‘Isn’t it?’ I said. ‘And now I know where he goes to college. He’ll have no escape from me.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘You mean, be my co-stalker?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Shall we go now?’
I checked the time on my phone. It was nearly five.
‘Come on then,’ I said. We jumped off the wall. ‘This way,’ I said. ‘Follow me.’
Harrison lived up the other end of my road, towards Chalk Farm in a really ugly low-rise block of flats backing on to the railway line. We sat on a bench opposite. It was freezing cold and I could hear Josh’s teeth chattering. ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘You can go home if you want.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I want to see him. In the flesh.’
I smiled a half-smile at him. Then we both turned back to watch the flats.
And then there he was. Pushing his way through the front door of the block. He was dressed all in black again, the Puffa coat, black stretchy trousers, black trainers, a flash of bare ankle in between, a bag slung over his back. He lit a roll-up cigarette as he emerged on to the street, squinting as he inhaled. And then he turned right, headed up towards Haverstock Hill. We followed him, silently. He caught a bus up towards Hampstead, running to catch it just before its doors closed.
Josh and I looked at each other. It was a single-decker bus. We wouldn’t be able to get on it without being spotted. I headed back to my flat. Josh headed back to his flat. We arranged to meet up the next day, same time, same place.
It was two days later that I saw the headline about a sex attack on Hampstead Heath. A man, in black, wearing a mask. Pulled a woman down a quiet pathway and groped her. Put his hands inside her underwear. Grabbed her breasts. And then ran.
I thought of Harrison John jumping on that bus towards Hampstead at five twenty, two days before, in his black coat, his black leggings. It was him. I knew it was.
On 21 January Josh called me. He sounded panicked. He said, ‘I think Harrison attacked my sister’s friend. The police are here. Fuck. What shall I do?’
He explained that his sister’s friend had come over after school and then left just as they were about to sit down for dinner. Then she’d come back a few minutes later saying that someone had accosted her.
‘What did she say he looked like?’ I asked.
There was a pause. ‘She said she didn’t see him. But she said he was silent. That he grabbed her from behind. By the hips. That he rubbed himself against her. Tried to get hold of her breasts. But she broke free and ran back to ours. Shall I say something, Saffyre? To the police? Shall I say I think I know who it might be?’
My biggest regret is that I didn’t say yes, didn’t tell them. Tell them his name. Let them track him down to his door, searchhis black bag, take his prints, upend his existence. Let them destroy him.
I didn’t say that because I wanted to be the one. Because what if they knocked on his door and he said, It wasn’t me? And they believed him? And then he would close the door and his chest would puff out and he’d think he was cleverer than anyone. Or what if they went to his door and brought him in and questioned him and it wasn’t him? I wanted it to be him. I needed it to be him. He was evil and he needed to be stopped.
So I said, ‘No, don’t say anything. Just keep quiet. Leave it with me. Leave it with me.’
48
Barry walks into the interview room. Owen can recognise the sound of his leather soles on the wooden floors from a few metres away now, followed briskly by the ponderous smell of his aftershave.
‘Good morning, Owen.’
‘Are they letting me go?’
Barry stops and closes his eyes. ‘No, Owen, I’m afraid not. And look, you should know – this is happening now.’
He pulls a folded paper from his briefcase and throws it on the table in front of Owen. It’s this morning’sMetro: ‘SAFFYRE SUSPECT’S SICK PLAN TO DATE-RAPE DOZENS OF WOMEN’.
Below it is the awful photo, yet again, of Owen being jammed into the police car with the fresh cut on his forehead, the wet, asymmetric hair sticking up at angles, the dead look in his eye, the hint of a snaggle tooth between his lips.
He stops and looks at Barry. ‘But …? I don’t …?’
