‘We don’t know anything for sure yet. We’re looking at dozens of possibilities. But that is one possibility, yes. So, Dr Fours, can you …?’
Cate looks at Roan. Roan shakes his head, firmly. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No. There is absolutely no reason I can think of why she would have been here. None.’
‘And you definitely didn’t see her?’
‘I definitely didn’t see her.’
There is a long pause, as though DI Currie is hoping that Roan might say something else. When he doesn’t, she smiles again, that unnerving smile of hers that is half Clinique consultant in Debenhams and half twisted primary school teacher. ‘Thank you again, so much, both of you. And as I say, we’re nearly done here. I reckon the cordon will come down in the next hour or two. You can get your street back!’
She puts her hands into the pockets of a very nice green woollen coat with big buttons, smiles one more time, and then she is gone.
Cate and Roan look at each other. He takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. ‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘I really need to get going.’ He drops another perfunctory kiss on Cate’s cheek and, moving very quickly, strides away from her, down the garden path and on to the pavement.
30
SAFFYRE
Last December was cold. Do you remember it? So cold. Or maybe I remember it that way because I spent so much of it outdoors.
It’s odd, I know. I had a home, a warm home – almost too warm, you know the way they heat these council buildings, no thermostat, central settings. I had Aaron taking care of me and nice food and a nice bedroom and yet … for some reason I really did not want to be there. Maybe it was because my granddad wasn’t there any more. Maybe it was that simple. But it felt more complicated than that to me, like I was turning into something else, something not entirely human.
I don’t know, maybe I read too much Harry Potter growing up, but I didn’t feel grounded up there on the eighth floor; I feltuntethered, like there was no gravity up there. I needed my feet on solid ground. I needed the air on my skin. I needed trees and soil and damp and moonlight and daylight and sun and wind and pigeons and foxes. It was like I was becoming feral.
That’s an exaggeration. Obviously. I was still going to school every day. I was still showering, still making my hair look nice, wearing eyeliner, wearing clean underwear, you know; I wasn’tdirtyferal. I was just outdoorsy. Any time I could be outdoors I took the opportunity.
I spent a lot of time in the building plot opposite Roan’s house. It was cool there. I could see all the comings and goings through the gaps in the hedges without any risk of being spotted. The fox came to see me often. I brought him other processed-meat gifts and he was always very grateful to me. And then there was the guy whose bedroom window faced out on to the land. I don’t know what his name was, but I called him Clive. I don’t know why, he just looked like a Clive.
He was kind of odd. And I say that as someone who is also kind of odd. If I stood on top of the JCB that was parked on the plot I could see right into his room through the gap in his curtains; it was like an old lady’s bedroom. He had this nylon counterpane thing over his lumpy little bed, and one of those clunky antique wooden wardrobes like they have in bad B & Bs with a mirror on the outside door and his manky little stripy dressing gown hanging off the back of his door and a painting of a rugged landscape in a crap frame. The room looked cold. He sat in it every night in an armchair with his headphones on and a laptop on a cardboard box in front of him and he looked at hisstuff – I don’t know what stuff, I couldn’t see the screen. Not porn though, I know that, because I never saw him doing what men do when they look at porn.
Sometimes the woman would come in, the white-haired woman he lived with. I always saw him sigh and roll his eyes before he opened the door to her. She would have her arms wrapped round her waist and a sour look on her face and say something to him and he would say something to her and she would look even more sour, then go.
I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be him. He looked old enough to be married with a kid or two. He was clearly doing something wrong to be living as he was living. I wondered if he was cross about being so lonely. I wondered about Clive a lot.
Our paths crossed about a week before Christmas. He was walking up the little hill that joins Roan’s road to the Finchley Road. It was late, about eleven o’clock. He looked a state. His hair was all over the place; his work bag was hanging off his shoulder, pulling his jacket down on one side. His shirt had a big stain on it and he was kind of stumbling along. He glanced at me and I saw that he was drunk. He smiled then and as we passed each other he said, ‘Merry Christmas!’ and I said, ‘And a Merry Christmas to you too, Clive.’
He stopped and said, ‘Clive?’
I smiled and said, ‘Nothing. Just kidding. Merry Christmas.’
‘Owen,’ he said. ‘My name’s Owen.’
‘Owen,’ I said. ‘I’m Jane.’
‘Merry Christmas, Jane.’
We shook hands. His was clammy and sticky.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘bit sweaty. Been dancing. A school disco. I’m a teacher though. Not a student. Obviously.’
He laughed. I laughed.
‘Night night, Jane.’
‘Night night, Owen.’
Then he went and I went and I thought, Owen, his name’s Owen.
Roan took Alicia out for dinner just before Christmas. He took her to the nice little French restaurant nestled below my block of flats. I’d followed them from the clinic, watched them go in. I took my paparazzi-style photos: click, click.
