Someone Else's Shoes(74)

“Hold up. I haven’t even switched on the till yet.”

“Do I look like I need a drink?”

“Well, why else would you come to a pub?” He is a young hipster type, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and his face already masked in irritation.

She switches tack. “I’m so sorry to bother you.” She smiles. “I was hoping you could help me with something. I had an item stolen from me a few weeks ago and I was wondering if there was any way I could take a look at your CCTV.”

“You want what?”

She glances up. And notes the domed cameras on the ceiling. “You have CCTV, right?” She points upward.

“Yeah,” he says, following the direction of her finger. “But I don’t think I can just let anyone look at—”

“It will literally take you five minutes.” She puts a hand on his arm. Squeezes it lightly. “You would honestly save my life.”

He gazes at her, briefly wrong-footed, and she smiles, a sweet, hopeful smile. “Look, I’ll explain. I’m in a bit of a spot. It’s really hard. I’m a woman on my own in this country and I’m in trouble for reasons I can’t fully explain and I need help. I know it’s an imposition and, believe me, if it were any other circumstances I wouldn’t interrupt your day. I can see you’re busy. But I’m really in need of help.”

He’s a nice kid. She can see the uncertainty on his face. “I don’t think . . .”

“I can give you the date and time and everything. It will take you five minutes.”

“Yeah, but there’s data protection and stuff . . .”

“I’m not asking for names and addresses. I just want to see if something is there.”

“We only keep the tapes for six weeks.”

“That’s perfect.”

He frowns, stares at his shoes. When he looks up his expression is suspicious. “Who are you again? You’re not police?”

She laughs prettily. “Oh, God no. Do I look like police? My name is Anita. I’m just . . . a mom.”

“It’s not your bloke cheating and you’re going to start some kind of gang war in here?”

“Honey, if my man had been unfaithful I wouldn’t need CCTV to deal with it.”

He glances behind him, even though they’re apparently the only people in the bar.

“I’d have to show you out here. In the bar. No customers allowed in the office.”

“I get it. You have to be careful.”

When he hesitates again, she looks at his nametag.

“Milo. It’s Milo, right? Honestly, you would be saving my life. I just need to locate a personal item. Apparently someone may be on your camera wearing it.”

He glances behind him again.

“And you say you know exactly when and where.”

“Friday the seventh. I just want to see maybe an hour’s footage from that evening. Say . . . eight till nine?”

“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll load up the iPad and bring it out.”

“You are a god among men!” she exclaims, and touches his arm again. “Thank you so, so much.” She sees his expression soften, and thinks, with satisfaction, Yup, still got it.



* * *



? ? ?

Ten minutes later she is sitting at the bar with a cappuccino as Milo scans through the CCTV images with an expert millennial finger, occasionally peering closer.

“All the images are black-and-white?” she says.

“Yeah. Though we can zoom in if you see anything. It’s quite clear. Shoes, you said?”

“About six inches high and strappy. They’re Louboutins. Probably better than any other shoes you’ll see in here.”

“And you say someone nicked them?”

“And wore them here. Apparently.”

He peers at the screen. “Shoes are shoes. There are loads of women in heels. How will you know which ones are yours?”

“Oh, I’ll know.” She sips at the cappuccino he has made her. So many crappy pairs of cheap, clumpy shoes. So many drunken, lurching girls and bullet-headed men. She feels a sudden stab of anxiety. This is the final White Horse. If this turns up nothing, she has no more leads to go on. And then she sees it.

“There!” she says suddenly, and jabs at the screen. “Stop! Can you zoom in? That woman there?”

Nine seventeen on the Friday evening. A woman with badly cut hair stumbles from the dance-floor, her legs and feet briefly visible as she walks drunkenly arm in arm with another woman to a bottle-laden table. Milo rewinds a few frames, then moves his fingers around the screen until they zoom in and the woman’s feet become clear. She makes him go in as deep as possible until the image starts to blur but they’re her shoes. It’s as clear as can be. She feels a jolt of recognition.

“That’s them! That is definitely them! Can you scroll up? Show me her face?”

There she is, the shoe thief, plain, middle-aged, her eyes half closed and her hair in sweaty wisps around her face. With each frame she wobbles across the screen toward the seat, at one point her ankle buckling slightly.

“That’s her. That’s the woman who stole my shoes.” She breathes, staring at the pixelated image.

“This is so weird.” Milo shakes his head.