I See You (10 page)

‘They haven’t promoted you to page three, have they?’ He cuts into his pizza, and a thin trickle of oil oozes from the topping on to his plate.

I laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the necessary attributes for that. The thing is, I recognised the woman in the advert.’

‘You recognised her? You mean it’s someone you know?’

I shake my head. ‘I saw her photo in another newspaper – she was in an article about crime on the Underground. I told the police about it.’ I’m trying to keep it light, but my voice breaks. ‘I’m scared, Simon. What if that photo in Friday’s paper really was me?’

‘It
wasn’t, Zoe.’ There’s concern in Simon’s face; not because someone put a photo of me in the paper, but because
I think
they did.

‘I’m not imagining it.’

‘Are you stressed about work? Is it Graham?’

He thinks I’m going mad. I’m starting to think he’s right.

‘It really did look like me,’ I say quietly.

‘I know.’

He puts down his knife and fork. ‘Tell you what, let’s say the photo was of you.’

This is how Simon addresses problems, boiling them down to their very essence. A couple of years ago there was a burglary in our street. Katie became convinced they were going to break into our house next, and the thought stopped her sleeping. When she eventually dropped off she had nightmares, waking up screaming that there was someone in her room. I was at my wit’s end. I’d tried everything; even sat with her till she fell asleep, like she was a baby again. Simon took a more practical approach. He took Katie to B&Q, where they bought window locks, a burglar alarm, and an extra bolt for the garden gate. Together they fitted security measures to the entire house, even coating the drainpipes with anti-climb paint. The nightmares stopped instantly.

‘Okay,’ I say, finding the game oddly cheering. ‘Let’s say the photograph really was of me.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

‘You’d notice someone random taking a photo of you, surely?’

‘Maybe someone took it with a long lens,’ I say, realising as I do how ridiculous it sounds. What next? Paparazzi outside the house? Mopeds zooming past me; a photographer leaning to one side, in an effort to get the perfect shot for a tabloid splash? Simon doesn’t laugh, but when I acknowledge the absurdity of the suggestion with an embarrassed grin, he cracks a smile.

‘Someone
could have stolen it,’ he says, more seriously.

‘Yes!’ That seems more likely.

‘Okay, so let’s imagine someone’s used your photo to advertise their company.’ Discussing the advert like this, in such a rational, dispassionate way, is gradually calming me down, which I know was Simon’s intention all along. ‘That would be identity theft, right?’

I nod. Giving it a name – and one so familiar – instantly makes it feel less personal. There are hundreds – probably thousands – of identity fraud cases every day. At Hallow & Reed we have to be so careful, double-checking ID documents and only ever accepting originals or certified copies. It’s frighteningly easy to take someone’s photo and pass it off as your own.

Simon is still rationalising what’s happened.

‘What you have to consider is this: would it really hurt you? More than – say – if someone used your name to open a bank account, or if they cloned your card?’

‘It’s creepier.’

Simon reaches across the table and puts both his hands over mine. ‘Remember when Katie had that problem at school, with that gang of girls?’ I nod, the mere mention of it filling me with fresh rage. When she was fifteen, Katie was bullied by three girls in her year. They set up an Instagram account in her name; posted photos of Katie’s head, Photoshopped on to various images. Naked women, naked men, cartoon characters. Infantile, puerile stuff, that blew over before the end of the term, but Katie was devastated.

‘What did you tell her?’

Sticks and stones
, I said to Katie.
Ignore them. They’re not touching you.

‘The way I see it,’ Simon says, ‘is that there are two possibilities. Either the photo was simply of someone who looks like you – although not nearly as beautiful’ – I grin, despite the
cheesiness of the compliment – ‘or it’s ID theft, which – although irritating – isn’t doing you any harm.’

I can’t argue with his logic. Then I remember Cathy Tanning. I produce her as though I’m playing a joker. ‘The woman I saw in the newspaper article; she had her keys stolen on the Tube.’ Simon waits for an explanation, his face registering confusion.

‘It happened after her photo appeared in the advert. Like the photo of me.’ I correct myself. ‘The photo that looked like me.’

