My fourth novel...
This novel is the sequel to Heart of Rock; for the moment, I've put it to one side until I sell Heart of Rock.
Caz Tallis agrees to help a friend of a friend who is being harassed by a stalker; a simple if tedious stake-out draws her into a much more complex and threatening situation...
Here are the first three chapters (subject to change!)
REWIND
CHAPTER
1
If you’ve ever sat, three nights running, in a van parked in a dark street waiting for something to happen, you’ll know it’s one of the most tedious things you can do. You can’t read, because you are afraid of missing what you came to watch for. Time slows until it hardly seems to be passing at all, a phenomenon I’d only previously noticed while having a go on a friend’s exercise bike.
The quiet Camden backwater was lined with parked cars. To get nearer my target I’d moved the van twice, which it didn’t like; I was now worried about whether it would start when the time came to give up and go home, and turned off the radio to save the battery. Rain thrummed on the roof and rolled down the windows. A silver Toyota Prius passed slowly, in search of a parking space. I couldn’t see the driver’s face. A cat padded by, stiffened, then vanished between the railings as a man came into view, walking a spaniel. He paused under the street light. A familiar figure; he’d appeared both nights before, minus the dripping umbrella. Not who I was looking for. Dog, curled up asleep on the passenger seat, was missing all the excitement. I yawned and squinted at my watch. Eleven twenty-five. I stretched. A bump on the van floor – damn, my camera. I retrieved it and pressed the switch. It seemed okay. As I sat back, a furtive figure in black sidled past; dark hair, five foot nine.
Oh my God, it’s him.
I’d been chilly, but now I was hot. My heart banged and my hands shook. Quietly, I opened the van door, camera at the ready.
Anyone who followed the Ric Kealey case would know I’m a rubbish private detective. And there’s no reason I should be any good at it, because it’s not my job. What I do is restore rocking horses, and I’m very good at that; I can make an Ayres look just the way the horse did when it was brand new, a hundred and twenty years ago. If I distress the paint finish, you’d never know it from an antique in original condition, used solely by well-behaved Victorian children, on their birthdays, under supervision.
True, I did prove Ric Kealey, lead singer of über-successful band The Voices In My Head, wasn’t a murderer – and discovered the identity of the real killer. But that was a fluke. Ric and I stumbled ineptly together through the investigation, and were lucky to be alive at the end of it.
So I was surprised when Posy rang. It’s not like we’re friends, even. I knew Posy last summer when she used to go out with my best friend James, and he dumped her after he realized he was keen on me; not something calculated to bring us closer. I hadn’t spoken to her since the split.
‘Caz, how are you? It’s been ages!’ I said hi, I was fine, nice to hear from her. ‘I saw you in OK! Magazine last week with Ric at the airport. He looked drop-dead gorgeous as usual. Did you see it? D’you want me to send it to you?’
‘No, it’s okay, thanks.’ To my mind, appearing in the media was the penalty of being Ric’s girlfriend, not one of its perks. And the scrum of paparazzi at Heathrow had been hideous, really intrusive. Next time Ric went to America, I’d say goodbye to him in private, at home.
‘Sure? It’s a nice picture of you as well…I’ll tell you why I rang, and I do hope you won’t mind…if it’s a frightful imposition, you will say, won’t you?’
‘Yup.’
‘I’ve got this friend, Abigail, I’ve known her for yonks, and she’s absolutely frantic because all these things are happening and she’s sure it’s her ex-boyfriend doing them, but she can’t prove it.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Her car keeps getting punctures, like regularly every few weeks, and it’s practically brand new. Someone made cuts in the hood, too. Then she thinks some of her mail’s gone missing.’
‘How does she know she’s not just been unlucky?’ Overnight damage to a car left on the street sounded like routine casual vandalism to me – and is anyone in London surprised when Royal Mail fails to deliver? Some days I get more of other people’s post than my own.
