I See You(110)

‘You did brilliantly,’ John said. ‘An Oscar-winning performance.’

Katie attempted a smile, but Kelly could see she was still shaking.

‘I didn’t have to do much acting. Even though you’d told me what was going to happen, the minute you pulled me in here, I decided everything you’d said to me was a lie. I thought that was it. Game over.’

‘I’m sorry we had to put you through that,’ Kelly said. ‘We knew the CCTV had been hacked, but we didn’t know to what extent – we didn’t know exactly how much could be seen. When we saw your profile on the website we knew we had to get you safely off the Underground and away from anyone who might want to hurt you, without letting Melissa know we were on to her.’

‘How much longer do we have to wait in here? I want to see Mum.’

‘I’m sorry, we needed confirmation from the control room they’d switched over the CCTV feed.’

Craig had responded swiftly to Kelly’s concerns that Melissa might be able to see Katie and DC Chandler leaving the maintenance room, thereby blowing their cover. He had switched the live feed with recorded footage from the same time the previous day, when the footfall at Leicester Square would be roughly the same, and the risk of Melissa noticing the jump would be small. Kelly hoped he had been right. ‘It’s all fine now, we can leave and she won’t be able to see us.’

As she opened the door, Kelly’s radio crackled into life.

‘We need an ambulance to Anerley Road,’ came the disembodied voice. ‘It’s urgent.’

Katie’s eyes widened.

‘Tell them to make on silent, and hold off when they get to the address.’

‘It’s just a precaution,’ Kelly said quickly, as the younger girl’s eyes filled with tears. She turned the volume on her radio down until it was virtually inaudible. ‘Your mum’s fine.’

‘How do you know?’

Kelly opened her mouth to give more platitudes, then closed it again. The truth was, she didn’t even know if Zoe Walker was still alive.





39


The blood is everywhere. It spurts uncontrollably from Melissa’s neck, covering her desk and turning her shirt crimson. The fingers on her right hand spring open, and the knife she was holding clatters to the floor.

I start to shake. I look down and realise I, too, am covered in blood. My own knife is still gripped tightly in my right fist, but the adrenaline I felt when I stabbed her has passed, leaving me dizzy and disorientated. If she comes at me now, I think, I won’t be able to stop her. I have nothing left. I reach down and with my free hand I pull off the duct tape from around my ankles, kicking over the chair in my haste to move away from Melissa.

I needn’t have worried. Both her hands are clamped around her throat, in a futile attempt to stem the stream of blood that pulses between her fingers and coats her hands. She opens her mouth but no sound comes out, beyond a rasping, bubbling noise which causes red foam to coat the inside of her lips. She stands, but her legs won’t comply, and she sways unsteadily as though she’s drunk.

I cover my face with my hands, realising too late that they are speckled with blood which smears across my cheeks. It forms a dull shadow on the edge of my vision and fills my nostrils with a metallic tang that makes my stomach heave.

I don’t speak. What would I say?

I’m sorry?

I’m not. I’m filled with hatred.

Enough hatred to stab the woman I thought was my friend. Enough hatred to watch her, now, fighting for breath, and not care. Enough hatred to stand by as her lips turn blue and the urgent beat of her blood slows to a quiet, imperceptible rhythm. The fluid that a moment ago was spurting feet away from her, now ebbs gently, its urgency spent. Her skin is grey; her eyes the only living thing in a dying husk. I look for remorse, or for anger, but see none. She is already dead.

When she falls it isn’t to her knees. She doesn’t stagger, or clutch at the desk in front of her like in a film, or reach out to grab me and take me down with her. She falls like a tree, crashing backwards on to the floor with a bang to her head that makes me foolishly worry it might have hurt her.

And then she’s still; hands splayed out to her sides, and her eyes wide open, bulging slightly out of her ashen face.

I’ve killed her.

It’s only now the regret sets in. Not because of the crime I’ve committed, or even because of what I’ve seen – a woman drowning in her own blood. I regret it only because now she’ll never have to face her crimes in a court. Even at the end, she’s won.

I sink to the floor, feeling as drained as though the blood had left me, too. The key to the door is in Melissa’s pocket, but I don’t want to touch her body. Even though there are no signs of life left in her – her chest does not rise, there is no death rattle as air leaves her lungs – I don’t trust her not to suddenly rise up; to grip my wrists with bloodied hands. She lies between me and the desk and I sit and wait for my body to stop shaking. In a moment I will need to step carefully around her, to dial 999 and tell them what I’ve done.

Katie. I need to tell them about Katie. They need to go to Leicester Square; I need to know if she’s still alive – she needs to know I’m okay, that I haven’t given up on her … I stand up too fast, my feet skating on the slick of blood that seems to cover the entire floor. A stripe of blood dissects the computer screen on which I can still see the CCTV image, the door to the maintenance cupboard still resolutely closed.