It wasn’t love at first sight.
I can admit that now. But by the end, I loved her more than I
thought it was possible to love another human being. I cared about
her far more than I ever cared about myself. That’s why I did it. Why
I had to. I think it’s important that people know that, when they find
out what I’ve done. If they do. Perhaps then they might understand
that I did it for her.
There is a difference between being and feeling alone, and it is
possible to miss someone and be with them at the same time. There
have been plenty of people in my life: family, friends, colleagues,
lovers. A full cast of the usual suspects that make a person’s social
circle, but mine has always felt a little bent out of shape. None of
the relationships I have ever formed with another human being feel
real to me. More like a series of missed connections.
People might recognize my face, they may even know my name,
but they’ll never know the real me. Nobody does. I’ve always been
selfish with the true thoughts and feelings inside my head; I don’t
share them with anyone. Because I can’t. There is a version of me I
can only ever be with myself. I sometimes think the secret to
success is the ability to adapt. Life rarely stays the same, and I’ve
frequently had to reinvent myself in order to keep up. I learned how
to change my looks, my life … even my voice.
I also learned how to fit in, but constantly trying to do so is more
than just uncomfortable now, it hurts. Because I don’t. Fit. I fold my
jagged edges inside myself, and smooth over the most obvious
differences between us, but I am not the same as you. There are
over seven billion people on the planet, and yet I have somehow
managed to spend a lifetime feeling alone.
I’m losing my mind and not for the first time, but sanity can often
be lost and found. People will say that I snapped, lost it, came
unhinged. But when the time came it was—without doubt—the right
thing to do. I felt good about myself afterward. I wanted to do it
again.
There are at least two sides to every story:
Yours and mine.
Ours and theirs.
His and hers.
Which means someone is always lying.
Lies told often enough can start to sound true, and we all
sometimes hear a voice inside our heads, saying something so
shocking, we pretend it is not our own. I know exactly what I heard
that night, while I waited at the station for her to come home for the
last time. At first, the train sounded just like any other in the
distance. I closed my eyes and it was like listening to music, the
rhythmic song of the cars on the tracks getting louder and louder:
Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickety-click.
But then the sound started to change, translating into words
inside my head, repeating themselves over and over, until it was
impossible not to hear:
Kill them all. Kill them all. Kill them all.
Her
Anna Andrews
Monday 06:00
Mondays have always been my favorite day.
The chance to start again.
A clean enough slate with just the dust of your own past mistakes
still visible—almost, but not quite wiped away.
I realize it’s an unpopular opinion—to be fond of the first day of
the week—but I’m full of those. My view of the world tends to be a
little tilted. When you grow up sitting in life’s cheap seats, it’s too
easy to see behind the puppets dancing on its stage. Once you’ve
seen the strings, and who pulls them, it can be hard to enjoy the
rest of the show. I can afford to sit where I want now, choose any
view I like, but those fancy-looking theater boxes are only good for
looking down on other people. I’ll never do that. Just because I
don’t like to look back doesn’t mean I don’t remember where I came
from. I’ve worked hard for my ticket and the cheap seats still suit me
fine.
I don’t spend a lot of time getting ready in the mornings—there is
no point putting on makeup, just for someone else to take it off and
start again when I get to work—and I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t eat
much at all, but I do enjoy cooking for others. Apparently, I’m a
feeder.
I stop briefly in the kitchen to pick up my Tupperware carrier,
filled with homemade cupcakes for the team. I barely remember
making them. It was late, definitely after my third glass of
something dry and white. I prefer red but it leaves a telltale stain on
my lips, so I save it for weekends only. I open the fridge and notice
that I didn’t finish last night’s wine, so I drink what is left straight
from the bottle, before taking it with me as I leave the house.
Monday is also when my trash gets collected. The recycling bin is
surprisingly full for someone who lives alone. Mostly glass.
I like to walk to work. The streets are pretty empty at this time of
day, and I find it calming. I cross Waterloo Bridge and weave my
way through Soho toward Oxford Circus, while listening to the Today
program. I’d prefer to listen to music, a little Ludovico perhaps or
Taylor Swift depending on my mood—there are two very different
sides to my personality—but instead I endure the dulcet tones of
middle-class Britain, telling me what they think I should know. Their
voices still feel foreign to my ears, despite sounding like my own.
But then I didn’t always speak this way. I’ve been presenting the
BBC One O’Clock News bulletin for almost two years, and I still feel
like a fraud.
I stop by the flattened cardboard box that has been bothering me
the most recently. I can see a strand of blond hair poking out the
top, so I know she’s still there. I don’t know who she is, only that I
might have been her had life unfolded differently. I left home when I
was sixteen because it felt like I had to. I don’t do what I’m about to
do now out of kindness; I do it because of a misplaced moral
compass. Just like the soup kitchen I volunteered at last Christmas.
We rarely deserve the lives we lead. We pay for them however we
can, be it with money, guilt, or regret.
I
open the plastic carry case and put one of my carefully
constructed cupcakes down on the pavement, between her
cardboard box and the wall, so that she’ll see it when she wakes.
Then, worried she might not like or appreciate my chocolate frosting
—for all I know she could be diabetic—I take a twenty-pound note
from my purse and slide it underneath. I don’t mind if she spends
my money on alcohol; I do.
Radio 4 continues to irritate me, so I switch off the latest
politician lying in my ears. Their over-rehearsed dishonesty doesn’t
fit with this image of real people with real problems. Not that I’d
ever say that out loud or on-air during an interview. I’m paid to be
impartial regardless of how I feel.
Maybe I’m a liar too. I chose this career because I wanted to tell
the truth. I wanted to tell the stories that mattered most, the ones
that I thought people needed to hear. Stories that I hoped might
change the world and make it a better place. But I was naïve. People
working in the media today have more power than politicians, but
what good is trying to tell the truth about the world when I can’t
bear to be honest about my own story: who I am, where I came
from, what I’ve done.
I bury the thoughts like I always do. Lock them in a secure secret
box inside my head, push them to the darkest corner right at the
back, and hope they won’t escape again anytime soon.
I walk the final few streets to Broadcasting House, then search
inside my handbag for my ever-elusive security pass. My fingers find
one of my little tins of mints instead. It rattles in protest as I flip it
open and pop a tiny white triangle inside my mouth, as though it
were a pill. Wine on my breath before the morning meeting is best
avoided. I locate my pass and step inside the glass revolving doors,
feeling several sets of eyes turn my way. That’s okay. I’m pretty
good at being the version of myself I think people want me to be. At
least on the outside.
I know everyone by name, including the cleaners still sweeping
the floor. It costs almost nothing to be kind and I have a very
efficient memory, despite the drink. Once past security—a little more
thorough than it used to be, thanks to the state of the world we
have curated for ourselves—I stare down at the newsroom and it
feels like home. Cocooned inside the basement of the BBC building,
but visible from every floor, the newsroom resembles a brightly lit
red-and-white open-plan warren. Almost every available space is
filled with screens and tightly packed desks, with an eclectic
collection of journalists sitting behind each one.
These people aren’t just my colleagues, they’re like a
dysfunctional surrogate family. I’m almost forty years old, but I don’t
have anyone else. No children. No husband. Not anymore. I’ve
worked here for almost twenty years but, unlike those with friends
or family connections, I started right at the bottom. I took a few
detours along the way, and the stepping-stones to success were
sometimes a little slippery, but I got where I wanted to be,
eventually.
Patience is the answer to so many of life’s questions.
Serendipity smiled at me when the previous news anchor left.
She went into labor a month early, and five minutes before the
lunchtime bulletin. Her water broke and I got my lucky break. I’d
just come back from maternity leave myself—earlier than planned—
and was the only correspondent in the newsroom with any
presenting experience. All of which was overtime and overnight—the
shifts nobody else wanted—I was that desperate for any opportunity
that might help my career. Presenting a network bulletin was
something I had been dreaming of my whole life.
There was no time for a trip to hair and makeup that day. They
rushed me on set and did what they could, powdering my face at
the same time as they miked me up. I practiced reading the
headlines on the teleprompter, and the director was calm and kind in
my earpiece. His voice steadied me. I remember very little about
that first half-hour program, but I do recall the congratulations
afterward. From newsroom nobody to network news anchor in less
than an hour.
My boss is called the Thin Controller behind his slightly hunched
back. He’s a small man trapped inside a tall man’s body. He also has
a speech impediment. It prevents him from pronouncing his Rs, and
the rest of the newsroom from taking him seriously. He has never
been good at filling gaps on rosters so, after my successful debut, he
decided to let me fill in until the end of that week. Then the next. A
three-month contract as a news anchor—instead of my staff position
as a correspondent—swelled into six; after that it was extended to
the end of the year, accompanied by a nice little pay raise. Viewing
numbers went up when I started presenting the program, so I was
allowed to stay. My predecessor never returned; she got pregnant
again while on maternity leave and hasn’t been seen since. Almost
two years later, I’m still here and expect my latest contract to be
renewed any day.
I take my seat between the editor and the lead producer, then
clean my desk and keyboard with an antibacterial wipe. There is no
telling who might have been sitting here overnight. The newsroom
never sleeps, and sadly not everyone in it adheres to my preferred
level of hygiene. I open up the running order and smile; it still gives
me a little thrill to see my name at the top:
News Anchor: Anna Andrews.