‘It’s just like, so many? Now Abigail’s afraid something will happen to her cat while she’s at work. Last time she came home to find an enormous crack in her window, the one at the back of the house. And half her plants pulled up. She’s got a garden flat.’
‘Has she gone to the police?’
‘She told them about the garden and they gave her a crime number. She didn’t tell them about her ex, because what could they do, except speak to him, and she doesn’t want to stir him up. In case it isn’t him. But she’s certain it is. He was always a bit weird – sort of obsessive – he’s an actuary called Quentin. I said what she needed was someone to catch him doing it, so I thought of you.’
‘Er…why?’
‘You found out who killed Bryan Orr, when the police and everyone thought it was Ric. I know you could do it. Please, Caz. She’s really scared. She was crying.’
So that’s how I found myself that rainy Thursday, after three nights of excruciating boredom, about to get up close and personal with Abigail’s crazy ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t meant to be like this; I’d planned on parking across the street from her shiny new blue Ford Ka Convertible, thus having a nice clear view through the van window. I’d actually managed this the first two evenings. As soon as Quentin the Nutter appeared and tampered with the tyres or whatever, the idea was I’d take a few shots of him doing it. He’d see the flash of course, but before he could get nasty I’d screech into the night with the evidence, thus avoiding any actual contact or unpleasantness. Then I’d email the photos to him, politely suggesting he laid off Abigail if he didn’t want them sent to the police.
This attractive scenario was not about to happen, unfortunately, because of where I’d had to park, on the same side of the road as the Ka. To get a clear shot, I would need to get out on to the pavement. He’d see the flash, and me, while I was only a few feet away from him. However fast I leaped into the van, and even if the engine started first go, it would take me several minutes of to-ing and fro-ing to get out of the tight parking space I’d skilfully squeezed into, giving the Berserk Boyfriend plenty of time to attack my van. It’s a P-reg Ford Transit, so entitled to be the worse for wear, but that doesn’t mean I welcome new dents and scratches.
On the other hand, I was not going to leave it, not after waiting three endless nights. He’d turned up at last, and for that I was grateful.
I stepped softly from the van, leaving Dog inside, and sneaked through the rain towards the dark figure, car by car. The downpour drowned out any noise I made. The Mad Actuary reached Abigail’s Ford, and glanced around. By then I was hunkered down in a puddle behind a Mini Cooper, only one car along, but it was a dark night, and the street trees made it darker. He didn’t see me. Almost leaning against the car, he peered inside, then crouched, sliding his hand in his pocket. Indignation burned in my chest. He was going to slash the tyres! The bastard. I stood, lifted my camera and pressed the button. His head turned, and he said, ‘Hey!’ I took a few more photographs. Anger had wiped out my apprehension. He’d got up and halfway to me before I decided it might be a good idea to scarper. I’d pulled the van door open when he reached me, grabbed my left wrist with one hand and went after the camera with the other.
I spun round and kicked him – a Jitsu kick. He’d have a nasty bruise. I did the shout, too, very loud. He let go and stumbled back, but then had another try for the camera. Dog joined me, barking to show solidarity. Lights went on, faces appeared at windows. My blood was up. I blocked his arm and attempted an o-goshi, but I’m only a green belt. I’m not really on to throws yet. It went wrong. I didn’t put my hip far enough across his body, so instead of flying through the air he pivoted and slammed against the van. One or two front doors opened, and people stood gaping. The Insane Ex got hold of my arm. I abandoned subtlety and kneed him in the balls, hard. He doubled up, gasping, and the fight appeared to be over.
For a moment all was still, and the only sound the beat of the rain. Then I flung myself into the van. So did Dog; he’s bright. The engine sputtered valiantly into life, we lurched backwards and forwards a few times, loose items in the back shifting and banging, and we were away. I saw in the mirror the man straighten up, and move to the middle of the road to watch us go.
When I reached the network of small streets behind Kings Cross I pulled in to the kerb and rang Abigail. ‘Hi.’
