As soon as Graham goes out on a viewing I close down the Rightmove listing I was updating, and bring up Google. I type in ‘London crime’ and click the first link I see: a website called London 24, promising up-to-the-minute information on crimes in the capital.
Teenager shot in West Dulwich.
Man found close to death with mystery burns in Finsbury Park.
This is why I don’t read the papers. Not usually. I know all this is going on, but I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about Justin and Katie living somewhere a knifing hardly raises an eyebrow.
Ex-Premier League player admits drink-driving in Islington.
‘Sickening’ attack on Enfield pensioner, 84.
I wince at the photo of eighty-four-year-old Margaret Price, who headed out to collect her pension and never made it home. I search for Tania Beckett. One of the newspaper articles mentions a Facebook tribute site, and I click through to it. Tania Beckett RIP, it says, and the page is filled with emotional messages from friends and family. In some of the messages Tania’s name is highlighted, and I realise it’s because people have tagged her Facebook page. Without thinking, I click on her name and take an involuntary breath when her page appears, full of status updates.
135 days to go! her last update reads, posted the morning she died.
135 days till what?
The answer is a few updates down, in a post captioned How about this one, girls? The photo is a screenshot from a mobile phone – I can see the battery life marked out at the top; a photo of a bridesmaid dress grabbed in a hurry from the Internet. There are three female names tagged.
Tania Beckett died 135 days before her wedding day.
I look at Tania’s Friends list; thumbnails of identikit girls, all blonde hair and white teeth. My attention is caught by an older woman with the same surname.
Alison Beckett’s page is as open as Tania’s, and I know straight away that the photograph I’m looking at is of Tania’s mother. Her last Facebook post was two days ago.
Heaven has gained another angel. RIP my beautiful girl. Sleep soundly.
I shut down Facebook, feeling like an intruder. I think about Alison and Tania Beckett. I imagine them planning the wedding together; shopping for dresses; making invitations. I see Alison at home, on that dark red sofa she’s sitting on in her profile picture, picking up the phone, listening to the police officer talk, but not taking it in. Not her daughter; not Tania. There’s a pain in my chest and now I’m crying, only I don’t know if I’m crying over a girl I never met, or because it’s too easy to replace her name with my own daughter’s.
My eyes fall on the business card tucked into the clip on the edge of my noticeboard.
PC Kelly Swift, British Transport Police.
At least she listened.
I blow my nose. Take a deep breath. Pick up the phone.
‘PC Swift.’
I hear the sound of traffic in the background; the fading siren of an ambulance. ‘This is Zoe Walker. The London Gazette adverts?’
‘Yes, I remember. I haven’t found out much more, I’m afraid, but—’
‘I have.’ I cut in. ‘A woman from the adverts has been murdered. And no one seems to care about who might be next.’
There’s a pause, and then, ‘I do,’ PC Swift says firmly. ‘I care. Tell me everything you know.’
11
It was midday before Kelly was able to get back to the station and find a number for DI Nick Rampello, the detective inspector listed as Senior Investigating Officer. She was directed first to the incident number, an all-purpose helpline set up for members of the public who had information to give about Tania Beckett’s murder.
‘If I can take some details, I’ll make sure it’s passed on to the investigating team,’ said a woman, whose disinterested tone suggested Kelly’s was one of very many calls she had taken that day.
‘I’d really like to speak to DI Rampello, if that’s possible. I’m a police officer with British Transport Police and I think one of my cases might be connected with his investigation.’ Kelly crossed her fingers. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Zoe Walker had come to her, and it was still Kelly’s name on Cathy Tanning’s crime report. Her name, her job.
‘I’ll put you through to the incident room.’
The phone rang and rang. Kelly was about to give up when a woman picked up, slightly out of breath, as though she’d run up the stairs.
‘North West MIT.’
‘Can I speak to DI Rampello please?’
‘I’ll see if he’s in the office. Who shall I say is calling?’ The woman spoke like a BBC newsreader, and Kelly tried to guess what her role was. She had had little experience with Murder Investigation Teams: although BTP had its own, it was far less busy than the Met’s, and Kelly had never worked there. She gave her name and shoulder number and waited on hold for the second time.
‘Rampello speaking.’
No BBC accent there. Nick Rampello’s voice was pure London, and he spoke fast; businesslike to the point of abruptness. Kelly found herself stumbling over words in an effort to match his rapid delivery, aware she sounded at best unprofessional; at worst, incompetent.