I start writing the intros for each story. Despite popular opinion,
we don’t just read the news, we write it. Or at least I do. News
anchors, like normal human beings, come in all shapes and sizes.
There are several who have crawled so far up their own asses I’m
amazed they can still sit down, let alone read a teleprompter. The
nation would be appalled if they knew how some of their so-called
national treasures behaved behind the scenes. But I won’t tell.
Journalism is a game with more chutes than ladders. Getting to the
top takes a long time, and one wrong move can land you right back
down at the bottom. Nobody is bigger than the machine.
The morning breezes by just like any other: a constantly evolving
running order, conversations with correspondents in the field,
discussions with the director about graphics and screens. There is an
almost permanent line of reporters and producers waiting to talk to
the editor beside me. More often than not, to request a longer
duration for their package or two-way.
Everyone always wants just a little more time.
I don’t miss those days at all: begging to get on-air, constantly
fretting when I didn’t. There simply isn’t time to tell every story.
The rest of the team are unusually quiet. I take a quick look to
my left, and notice that the producer has the latest roster up on her
screen. She closes it down as soon as she sees me looking. Rosters
are second only to breaking news when it comes to influencing
stress levels in the newsroom. They come out late and rarely go
down well, with the distribution of the most unpopular shifts—lates,
weekends, overnights—always cause for contention. I work Monday
to Friday now, and haven’t requested any leave for over six months,
so, unlike my poor colleagues, there is nothing roster-shaped for me
to worry about.
An hour before the program, I visit makeup. It’s a nice place to
escape to—relatively peaceful and quiet compared with the constant
noise of the newsroom. My hair is blow-dried into an obedient
chestnut bob, and my face is covered with HD-grade foundation. I
wear more makeup for work than I did for my wedding. The thought
forces me to retreat inside myself for a moment, and I feel the ridge
of indentation on my finger, where my ring used to be.
The program goes mostly according to plan, despite a few last
minute changes while we are on-air: some breaking news, a delayed
TV package, a camera with a mind of its own in the studio, and a
dodgy feed from Washington. I’m forced to wrap up an
overenthusiastic political correspondent in Downing Street, one who
regularly takes up more than their allotted time. Some people like
the sound of their own voices a little too much.
The debrief begins while I’m still on set, waiting to say good-bye
to viewers after the weather segment. Nobody wants to hang
around any longer than absolutely necessary after the program, so
they always start without me. It’s a gathering of correspondents and
producers who worked on the show, but is also attended by
representatives of other departments: home news, foreign news,
editing, graphics, as well as the Thin Controller.
I
swing by my desk to collect my Tupperware carrier before
joining everyone, eager to share my latest culinary creations with
the team. I haven’t told anyone that it’s my birthday today yet, but I
might.
I make my way across the newsroom toward them, and stop
briefly when I see a woman I don’t recognize. She has her back to
me, with two small children dressed in matching outfits by her side.
I notice the cute cupcakes my colleagues are already eating. Not
homemade—like mine—but shop-bought and expensive-looking.
Then I return my attention to the woman handing them out. I stare
at her bright red hair, framing her pretty face with a bob so sharp it
could have been cut with a laser. When she turns and smiles in my
direction it feels like a slap.
Someone passes me a glass of warm prosecco, and I see the
drinks trolley that management always orders from catering
whenever a member of staff leaves. It happens a lot in this business.
The Thin Controller taps his glass with an overgrown fingernail, then
he starts to speak, strange-sounding words tumbling out of his
crumb-covered lips.
“We can’t wait to welcome you back…”
It’s the only sentence my ears manage to translate. I stare at Cat
Jones, the woman who presented the program before I did, standing
there with her trademark red hair, and two beautiful little girls. I feel
physically sick.
“… and our thanks to Anna, of course, for taking the helm while
you were away.”
Eyes are turned and glasses are raised in my direction. My hands
start to tremble and I hope my face is doing a better job of hiding
my feelings.
“It was on the roster, I’m so sorry, we all thought you knew.”
The producer standing next to me whispers the words but I’m
unable to form a reply.
The Thin Controller apologizes too, afterward. He sits in his
office, while I stand, and stares at his hands while he speaks, as
though the words he is struggling to find might be written on his
sweaty fingers. He thanks me, and tells me that I’ve done a great
job filling in for the last …
“Two years,” I say, when he doesn’t appear to know or
understand how long it has been.
He shrugs as though it were nothing.
“It is her job, I’m afraid. She has a contract. We can’t sack people
for having a baby, not even when they have two!”
He laughs.
I don’t.
“When does she come back?” I ask.
A frown folds itself onto the vast space that is his forehead.
“She comes back tomorrow. It’s all on the…” I watch as he tries
and fails to find a substitute for the word “roster,” like anything
beginning with the letter R. “… it’s all on the woster, has been for
some time. You’re back on the correspondent desk, but don’t worry,
you can still fill in for her, and present the program during school
holidays, Christmas and Easter, that sort of thing. We all think you
did a tewwific job. Here’s your new contract.”
I stare down at the crisp white sheets of A4 paper, covered in
carefully constructed words from a faceless HR employee. My eyes
only seem able to focus on one line:
News Correspondent: Anna Andrews.
As I step out of his office, I see her again: my replacement.
Although I suppose the truth is that I was only ever hers. It’s a
terrible thing to admit, even to myself, but as I look at Cat Jones
with her perfect hair and perfect children, standing there chatting
and laughing with my team, I wish she was dead.
Him
Detective Chief Inspector Jack
Harper
Tuesday 05:15
The sound of my phone buzzing wakes me from the kind of dream I
don’t wish to be woken from. One in which I am not a
fortysomething-year-old man, living in a house with a mortgage I
can’t afford, a toddler I can’t keep up with, and a woman who is not
my wife but nags me anyway. A better man would have got his shit
together by now, instead of sleepwalking through a loaned-out life.
I squint at my phone in the darkness and see that it is Tuesday. It
is also stupidly early, so I’m relieved that the text doesn’t appear to
have woken anyone else. Sleep deprivation tends to have terrible
consequences in this house, though not for me—I’ve always been a
bit of a night owl. I shouldn’t feel excitement about what I read on
the screen, but I do. The truth is, since I left London, my job has
been as dull as a nun’s underwear drawer.
I’m head of the Major Crime Team here, which sounds exciting,
but I’m based in deepest, darkest Surrey now, which isn’t.
Blackdown is a quintessential English village less than two hours
from the capital, and petty crime and the occasional burglary tend to
be as “major” as it gets. The village is hidden from the outside world
by a sentinel of trees. The ancient forest seems to have trapped
Blackdown—and its inhabitants—in the past, as well as permanent
shadow. But its chocolate-box beauty could never be denied.
Blackdown is filled with an abundance of thatched cottages, white
picket fences, an above-average number of elderly residents, and a
below-average crime rate. It’s the kind of place people come to die,
and somewhere I never thought I’d find myself living.
I stare at the message on my phone, practically drooling over the
words as I drink them down:
Jane Doe discovered in Blackdown Woods overnight. MCT
requested. Please call in.
Just the idea of a body being found here feels like it must be a
mistake, but I already know it isn’t. Ten minutes later, I’m sufficiently
dressed, caffeinated, and in the car.
My latest secondhand 4 × 4 looks like it could do with a wash,
and I realize—a little too late—that I do too. I sniff my armpits and
consider going back inside the house, but I don’t want to waste time
or wake anyone. I hate the way they both look at me sometimes.
They have the same eyes, filled with tears and disappointment a tad
too often.
I’m a little overenthusiastic perhaps, to get to the crime scene
before everyone else, but I can’t help it. Nothing this bad has
happened here for years, and it makes me feel good—optimistic and
energized. The thing about working for the police for as long as I
have, is that you start to think like a criminal without being seen as
one.
I turn on the engine, praying it will start, ignoring the glimpse of
my own reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair—which is now
more gray than black—is sticking out in all directions. There are dark
circles beneath my eyes, and I look older than I remember being. I
try to console my ego; it’s the middle of the bloody night, after all.
Besides, I don’t care what I look like, and other people’s opinions
matter even less to me than my own. At least that’s what I keep
telling myself.
I drive with one hand on the steering wheel, while the other feels
the stubble on my chin. Maybe I should have at least shaved. I
glance down at my crumpled shirt. I’m sure we must own an ironing
board, but I’ve no idea where it is or when I last used it. For the first
time in a long time, I wonder what other people see when they see
me. I used to be quite the catch. I used to be a lot of things.
It’s still dark when I pull into the National Trust parking lot and I
can see that—despite the fact that I came straight here—everyone
else appears to have beaten me to it. There are two police cars and
two vans, as well as unmarked vehicles. Forensics are already on the
scene, as is Detective Sergeant Priya Patel. Her career choice hasn’t
managed to grind her down yet; she’s still shiny and new. Too young
to let the job make her feel old, too inexperienced to know what it
will do to her eventually. What it does to us all. Her daily enthusiasm
is exhausting, as is her perpetually cheerful disposition. My head
hurts just from looking at her, so I tend to avoid doing so as often as
it is possible when you work with someone every day.
Priya’s ponytail swings from side to side as she hurries toward my
car. Her tortoiseshell glasses slip down her nose, and her big brown
eyes are a bit too full of excitement. She doesn’t look as if she’s
been dragged from her bed in the middle of the night. Her slim-fit
suit can’t possibly be keeping her petite body warm, and her freshly
polished brogues slide a little on the mud. I find it strangely
satisfying to see them get dirty.
