I See You(31)

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘This is Zoe Walker.’

‘Mrs Walker, this is DI Rampello from the North West Murder Investigation Team. I understand you wanted to speak to me.’ He sounds distracted. Bored or tired. Or both.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m at home now, if you’d like to come round.’ Simon opens his hands and mouths, ‘What’s happened?’

I shake my head at him, irritated by the interruption. The reception at home is bad and I don’t want to miss what DI Rampello is saying.

‘… probably all I need for now.’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘You didn’t know Tania Beckett, I understand?’

‘No, but—’

‘So you don’t know if she was working as an escort, or running a sex chatline?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ He’s brisk; speaking fast as though I’m just one in a long list of calls he has to make tonight. ‘So Tania’s photo appeared in a chatline advert in the London Gazette yesterday, Monday sixteenth of November. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you contacted us when you recognised her photo on the news this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s really helpful, thank you for your time.’

‘But don’t you want to speak to me? Take a statement?’

‘If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.’ He puts the phone down while I’m still talking. Simon now looks more cross than confused.

‘Will you please tell me what’s happened?’

‘It’s the girl,’ I say. ‘The one who was murdered. The picture I showed you this morning.’

I ran upstairs this morning as soon as the news report finished, shaking Simon awake; my words falling over themselves.

‘What if it’s all to do with the adverts, Si?’ I said, my voice cracking. ‘What if someone’s putting in photos of women they’re going to murder, and I’m next?’

Simon pulled me into an awkward hug. ‘Sweetheart, don’t you think you might be overplaying this a bit? I read somewhere a hundred people are murdered in London every year. Every year! That’s – what? – about eight a month. I know it’s awful, but this has nothing to do with a free rag.’

‘I’m going to go to the police station at lunchtime,’ I told him. I could see he still thought I was being melodramatic.

‘Did the police take you seriously?’ he says now, sitting on the end of the bed. He squashes my toes and I pull my feet out of the way.

I shrug. ‘The man on the desk today was nice. But he called the detective inspector dealing with the case and he didn’t come, and now he says they’ve got all they need from me and they’ll call me if they want to speak to me again.’ Tears push their way out from the corners of my eyes. ‘But they don’t know about the other photos; about Cathy Tanning’s, about mine!’ I start to cry, unable to think straight with my head pounding.

‘Shhh.’ Simon strokes my hair and turns my pillow to find a cool bit for me to rest my cheek against. ‘Do you want me to call them back?’

‘I haven’t even got their number. He said it was the North West Murder Investigation Team.’

‘I’ll find it. Let me get you some painkillers and a glass of water, then I’ll give them a ring.’ He moves towards the door, then turns, as though he’s only just noticed something. ‘Why are you on my side of the bed?’

I press my face against the pillow so I don’t have to meet his gaze. ‘I must have moved around in my sleep,’ I mumble.

It’s the only thing we ever properly argue about.

‘Matt is Katie’s and Justin’s dad,’ I used to say. ‘You can’t expect me not to see him from time to time.’

Simon reluctantly conceded the point. ‘There’s no reason for him to come in the house though, is there? To sit in our lounge; drink coffee from our mugs?’

It was childish and irrational, but I didn’t want to lose Simon, and at the time it felt like a compromise.

‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘He won’t come in the house.’

When I open my eyes again there’s a glass of water on my bedside table, next to a little foil packet of pills. I take two and get out of bed. My top is creased and my trousers are twisted: I get undressed and find a pair of thick cotton pyjamas, wrapping myself in a big cardigan.

It’s nine o’clock, and downstairs I find the remnants of what looks like beef casserole. My legs still feel wobbly, and my long sleep has left me drowsy. I go into the lounge and find Simon, Justin and Katie watching TV. No one’s talking, but it’s a comfortable silence, and I stand for a moment, watching my family. Katie sees me first.

‘Mum! Are you feeling better?’ She moves to make room on the sofa between her and Simon, and I sit down, exhausted by the effort of coming downstairs.

‘Not really. I’m totally wiped out.’ I haven’t felt this ill for years. My bones ache and my skin hurts to touch. There’s a stinging sensation at the back of my eyes that only goes away when I close my lids, and my throat is so sore it’s a struggle to talk. ‘I think I’ve got flu. Proper flu.’