‘Are you all right?’ I could hear the strain in her voice. ‘Did he turn up? I heard noises…are you all right? I couldn’t see from the flat.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. He got a bit stroppy, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I got some shots of him. As soon as I get home I’ll email them to you.’
‘Oh, thank you – I really appreciate you doing this…I’m sure once he knows I can prove it’s him, he’ll stop it. I’m so grateful, Caz.’
‘No problem.’
It was midnight when I parked the van in the main road and walked with Dog across the shiny cobbles of Fox Hollow Yard. No paparazzi; too wet for them to hang around on the off-chance I’d come home with a new man in tow. I let us into the showroom, not bothering to put on the lights, and we climbed up past two dark floors of workshops to my flat perched on top of the building. I switched on the halogen spots, spread my jacket to dry over a chair, kicked off my boots, opened my laptop and downloaded the photos.
Not bad. Two of the shots showed the man’s face clearly. He was older than I’d expected, a good fifteen years older than Abigail, I’d say; square-faced, heavy-browed, cropped hair, a bit wild-eyed. Not bad-looking, reasonably hot in fact. In the first photo he was crouching on the pavement, reaching out for Abigail’s car, and it was obvious from the dark clothes and the watchful angle of his head he was up to no good. I reduced the images’ size on Photoshop, attached them to an email and sent them to Abigail. My clothes were damp, but I couldn’t be bothered to change them so soon before I’d be getting undressed for bed. I filled Dog’s water bowl, got him some food and myself a glass of wine and a packet of crisps, then turned on the radio – great, Dvorak’s American Quartet, second movement – and curled up on the sofa with my laptop to check my emails. Abigail had already replied. I clicked on the message, and read what she’d written about the man in the photos. I read it again.
He wasn’t her ex-boyfriend. She didn’t recognize him. She had no idea at all who he was.
CHAPTER
2
I brought the images up on the screen and stared at them in turn. The man’s unsmiling face, bleached in the camera flash, looked back at me. If he wasn’t Quentin, then who was he? After a couple of minutes, I emailed Abigail again.
Any idea who it could be? Is there anyone who’s got a grudge against you? Or might Quentin have got someone else to do it?
Caz
She replied at once.
No. I can’t think of anyone except Quentin. I really don’t think he’d involve someone else. Perhaps it was a car thief? Pure coincidence, and you just happened to catch him.
Abigail
That was possible…but these days new cars are less frequently targeted, because they are well protected – thieves steal the keys before they steal the car. Anyway, why would a thief crouch beside the car? I gazed dubiously, and thought of another thing. We didn’t know whether this guy was responsible for the previous damage, or whether that had been done by Quentin, and this was something new. I scrolled the first image larger, looking for clues to his identity. The flash showed his padded jacket to be dark brown, not black; the indigo jeans had a few darker marks splattered on them. His left hand leaned on the side of the car, his right reached round, unnaturally smooth and pale. I went in closer, until the pixels became obvious, then out a bit. He was wearing a translucent vinyl glove; I could see its thin rolled edge. Proof positive he was up to no good. In his hand, mostly covered by it, was something black; perhaps a mobile or a camera.
Or…an idea came to me. I leaned forwards, peering at the screen. I was probably wrong, and in any case it would almost certainly be too late…but all the same, I knew I was going to have to check it out. My mind was buzzing and I felt wide awake. I pulled my boots on, fetched my damp black hoodie and zipped it up, and put my keys and camera in the pockets. Dog stood by the door, knowing I was going out and not wanting to be left behind. I ruffled his shaggy fur.
‘D’you think we should go in disguise this time, Dog? You could have a pink ribbon perhaps…I could wear a skirt. Oh, what the hell –’ I opened the flat door and set off down the stairs. ‘If he’s still there it gives me another crack at o-goshi. I might get it right this time.’