I sometimes wonder whether my colleague sleeps fully dressed,
just in case she needs to leave the house in a hurry. She put in a
special request to transfer here to work under me a couple of
months ago, though god knows why. If there was ever a time in my
life when I was as eager as Priya Patel, I can’t remember it.
As soon as I step outside the car, it starts to rain. An instant
heavy downpour, saturating my clothes in seconds, and assaulting
me from above. I look up and study the sky, which thinks it is night
even though it is now morning. The moon and stars would still be
visible, had they not been covered with a blanket of dark clouds.
Torrential rain is not ideal for preserving outdoor evidence.
Priya interrupts my thoughts and I slam the car door without
meaning to. She rushes over, trying to hold her umbrella over my
head, and I shoo her away.
“DCI Harper, I—”
“I’ve told you before, please call me Jack. We’re not in the army,”
I say.
Her face experiences a freeze frame. She looks like a chastised
puppy, and I feel like the miserable old git I know I’ve become.
“The Target Patrol Team called it in,” she says.
“Is anyone from the TPT still here?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I want to see them before they leave.”
“Of course. The body is this way. Early indications show that—”
“I want to see it for myself,” I interrupt.
“Yes, boss.”
It’s as though my first name is simply a word she can’t
pronounce.
We pass a steady stream of staff I vaguely recognize—people
whose names I’ve forgotten, either because I didn’t learn them in
the first place, or I haven’t seen them for so long. It doesn’t matter.
My small but perfectly formed Major Crime Team is based near here,
but covers the whole county. We work with different people every
day. Besides, this job isn’t about making friends, it’s about not
making enemies. Priya has a lot to learn about that. The hushed
quiet we walk in might be uncomfortable for her, but not for me.
Silence is my favorite symphony; I can’t think clearly when life gets
too loud.
She shines a flashlight on the ground a little way ahead of our
footsteps—irritatingly efficient as always—as we crunch over a dark
carpet of fallen leaves and broken twigs. Autumn has been and
gone, a guest appearance this year before shying away to make
room for an overconfident winter. The top button is missing from my
coat, so it no longer does up all the way. I overcompensate for the
gap with a Harry Potter–style scarf displaying my initials—a gift from
an ex. I’ve never quite managed to part with it, a bit like the woman
who gave it to me. It probably makes me look like a fool, but I don’t
care. There are some things we only hold on to because of who
gave them to us: names, beliefs, scarves. Besides, I like the way it
feels around my neck: a cozy personalized noose.
My breath forms clouds of condensation, and I shove my hands a
little deeper into my coat pockets trying to keep dry and warm. I’m
pleased to see that someone thought to put up a tent around the
body, and I step inside the white PVC door. My fingers find the shape
of a child’s dummy in my pocket at the exact moment my eyes see
the corpse. I grip the pacifier so hard that the plastic cuts into my
palm. It causes a small burst of pain, the kind I sometimes need to
feel. It isn’t as though I haven’t seen a dead person before, but this
is different.
The woman is partially covered by leaves, and quite a distance
from the main path. She would have been easy to miss in this dark
corner of the woods, were it not for the bright lights the team have
already set up around her.
“Who found the body?” I ask.
“Anonymous tip-off,” says Priya. “Someone called the station from
a pay phone down the lane.”
I am grateful for an answer that is as short as the person who
gave it. Priya is prone to being a talker, and I am prone to
impatience.
I take a step closer, and lean down toward the dead woman’s
face. She’s in her late thirties, slim, pretty—if you like that kind of
thing, which I suppose I do—and her general appearance suggests
three things to me: money, vanity, and self-control. She has the kind
of body that has been taken care of with years of gym visits, diets,
and costly creams. Her long, expertly bleached blond hair looks as
though she might have just brushed it before lying down in the mud.
Strands of gold in the grime. No sign of a struggle. Her bright blue
eyes are still wide open, as though shocked by the last thing that
they saw, and from the color and condition of her skin, she has not
been here long.
The corpse is fully clothed. Everything this woman is wearing
looks expensive: a woolen coat, a silky-looking blouse, and a black
leather skirt. Her shoes appear to be the only thing missing—not
ideal for a walk in the woods. It’s impossible not to notice her small,
pretty feet, but it’s the blouse I find myself staring at. Like the lace
bra underneath, I can see that it used to be white. Both are now
stained red, and it’s clear from the frenzied pattern of flesh and torn
fabric that she was stabbed multiple times in the chest.
I have a curious urge to touch her, but don’t.
That’s when I notice the victim’s fingernails. They’ve been roughly
cut to the quick, and that isn’t all. I loathe being seen wearing
glasses, but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I find the
nonprescription pair I keep for emergencies and take a closer look.
Red varnish has been used to spell letters on the nails of her right
hand:
T W O
I look at the left hand and it’s the same, but the letters spell a
different word:
F A C E D
This wasn’t a crime of passion; this murder was planned.
I
tune back into here and now, and realize that Priya hasn’t
noticed yet; she’s been too busy reading me her notes and telling
me her thoughts. I generally find she tends to talk unless specifically
asked to stop. Her words trip over themselves, rushing out of her
mouth and into my ears. I try to look interested, translating her
hurried sentences as she says them.
“… I’ve initiated all standard golden-hour procedures. There’s no
CCTV in this part of town, but we’re gathering footage from the high
street. I’m guessing she didn’t walk here barefoot in the middle of
winter, but without any ID or vehicle registration—the parking lot
was completely empty—I can’t issue an ANPR…”
People rarely say what they mean under stress, and all I hear is
her desperation to prove to me that she can handle this.
“Have you seen a dead body before?” I ask, interrupting.
She stands a little straighter and sticks out her chin like a
disgruntled child.
“Yes. In the morgue.”
“Not the same,” I mutter beneath my breath.
There are so many things I could teach her, things she doesn’t
know she needs to learn.
“I’ve been thinking about the message the killer wanted to send,”
Priya says, staring back down at her notepad, where I can see the
beginnings of one of her many lists.
“They wanted people to know that the victim was two-faced,” I
reply, and she looks confused. “Her fingernails. I think someone cut
them and wrote a message.”
Priya frowns then bends down to get a closer look. She stares up
at me in wonder, as though I’m Hercule Poirot. I guess reading is my
superpower.
I
avoid her gaze and return my attention to the face of the
woman lying in the dirt. Then I instruct one of the forensics team to
take pictures of her from every angle. She looks like the kind of
person who enjoyed having her photo taken, wearing her vanity like
a badge. The flash blinds me, and I’m reminded of another time and
place: London a few years ago, reporters and cameras on a street
corner, clamoring to get a shot of something they shouldn’t want to
see. I bury the memory—I can’t stand the press—then I notice
something else.
The dead woman’s mouth is ever so slightly open.
“Shine your flashlight on her face.”
Priya does as I ask, and I get down on my knees again to take a
closer look at the body. Lips that were once pink have turned blue,
but I can see something red hiding in the dark space between them.
I reach to touch it, without thinking, as though under a spell.
“Sir?”
Priya interrupts my mistake before I make it. She is
uncomfortably close to me; so much so that I can smell her
perfume, along with her breath: a light whiff of recently drunk tea. I
turn and see an old frown form on her young face. I would have
thought this whole experience—finding a body in the woods for the
first time—might have fazed her, unnerved her a little, but maybe I
was wrong. I try to remember how old Priya is—I find it so hard to
tell with women. If I had to guess I’d say late twenties or early
thirties. Still hungry with ambition, confident of her own potential,
unscarred by the disappointments that life has yet to hit her with.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the pathologist to examine the body before
we touch anything?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
Priya sticks to the rules the way good liars stick to their stories.
She says “pathologist” like a kid who just learned a new word in
school, one who wants people to hear them use it in a sentence.
“Absolutely,” I reply, and take a step back.
Unlike my colleague, I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies before, but
this is not like any case I have previously worked on. I zone out a
little again while Priya starts to speculate about the identity of the
woman. It feels like this is the start of something big, and I wonder
if I’m up to the task. No two murders are the same, but it’s been
years since I handled a case even remotely like this, and a lot has
changed since then. The job has changed, I’ve changed, and it isn’t
just that.
This is different.
I’ve never worked on the murder of someone I know before.
And I knew this woman well.
I was with her last night.
Her
Tuesday 06:30
We all have secrets; some we won’t even tell ourselves.
I don’t know what woke me, or what time it is, or where I am
when I first open my eyes. Everything is pitch-black. My fingers find
the bedside lamp, which sheds some light on the matter, and I’m
pleased to see the familiar sight of my own bedroom. It is always a
relief to know that I made it home when I wake up feeling like this.
I am not one of those women that you read about in books, or
see on TV dramas, who frequently drink too much and forget what
they did the night before. I’m not an amateur alcoholic and I’m not a
cliché. We’re all addicted to something: money, success, social
media, sugar, sex … the list of possibilities is endless. My drug of
choice just happens to be alcohol. It can take a while for my
memories to catch up with me, and I might not always be happy or
proud about what I’ve done, but I do always remember. Always.
That doesn’t mean I have to tell the whole world about it.
Sometimes I think I am the unreliable narrator of my own life.
Sometimes I think we all are.
