Then She Vanishes(24)
Jack leans forwards, still holding my hand. ‘Of course you do. You realize you made a mistake. Nobody’s perfect, Jess. Blimey. Certainly not me and I bet certainly not Rory, whatever you think. But you should tell him.’
‘I know.’ I take my hand from his and push the crisps packet away from me. I’ve completely lost my appetite. ‘There’s more,’ I say.
Jack stays silent, waiting, as he regards me over his pint glass.
‘The case I’m talking about. It was Marianne Walker-Smith.’
He snorts. ‘Shit.’
I don’t need to tell him what happened. The whole country knows. Marianne, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, went missing on Christmas Eve eighteen months ago from Reading. Everyone, including the press, suspected her stepfather, a rough-looking local hard nut made good. Wayne Walker was a builder, who made a lot of money but couldn’t shed his thuggish image despite his flash cars and fancy suits. He was arrested but released with no charge after lack of evidence. A few months later, and just before I was sacked, Marianne’s body was found on Clapham Common. A heroin overdose. She’d got in with the wrong crowd, the police said, and run away from home. There had been sightings of her with an older man, but nothing to suggest she’d been murdered.
But Wayne was angry and wanted someone to blame. One evening, when I still lived in London, I was on my way home from a night out with friends when he accosted me as I was walking alone to the tube station, slamming me into a wall and breathing into my ear that he would fuck me up, among other things.
‘You weren’t the only journalist who slagged him off in the press,’ says Jack, when I finish telling him. ‘Why did he come after you?’
I run my finger around the rim of my glass. ‘I don’t know. Someone saw, yelled out and he ran off. But I knew who he was. I recognized his bulldog face.’
‘It was just an empty threat. He wouldn’t do anything. He can’t know where you live now.’
I remember how scared I’d felt the other night when I’d thought I was being followed. ‘No. You’re right. It just freaked me out.’
‘Not surprising. He sounds like a nasty piece of work.’
‘I think he knew something about the phone hacking. Maybe someone in the police tipped him off. It was before my editor was charged –’
I’m interrupted by Finn walking through the door. He looks smart, dressed in drainpipe jeans, a white shirt and a pin-striped blazer. He’s shorter than Jack, although still tall at about six foot, with white-blond hair and blue eyes. He reminds me of Matt and Luke Goss from Bros. He’s a year younger than me, and I know that I, of all people, shouldn’t judge but it’s hard to believe he’s a cop.
He shakes out an umbrella and looks around until he spots us. Irritation briefly passes over his face when he sees me sitting with Jack. ‘Oh,’ he says, coming over to us, looking flustered. ‘I didn’t realize you were meeting Jess first.’
I stand up so quickly I feel light-headed. ‘I’m just going.’
‘You haven’t finished your drink,’ says Jack. ‘Don’t go yet. You don’t mind, do you, Finn?’
Finn looks like he does mind. Very much. But he’s too polite to say so. Instead he hastily scouts around for another chair while I squirm with embarrassment, wanting nothing more than to make a swift exit. I don’t want to play gooseberry.
He pulls up a seat between me and Jack. ‘So, how’s things?’ he says to me. ‘You okay? How’s Rory?’
‘Fine. We’re both fine. You?’
‘Busy with work. You know. Hoping to be made a sergeant so have to put the hours in.’
I nod politely but the conversation feels formal and stilted. I love Jack so much. I just wish I felt as comfortable with Finn.
‘So, what are you working on at the moment? Still the Wilson case?’ he asks.
‘Yep. Can you give us anything? Tip-offs et cetera?’ I try to sound playful but his expression darkens.
‘You know I can’t. It’s unprofessional,’ he replies stiffly.
Jack rolls his eyes. ‘Always the professional, eh, Finn.’ He winks but Finn doesn’t look amused.
I down the rest of my Coke so fast it gives me indigestion and I suppress the urge to burp. ‘Anyway,’ I say, in a voice that sounds like I’ve inhaled helium, ‘I’d better be off. Rory will be wondering where I am.’
I rummage in my bag for my umbrella and, telling Jack I’ll see him in the morning, I rush outside, the cold air instantly cooling my cheeks. I take a few deep breaths and stand under my umbrella for a minute, looking through the window at Jack and Finn. Finn’s back is to me but I can see Jack glancing at his boyfriend tenderly, his hand over Finn’s.
I walk briskly along the Watershed and cross the footbridge over the river. I wouldn’t normally go home this way – it can feel a bit lonely in the dark walking through Queen’s Square at this time of night – but it’s the most direct route to our flat from the pub. Queen’s Square is deserted, as most of the Georgian buildings that line the pavements are now offices, and I quicken my steps, trying to stop my imagination running away with me. But I’m sure I hear footsteps again. They sound heavy, like men’s boots. The rain is harder now and the wind tugs at my umbrella. I focus on my destination, walking as quickly as I can without running, and soon I exit the square and am passing the Llandoger Trow pub. I can see a few people huddled together outside it, smoking under an umbrella, the light from within casting an amber glow onto the cobbled pavement. A woman carrying a briefcase emerges from the building opposite and walks briskly in the other direction and I instantly feel safer, until I turn right onto the river and I’m alone again.