Outside, rain pulsed from a sky the colour of a bruise, bouncing on the cobbles, but I couldn’t be bothered to go back for my umbrella. We made a dash for the van. In Camden once more, I parked a discreet couple of streets away from Abigail’s. Dog hopped out, and I joined him, scanning both ways for signs of life. A short soaking walk to the all-too-familiar stretch of road; it was deserted, the downpour relentless and loud. Rain ran down Abigail’s blue Ka and dripped from the points of my fringe into my eyes. Dog shook himself, the spray sparkling in the dim light, and looked at me, as if to say, What now? I crouched by the car’s nearside, where the man had been, and felt underneath the wet chassis. Nothing. Well, I hadn’t expected it still to be there. At least now I knew it wasn’t. I felt further back, as far as my arm could reach, just in case. Nope. Oh well. Getting up, I noticed my hand – and worse, my sleeve – was streaked with the unique automobile mixture of grease and dirt that is so difficult to wash off. Darn, I should have brought gloves. I fished in my pocket with my clean hand for a tissue and rubbed ineffectually at the grime, then gave up.
‘Dog?’ He’d wandered off. I heard a snuffling from the other side of the car, and went round to see what it was. Dog wagged his tail, barked and sniffed at the undercarriage, near the jacking point. Excitement shot through me. I crouched and felt around, careless of the dirt and wet. There was something there – something small and solid, that moved a little as I grasped it. It resisted; I pulled harder, and suddenly it came away in my hand, bashing my knuckles against the tarmac.
‘Dog, you are SO clever!’
The device was heavy, made of metal; rectangular, neat and new, a bit longer than my camera, with two strong circular magnets on one of the larger sides. Three drilled holes at either end allowed, I imagined, for it to be fixed to non-metallic surfaces. At one end was a charging port, at the other an on/off switch. It was set to On. Plain black; no markings, no serial number, no brand name. I stared, thinking what to do next.
I looked about. The street was still deserted. I placed the black box on the bonnet of the nearest car, a white Toyota, got out my camera and took four shots, one of each side and both ends, checking they’d come out clearly. Then I bent and offered it up to Abigail’s car’s undercarriage, in the same place as before. It sprang from my hand and, with a clunk, hugged the steel. Dog and I stood for a moment in the downpour, contemplative, getting wetter. Water trickled inside my boots and soaked through my hood.
‘Come on, you intelligent animal, let’s go.’
Back at the flat, I washed some of the black off my hands, rubbed Dog dry with an old towel, removed my dripping clothes and put on a tee shirt, hoodie and sweat pants. It was chilly, so I turned the heating back on and made myself a coffee. I downloaded the photos – luckily the rain didn’t seem to have seeped into the camera – then typed my query into Google. I drew a blank at the first couple of sites; they had the sort of thing I was looking for, but not my one. Quite similar, though. I was certain I was on the right track.
I tried Undercover Agent Online. Yes! A photo of an identical sleek black case, topped by two silver magnets, complete with video showing it from all angles, and a soundtrack of doom-laden music. Rapid deployment GPS Tracker, real time tracking & MINIMUM 2 week battery performance. I skip-read down the page. 100% waterproof and magnetic…can be deployed in moments…updates real-time location every 15 seconds…can track using a PC or mobile phone…email movement alerts…A professional device, way better than hanging around then following a car while hoping the mark didn’t spot you trailing behind. You’d see exactly where the person went, and when, from the comfort of your home or office.
I bet they sell a lot of them…
Not much change from a thousand pounds, once you’ve added in VAT and access to the tracking console. You could save money by going for the rental option – as long as your subject didn’t find it, that is, and refuse to give it back. The man who put this on Abigail’s car must have one serious reason to want to know where she went. I dialled Abigail’s number, glancing at my watch. Five past two.
‘Hallo?’ She sounded sleepy.