The first thing I remember is that I lost my dream job, and the
memory of my worst nightmare coming true seems to physically
wound me. I switch off the light—I no longer wish to see things so
clearly—then lie back down on the bed, burrowing beneath the
covers. I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes as I recall
walking out of the Thin Controller’s office, then leaving the
newsroom mid-afternoon. I took a taxi home, feeling a little too
unsteady on my feet to walk, then I phoned my mother to tell her
what had happened. It was foolish, but I couldn’t think of anyone
else to call.
My mother has become a bit forgetful and confused in recent
years, and phone calls home only make me feel guilty for not visiting
more often. I have my reasons for never wanting to go back where I
came from, but they are better forgotten than shared. It’s easier to
blame the miles for the distance that exists between some parents
and their children, but when you bend the truth too far it tends to
break. It sounded like Mum at first, on the other end of the line, but
it wasn’t really her. After I poured my heart out, she was completely
silent for a moment, then she asked whether eggs and fries for tea
would cheer me up after my bad day at school.
Mum doesn’t always remember that I’m thirty-six and live in
London. She frequently forgets that I have a job, and that I used to
have a husband and a child of my own. She didn’t even seem to
know that it was my birthday. There was no card this year, or last,
but it’s not her fault. Time is something my mother has forgotten
how to tell. It moves differently for her now, often backward instead
of forward. Dementia stole time from my mother, and stole my
mother from me.
Reaching back inside my memories for a source of comfort was
understandable given the circumstances, but I shouldn’t have
stretched as far back as my childhood; it’s a bit too hit-or-miss.
When I got home, I closed all the curtains and opened a bottle of
Malbec. Not because I was scared of being seen—I just like drinking
in the dark. Sometimes even I don’t like to see the me that I
become when nobody else is looking. After my second glass, I got
changed into something less conspicuous—some old jeans and a
black jumper—then I went to pay someone a visit.
When I returned a few hours later, I stripped out of my clothes in
the hallway. They were covered in dirt, and I was filled with guilt. I
remember opening another bottle and lighting the fire. I sat right in
front of it, wrapped in a blanket, gulping down the wine. It took me
forever to warm up after being out in the cold for so long. The logs
hissed and whispered as though they had secrets of their own, and
the firelight cast a series of ghostly shadows that danced around the
room. I tried to get her out of my head, but even with my eyes
squeezed shut, I could still see her face, smell her skin, hear her
voice, crying.
I remember seeing the dirt beneath my fingernails, and scrubbing
myself clean in the shower before I went to bed.
My phone buzzes again and I realize that must be what woke me.
It’s early morning now, still as dark outside the apartment as it is
inside, and eerily quiet. Silence is a fear I’ve learned to feel, rather
than hear. It creeps up on me, often lurking in the loudest corners of
my mind. I listen but there is no sound of traffic, or birdsong, or life.
No rumble of the boiler, or murmurs from the network of ancient
pipes that try and fail to heat my home.
I stare at my mobile—the only light in the shadows—and see that
it was a breaking-news text that woke me. The screen casts an
unnatural glow. I read the headline about the body of a woman
being found in the woods, and wonder whether I am still dreaming.
The room seems a shade darker than it did before.
Then my phone starts to ring.
I answer it, and listen as the Thin Controller apologizes for calling
so early. He wonders whether I might be able to come in and
present the program.
“What happened to Cat Jones?” I ask.
“We don’t know. But she hasn’t turned up for work, and nobody
can get hold of her.”
The little pieces of me I got broken into yesterday start to creep
and crawl back together. Sometimes I get lost in my own thoughts
and fears. Trapped within a world of worry, which, deep down, I
know only exists inside my head. Anxiety often screams louder than
logic, and when you spend too long imagining the worst, you can
make it come true.
The Thin Controller asks more questions when I fail to answer the
first.
“I’m weally sorry to wush you, Anna. But I do need to know now
if possible…”
His speech impediment makes me hate him a little less. I know
exactly what I am going to say—I rehearsed this moment in my
imagination.
“Of course. I’d never let the team down.”
The tangible relief on the other end of the line is delicious.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, and for a moment I forget that the
opposite is true.
It takes longer than usual to get myself ready; I’m still drunk, but
it’s nothing some prescription eye drops and a cup of coffee can’t
rectify. I drink it while it’s still too hot, so that it scalds my mouth; a
little pain to ease the hurt. Then I pour myself some cold white wine
from one of the bottles in the fridge—just a small glass, to soothe
the burn. I head for the bathroom and ignore the bedroom door at
the end of the corridor, the one I always keep closed. Sometimes our
memories reframe themselves to reveal prettier pictures of our past,
something a little less awful to look back at. Sometimes we need to
paint over them, to pretend not to remember what is hidden
underneath.
I shower and choose a red dress from my wardrobe, one with the
tags still attached. I’m not a fan of shopping, so if I find something
that suits me, I tend to buy it in every color. Clothes don’t make the
woman, but they can help disguise the cloth we are cut from. I don’t
wear new things right away; I save them for when I need to feel
good, rather than feel like myself. Now is a perfect time to wear
something new and pretty to hide inside. When I’m satisfied with
who I look like, I wrap her up in my favorite red coat—getting
noticed isn’t always a bad thing.
I take a cab to work—eager to get my old self back to my old job
as soon as possible—and pop a mint in my mouth before stepping
into reception. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but when I
stare down at the newsroom it feels like coming home.
As I make my way toward the team, I can’t help noticing how
they all turn to look up at me, like a group of meerkats. They
exchange a series of anxious expressions, neatly carved into their
tired-looking faces. I thought they would look happier to see me—
not all news anchors pull their weight the way I do to get a bulletin
on-air—but I fix my unreturned smile, and grip the metal banister on
the spiral staircase a little tighter than before. It feels like I might
fall.
When I reach for my chair, the editor stops me, putting her icy
cold hand on top of mine. She shakes her head, then looks down at
the floor, as though embarrassed. She’s the kind of woman who
regularly prays for a fat bank account and thin body, but God always
seems to muddle up her prayers. I stand in the middle of the seated
team, feeling the heat of their stares on my flushed cheeks, trying to
guess what they know that I don’t.
“I’m so sorry!” says a voice behind me. It seems ludicrous to
describe it as brushed velvet, but that’s exactly how it sounds: a
luxurious, feminine purr. It’s a voice I did not expect or want to hear.
“The nanny canceled at the last minute, my mother-in-law agreed to
step in but managed to crash her car on the way over—nothing too
serious, just a bump really—and then, when I finally managed to
settle the girls and leave the house, my train was delayed and I
realized I’d forgotten my phone! I had no way of letting you know
how late I was going to be. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but I’m
here now.”
I don’t know why I believed Cat Jones was gone for good. It
seems silly now, but I suppose I had imagined a little accident of
some sort. Just something to prevent her from presenting the
lunchtime bulletin ever again, so that I could step back into her
shoes, and be the person I want to be. I am redundant now that she
is here, and I can already feel myself start to crumple and fold into
someone small and invisible. An unwanted and unnecessary spare
part in a newly refurbished machine.
She tucks her bright red hair behind her ears, revealing diamond
studs that look far more genuine than the person wearing them. Her
hair color can’t possibly be natural, but it looks perfect, just like her
figure-hugging yellow dress, and the set of pearly white teeth
revealed when she smiles in my direction. I feel like a frumpy fraud.
“Anna!” she says, as though we are old friends, not new enemies.
I return the smile like an unwanted gift. “I thought you’d be at home
with your own little one on your first day of freedom, now that I’m
back! I hope motherhood is treating you well. What age is your
daughter now?”
She would have been two years, three months, and four days old.
I’ve never stopped counting.
I guess Cat remembers me being pregnant. It appears nobody
ever told her what happened a few months after Charlotte was born.
Everything seems very still and silent in the newsroom all of a
sudden, with everyone staring in our direction. Her question sucks
the air from my lungs and nobody, including me, seems able to
answer it. Her eyebrows—which I’m quite certain have been
tattooed onto her face—form a slightly theatrical frown.
“Oh my goodness, did they call you in because of me? I’m so
sorry again—you could have had a nice morning off for a change,
stayed at home with your family.”
I hold on to the news anchor’s chair for balance.
“It’s fine, honestly,” I say, and manage a smile that hurts my face.
“I’m looking forward to being a correspondent again to be honest, so
I’m delighted you’re back. I actually miss getting out of the studio
and covering real stories, meeting real people, you know?”
Her expression remains neutral. I interpret her silence as a way
of saying that either she doesn’t agree, or doesn’t believe me.
“If you’re so excited to get out and about again, maybe you
should take a look at that murder that broke overnight? The body in
the woods?” Cat replies.
“That’s not a bad idea,” says the Thin Controller, appearing by her
side and smiling like a monkey with a new banana.
I feel myself start to shrink.
“I haven’t seen the story,” I lie.
I think now might be a good time to pretend I’m sick. I could go
home, lock myself away from the world, and drink myself happy—or
at least less sad—but Cat Jones continues to speak, the whole team
appearing to hang on her every word.
“A woman’s body was found overnight in a place called
Blackdown, a sleepy Surrey village according to the wires. It might
turn out to be nothing, but you could go check it out maybe? In fact,
I insist we find you a camera crew. I’m sure you don’t want to just …
hang around here.”
She glances over at what we call the taxi rank—the corner of the
newsroom where the general correspondents sit, waiting to be
deployed on a story, often not getting on-air at all.
