‘The keys to Tenement House. They’re not in the cupboard.’
I go across to the key cupboard, a metal box mounted on the wall in the corridor next to the filing cabinet. Tenement House is an office block within a larger complex called City Exchange; I check the ‘C’ hook and find the keys instantly.
‘I thought Ronan was handling the Exchange?’ Ronan is the latest in a long line of junior negotiators. They’re always male – Graham doesn’t believe women can negotiate – and all so similar it’s as though they simply slip in and out of the same suit, one appearing days after the last has left. They never stay long; the good ones move on as quickly as the bad ones.
Either Graham doesn’t hear my question, or he chooses to ignore it, taking the keys from me and reminding me the new tenants for Churchill Place are coming in to sign the lease later. The bell on the door jangles as he leaves. He doesn’t trust Ronan, that’s the problem. He doesn’t trust any of us, which means instead of being in the office, where he should be, he’s out on the streets, checking up on everyone and getting in the way.
Cannon Street Tube station is full of suits. I weave through the crowded platform until I’m nearly at the tunnel; the first carriage always has fewer people than any other, and when we reach Whitechapel the doors will open directly in front of the exit.
On the train I pick up today’s Gazette, abandoned on the grimy ledge behind my seat. I flick straight to the back pages, where the classifieds are, and find the advert with its invalid phone number: 0809 4 733 968. Today’s woman is dark-haired, the hint of a full bust visible at the bottom of the picture, and a broad smile showing even white teeth. Around her neck is a delicate chain with a small silver cross.
Does she know her photograph is in the classifieds?
I haven’t heard from PC Swift, and I tell myself her silence is reassuring, rather than unnerving. She would have called straight away if there was something to worry about. Like a doctor, ringing with worrying test results. No news is good news, isn’t that what they say? Simon was right; it wasn’t my photo in the newspaper.
I change at Whitechapel, to take the Overground to Crystal Palace. As I walk I hear footsteps behind me. Nothing unusual in that; there are footsteps everywhere on the Tube, the sound bouncing off the walls, amplifying and stretching until it sounds as though dozens of people are walking, running, stamping their feet.
But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something different about these footsteps.
That they’re coming after me.
When I was eighteen I was followed on my way home from the shops, not long after I fell pregnant with Justin. Impending motherhood had made me hyper-aware, and I saw danger at every corner. The cracked pavement that could trip me up; the cyclist that would surely knock me over. I felt so responsible for the life inside me that it seemed impossible I could even cross the road without putting him in danger.
I had gone out for milk, insisting to Matt’s mum that I needed the exercise; wanting to do my small bit to thank her for taking me in. It was dark, and as I walked home again I became aware I was being followed. There was no sound, no sensation; just a certainty that someone was behind me, and worse, that they were trying not to be heard.
I feel the same certainty now.
Back then I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. I crossed the road: the person following crossed too. I could hear their footsteps, then; gaining on me, no longer caring about being heard. I turned and saw a man – a boy – not much older than Matt. A hooded top; hands thrust deep into the front pocket. A scarf covering the bottom half of his face.
There was a shortcut to Matt’s house; a narrow street that ran behind a row of houses. Little more than an alleyway. It’ll be quicker, I decided, not thinking clearly; just wanting to be safely home.
As I turned the corner I broke into a run, and the boy behind me ran too. I dropped my shopping bag, the plastic top bursting off the milk container, sending a giant white spray across the cobbles. Seconds later, I fell too, stumbling to my knees and immediately putting a protective arm across my stomach.
It was over in a moment. He leaned over me, only his eyes exposed, and reached a hand out, searching roughly through my pockets. He pulled out my purse and ran off, leaving me sitting on the floor.
The footsteps grow closer.
I pick up my pace. Stop myself from running, but walk as fast as I can manage, the unnatural gait throwing me off balance and making my bag swing from side to side.
There’s a group of girls some distance in front of me and I try to catch up with them. Safety in numbers, I think. They’re messing around; running, jumping, laughing, but they’re not threatening. Not like the footsteps behind me, which are loud and heavy and coming closer.