‘It’s me, Caz. Sorry to wake you, but I came back and found a tracking device on your car.’ Silence. ‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, sorry…I’m not awake yet. Are you sure? Why should anyone want to track me? It seems so odd…’
‘Quentin wouldn’t have hired a private detective to spy on you, would he?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I suppose it’s possible…did you take it off?’
‘No. If I’d done that he’d have known. It’s real time tracking, to the nearest two metres.’
‘I don’t like it being on my car. Surely I ought to take it to the police?’
I’d considered this. ‘I’m not sure they’d be able to do anything – or rather, they could, but I don’t think they would given no crime has been committed. We’ve got a photo of the man, but we don’t know who he is. He wore gloves, so there won’t be any fingerprints. The supplier says on their website they send them out with random ID, so only the user can access the details – come to that, there’s probably more than one firm supplying them. He could be found, but it’d be a lot of legwork. I don’t think the police would be prepared to spend the time it’d take.’
‘Even though he assaulted you?’
I laughed. ‘It was more the other way round, really – with witnesses.’
‘So why not just take it off? Dump it somewhere – put it on a truck or something?’
‘But then you wouldn’t know who he was, or why he did it. He’d be likely to try again. I’ve got a better idea…’
Early the following morning saw me in the first floor workshop getting on with my real job, making a new head and neck for Zaphod, an 1880s G & J Lines.
I’d never meant to buy this horse. I’d gone to the January auction at Chelmsford because they were selling an extra-carved, medium-size FH Ayres. Ric came with me for the ride, and driving along I told him why I was interested. The horse had lost his original finish long ago – he’d been stripped to the bare wood, probably in the 70s – but had the most beautiful shape. His head was fabulous; that goes without saying, but instead of the usual squarish rear end, this Ayres had the most graceful curving rump. Quite rare. I’ve not seen any like that except in photos. I’d gone prepared to bid high, but so, alas, had the man in the trilby standing near the back.
The auctioneer looked at me. ‘£1,600 I’m bid, the bidding stands at £1,600…’
Ric said, ‘I thought you were going to buy this one?’
‘Not at this price. No profit.’
‘But you really like it?’
‘I do…’
‘It’s only money.’ Ric raised his arm. The auctioneer, who’d lifted his gavel to finish the sale, perked up. Two minutes later, Ric had bought the horse for an insane £3,700. I thanked him, and told him he was crazy. Across the room I noticed the under bidder looking most put out, and muttering into his mobile.
Because of his price tag, I was somewhat in awe of Ric’s Folly, as I called him (Folly for short) so I’d started work on Zaphod first.
You wouldn’t think a rocking horse could lose its head. After all, it’s a pretty important part, the head, and even if damp dissolved the glue that held it on, and it somehow got knocked off, you’d imagine the owner would keep the bits together; maybe do what amateurs do best, and bang in half a dozen four inch nails to re-attach it. Most horses, whatever else they lose, hang on to their heads. Not this one.
By the time we met, Zaphod bore a rudimentary replacement cut out of one-inch thick timber; the eyes were painted-on, his mane improvised from strips of an old floor mop, his reins the strap of a fake-leather handbag. Pathetic. But his body and legs were elegantly carved (I ran an appreciative hand over his narrow fetlocks) and the stand original, with the rare PATENTED Jan 29th 1880 stencil discernable on the base where the red paint had worn off. The clincher: an unscrupulous dealer I didn’t like was bidding against me, and I knew she’d ditch the horse and cannibalize the stand if she got hold of it.
I still shouldn’t have bought him, even for the modest £87.50 he cost me. Restored, he’d look original, but I’d have to tell any potential buyer that part of him wasn’t; and this would be reflected in the price. There’d be the same amount of work as on a complete horse – more, actually, by the time I’d carved a new head – for a much smaller profit. Not a mistake Sir Alan Sugar would make. He wouldn’t have bought Folly, either. I pictured his furrowed brow and incredulous bulbous stare. I must focus more on the bottom line.