Journalists with specialist subjects—like business, health,
entertainment, crime—all sit in offices upstairs. Their days tend to be
busy and satisfying, their jobs relatively safe. But things are very
different for a humble general correspondent. Some had quite
promising careers at one time, but probably pissed off the wrong
person, and have been gathering unaired stories like dust ever since.
There is a lot of deadwood in this newsroom, but the tough
varnish of media unions can make it tricky to carve out. It is hard to
imagine a more humiliating seat in the newsroom for a former news
anchor than correspondent corner. I’ve worked too hard for too long
to disappear. I am going to find a way to get myself back on-air
again, but this is the one story I don’t want to cover.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
My voice sounds strange, as though the words got strangled.
The Thin Controller shrugs and shakes his head. I notice the light
dusting of dandruff on the shoulders of his ill-fitting suit, and he
sees me staring at it. I force a final smile to dispel the latest
awkward silence.
“Then I guess I’m on my way to Blackdown.”
We all have cracks, the little dents and blemishes that life makes
in our hearts and minds, cemented by fear and anxiety, sometimes
plastered over with fragile hope. I choose to hide the vulnerable
sides of myself as well as I’m able at all times. I choose to hide a lot
of things.
The only people with no regrets are liars.
The truth is, even though I’d rather be anywhere but here right
now, Blackdown is the one place I don’t ever want to go back to.
Especially not after last night. Some things are too difficult to
explain, even to ourselves.
Killing the first one was easy.
She looked as though she didn’t want to be there when she
stepped off the train at Blackdown Station. I could relate to that. I
didn’t really want to be there either, but at least I was properly
dressed for the cold in an old black sweater. Not like her. It was the
last service from Waterloo, so she’d already had a late night, but
clearly still had plans for the evening with her red lips, blond hair,
and black leather skirt. It looked like the real deal, not fake like the
woman wearing it. Her career choice always seemed so selfless and
compassionate to others—running a homeless charity—but I knew
she was far from being a saint. More like a sinner trying to make up
for her wickedness.
Sometimes we all do good things because we feel bad.
Blackdown was deserted, just as it always is at that time of night,
so she was the only passenger to get off and walk down the lonely
little platform. It’s a sleepy variety of town, where people go home
and go to bed early on weeknights, shrouded in a cloak of middle
class manners and conformity. A place where if something bad does
happen, people remember how to forget surprisingly quickly.
The station itself is a listed building constructed in 1850, as the
stone carving above the double doors proudly declares. A
picturesque and quaint village railway stop, despite Blackdown
swelling into a town several years earlier. It’s like going back in time
and stepping into a scene from a black-and-white film. Due to its
heritage, it is protected from all unnecessary forms of
modernization. There are no security cameras, and only one way in
and one way out.
I could have killed her there and then.
But her phone rang.
She talked to the person who called all the way from the platform
to the parking lot, so even if nobody had seen, someone might have
heard.
I watched as she slid into her Audi TT, a company car she had
decided the charity could pay for, along with other things, including a
designer coat, a trip to New York, and highlights in her hair. I’d seen
the yearly statements filed by her accountant. Found them in her
home office—the desk drawer wasn’t even locked. She was regularly
stealing money from the charity and spending it on herself, and it
would have been a crime to let her keep getting away with it.
She drove the short distance from the station to the woods, and
it wasn’t far for me to have to follow. I watched as she got out of
her own car and into another. Then she tucked that beautiful blond
hair behind her ears and went down on the driver. It was little more
than an appetizer, something to whet her appetite maybe, before
hitching her skirt up and her underwear down for the main event.
I noticed how she liked to keep her clothes on, slapping away the
hands that tried to help her out of them. It didn’t matter; the most
beautiful part of her was still on show: her collarbones. I’ve always
found them to be one of the most erotic parts of a woman’s body,
and hers were so striking. The shape of the cavities between her
shoulders and her clavicles, where her fragile bones protruded from
her snow-white skin, was simply exquisite. Looking at them made
me ache. I liked her shoes too; so much so that I decided to keep
them. They are far too small for my feet to be able to wear—more of
a souvenir, I suppose.
I saw how her face changed when someone was inside her. Then
I closed my eyes, and listened to the sounds two people make when
they know they shouldn’t be fucking each other but can’t stop. Like
animals in the forest. Fulfilling a basic need without considering the
consequences.
But there are always consequences.
I
liked the way her face looked afterward: shiny with sweat
despite the cold, some color on those pale cheeks, and her perfect
mouth open a fraction, where she had been literally panting like a
Best in Show dog. Lips parted just wide enough to slip a little
something inside.
Most of all, I enjoyed the look in her pretty blue eyes just before I
killed her. It was an expression I had never seen her face wear
before—fear—and it suited her very well. It was as though she
already knew that something very bad was about to happen.
Him
Tuesday 07:00
This is very bad.
If anyone ever finds out, they’re going to think it was me, but I’m
reasonably confident nobody knew about our little arrangement.
Every time I see the victim’s body lying in the dirt today, I think
about being inside her last night.
Sometimes it felt like I was watching her do the things she did to
me from a distance, as if she were doing them to someone else. I
often struggled to believe our affair was real, as though this
beautiful woman being interested in me was too good to be true. I
guess now, given what has happened, it was. She got into the car,
then unzipped my fly without a word and went down on me. After
that, she let me do whatever I wanted, and I did, enjoying the little
sounds that came out of that perfect mouth.
I had imagined doing those things to her for a very long time.
She was so far out of my league—I suppose deep down I knew it
would have to end one day—but from the moment our late-night
liaisons began a few months ago, she let me do anything to her. It
made little sense to me given how beautiful she was, but I stopped
questioning our incompatibility after a while. She was like a drug:
the more of her I had, the more I needed in order to get high.
When a woman like that grabs your attention, they rarely give it
back. She came and went like the tide, and I knew sooner or later
she’d leave me washed up, but I enjoyed the ride while it lasted.
We both got what we wanted out of the arrangement—sex
without the strings. It didn’t mean anything and I think that’s why it
worked. No dinners, no dates, no unnecessary complications. She
told me she got divorced a few months earlier, said he cheated on
her. The man was clearly a fool, but then so was I, kidding myself
that I was anything more than someone she used in order to feel
better about herself. I didn’t mind knowing that was all I was to her.
She had a reputation for looking good but being bad; beautiful
people do tend to get away with far more than the rest of us. Most
of the time. I thought if nobody knew about what we were doing,
then nobody could get hurt. I was wrong.
“Say my name” was the only thing she ever said during sex, so I
did.
Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.
“You all right, sir?”
Priya is staring at me, and I wonder if I’ve been talking to myself
again. Even worse, she appears to be looking at the scratch on my
face, where Rachel left her mark. I’ve never understood why women
do that during sex, scratching with their fingernails like feral cats.
Hers were always the same: long and pink with fake-looking white
tips. I didn’t mind marks on my back that nobody could see, but she
caught me on the face last night. I stare down at Rachel’s fingers
again now, the nails roughly cut to the quick, and the two words
painted on them: TWO FACED. Then I look back at Priya. Seeing my
colleague staring at the faint pink scar on my cheek makes me want
to run, but I turn away instead.
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
I make my excuses and sit in my car for a while, pretending to
make calls while trying to warm up and calm down. I turn and stare
at the backseat, quickly double-check the floor, but there are no
visual signs of Rachel being in here, even though her prints must be
everywhere. I lost count of the times and ways we did it in this car.
Frankly, it’s as filthy as we were. I’ll get it cleaned later, inside and
out, when a suitable time presents itself.
I don’t know what I was thinking getting involved with a woman
like her. I knew she was trouble, but perhaps that’s why I couldn’t
say no. I guess I was flattered. Meeting up with Rachel was always
preferable to going home; there was nothing much there to look
forward to after a long day at work. But if people found out, I could
lose everything.
It’s still raining. The constant pitter-patter on the windshield
sounds like drums inside my ears. I have a headache at the base of
my skull, the kind that can only be cured with nicotine. I’d kill for a
cigarette right now, but I gave up smoking a couple of years ago, for
the child, not wanting to inflict my poor life choices on an innocent
human being. A nice glass of red would make the pain go away too,
but drinking before lunchtime is something else I gave up. I consider
my options and realize that I have none—best to stick to the plan.
Priya knocks on the window. I contemplate ignoring her, but think
better of it and get out of the car, back to cold and wet reality.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir. Were you talking to someone?”
Just myself.
“No.”
“The big boss said he couldn’t get through on your phone,” she
says.
If she meant the words to sound like an accusation, she was
successful. I take out my mobile and see eight missed calls from the
deputy chief constable.
“Nothing showing. Either he’s calling the wrong number or I’ve
got a bad signal,” I lie, slipping it straight back inside my pocket.
Lying is something I’m pretty good at, to myself as well as others;
I’ve had plenty of practice. “If he calls back just tell him everything
is under control, and I’ll update him later.” Having some hotshot
superior officer, who is half my age, shit all over my show is the last
thing I need right now.
“Okay, I’ll let him know,” Priya says.
I see her add that to the invisible list of things to do she always
writes inside her head. There is clearly something else she wants to
tell me, and her face lights up like a pinball machine when she
remembers what it is.
“We think we’ve got a print!”
What?
“What?”
“We think we’ve got a print!” she repeats.
“Finger?” I ask.
“Foot.”
“Really? In this mud?”
The rain has already made a series of mini rivers across the forest
floor. Priya beams at me like a kid who wants to show a parent their
latest painting.
