‘What? You said yourself it would be perfect for her.’ I hear the sound of traffic in the background, and know that Matt is parked at a rank, leaning against the cab.
‘You’ve got to go gentle with her. Push her too hard in one direction and she’ll only run faster the other way.’
‘Acting isn’t a proper job,’ I say, because disagreeing with Matt is a habit that’s hard to break. ‘She needs something to fall back on.’
‘She’ll find that out herself soon enough. And when she does, we’ll be there.’
I finish dusting the main room, and move on to Graham’s office. His desk is twice the size of mine, but almost as neat. It’s one of the few things we have in common. A calendar sits parallel to the edge of the desk, today’s motivational quote urging me to do something today my future self will thank me for. On the opposite side of the desk are three in-trays, stacked on top of each other and labelled incoming; pending; post. In front of them is a stack of newspapers. Today’s London Gazette is on top.
Nothing unusual in that. You’d be hard pressed to find an office in London without a copy of the Gazette knocking about. I pick up the first issue, telling myself I’m still tidying, and see the paper beneath it is the London Gazette, too. As is the one beneath that; and the one beneath that. A dozen or more copies, neatly stacked. I glance at the door then sit down in Graham’s leather chair and pick up the top copy. I scan the first couple of pages, but I can’t stop myself from turning to the classifieds.
And then I feel a tightening around my chest, and the palms of my hands grow damp. Because on the last page of the newspaper in my hand – a newspaper dated several days previously is a woman I’ve seen before.
We are all creatures of habit.
Even you.
You reach for the same coat each day; leave home at the same time every morning. You have a favourite seat on the bus or the train; you know precisely which escalator moves the fastest, which ticket barrier to use, which kiosk has the shortest queue.
You know these things: and I know them, too.
I know you buy the same paper from the same shop; your milk at the same time each week. I know the way you walk the children to school; the shortcut you take on your way home from Zumba class. I know the street where you part ways with your friends, after a Friday night in the pub; and I know that you walk the rest of the way home alone. I know the 5 km circuit you run on a Sunday morning, and the precise place you stop to stretch.
I know all these things, because it’s never occurred to you that anyone is watching you.
Routine is comforting to you. It’s familiar, reassuring.
Routine makes you feel safe.
Routine will kill you.
6
Kelly was leaving the briefing room when her job phone rang. Number withheld meant it was almost certainly the control room, and she held the phone between her ear and her right shoulder as she zipped up her stab vest.
‘Kelly Swift.’
‘Can you take a call from a Mrs Zoe Walker?’ came the voice. Kelly heard the buzz of voices in the background; a dozen other operators taking calls and resourcing jobs. ‘She wants to speak to you about a theft on the Circle line – something taken from a bag?’
‘You’ll need to put her through to Dip Squad. I finished my attachment there a few days ago; I’m back on the Neighbourhood Policing Team now.’
‘I did try that, but no one’s picking up. Your name’s still attached to the crime report, so …’ the operator trailed off, and Kelly sighed. The name Zoe Walker didn’t ring a bell, but in her three months with the Dip Squad she had dealt with more victims of stolen wallets than she could possibly remember.
‘Put her through.’
‘Thank you.’ The operator sounded relieved, and not for the first time Kelly was glad she was at the sharp end of policing, not stuck in a windowless room, fielding calls from irate members of the public. She heard a faint click.
‘Hello? Hello?’ Another voice came on the line; this one female, and impatient.
‘Hello, this is PC Swift. Can I help you?’
‘Finally! Anyone would think I was trying to phone MI5.’
‘Not nearly that exciting, I’m afraid. I understand you wanted to talk to me about a theft on the Underground. What was it you had stolen?’
‘Not me,’ the caller said, as though Kelly was failing to keep up. ‘Cathy Tanning.’
Calls like this were a regular occurrence whenever a police officer was quoted in the paper. Contact from members of the public; often with no relation whatsoever to the article itself, as though possession of your name and shoulder number alone made you fair game.
‘She had her keys taken from her bag when she fell asleep on her way home,’ Mrs Walker went on. ‘Nothing else, only her keys.’