It was fun, though, roughing out the head with chisel and mallet, wood chips flying. Later I’d need to slow down, and check the shape frequently from all angles, comparing it to photos I'd got of a closely-similar G & J Lines from the same period.
At ten thirty, I downed tools to go to the corner shop to get some milk for a cup of coffee. I’d used up the last of it at breakfast. As Dog and I stepped into the Yard, a blitz of camera flashes took me by surprise – the paparazzi hadn’t been around all that much since Ric left for his American tour. I counted seven of them as I moved briskly towards the street. A woman shoved a microphone at me – unusual, normally it’s just photographers out there.
‘Caz, is there any truth in the rumours about Ric?’
I opened my mouth to say, ‘What rumours?’ but thought better of it and pushed past.
She overtook me, running backwards. ‘How d’you feel about it, Caz?’
‘No comment,’ I said with stunning originality, walking faster.
They didn’t follow me to the shop. I waited in the small queue, wondering if I needed anything else besides milk, wondering what they’d been referring to. I hoped Ric was all right. As I shuffled forward, my gaze fell on the newspapers and my heart did a quick flip. Ric was on the front page of the Mirror. The woman ahead of me turned and squeezed her buggy past. I moved to the counter and stared at the paper. A nice side view of Ric, dark, brooding and gorgeous – he’s so photogenic, you never see a bad photo of him. Beside him a woman smiled boldly at the camera. She wore a perilously short skirt and the latest fashionably-ugly platform sandals. Her flame-coloured hair glowed in the flashlight; the sort of colour, fake but fabulous, that you only get at a top salon.
Huge letters across the page said, KEALEY’S NEW SQUEEZE?
I bought the paper as well as the milk, and detoured to Hoxton Square – I didn’t want the paparazzi getting a shot of me carrying it. The Square was deserted but for a few pigeons and a group of winos on the far side; bleak, as though summer would never come again. Dog trotted off to move the pigeons on. A plastic bag blew over the shabby grass; an empty water bottle rolled noisily along the path. I hadn’t worn a jacket, not expecting to be out long, and shivered in the February chill. I sat on a bench and opened the paper. More photos of Ric and the redhead, admittedly not touching or kissing, but definitely together, at a film premier…she was Candy Deleuze, actress and daughter of Ryan Deleuze, owner of the Hollywood celeb restaurant Ryan’s…
A flash made me look up. Bloody hell, a photographer had followed me. I got up and walked away, tossing the Mirror in a litter bin. The flash went off again as I did so.
Bugger.
CHAPTER
3
Saturday I woke before the alarm, and lay in the dark, thinking. It had been three days since Ric last rang me. I wondered what he was doing; it would be eight hours earlier in Los Angeles. 10.06 pm. I tried and failed to visualize him on his own in a hotel room with a good book, looking forward to an early night. I rang his mobile. It was switched off, as it had been the last time I’d rung. I looked at the most recent text he’d sent yesterday lunchtime.
Met the roadies – one old guy toured with Frank Zappa. I passed Johnny Depp in the lobby. Did interviews x 3, plus the Late Show. Everyone talks a lot here. Have you nailed the stalker yet? Ric X
My thoughts got gloomier, steadily sinking and compacting to a murky sludge. In the end I got up and trailed down the mezzanine stairs to get breakfast half an hour early.
The sky was still dark when I left home. The newsagent’s window spilled harsh fluorescent light on to the pavement, and I could see him inside, sorting out the newspapers; for a certainty those pictures of me would feature. The thought of stopping to buy one both drew and repelled me. Distaste overcame curiosity and I drove past.
As Dog and I turned into Abigail’s street the sun unenthusiastically heaved itself above the London brick and stucco of the Victorian terraces. There was her car, parked a little way down from her flat, and I stopped my van beside it. I took off the tracking device, banging my knuckles once more, swore, and transferred it to my glove compartment. Then I headed north.