“I think Forensics are super excited to be allowed out of the lab.
It looks like a large recent boot print, right next to the body, initially
hidden by dead leaves. They’ve done an incredible job! Do you want
to see?”
I briefly stare down at my own muddy shoes before I follow her.
“You know, even if they have managed to find a footprint, I
predict it might belong to one of the team. The whole scene should
have been properly cordoned off straightaway, as soon as you
arrived,” I say. “Including the parking lot. Any tracks we come across
now will be worthless in court.”
The smile fades from her face and I breathe a little easier.
I don’t think anyone knows I was here, or has any reason to
suspect my involvement with the murder victim. So as long as it
stays that way, I should be fine. My best course of action is to act
normal, do my job, and prove that someone else killed Rachel before
anyone can point the finger at me. I try to clear my head a little, but
my mind is too busy and my thoughts are too loud. The one I hear
the most plays on repeat, and right now it’s true: I wish I’d never
come back to Blackdown.
Her
Tuesday 07:15
I don’t see the point in trying to get out of going back to Blackdown.
It would just raise more questions than I have answers for, so I go
home and pack a bag. I don’t intend to stay overnight, but things
don’t always go according to plan in this business. It might have
been a while, but I haven’t forgotten the drill: clean underwear, non
iron clothes, waterproof jacket, makeup, hair products, a bottle of
wine, a few miniatures, and a novel I already know I won’t have
time to read.
I
put my little suitcase in the back of the car—a red Mini
convertible I bought when my husband left me—then climb in and
fasten my seat belt; I’m a very safe driver. I was worried I might still
be over the limit after last night, but I have my own breathalyzer in
the glovebox for occasions such as these. I take it out, blow in the
tube, and wait for the screen to change. It turns green, which
means I’m good. I don’t need to turn on the GPS, I know exactly
where I’m going.
The journey down via the A3 is relatively painless—it’s still rush
hour, and the majority of drivers on the road at this time of day are
hurrying toward London, not away from it—but minutes feel like
hours with nothing except the same views and anxieties for
company. The radio does little to drown them out, and every song I
hear seems to make me think about things I’d rather forget.
Covering this story is a bad idea, but since I can’t explain that to
anyone it doesn’t feel like I have a choice.
The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach worsens as I
take the old familiar turnoff and follow the signs for Blackdown.
Everything looks just the same as it always did, as though time
stands still in this little corner of the Surrey Hills. A lifetime ago this
was the place I called home, but when I look back now, it feels like
someone else’s life, not my own. I’m not the same person I was
then. I’ve changed beyond recognition, even if Blackdown and its
residents haven’t.
It’s still beautiful, despite all the ugly things that I know have
happened here. As soon as I turn off the highway, I find myself
navigating a series of narrow country roads. The sky soon
disappears from view, courtesy of the ancient forest that seems to
swallow me whole. Trees that are centuries old lean across a
network of sunken lanes, with steep banks of exposed roots on
either side. Their gnarly branches have twisted together up above,
blocking out all but the most determined shards of sunlight. I focus
hard on the road ahead, steering myself through unwanted
thoughts, as well as the shadowy tunnel of trees toward the town.
When I emerge from the canopy of leaves, I see that Blackdown
still wears its Sunday best every day of the week. Pretty, well
looked-after Victorian cottages stand proud behind neat gardens,
moss-covered dry-stone walls, and the occasional white picket fence.
The window boxes on neighboring properties compete with one
another all year round, and you won’t find any litter on these
streets. I pass the village green, the White Hart pub, the crumbling
Catholic church, then I pass the imposing exterior of St. Hilary’s.
Seeing the girls’ grammar school causes me to step on the
accelerator. I keep my eyes on the road again, as though if I don’t
look directly at the building, then the ghosts of my memories won’t
be able to find me.
I
pull into the National Trust parking lot, and see that my
cameraman is already here. I hope they’ve assigned a good one. All
the BBC crew vehicles are exactly the same—a fleet of estate cars
with an arsenal of filming equipment hidden in the trunk—but
cameramen, and women, are all different. Some are better than they
think they are at the job. Several are considerably worse. How I look
on-screen very much depends on who is filming me, so I can be a
little fussy about who I like to work with. Like a carpenter, I think I
have a right to choose the best tools with which to cut and shape
and craft my work.
I park next to the crew car, still unable to see who is sitting
inside. The driver’s seat is fully reclined, as though whoever it is has
decided to take a nap. It’s not a great sign. It has been a long time
since I was on the road, and staff turnover is high in news, so
chances are it could be someone I’ve never worked with. This career
path is steep and a little pointy, with very little room at the top. The
best people often move on when they realize they can’t move up. I
consider the possibility that it might be someone new, but when I
get out of my car and take a look inside theirs, I can see that it isn’t.
The window is down—despite the cold and rain—and I see the
familiar shape of a man I used to know. He’s smoking a roll-up and
listening to eighties music. I decide it’s best to get the awkward
reunion out of the way, if that’s what this is going to be. I prefer
leaving people I have a history with in the past, but that can be
tricky when you work with them.
“Those things will kill you, Richard,” I say, getting into the
passenger seat and closing the door. The car smells of coffee and
smoke and him. The scent is familiar, and not altogether unpleasant.
My other senses are less impressed. I ignore my instinctive urge to
clean away all the mess that I can see—mostly chocolate bar
wrappers, old newspapers, empty coffee cups, and crumpled Coke
cans—and I try not to touch anything.
I notice that he is wearing one of his trademark retro T-shirts and
a pair of ripped jeans, still dressing like a teenager despite turning
forty last year. He looks like a skinny but strong surfer, even though I
know he has a fear of the sea. His blond hair is long enough to be
tied back, but hangs in what we used to call “curtains” when I was
at school, haphazardly tucked behind his pierced ears. He is a Peter
Pan of a man.
“We all have to die of something,” he says, taking another drag.
“You’re looking well.”
“Thanks. You look like shit,” I reply.
He grins and the thick ice is at least cracked, if not broken.
“You know, you don’t always have to tell it like it is. Especially in
the morning. You might have a few more friends if you didn’t.”
“I don’t need friends, just a good cameraman. Know any?”
“Cute,” he says, then taps the ash from his cigarette out of the
window, before turning to stare at me. “Shall we just get this done?”
There is a slightly menacing look in his eyes, one that I do not
remember. But then he gets out of the car, and I realize he just
meant the job. I watch while Richard checks his camera—he might
not be a perfectionist when it comes to hygiene, but he takes his
work seriously—and I feel a wave of gratitude and relief that I’ll be
working with him today, for so many reasons. Firstly, he can shoot
the shit out of any story, and make me look good even when I feel
bad. Secondly, I can be myself with him. Almost.
Richard and I slept together a few times when I was a
correspondent. It isn’t something that anyone else knows—we both
had good ring-shaped reasons on our fingers to keep it that way—
and it isn’t something I’m terribly proud of. I was still married, just,
but I was a bit broken. Sometimes I find the only way to ease the
worst forms of pain is to damage myself in a different way. Distract
my attention from the things that can and will break me. A little hurt
to help me heal.
I’d never defend infidelity, but my marriage was over long before
I slept with someone I shouldn’t have. Something changed when my
husband and I lost our daughter. We both died a little bit when she
did. But like ghosts who don’t know they are dead, we carried on
haunting ourselves and each other for a long time afterward.
This is a stressful job at the best of times, and in the worst of
times we all take comfort where we can. Most news is bad news.
There are things I have seen because of my job that have changed
me, as well as my view of the world and the people in it. Things I
can never unsee. We are a species capable of horrific acts, and
incapable of learning from the lessons our own history tries to teach
us.
When you witness the horror and inhumanity of human beings
close up, every single day, it permanently changes your perspective.
Sometimes you just need to look the other way, and that’s all our
affair was: a shared need to remember what it is like to feel
something. It is not unusual for people in my line of work—half the
newsroom seems to have slept with each other—and I sometimes
struggle to keep up with the latest staff configurations.
Richard pulls on his coat, and I see a glimpse of a toned stomach
as his arms reach for his sleeves. Then he drops his cigarette,
extinguishing what is left of it with the sole of his large boot.
“Coming?” he asks.
He leaves the tripod behind and we walk toward the woods, no
need for sticks in the mud here. I do my best to avoid all the
puddles, not wanting to ruin my shoes. We don’t get far. Aside from
a couple of snappers, we are the only press to have arrived, but it’s
soon made clear that none of us are welcome.
“Please stay behind the police tape,” says a petite young woman.
Her clothes are too neat, her vowels are too pronounced, and she
reminds me of a disillusioned class prefect. She waves her badge—a
little self-consciously, I note—when we don’t respond, as though
used to being mistaken for a schoolgirl and having to show ID. I
manage to read the name “Patel,” but little else before she puts it
back in her pocket. I smile, but she doesn’t.
“We’ll be setting up a wider cordon soon. For now, can I please
ask that you stay back down in the parking lot. This is a crime
scene.”
The woman has clearly had a charisma bypass.
I can see the lights that have been set up behind her, along with
a small army of people dressed in forensics suits, a few of them
crouched down over something on the forest floor in the distance.
They’ve already put up a tent around the body, and I know from
experience that we won’t get another chance to get this close again.
Richard and I exchange a silent glance, along with an unspoken
conversation. He hits Record on the camera and swings it up onto
his shoulder.
