‘I’d pay you extra. A surcharge, so to speak.’
‘How much?’
‘An extra hundred a week, and if he becomes attentive again, a bonus.’
‘What must I do for this bonus?’ she asks as Purdy raises her head to enquire about the cessation of stroking.
‘I’m not asking you to sleep with him, just to awaken his senses. Make him desire you.’
‘And what do I do with him when he’s unable to resist me?’ she says and purses her lips as if this is a foregone conclusion.
‘You just walk away and let me take over.’
‘You’re taking a big chance. He will fall in love with me,’ she says, pouting. ‘Everyone does.’
‘I can only imagine how terribly difficult it must be to be so attractive, but it would really help.’
‘Two hundred,’ she says and flounces out.
Chapter25Suspicions
Friday, 22 November
Muswell Hill possesses some fine establishments (Le Creuset, Sweaty Betty, Martyn’s, the Hampstead Butcher), but sadly, the centre is also host to a chilling number of fast food outlets, charity shops, and coffee shop chains. Add to that a flotilla of Deliveroo drivers, hordes of schoolchildren walking eight abreast, and several aggressive chuggers, and it’s like Oxford Street.
You don’t read about that in estate agents’ brochures, nor about Muswell Hill’s notoriety as the one-time home of Mr Dennis Nilsen, who dismembered people in a flat on Cranley Gardens, on the market at £500,000. House-hunters in the ‘jewel in Haringey’s crown’ are clearly not put off by high prices or serial killers. Hampstead beckons like a siren.
We were expecting the Adams letter this morning, but nothing arrived. Sophie received her letter, telling her that Ellie has been taken through to the written examinations. Tor said that Hero had got through. Nelly hasn’t asked but I know she’s thinking about it. She might not want the prize, but would like to refuse it herself.
Having spent the morning in some distress, in the afternoon I became convinced it was Cait who tipped off the police. Whoelse knew about it? Only Mercer himself, and he’s rather incommunicado currently. I expect she wanted evidence that she’d reported the crime, while also not telling them too much, as she wants to be a good friend. Just like Cait, to position herself so cleverly between self-interest and kindness.
It’s harder to explain why Jason Mercer was in my house, and in the area. His poor wife’s suspicion of another affair (I say ‘another’ as men rarely disappoint just the once) suggests that he might have been romantically (I use the term loosely) involved with someone close by, but that doesn’t explain why he had my name and address. I’m also alarmed by the detective sergeant’s conviction that I’m ‘guilty as hell’. I’ve been staring into the mirror for some time wondering what it is about my face that would make someone think,Here’s a woman who likes roughing it with abusive policemen.
The first possibility is that Mercer needed cash, identified Muswell Hill as an easy target, scoped the area for a few weeks, and identified 44 Ennerdale Avenue as his next job. A workable hypothesis but it doesn’t explain why he had mynameas well as my address.
The more worrying possibility is that he wasn’t after cash at all; he was in the area solely to target me and find information. There’s no evidence that he was actually a thief. He hadn’t taken anything from the living room, and there were no stolen goods or housebreaking tools in the Toyota.
When I think about the noise I heard that day, I remember it was rather loud – like the sound of a drawer slamming shut. It was such a thump I thought it could only be Aimée, who appears to think that British furniture needs a firm hand. Mercer was an experienced policeman, used to stealth, but he was clearly under some stress with all his other problems. He knew he’d made a mistake because he was behind the door when I entered. I think it was panic, or maybe he was going to threaten me until he got what he wanted. Maybe some identifying document to tie me to the past or something else?
Sexual depravity? If so, why target me? And why would a man about to face prison for sexual abuse risk worsening his sentenceby stalking a woman with a view to committing another heinous crime? I can’t help wondering if it’s normal behaviour for depraved sexual perverts to keep someone’s name and address carefully written down. What for? To send flowers afterwards?
No, Detective Sergeant Birch doesn’t think Mercer was randomly stalking me. She thinks he was connected to me, and so do I. She’s wrong to think that the connection is romantic, but what if Jason Mercer was being paid to find out information about me or even frighten me?
There are several people from the past who might have an interest in my current whereabouts. It’s true to say I’ve crossed a few lines and broken one or two laws here and there, but I can’t think of anyone bright enough to have tracked me down, which leaves me with one main suspect.
Someone with the resources, a grudge, a devious mind, and a questionable over-attachment to their only son and heir. There’s only one person in my mind as I beep aggressively at the queue of stationary cars – Madeleine Rook.
After getting through the traffic on Muswell Hill’s congested Broadway, I arrive at Cait’s house. Estate agents talk enthusiastically about kerb appeal, and I have to shake my head – the front gate needs painting and a new set of hinges, the concrete path is ruptured by tree roots, the window frames are peeling and there’s a faded 2010 election poster for ‘Building a Fairer Britain’.
I drive to the road behind Cait’s and park the car at the house directly behind hers. The prevalence of Ring doorbells and security cameras means that you’re seen wherever you go these days, and I’d prefer not to be captured planting evidence in Cait’s house.
I get out of the car and take the Le Creuset knife from my handbag, still safely secured inside a freezer bag. It’s dark, and in my large puffer coat, cap, and oversized sunglasses, I look more like a minor celebrity than a thief. I saw Lauren Laverne the other day in Snappy Snaps in a similar outfit.
In my experience, the best way to stop someone being afraid of something (prison, for instance, or your violent estranged husband gaining custody of your children) is to make them more scared of something else. Cait hid her secret abuse journal quiteeffectively in the headboard of her old-fashioned bedframe. I’m going to plant the knife there and warn her that any further contact with the authorities will backfire spectacularly.
I climb the fence into Cait’s garden and make my way to the house, shaking my head at the abandoned bikes, buckets, and balls. There are many things to like about Cait, but I can’t think of a single one right now.
I put my gloves on and try the back door. Strangely, it’s not locked. The door creaks ever so slightly as I slip into the kitchen.
