I See You(59)

You’ve seen a desk, a voice says in my head, it could have been anyone’s.

I shake it off. What am I suggesting; that Simon sent me photos of somewhere he didn’t even work? That he took pictures of a newsroom from the Internet? It’s ridiculous. There’ll be an innocent explanation. A missed entry in the switchboard directory; an incompetent receptionist; a practical joke. Simon wouldn’t lie to me.

Would he?

I cross the road so I can stop by Melissa’s café. I know that Justin’s shift finishes shortly, and I see them sitting at a table poring over paperwork, Melissa leaning forward until her head is almost touching Justin’s. They move apart as I come through the door, Melissa jumping up to give me a kiss.

‘Just the person! We were just arguing about the Christmas menu. Turkey baguettes with cranberry, or with sage and onion? Stick those menus away, Justin, we’ll finish off tomorrow.’

‘Cranberry and sage and onion. Hi, love.’

Justin picks up the papers and shuffles them into a pile. ‘I said both, too.’

‘That’s because it’s not your profits you’re giving away,’ Melissa says. ‘Sage and onion or cranberry sauce. Not both.’

‘I thought we could walk home together,’ I say to Justin, ‘but you’re busy.’

‘You go on,’ Melissa says. ‘I’ll lock up.’ I watch my son take off his apron and hang it behind the counter, ready for tomorrow.

I loop my hand through Justin’s arm as we walk home. My stomach feels hollow as I remember the certainty with which the Telegraph’s switchboard operator had delivered her news.

There’s no Simon Thornton working here.

‘Has Simon ever talked to you about his job?’ I try to speak casually, but Justin looks at me as if I’ve suggested he might have chatted with Biscuit. The antagonism between Simon and Justin is the elephant in the room; ignored in the hope it will one day leave of its own accord.

‘Only to make the point that I’d never get a job like his without qualifications. Which was nice.’

‘I’m sure he was just trying to motivate you.’

‘Well, he can stick his motivation up his—’

‘Justin!’

‘He’s got no right to lecture me. He’s not my dad.’

‘He’s not trying to be.’ I put the key in the lock. ‘Can’t you just try and get on? For my sake?’

He stares at me, his expression registering a flicker of remorse beneath the bitterness. ‘No. You think you know him, Mum, but you don’t. You really don’t.’

I’m peeling potatoes when my mobile rings. I’m about to leave it, when I catch sight of the name on the screen. PC Kelly Swift. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and snatch up the phone before it can go to voicemail. ‘Hello?’

‘Have you got a minute?’ PC Swift sounds hesitant. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Off the record.’

I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding my phone, long after she’s ended the call. Katie wanders into the kitchen, opens the fridge and shuts it again, all the while looking at her own phone, her right thumb scrolling continuously. She’s always been addicted to her mobile, but since meeting Isaac she’s hardly put it down; her eyes lighting up when a text comes through.

I hear the creak of the stairs as Justin heads downstairs, and I make up my mind. This is something I need to see for myself, without my family peering over my shoulder. Without Katie panicking, and Justin threatening to punch whoever’s responsible.

‘We’re out of milk,’ I say suddenly, grabbing my bag and shrugging on my coat. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

‘There’s some in the fridge,’ Katie calls, but I’m already slamming the front door behind me.

I walk fast, hugging my coat across my chest. There’s a café down here; not Melissa’s, a small, slightly grubby place I’ve never felt compelled to visit. But I know it’s open late and I need to be somewhere no one knows me; somewhere anonymous.

I order a coffee. It’s bitter and I add a lump of sugar, letting it dissolve on the spoon until it disappears. I put my iPad on the table in front of me and take a deep breath, steeling myself for … for what?

The password – I SEE YOU – makes me shiver. Hidden in plain sight just like the adverts themselves; boldly displayed amongst the job ads and the items for sale. The page seems to take forever to load, and when it does little changes. The background is still black, but the white box asking for the access code has been replaced.

Log in or create an account.





‘Don’t set up an account,’ PC Swift said, after she’d told me what they’d uncovered. ‘I’m only telling you because I think you have a right to know.’ She paused. ‘Because if this was happening to me, or to someone in my family, I’d want to know. Please: trust us.’

I tap on ‘create an account’ and type in my own name before coming to my senses and pressing backspace until it disappears. I glance up and catch sight of the café owner, fat belly straining under a dirty white apron with the word Lenny embroidered on the left breast.

Lenny Smith, I type. I create a password.

Select a membership package.