“Of course,” I say, and accompany my off-white lie with a wide
smile.
I do whatever I need to do to get the job done. Upsetting the
police is never ideal, but sometimes unavoidable. I don’t like to burn
bridges, but there tends to be another one—further upstream in this
case, I suspect.
“We’ll just get a couple of quick shots and then get out of your
way,” I say.
“You’ll get out of the way now, and go back to the parking lot like
she asked you.”
I take in the sight of the man who has come to stand beside the
female detective. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a while, appears to
have gotten dressed in the dark, and is wearing a Harry Potter–style
scarf around his neck. A modern-day Columbo, minus the charm.
Richard keeps filming and I stay exactly where I am. This is a
familiar dance and we all know the moves—it’s the same steps for
any breaking news: get the shot, get the story.
“This footpath is a public right of way. We are perfectly entitled to
film here,” I say.
It’s the best line I can come up with, a stalling tactic to allow
Richard to zoom in and get a few more close-ups of the scene.
The male detective takes a step forward and covers the lens with
his hand.
“Watch it, mate,” Richard says, taking a step back.
“I’m not your mate. Fuck off back to the parking lot or I’ll have
you arrested.”
The male detective glares at me before turning back toward the
tent.
“We’re just doing our jobs, no need to be an asshole,” says
Richard over his shoulder as we retreat.
“Did you get the shot?” I ask.
“Of course. But I don’t like people touching my camera. We
should make a complaint. Get that guy’s name.”
“No need, already got it. His name is DCI Jack Harper.”
Richard stares at me.
“How do you know that?”
I think for a second before answering.
“We’ve met before.”
It’s the truth, just not the whole of it.
Him
Tuesday 08:45
Seeing Anna winds me, not that I plan on telling anyone the truth
about that. I replay the encounter in my mind, until it becomes an
irritating rerun I could quote line for line, and take my frustration out
on everyone around me. I wish I had handled it better, but I’m
already having the mother of bad days, and she shouldn’t be here.
There is a brand-new shirt inside my wardrobe that I could have
worn today, had I known I was going to see her. It’s been hanging in
there for months, but still has the creases from the packet it came
in. I don’t know what I’m saving it for—it isn’t as though I ever go
anywhere since I moved down here—and now she’s seen me looking
like this, with crumpled clothes and a jacket older than some of my
colleagues. I pretend not to care, but I do.
The place is swarming with satellite trucks, cameramen, and
reporters. I have no idea how the press got hold of the details so
soon, including her. It makes no sense. Even if they knew about a
body being found, there are several entrances to these woods—
which stretch for miles across the valley and surrounding hills—half
of which I don’t even know, and there are more than a handful of
parking lots. So I don’t understand how they knew to come to this
one, and Anna was pretty much the first to arrive.
I spot her talking to Priya away from the rest of the press, and
resist the urge to march over and interrupt. She’s always known how
to make friends out of enemies. I just hope DS Patel isn’t naïve
enough to trust a journalist, or say something she shouldn’t, on or
off the record. She hands Anna something. The two women smile
and I have to strain to see what it is: blue plastic shoe covers. Anna
leans on a tree trunk as she pulls them over her high heels. She
looks in my direction and waves, so I pretend not to see and turn
away. She must have asked to borrow a pair from the forensics
team, so as not to get her pretty reporting shoes dirty in the mud.
Unbelievable.
“I think I know who she is,” says Priya, appearing by my side and
interrupting my internal monologue.
At least, I hope it was internal.
I am aware that I’ve started to actually talk to myself out loud
recently. I’ve caught people staring at me in the street when it
happens. It mostly seems to occur when I’m overly tired or stressed,
and as a middle-aged detective, living with a perpetually unhappy
woman and a two-year-old child, I’m pretty much always both. I try
to remember if anyone on the team smokes—perhaps I could just
bum one, calm myself down.
Priya is staring at me as though waiting for some kind of
response, and I have to rewind my mind to remember what she
said.
“She’s a TV news anchor, that’s probably why you recognize her.”
My words are in too much of a hurry to leave my mouth and trip
over themselves. I sound even more ill-tempered than I feel. Priya—
who rides my mood swings as though they are her favorite thing in
the playground—won’t let the conversation slide.
“I meant the victim, boss. Not Anna Andrews.” Hearing someone
say her name out loud winds me a second time. I’ve no idea what
face I am pulling, but Priya seems to feel the need to defend herself
from it. “I do watch the news,” she says, doing that strange thing
again where she sticks out her chin.
“Good to know.”
“In terms of the victim, I don’t know her name, yet, but I have
seen her around town. Haven’t you?”
Seen her, smelled her, fucked her …
Thankfully Priya doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer.
“She’s hard to miss, don’t you think? Or was, with the blond hair
and fancy clothes. I’m sure I’ve seen her walking along the high
street with a yoga mat. Listening to the rest of the local team, it
sounds like she was from here, born and raised in Blackdown. They
seem to think she still lived here too, but that she worked in London.
For a homeless charity. Nobody seems to remember her name.”
Rachel.
She didn’t just work for a homeless charity, she ran it, but I don’t
correct Priya, or tell her that I already know almost everything there
is to know about the victim. Yoga was something else that Rachel
turned to after her husband turned to someone else. She became a
bit obsessed with it, going four or five times a week, not that I
minded. That particular hobby had benefits for us both. Apart from
meeting me in parking lots or the occasional hotel—we never visited
each other’s homes or met in public—she didn’t seem to do a lot of
socializing unless it was for work. She posted pictures of herself on
Instagram with alarming regularity—which I enjoyed looking at when
I was alone and thinking of her—but for someone with thousands of
so-called friends online, she had surprisingly few in real life.
Maybe because she was always too busy working.
Or perhaps because other people were jealous of her perceived
success.
Then again, it might have been because below the beautiful
exterior, she had an ugly streak. One that I chose to ignore but
couldn’t fail to see.
We’ve established a wide cordon around this particular pocket of
the woods now, but it’s as though we’ve put up fly tape, the way the
press insists on buzzing around, trying to get a better view. I’ve
been told by higher up the food chain that I should give a statement
on camera, and have received a torrent of phone calls and emails—
from people I’ve never heard of at HQ—wanting me to approve a
line of copy for a police social media account. I don’t do social
media, except to spy on women I’m sleeping with, but lately it feels
as though the powers that be think it is more important than the
job. The next of kin haven’t even been informed yet, but apparently,
I’m the one who needs to work on my priorities. My stomach
rumbles so loudly I’m sure the whole team hears it. They all seem to
be staring at me.
“Almond?” asks Priya, waving what looks like a packet of bird
seed in my direction.
“No. Thank you. What I want is a bacon sandwich or a—”
“Cigarette?”
She produces a packet from her pocket, which is unexpected.
Priya is one of those fancy vegetarians—a vegan—and I’ve never
seen her pollute her body with anything more dangerous than a
single slab of dark chocolate. She’s holding my old favorite brand of
smokes in her little hand, and it’s like catching a nun reading a
Victoria’s Secret catalog.
“Why do you have those?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Emergencies.”
I dislike her a little less than I used to and take one.
I snap it in half—an old habit of mine that makes me think this
little stick of cancer will only be half as bad for me—then I let her
light it. She’s so small I have to bend down, and I choose to ignore
the way her hands tremble as she holds a match in one, and shelters
it from the wind with the other. I’ve met former smokers who say
that the smell of cigarettes now makes them feel sick. I am not like
them. The first cigarette to touch my lips for two years is nothing
less than ecstasy. The temporary high causes my face to accidently
smile.
“Better?” Priya asks.
I notice that she didn’t have one.
“Yes. Much. Organize that press conference. Let’s give the hacks
what they want, and hope they all sod off afterward.”
She smiles too, as though it is contagious.
“Yes, boss.”
“I’m not your … never mind.”
Twenty minutes later, minus my Harry Potter scarf, I’m standing
in the parking lot in front of ten or more cameras. I haven’t had to
do anything like this for a while, not since I left London. I feel out of
practice, as well as out of shape, and unconsciously suck my
stomach in before I start to speak. I try to silently reassure my
anxious ego that nobody I know will see this. But I’m not as good at
lying to myself as I am at lying to others, and the thought brings
little comfort. I remember the crumpled clothes I’m wearing; I knew
I should have at least shaved this morning.
I clear my throat and am about to speak when I see her, pushing
her way to the front. The other journalists look disgruntled until they
turn and recognize her face. Then they step aside and let her
through, as though reporter royalty has arrived. I’ve experienced
enough on-camera press conferences and statements in my time to
know that most on-screen talent gets treated the same as everybody
else. But Anna exudes confidence, even though I know the person
on the inside doesn’t match the version she presents to the rest of
the world.
Everyone else here seems to be dressed in muted shades of black
or brown or gray—as though they deliberately color-coordinated
their clothes with the murder scene—but not her. Anna is wearing a
bright red coat and dress, and I wonder if they are new; I don’t
recognize them. I avoid looking in her direction; it’s distracting.
Nobody here would ever guess that we know each other, and it is in
both our interests to keep it that way.
I wait until I have their full attention and the rabble is silent once
more, then I deliver my preprepared and preapproved statement.
Detectives are no longer permitted to speak for themselves. At least,
I’m not. Not after the last time.
