Closing down the screen, I glance over my shoulder again, making sure nobody has been watching. Even so, every keystroke and viewed page will have left a digital trace. I can’t use the information without risking my own career.
Just before midnight, I change into my civvies and make my way downstairs. The shift has changed and there are new personnel on the front desk. One of them signals to me. Warily, I approach.
‘These arrived for you,’ he says, pulling a huge bunch of flowers from behind the counter. Roses and lilies in pinks and peaches are arranged with branches of grey-green eucalyptus.
‘Is it your birthday?’ he asks.
‘No.’
I open the card. The handwritten note says: I’m sorry about what happened. No hard feelings. It’s unsigned.
‘Who delivered them?’ I ask.
‘A courier. Maybe you have a secret admirer.’
‘I doubt it.’ I look at the card again, turning it over, hoping for a clue.
Perhaps Tempe is letting me know that she’s all right. Or maybe Darren Goodall is sending me a peace-offering. Either way, it’s disturbing rather than reassuring.
7
Henry is up early, thumping around the kitchen, opening cupboards, grinding coffee and watching YouTube videos on his phone.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asks.
‘You woke my grandmother and she’s been dead for a decade.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Blaine barked all last night.’
‘I’ll talk to Mrs Ainsley.’
‘She’ll pretend to be deaf.’
‘She is deaf.’
‘Selectively.’
He notices my clothes. ‘Going for a run?’
‘Visiting a friend.’
I steal a slice of his toast and make my way downstairs, wishing I’d made myself a coffee because I might have to sit and wait. My Fiat Punto collects more leaves than miles because I drive it so rarely. Douglas Adams once likened driving a car in London to bringing a Ming vase to a football game, and my Fiat already has the battle scars to prove that point. Every time I read those stories about the cost of running a car in London – the insurance, road tax, petrol, parking, congestion charges etc. – I know it makes little financial sense, but each time I get behind the wheel, it still feels like a badge of freedom and being a grown-up.
I drive north across Battersea Bridge, glancing along the Thames at the string of bridges to the east, which are like loose stitches that hold two halves of a city together. Turning left, I follow the river until the road curves north again, passing through Chelsea, Fulham and Olympia.
Just before eight, I turn into Kempe Road and park diagonally opposite the semi-detached house, which looks like all the others in the street with decorative fascias, net curtains and a wrought-iron faux balcony above the front door. Ten minutes later, a young woman emerges in a dressing gown and collects two bottles of milk from the doorstep. A cat darts between her legs making a dash for freedom. She calls after it, but the cat has already jumped onto a wall.
‘I’m not letting you back inside. You have to go around the back.’
I recognise Alison Goodall from her photograph. She looks too young to be a mother of two. She glances skyward, as though judging the weather, before shutting the door.
At a quarter-past eight, it opens again. Darren Goodall is juggling a travel mug and an overcoat. Alison kisses his cheek and helps him into the coat, one arm at a time. He unlocks a sporty-looking blue Saab and waves to her as he leaves. She is standing in the doorway with a toddler on her hip.
More time passes as I debate whether to knock on the door. What would I say? ‘Excuse me, your husband keeps a mistress in a luxury apartment at Borough Market. And he beats her up as well.’ Maybe Alison knows about her husband’s affair. They could be seeing a counsellor, or have an arrangement, or he’s promised her to be a good boy from now on.
The door opens again. Alison is dressed in leggings and a baggy sweater. The toddler is strapped into a stroller. Alison shouts back into the house and a little boy appears. Nathan. He’s dressed in grey trousers and a white shirt and is pulling on a purple jumper. Alison stops to tie his shoelaces and tuck in his shirt.
I remember Nathan’s voice on the telephone, his terrified sobs, his pleading, and the worst sound of all – the phone going dead.
The family sets off along Kempe Road, but only as far as the next corner where tall plane trees shade the playground of a primary school. Other children are arriving, the girls wearing purple and white gingham dresses, and the boys dressed like Nathan.
Alison kisses him goodbye. He wipes his cheek and runs to join his friends. She pauses for a few minutes to chat to other mothers before she pushes the stroller along Chamberlayne Road, crossing the bridge over the railway tracks. Two blocks south, they arrive at a modern-looking sports centre. A membership card swipes her through a security gate. She’s gone.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a young woman behind the counter.
‘I’m new to the area,’ I say. ‘I’m looking to join a gym. Can I get a tour?’
The woman hands me a voucher. ‘We have an introductory deal. The first three classes are free. We have a yoga class beginning at nine thirty.’
I search for Alison in the changing rooms and at the creche. When I finally spot her, she’s following a group of women into a studio with mirrored walls and a sprung wooden floor. Barefoot, in an oversized T-shirt, she unrolls a yoga mat near the back of the room. I ask her if I can squeeze in next to her and she moves over to make room. We sit cross-legged on the floor and begin stretching while listening to the female instructor, who has a sculpted stomach and legs that bend like noodles. Soon we’re moving through the yoga sequences, being told to inhale and exhale; to breathe into our hips and into the ‘space behind our hearts’。 I have always liked yoga, but I don’t buy into the ‘deep healing’ and ‘mastery of life’ patter. I like the strength and balance exercises, but I don’t expect it to miraculously cleanse my liver or unblock my seven chakras. I couldn’t name one chakra.
We are asked to pair up and I turn to Alison. Self-consciously, we help each other perform a seated forward backbend and a downward dog pose.
‘She’s very bendy,’ I say, commenting on our instructor. ‘I bet she could fold herself into an origami swan.’
Alison stifles a giggle.
‘Do you find this serene?’ I ask.
‘I guess.’
‘I try to empty my mind, but all I keep doing is making lists and wondering if my boobs look lopsided in this bra.’
Alison laughs out loud and the instructor shoots us a look. We smile apologetically and we’re on our best behaviour until we bow, hands together and bid each other, ‘Namaste.’
‘I’m sorry I distracted you,’ I say, as we roll up the yoga mats. ‘When she told us to go to our happy place, I thought of going home and opening a bottle of wine.’
‘Bit early.’
‘True.’
Alison reties her hair. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘My first time. I’m giving the place a trial run. How about you?’
‘I live nearby.’
Introductions are made as we walk to the changing rooms. I sneak a look at Alison’s arms and neck, searching for signs of bruising.