I See You(64)

The gravel drive crunched beneath the wheels of their car, and Nick looked at the house for signs someone was at home. They parked parallel to a gleaming grey Range Rover, and Nick whistled. ‘Very nice.’

The doorbell had an old-fashioned pull mechanism, at odds with the age of the house, but presumably meant to add to the ye olde feel Kelly supposed had been intended by the mock-Tudor facade. Keeping up with the Joneses, she thought. Long before the jangling of the bell had begun to die away, they heard footsteps behind the large front door. Nick and Kelly both stepped away, putting distance between themselves and whoever they were about to meet. It never did to make assumptions about the way people might behave, even in a house like this.

The door swung open and an attractive woman in her early fifties smiled at them expectantly. She wore a black velvet tracksuit with a pair of slippers. Kelly held out her warrant card and the smile disappeared from the woman’s face.

‘Is someone hurt?’ The woman’s hands flew to her throat, an instinctive reaction Kelly had seen a hundred times. There were some people for whom the mere sight of a uniform prompted fear of discovery, or arrest. This woman wasn’t one of them. For her the police meant an accident, or worse.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Kelly said. ‘We’re just making some enquiries. We’re looking for a Mr James Stanford.’

‘That’s my husband. He’s at work. Is there a problem?’

‘Could we come in?’ Kelly said. The woman hesitated, then stood aside to allow them inside a bright, spacious hall. A neat stack of post lay on a narrow hall table, and Kelly glanced at the top envelope as Mrs Stanford led them into the kitchen.

Mr J. T. Stanford.

Nick’s face was impassive, showing none of the excitement Kelly felt certain must show on her own. Was Stanford running the website from this house?

‘James is a management consultant with Kettering Kline,’ Mrs Stanford said. ‘He’s in London today meeting a new client. He won’t be home till late, I’m afraid. Can I help at all? What’s this about?’

‘We’re investigating a crime series,’ Nick said. Kelly watched the woman’s expression carefully. If James Stanford was their man, did his wife know anything about it? Did she have any idea about the adverts or the website? Kelly noted the photographs displayed on the dresser, all featuring what appeared to be the same young man, at various ages.

‘Our son,’ Mrs Stanford said, catching Kelly looking. ‘What sort of crimes? You surely don’t think James is involved?’

‘We need to eliminate him from our enquiries. It would be a great help if you could answer some questions.’

Mrs Stanford paused, unsure of what to do. Eventually manners won. ‘You’d better sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you. This won’t take long.’

They installed themselves at a large oak table. ‘Mrs Stanford,’ Nick began, ‘you said your husband is a management consultant. Does he have any other businesses?’

‘He’s a director of a couple of charities, but no other businesses, no.’

‘Has he ever been involved in running a dating agency?’

Mrs Stanford looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Premium-rate numbers,’ Kelly explained. ‘This sort of thing.’ She slid a piece of paper across the table and showed Mrs Stanford a single advert from the London Gazette.

Again, the hand at her throat. ‘No! I mean … God, no. Why would he? I mean, what makes you think he’d …’ She looked wildly between Nick and Kelly. Either she was a superb actress, or she knew nothing about what her husband had been up to. Was that why Stanford had used a mailbox address? Not to hide from the police, but from his wife?

Kelly handed Mrs Stanford the rest of the file she was holding. ‘These documents were used to open a mailbox on Old Gloucester Road three months ago, paid for by your husband’s credit card. The same documents, and the same credit card, paid for the insertion of a number of adverts in a London newspaper.’

‘Adverts,’ Nick said, looking intently at Mrs Stanford, ‘we believe are at the heart of a series of crimes against women.’

Mrs Stanford looked at the document, anxiety written across her face; her hand tugging at her necklace. Nick watched her eyes flick from left to right, the confusion and fear gradually giving way to relief.

‘This is nothing to do with my husband,’ she said, the release of tension making her laugh.

‘James Stanford is your husband, though?’ Kelly said.

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Stanford said. ‘But this photo’ – she pointed at the photocopied driving licence – ‘that’s not my husband.’





20


When the police have gone, Melissa silently brings me another pot of tea. She picks up the ten-pound note DI Rampello left on the table. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. No.’ I comb my fingers through my hair, loosening it from the band which suddenly feels too tight. ‘They think I’m in danger.’ This shouldn’t have been news to me. I felt the danger when I downloaded my commute details yesterday; I felt it when Luke Friedland grabbed my arm to save me from falling; I’ve felt it ever since I saw my photo in the Gazette – a photo I allowed my family to convince me wasn’t even of me. But when I asked DI Rampello if I was at risk I was looking for a different answer. I wanted reassurance. I wanted to be told I was overreacting; paranoid; delusional. I wanted false promises and glasses-half-full. A few days ago I worried the police weren’t taking me seriously: now I’m worried because they are.