“Early this morning, police received a report of a body being
found in Blackdown Woods just outside the village. Officers attended
and the body of a woman was discovered not far from the main
parking lot. The woman has not yet been formally identified, and the
death is currently unexplained. The area is cordoned off while
investigations continue. There will be no further statements from this
location, and I will not be answering any questions at this time.”
I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that this is
a crime scene, not an episode of whatever bullshit detective box set
you’re watching on Netflix.
I don’t say the last line. At least I hope I didn’t. I start to turn
away—we are deliberately not sharing very much with the press or
public at this stage—but then I hear her. I’ve always loved listening
to the way different people speak—it can tell you so much about
them. I don’t just mean accents, I mean everything: the tone, the
volume, the speed, as well as the language. The words they choose
to use, and how and when and why they say them. The silences
between the sentences, which can be just as loud. A person’s voice
is like a wave—some just wash right over you, while others have the
power to knock you down and drag you into an ocean of self-doubt.
The sound of her speaking makes me feel like I’m drowning.
Anna clearly didn’t hear the part about no questions. Or, knowing
her, just chose to ignore it.
“Is it true that the victim was a local woman?”
I don’t even turn to face her.
“No comment.”
“You said that the death was currently being treated as
unexplained, but can you confirm that this is a murder
investigation?”
I’m aware that the cameras are still rolling, but start to walk
away. Anna is not a woman who likes to be ignored. When she
doesn’t get an answer to her last question, she asks another.
“Is it true that the victim was found with a foreign object inside
their mouth?”
Only now do I stop. I slowly turn to face her, a hundred questions
colliding inside my mind as I take in the green eyes that appear to
be smiling. The only two people who know about something being
found inside the victim’s mouth are DS Patel and me. I deliberately
haven’t told anyone else yet—it’s the sort of thing that will leak
before I want it to—and Priya is as tight-lipped as a clam. Which
leaves me with yet another question I can’t answer: How did Anna
know?
Her
Tuesday 09:00
I ignore the stares from the other journalists and hurry back to my
car. I’ve forgotten what it is like to stand in the cold for hours on
end, and I regret not wearing more layers. Still, at least I look good.
Better than Jack Harper at any rate. As soon as I’m inside the Mini, I
turn on the engine and crank up the heating to try to warm myself. I
want to make a phone call without the whole world listening in, so
have asked Richard to grab a few extra shots.
It’s strange to imagine the One O’Clock News team all sitting in
the newsroom without me, everything carrying on as normal, as
though I were never there. I think I can persuade the Thin
Controller to let me get on-air with what I’ve already got. Then at
least this won’t have been a complete waste of time. Best to go
straight to the top for an answer, I think; today’s program editor
suffers from chronic indecision.
Finally, after listening to the phone ring for longer than it ever
should when calling a network newsroom, someone answers.
“One O’Clock News,” she purrs.
The sound of Cat Jones’s velvety voice causes mine to
malfunction.
I
picture her sitting in what, only yesterday, was my chair.
Answering my phone. Working with my team. I close my eyes and
can see her red hair and white smile. The mental image doesn’t
make me feel sick, it makes me feel thirsty. My fingers come to the
rescue, and automatically start to search inside my bag for a
miniature whiskey. I open it, twisting the screw cap with my one free
hand—I’ve had practice—and down the bottle.
“Hello?” says the voice on the other end, in a tone resembling the
polite preempt people use before hanging up when nobody answers.
My reply gets stuck in my throat, as though my mouth has
forgotten how to form words.
“It’s Anna,” I manage, relieved that I can still remember my own
name.
“Anna…?”
“Andrews.”
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. Did you
want to speak to—”
“Yes. Please.”
“Of course. Let me put you on hold and see if I can grab his
attention.”
I hear a click before the familiar BBC News countdown music
starts to play. I’ve always rather liked it, but right now it’s deeply
irritating. I glance outside the window at the rest of the press still
standing around. Some of the faces are familiar and everyone
seemed genuinely happy to see me, which was nice. I remember
that a few of them shook my hand, and reach inside my handbag
again, this time in search of an antibacterial wipe for my fingers. I’m
about to hang up—tired of being kept on hold—when the sound of
shouting in the newsroom replaces the music.
“Can someone else try answering the goddamn phones when
they wing? It weally isn’t difficult, and probably won’t cause
wepetitive stwain injury as none of you do it vewy often. Yes, who is
it?” the Thin Controller snaps in my ear.
Despite the job title and bluster, he is a man who is rarely in
control of anything. Including his speech impediment. I have often
suspected that the newsroom is allergic to his imagined authority,
and the chorus of phones still ringing unanswered in the background
reinforces the theory.
“It’s Anna,” I say.
“Anna…?”
I resist the urge to scream; forgetting me is clearly contagious.
“Andrews,” I reply.
“Anna! Apologies, it’s chaos here this morning. How can I help?”
It’s a good question. Yesterday I was presenting the program;
now it feels like I’m cold calling to beg to be on it for a minute or
two.
“I’m at this murder scene in Blackdown—”
“Is it a murder? Hang on…” His voice changes again, and I realize
he is speaking to someone else. “I said no to a pwe-pubescent
political weporter I’ve never heard of on the PM stowy—it’s the
bloody lead. Well, tell the Westminster editor to pull her head out of
Downing Street’s arse for five minutes … I don’t care what they are
doing for other outlets, I want a gwown-up correspondent on my
bulletin, so get me one. You were saying?”
It takes a moment to realize he is speaking to me again. I’m too
busy imagining him in a physical, rather than verbal, fight with the
five-foot-two Westminster editor. She would end him.
“The murder you sent me to…” I persevere.
“I just thought you’d wather be there than here, given what
happened this morning. I did glance at the wires after the police
statement a little while ago. But everything I wead just said it was
an unexplained death…”
“That’s all the police are saying at the moment, but I know
there’s more to it than that.”
“How do you know?”
It’s a difficult question to answer.
“I just do,” I say, and my reply sounds as weak as I feel.
“Well, call me back when you’ve got something on the wecord,
and I’ll see if we can squeeze you in.”
Squeeze me in?
“It’s going to be a big story,” I say, not ready to give up yet. “It
would be good to get it on-air before anyone else does.”
“I’m sowy, Anna. Trump’s latest tweet is causing a meltdown, and
it’s already a weally busy news day. Sounds to me like this body in
the woods might just be a local news stowy, and I don’t have woom.
Call if that changes, okay? Got to go.”
“It’s not a—”
I don’t bother to finish my sentence, because he has already
hung up. I disappear inside my own darkest thoughts for a while. It’s
like Halloween every day in this business—grown adults wearing
scary masks, pretending to be something they’re not.
Someone knocks on my window and I jump. I look up, expecting
to see Richard standing outside my car, but it’s Jack, and he’s
wearing his best disgruntled detective face. He looks just as angry
with me as he did the last time we saw each other. I step out to join
him, and smile when Jack looks over his shoulder to check if anyone
is watching us. He always was a little paranoid. He’s standing so
close that I can smell the stale smoke on his breath. I’m surprised
because I thought he had given it up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.
“My job. It’s nice to see you too.”
“Since when does the BBC send a news anchor to a story like
this?”
I regularly tell myself that I don’t care what this man thinks of
me, but I still don’t want to tell him that I no longer present the
program. I don’t want to tell anyone.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Things always are with you. What do you know and why did you
ask that last question after the press conference?”
“Why didn’t you answer it?”
“Don’t play games with me, Anna. I’m not in the mood.”
“You never were a morning person.”
“I’m serious. Why did you ask that?”
“Is it true then? Was there something inside the victim’s mouth?”
“Tell me what you think you know.”
“You know I can’t do that. I always protect my sources.”
He takes a step closer; a little too close.
“If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, I will treat
you the same way as I would anyone else. This is a murder scene,
not Downing Street or some red-carpet film premiere.”
“So, it is murder.”
His cheeks turn a little red when he realizes his own mistake.
“A woman we both know has died, show some respect,” he
whispers.
“A woman we both know?”
He stares at me as though he thought maybe I already knew.
“Who?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Who?” I ask again.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to cover this story.”
“Why? You just said it was someone we both knew, so maybe you
shouldn’t be investigating it.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Sure. Run away like you always do.”
He starts to leave, but then turns back and gets so close his face
is right in front of mine.
“You don’t have to behave like a bitch every time we see each
other. It doesn’t suit you.”
The words sting a little. More than I would like to admit, even to
myself.
He walks away and I fix a smile on my face until he is completely
out of view. Then something strange and unexpected happens: I cry.
I hate the way he can still get under my skin, and loathe myself for
letting him.
The sound of the car parked next to mine being remotely
unlocked startles me.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
Richard opens the trunk, carefully laying his camera inside. I wipe
beneath my eyes with the back of my hand, and damp smears of
mascara stain my fingers.
“You okay?” he asks. I nod and he successfully interprets my
silence as a sign that I do not want to talk about it. “Do we need to
package for lunchtime? If so, we should get on with—”
“No, they don’t want anything unless the story develops,” I say.
“Right. Well, back to London then?”
“Not yet. There’s more to this story, I just know it. There are
some people in town I want to talk to, on my own; your camera will
just scare them. I’ll take my car. There’s a nice pub down the road
called the White Hart, they do a great all-day breakfast. Why don’t I
meet you there a bit later?”
“Okay,” he says slowly, as though buying time while still selecting
his next words. “I know you said that you had met the detective
before. Did something happen between you once upon a time?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“Am I right?”
“Well, you’re not wrong. Jack is my ex-husband.