re trouble,’ he said. One finger was brushing the sleeve of my jacket and I could feel his breath against the side of my face.

‘Can’t argue with that,’ I muttered.

He was holding my hair now, winding it round in his hand, gently pulling me back towards him. ‘So why is it that every morning when I wake up,’ he said, as I felt his cold fingers on the back of my neck, ‘the first thought in my head is you?’

81

13 September, ten years earlier

B Y THE TIME VICTORIA LLEWELLYN ARRIVES BACK, IT’S DARK . She climbs the fence and slips across the abandoned ground. At the metal gate, she finds her torch and makes her way inside. The tunnel is dark and damp, but cheap lanterns light the way. She climbs steps and, still in almost complete darkness, makes her way around camps and prone bodies. When she sees the hospital screen and the calor-gas stove she slows down .

A girl is lying on the mattress the two of them share. Victoria shines her torch softly on the girl’s face. She doesn’t want to wake her up .

The girl isn’t asleep. Her eyes are wide open. A second later, Victoria is on her knees, checking for a pulse, for breath, anything. Her friend isn’t dead yet, but close .

‘ Oh God no, not you too.’ She has to get her up, get her to where they can find help. She slips an arm beneath the other girl’s shoulders and tugs. ‘Come on, wake up. You have to help me. Come on, Lacey, I can’t lose you too .’

Lacey’s eyes focus for a second on Victoria’s and she struggles to her feet. Slowly, the two girls make their way back out to the night .

82

IN MY ROOM, I SAT IN DARKNESS FOR A LONG TIME, STARING out at the water. One by one lights across the bay went out, and as each one disappeared, a tiny chunk of time seemed to be slipping away. Eventually, all movement ceased and the bay settled down for the night.

At one o’clock in the morning, I knew I couldn’t play a waiting game any longer. I had to get back to London. More importantly, I had to get Mark Joesbury off my back.

Against all odds, coming to Cardiff had helped, I realized. I’d got through the various traps he’d set and he was starting to get some measure of trust back. Not enough, though. It was time to take a huge gamble.

I was going to have to tell him the truth.

Not giving myself the chance to chicken out, I left my room and walked barefoot to the lift. I’d changed after getting back and was dressed in loose jogging pants and a running vest. At the door of his room, I knocked gently.

When he opened the door, he was bare-chested, with brightly coloured, button-up cotton trousers slung low on his waist. The way he was squinting at the bright corridor lights told me I’d dragged him from a pretty deep sleep. When he registered that it was me, the look in his eyes became a mixture of bewildered, curious and hopeful. I didn’t give him chance to open his mouth.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I said.

He rubbed both eyes and then turned and walked back into the room. I followed, letting the door swing shut behind me.

Joesbury’s room was even bigger than mine, with two double beds. As he switched on a reading lamp, I saw that the bed he’d been sleeping in had a pillow laid lengthways and that it was dented. He’d fallen asleep hugging it.

On the other bed, glossy pages from a souvenir book of the Ripper mystery had been spread across the counterpane. I had a copy of the book myself. As a reference work it had been close to useless, but it did have perfect reproductions of much of the original documentation, including the mortuary photographs of the five victims. Joesbury, who I guess had fallen under the Ripper’s spell like so many do, had spread them out across the bed in chronological order. Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catharine Eddowes and Mary Kelly.

He walked the full length of the room. I picked up the photograph of the mutilated Mary Kelly and moved it further up the bed, before perching on the corner.

‘Want a drink?’ he offered. I shook my head.

The huge windows were open a fraction and the room was cold. The night air was goose-pimpling the skin on his shoulders and I found myself shivering. I watched him walk to the bathroom, reach inside and bring out a large, white towelling robe. He wrapped it round himself and then, from a pile of clothes over a chair, found a sweatshirt and threw it across.

‘Central heating at night gives me a headache,’ he said.

I pulled the sweatshirt over my head. It was the one Joesbury had been wearing all day. It was cool, like the room, but its smell made me think of a warm body, moving closer. When I could see again, he was pouring himself a drink from the minibar. More awake now, he sat in an armchair in front of the window and looked at me.