Today was the day I planned to sort out Abigail’s stalker.
The idea was to leave London; the man would follow me, believing I was Abigail, and when I stopped, he’d turn up to discover where she was going. Then I’d get his car registration number. Easy. This time I’d scoot off discreetly without bandying words or indeed blows with him, and take the information to the police. With most of the work done for them, they could locate the guy and charge him…not sure what with, but at any rate they could ask him what he was up to and he’d have to say. Probably.
It seemed a pretty good plan to me. All that could go wrong was that he might simply note on the tracking display where I had gone, but not check it out immediately. If he waited to see whether there was a pattern to Abigail’s movements before taking action, he might not arrive at all. I hoped his obsessive nature would make him too impatient to wait. There was a limit to how long I was prepared to hang around waiting for him. I’d give it two or three hours, then pack it in.
I wished I knew exactly what he was after, so I could appear to offer it to him; but it had to be either a place or a person. I’d put a lot of thought into deciding where to go. At first I favoured a multi-storey car park outside London. My van would be hard to spot, plus it wouldn’t be immediately obvious Abigail’s car wasn’t there. I could double back to the entrance and loiter in the shadows, watching each driver until he turned up. Then I had a better idea, because it might seem to him a more promising lead; I’d go to where my friend Hugh used to live in Cambridge. He’d shared a flat in one of a group of four classy low-rise blocks, set with plenty of space around them in landscaped gardens. Only one entrance, then a fork, the roads circling towards each other like embracing arms, but not quite meeting. Anyone visiting had to pass in and out the same way. There were five or six places where people could park. As I remembered, trees grew thickly around the perimeter, as well as in the grounds. I checked on Google satellite view, and there they were, looking like broccoli.
Funny it didn’t occur to me that in February they’d be leafless. Ah well. I turned into the drive, going left till it petered out in a small row of cars. I got out and wedged the tracker in the branches of a tree, as high as I could reach, where it couldn’t be seen. Then I drove out again to Sidgwick Avenue to park. I fed pound coins into the machine, displayed the ticket, and walked back to the Grange Road entrance. Dog trotted primly to heel the way he does in new places.
The cover wasn’t too bad; luckily they’d planted evergreen shrubs beneath the now bare branches of the trees. I chose a glossy-leaved shrub to lurk behind. Five minutes were enough to bring home to me how cold and damp it was, how I was still visible to anyone passing on foot if I stood up, and that I’d forgotten my iPod. A chill wind penetrated the shrubbery. Caught on a nearby twig, a plastic bag flapped, and I detached it to sit on. My thoughts strayed to Ric… I was pleased when my mobile rang and I saw it was James.
‘Hi.’
‘Caz, where are you?’
‘Sitting behind a bush on the outskirts of Cambridge. Where are you? On the train? And how d’you know I’m not wherever you thought I would be?’
‘I called at your place with croissants after my run, that’s how. And you weren’t there. Now I’ll have to eat them all myself. What are you doing behind a bush? A bit chilly for a picnic, I’d have thought.’
‘Sleuthing, and it’s entirely your fault. I’m doing it for a friend of Posy’s.’ I thought longingly of the croissants. I hadn’t brought any food.
‘Should have thought you’d have had enough of that last year. What are you up to this time?’
I told him. He teased me about Posy’s unaccountable faith in my detective abilities, and I said how little he knew me. I noticed he didn’t ask how Posy was.
‘Well, be careful, Caz. Don’t do anything rash. Give me a ring if you need rescuing again,’ and we said goodbye and hung up. I felt warmer and more cheerful after our chat. Then it occurred to me, he must have seen the papers and gone to the flat to check if I was all right. James is not a tabloid reader – but he does, I fear, collect cuttings about me in a scrapbook. He doesn’t know I know this. I wished I’d bought a Mirror when I had the chance; at least it would stop me speculating. I would have nipped to a shop, but there weren’t any near Hugh’s old place.