‘Coincidence! How many people do we know who have had their pockets picked on the Tube? It’s happened to me. It happens every day, Zoe.’

‘I suppose so.’ I know what Simon’s thinking. He wants evidence. He’s a journalist, he deals in facts, not supposition and paranoia.

‘Do you think the paper would investigate it?’

‘Which paper?’ He sees my face. ‘My paper? The
Telegraph
? Oh, Zoe, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not really a story, Zoe. I mean, I know you’re worried by it, and it’s a curious thing to happen, but it’s not newsworthy, if you know what I mean. ID theft’s a bit old hat, to be honest.’

‘You could pitch it, though, couldn’t you? Find out who’s behind it?’

‘No.’ His abruptness marks an end to the conversation, and I wish I’d never brought it up. I’ve blown this whole thing up to be more than it is, and driven myself insane in the process. I eat a piece of garlic bread and pour more wine to replace the glass I hadn’t noticed myself finishing. I wonder if I should do something about my anxiety levels. Mindfulness. Yoga. I’m becoming neurotic, and the last thing I want is for it to affect things between Simon and me.

‘Did Katie tell you about her audition?’ Simon says, and I’m
grateful both for the change in subject, and for the softness in his voice that tells me he doesn’t hold my paranoia against me.

‘She’s been ignoring my texts. I said something stupid this morning.’

Simon raises an eyebrow but I don’t elaborate.

‘When did you speak to her?’ I ask, trying not to sound bitter. I’ve only got myself to blame for Katie’s silence.

‘She texted me.’ I’ve made him feel awkward, now, and I rush to reassure him.

‘It’s great that she wanted to tell you. Honestly, I think it’s lovely.’ I mean it. Before Simon moved in, when things were already serious between us, I used to try and engineer occasions when he and the children would be together. I’d remember something I’d left upstairs, or go to the loo when I didn’t need to, in the hope I’d come back and find them chatting happily together. It hurts me that Katie didn’t text me, but I’m glad that she wanted to tell Simon.

‘What’s the job?’

‘I don’t know much. The agency haven’t offered her representation, but she made a useful contact and it sounds like there’s a part in the offing.’

‘That’s great!’ I want to get out my phone and text Katie, to tell her how proud I am, but I make myself wait. I’d rather congratulate her in person. Instead I tell Simon about Melissa’s new café, and Neil’s contract at the Houses of Parliament. By the time pudding comes we’ve ordered another bottle of wine, and I’ve got the giggles over Simon’s stories of his time as a junior reporter.

Simon pays the bill, leaving a generous tip. He goes to hail a cab, but I stop him.

‘Let’s walk.’

‘It’ll be less than a tenner.’

‘I’d like to.’

We start walking, my arm tucked into Simon’s. I don’t care
about the cost of a taxi ride home; I just want the evening to go on for a little longer. At the crossing he kisses me, and it turns into a kiss that makes us ignore the beep of the green man and have to press the button all over again.

My hangover wakes me at six. I go downstairs in search of water and an aspirin, and switch on Sky News, filling a glass from the tap and drinking greedily from it. When I’ve drained the glass I fill it and drink again, holding the side of the sink because I feel as though I’m swaying. I rarely drink in the week, and I’m reminded this is the reason why.

Katie’s handbag is on the table. She was already in bed when Simon and I got home last night, both of us giggling at the irony of trying not to wake the kids as we crept upstairs. There’s a piece of paper next to the kettle, folded in two and with ‘Mum’ written on the front. I open it, my headache making me squint.

I smile, despite my hangover. She’s forgiven me, and I resolve to be extra enthusiastic when she tells me about the job. No mention of secretarial college, or training to fall back on. I wonder what the gig is; whether it’s extra work, or a real part. Theatre, I suppose, although I allow myself a fantasy in which Katie has landed a job in TV; a part in some long-running soap that will make her a household name.

The Sky News reporter, Rachel Lovelock, is reporting a murder: a female victim from Muswell Hill. Perhaps Katie could be a presenter, I think. She’s certainly got the looks. She wouldn’t want to read the news, but a music channel, perhaps, or one of those magazine-style programmes, like
Loose Women
or
The One Show.
I pour another glass of water and lean against the worktop as I watch the telly.

