I See You(58)

‘A colleague?’ Lucinda sounded curious, rather than judgemental. Kelly took a deep breath.

‘A prisoner.’

Call him by his name, her therapist had reminded her on more than one occasion. Important that you see him as a person, Kelly, as human as you or I. Kelly had complied, but the syllables had tainted her tongue every time.

‘He raped a school girl.’

‘Shit.’

‘That doesn’t excuse what I did,’ Kelly said quickly. She hadn’t needed therapy to understand that.

‘No,’ Lucinda said. She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘But perhaps it explains it.’ They walked in silence for a while and Kelly wondered if Lucinda was thinking about what she’d just said; if she was judging her. She braced herself for further questions, but none came. ‘You did a great job on that password,’ Lucinda said, as they neared the station. ‘Nick was very impressed.’

‘Was he? He didn’t show it.’ Kelly had tried not to care about the DI’s understated response to her discovery. She hadn’t expected a round of applause, but something more than a muttered good job would have been nice.

‘You’ll get used to him. I like his approach, personally. He doesn’t dish out praise readily, so when he does, you know you’ve done well.’

Kelly suspected she might be waiting a long time.

At the entrance to the Tube station a bearded man was playing a guitar, a hat on the ground in front of him, empty but for a few coins. His dog slept on a carefully folded sleeping bag, in front of a bundle of belongings. Kelly thought of Zoe Walker and her Crystal Palace busker.

‘If you were Zoe Walker,’ she said to Lucinda, ‘wouldn’t you want to know?’

They walked past the busker and into the station, both reaching automatically for their Oyster cards.

‘Yes.’

‘So …’

‘There are lots of things I’d like to know,’ Lucinda said firmly. ‘State secrets, Bill Gates’ PIN, George Clooney’s mobile number … That doesn’t mean it would be right for me to know them.’

‘Even if it’s the difference between staying alive and being murdered? Or raped?’

Lexi’s attacker had been following her movements for weeks, the police had concluded. Since the beginning of term, possibly. He was almost certainly responsible for the flower left outside her bedroom, and the notes tucked into her pigeonhole. Friends had brushed it off; laughed about her secret admirer. When the police asked if she’d noticed anyone following her, she told them about those Thursday evenings, walking home from her 4 p.m. lecture. The same boy leaning against the library wall, listening to music; the feeling of being watched as she walked away; the crack of a twig behind her as she took a shortcut through the woods. She wasn’t the only one who had felt like that, the police admitted. They’d had several reports of suspicious circumstances. Nothing concrete, they’d said.

Lucinda stopped walking and looked at Kelly. ‘You heard what Nick said; restricting this information is our best chance of finding whoever set up the website. Once we’ve caught him, the rest will be easy.’

Kelly was disappointed. She had hoped Lucinda might have sided with her; that she would use the influence she clearly had with Nick to persuade him to change his mind. Lucinda saw the look on her face.

‘You might not agree with his decision, but he’s the boss. If you want to stay in his good books, you’ll play by his rules.’ They took the Northern line together and the conversation moved on to safer territory, but by the time they separated at Euston, Kelly had already made her decision.

Rules were made to be broken.





18


I’m still on my way back from the station when Simon phones from his sister’s. He must have been on the Tube when I called his mobile, he tells me. He’s just picked up my voicemail.

‘I won’t be late back. Ange has got an early start in the morning, so I’ll head off after supper.’

‘Did you have a good day at work?’ The words are the same ones I use every evening, but there’s an edge to my voice that makes him pause, and I wonder if it’s enough to prompt whatever truths he’s been hiding from me.

It isn’t.

‘Not bad.’

I listen to Simon lie to me; to the detail he gives me about the guy at the next desk to him, who eats with his mouth open and spends half the day on the phone to his girlfriend. I want to confront him but I can’t find the words; and more than that, I still can’t believe it’s true.

Of course Simon works at the Telegraph. I’ve seen his desk. At least, I’ve seen pictures of it. Soon after we started dating he texted me.

I miss you. What are you doing now? I want to picture it.





I’m in Sainsbury’s, I replied. I sent him a photo of the frozen food aisle, laughing out loud in the supermarket.

It became a game, abbreviated to WAYDN? and responded to with a photo of whatever was in front of us at that precise moment. A packed Tube train, a sandwich at lunch, the underside of my brolly as I walked to work in the rain. It was a window into our lives; into the days and nights between our evenings together.

I’ve seen his desk, I repeat to myself. I’ve seen the vast open-plan space with its computer screens and ever present Sky News feed. I’ve seen the piles of newspapers.