Time passed. I got colder, stiffer, and looked at my watch more frequently. Dog curled up, partly on my foot so he’d know when I moved, and fell asleep. I decided to give it till twelve, then vamoose. The cold was becoming painful. I blew on my hands and rubbed them, then stood, stretched and danced about on numb toes like a boxer. A black Brompton bicycle turned into the drive, and I dropped fast behind the bushes. The cyclist stopped, got out a mobile and studied it before heading away from me. It was the man I was waiting for. But on a bike. A folding bike he’d brought with him in his car, to circumvent the very scenario I’d set up.
It was too much. Frozen, outmanoeuvred, fed up, I’d had enough. If I followed him on foot I’d lose him, in the van he’d see me, connect me with the tracker, and that would be that.
‘Come on, Dog, let’s get out of here.’
We got to where I’d parked. There was still an hour and a half left on the parking ticket. A sudden vision of a pot of tea and piles of steaming buttery toast in a warm café assailed me. I walked past the van in the direction of the centre of town, Dog at my heels, going beneath the big trees of Silver Street, and over Mathematical Bridge. We came to a newsagents; I hesitated, then caved in, went inside and bought a copy of the Mirror. A quick glance told me there was nothing on the front page. I opened the door to a café a few doors along. Dog snuck in behind me and settled out of sight under the table. He didn’t get from the gutters of Marseille to life with a rock star without being one clued-up canine. I bought a hot chocolate and a Danish pastry for me, and a sausage roll to slip to Dog. The walk had thawed my feet, the café was warm and the chocolate so delicious it made me smile involuntarily. I opened the paper.
It was much worse than I’d feared. Two big photos of me on the second page. There I sat in an overcast Hoxton Square, plastic bottle of milk beside me on the bench, hunched glumly over The Mirror, intent on its pages, its picture of Ric clearly visible. My dishevelled hair blew about, the end of my nose was pink. The next shot showed a disconsolate back view, one hand holding the milk, the other dropping the paper into the litter bin. I was surprised the caption wasn’t LOSER!
What it actually said was, IS RIC KEALEY PLAYING AWAY? Caz, Ric’s London girlfriend, studies Mirror pics of the latest lovely to have her name linked with Ric’s. On the next page the reporter helpfully listed all the women Ric had recently been in the same room with: Ric’s Fifty Fitties, complete with photos (winsome pouts, deep cleavages, perfect hairdos) and brief biographies.
I reached for my drink, eyes still on the page, hearing Dog growl without registering it. The cup tipped over. Blast. Moving the paper out of the way, I saw a man – the man – sitting opposite, staring gravely at me. Zero out of ten for surveillance, Caz. His score was rather higher.
‘I get cloth,’ he said. He went to the counter and spoke to the girl, and she came over and wiped the table. The man asked her for a replacement hot chocolate, and black tea for himself. His eyes met mine once more. He got the tracker out of his pocket, and placed it on the table between us, nearer to him than me.
‘I tell you who I am, then you tell me who you are?’
I nodded, warily.
‘I am Yakiv. Your name, please?’
‘Caz.’
‘I am builder, Caz. I come from Ukraine. Not the Ukraine, you tell me maybe why people call it that? Is strange, why they say that. You do not say the England, I think. I have building firm, medium size, we do well here, even though we are not Polish. Everyone want Polish builders, but we have foreign accent, we will do. At least we are not lazy British builder.’
He said this quickly, a tad nervously, as though thinking I wouldn’t hit him while he was speaking. His English was clear and fluent, but he tended to skip ‘a’ and ‘the’. Maybe the Ukraine business had put him off them.
‘I came over in 2007, and I live here ever since. I have British girlfriend, who is call Jenny. Very pretty, soft voice, soft brown hair, is nice person.’ He got out a wallet, removed a small photo and handed it over. It showed a young woman’s face; as he said, pretty. I handed it back.
‘And she go missing.’