The
image changes to an outside broadcast; Rachel Lovelock is replaced by a woman in a thick coat, talking earnestly into a microphone. As she carries on talking, a picture of the murder victim appears on the screen. Her name was Tania Beckett, and she doesn’t look much older than Katie, although according to the report she was twenty-five. Her boyfriend raised the alarm when she didn’t come home after work, and she was found in the park late last night, a hundred yards from where they lived.

Perhaps it’s my hangover, or the fact I’m still half-asleep, but I look at the photo on screen for a full minute before recognition kicks in. I take in the dark hair, the smiling face, the full figure. I see the necklace, with its gleaming silver crucifix.

And then I realise.

It’s the woman from yesterday’s advert.

How
fast can you run?

When you really have to?

In heels and a work skirt, with your bag banging against your side: how fast?

When you’re late for your train and you have to get home, and you race down the platform with seconds to spare: how fast can you run?

What if it isn’t a train you’re running for, but your life?

If you’re late home from work, and there’s no one in sight. If you haven’t charged your phone and no one knows where you are. If the footsteps behind you are getting closer, and you know, because you do it every day, that you’re on your own; that between the platform and the exit you won’t see another soul.

If there’s breath on your neck, and the panic is rising, and it’s dark, and cold, and wet.

If it’s just the two of you.

Just you, and whoever’s behind you.

Whoever is chasing you.

How fast could you run then?

It doesn’t matter how fast.

Because there’s always someone who can run faster.

There
was a hand over Kelly’s mouth. She could feel it pressing down on her face; taste the sweat on the fingers slipping between her lips. A heavy weight shifted on top of her and a knee forced her legs apart. She tried to scream but the sound stayed in her throat, filling her chest with panic. She tried to remember her police training – the self-defence moves they’d been taught – but her mind was blank and her body frozen.

The hand slid away, but the reprieve was momentary. It was replaced by a mouth; a tongue forcing its way inside her.

She heard his breath – heavy, excited – and a rhythmic knocking.

‘Kelly.’

The knocking intensified.

‘Kelly. Are you okay?’

The bedroom door opened and the weight moved from her chest. Kelly took a great gulp of air.

‘You were having another one.’

Kelly fought to get her breath under control. It was dark in her room; the shadow in the open doorway backlit by the light in the hall. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half past two.’

‘God, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?’

‘I’m just in off lates. You okay now?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The door closed and Kelly lay in the dark, sweat running between her breasts. It had been ten years since she had sat
holding Lexi’s hand, listening to her tell the police officer what had happened, then – later – watched her sister through a television screen, as her statement was videoed. Watched her twin sister cry as she recounted every little detail; every humiliating, painful detail.

‘I don’t want Mum and Dad hearing all this,’ Lexi had said.

Kelly had asked her once, years later, if she ever had nightmares. She’d said it casually, as though she’d only just thought about it. As though Kelly didn’t wake with the weight of a man on her chest; with his fingers inside her.

‘Once,’ Lexi had said. ‘A few days after it happened. But never again.’

Kelly’s pillow was drenched in sweat. She threw it on to the floor and rested her head on the sheet beneath. She was off work today. She’d go and see Lexi; maybe have supper with the boys. But first, there was something she had to do.

The
London Gazette’s
offices were in Shepherd’s Bush, in a huge but unprepossessing building housing several other newspapers. Kelly showed her warrant card to the receptionist then waited on an upright armchair far less comfortable than it looked. She ignored the knot of anxiety in her stomach: so she was working on an investigation in her spare time – it wasn’t an offence to do unpaid overtime.

Even in her head it didn’t sound convincing. Cathy Tanning’s bag dip was no longer hers to investigate, and Kelly should have reported this new development to the sergeant on the Dip Squad as soon as it came in.

And she would, as soon as she had something concrete to report. But the Dip Squad was as strapped for resources as any other department. With nothing concrete to go on, Cathy’s case might not be looked at for days. Someone had to make her a priority.