‘We should lock ourselves in,’ Katie says. She looks between Melissa and me, fear written across her face. Her bottom lip trembles.
‘Simon’s not going to try and get in here, love, he doesn’t even know we’re here.’
‘Once he sees we’re not at home he’s bound to try here. Lock the door, please!’ She’s close to tears.
‘I think she’s right,’ Melissa says. She double-locks the front door, and despite what I said to Katie, I’m reassured by the sound of the barrel shooting home.
‘What about the back door?’ Katie says. She’s shaking, and I’m filled with rage. How dare Simon do this to my daughter?
‘It’s always locked. Neil’s paranoid about burglars – he won’t even keep the key where it can be seen from the garden.’ Melissa puts an arm around Katie. ‘I promise you, sweetheart, you’re safe now. Neil’s working away this week, so you can stay here as long as you want. Why don’t you put the kettle on, and I’ll call this PC Swift and tell her about the receipt you found. Have you got her number?’
I take my phone out of my pocket and unlock it, scrolling through until I find Kelly Swift’s number. I hand Melissa the phone. She peers at it.
‘I’ll get more reception upstairs. Give me two ticks. Do me a favour and make me a coffee, will you? The capsules are next to the machine.’
I switch on the coffee machine; a new-fangled chrome thing that froths milk and mixes cappuccinos and goodness knows what else. Katie crosses the kitchen. She looks through the bi-fold doors to the garden, and rattles the handle.
‘Locked?’
‘Locked. I’m scared, Mum.’
I try to keep my voice calm, belying the turmoil I feel inside. ‘He won’t get us here, love. PC Swift will come and talk to us, and they’ll get officers to arrest Simon. He can’t hurt us.’
I stand in front of the coffee machine and place my hands flat on the worktop; the granite cold and smooth beneath my palms. Now that we’re safely out of the house my fear is turning to anger, and I’m struggling to keep it hidden from Katie, who is already teetering on the edge of hysteria. I think of the lies Simon told me during the months when I thought he was still working; his insistence, when I brought home the Gazette all those weeks ago, that it wasn’t me in the photo. How could I have been so stupid?
I think of the debt Simon claimed to have run up. The website must be bringing in far more than he ever earned at the Telegraph. No wonder he didn’t get another job – why would he bother? The role he’s been called back for today – I doubt it even exists. I picture Simon sitting in a café, not preparing for his interview but scrolling through photos of women on his phone, copying details of their commutes from his notebook to upload to the website.
Katie’s restless, pacing between the window and Melissa’s long, white table, picking up artfully arranged objects from the floating shelves. ‘Be careful with that,’ I tell her, ‘it probably cost a fortune.’
From upstairs I hear the strains of Melissa’s voice as she talks to PC Swift. I hear her ask, ‘Are they in danger?’ and I cough loudly, not wanting Katie to dwell on it any more than she already is. She’s replaced the vase and picked up a glass paperweight; she runs her thumb over the smooth surface.
‘Please, love, you’re making me nervous.’
She puts it down and wanders across the kitchen to the opposite side, where Melissa’s desk is.
The green light on the coffee machine blinks, to tell me the water is hot. I press start, watching the dark liquid spew into the waiting cup. The smell is strong, almost overpowering. I don’t usually drink coffee but today I think I need one. I take out a second capsule. ‘Do you want one?’ I ask Katie. She doesn’t answer. I turn to see her looking at something on the desk. ‘Love, please stop fiddling with Melissa’s stuff.’ I’m wondering how long the police will take to arrive and whether they’ll go out and look for Simon, or wait for him to return home.
‘Mum, you need to see this.’
‘What is it?’ I hear the creak of Melissa’s footsteps on the landing, and I put her coffee on the island behind me. I stir a sugar into mine and take a sip, scalding my tongue.
‘Mum!’ Katie is insistent. I walk across to the desk to see what’s got her in a state. It’s a London Underground map – the one I saw when I picked up Melissa’s accounts. Katie has unfolded it, and now it spreads across the entire surface of the desk. The familiar colours and routes of the Underground have been annotated with a spider’s web of arrows, lines and scribbled notes.
I stare at it. Katie is crying but I make no move to comfort her. I’m searching for a route I know off by heart; Tania Beckett’s commute to work.
The Northern line to Highgate, then the 43 bus to Cranley Gardens.
The route has been marked out with a yellow highlighter, and at the end is a handwritten note.
No longer active.