At six-thirty the next morning I pull myself out of bed. Casting my eyes across a sea of ashtrays, papers and dirty glasses, I walk to the bathroom, slapping the boiler to life, the water starting up with a heaving growl.
By the time I step out of the shower, the whole room is a fog. Wiping the mirror with my hand, I see my own face staring back at me through the steam. My reflection comes as a shock: the fine, clear skin I remember has been replaced by dark rings circling bloodshot eyes.
Pulling on the same skinny black trousers and jumper I wore the day before, I walk into the kitchen, switch on the kettle and scrabble around for a mug.
Once I’ve removed the barricade of chairs from in front of the door, I walk downstairs and onto the street. Whatever sun there might have been has disappeared behind a thick cloud which threatens to smother London.
The day is fuzzy, pigeons gathering on the cables running across the street. Lighting a cigarette, I cross the road and feel an arm brush against mine as I reach the other side, followed by a tiny shock of electricity. When I turn, it is just a young woman moving in the opposite direction, a hood pulled above her head.
Inside the café, stodgy air billows out of the heaters. I have just finished ordering my coffee when I hear my name. Turning, I find Hugh about half a foot behind me, his hair gelled into a limp fifties-style quiff clearly left over from the night before, his skin grey, pores secreting the stale smell of vodka.
‘Isobel,’ he says.
‘Hugh. What are you doing here?’
He gives me a confused smile. ‘Going to work. Some of us do have proper jobs.’
‘Right,’ I say, turning to the counter and collecting my drink.
‘It was good to see you the other night.’
‘Yeah, it was,’ I lie.
Something about Hugh’s face is making me feel anxious. ‘I’m running really late, but good to see you.’
Just as I reach the exit, he pulls at my arm. ‘Is everything OK? The other night, you were acting …’ His eyes are manic, and I sense other customers looking up from their paper cups.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say quietly, desperate to get away from him with his rancid breath and desperate stare.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I wanted to talk to you, about Jess …’
I pull my arm back. ‘No.’
My voice is louder than I’d intended and Hugh takes a step back, composing himself.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. ‘I think it would be good to talk—’
‘I said no. Now leave me alone.’
‘OK,’ he says, raising his hands. ‘OK. Well, I’ll see you then.’
Once he has left the café, I stand there watching him move down the street, my whole body shaking.
Waiting until I know he will have gone, when I finally go back outside I feel a chill rush through me. Before I have time to acknowledge where I am going, I feel myself turning left. At the fork in Camden Road, I go forwards, my body moving as though a magnet is dragging me back through Kentish Town, pulling me by the chest towards the Heath.
As I enter by the tennis courts, with each blink I see the girl’s face, fuzzy and out of focus, the details just out of reach.
The sky above me is thick and oppressive. Wiping a thin line of perspiration from the top of my lip, I move towards the clusters of trees. Someone else might struggle to differentiate one copse of trees from another, but I know this place better than I know myself.
The hill feels steeper than usual, the distance between each stride elongated as my eyes sweep over the skyline, the contours of my childhood spreading out before me. For a moment I imagine all the millions of lives hidden from view behind all those tiny glass windows, on the other side of the city.
It has rained overnight. The ground is unsteady beneath me and I feel my feet slosh and slide, and the same dank, earthy smell pounds through my nostrils, filling my chest.
All I need is a clue, some tiny detail that will lead me to the next step. That is what it is about, little steps, sequences, following one path until you get to another.
It doesn’t take long. Combing every centimetre of ground, waiting for something to click, I scour the surface with an almost euphoric strain in my chest. My feet move carefully, slowly treading one in front of the other, retracing my steps from that night, until I stop.
Knocking at the edge of the rock with my foot, I feel a thud in my chest and I stand. My body shaking with expectation, I pull out my phone and dial Oscar’s number.
He answers after two rings.
My voice is laced with fear and excitement. ‘It’s me. I need you to meet me at Parliament Hill. Now.’
Arriving at the café a few minutes later, I take a seat under one of the umbrellas in the courtyard overlooking the road.
The last time I was here was at the beginning of summer two years ago. Jess and I sat in pretty much the same spot, nursing a hangover, picking on pizza and Diet Coke, straight from the Camden Crawl. It couldn’t have been more than a few months since I’d got the job on the paper, thanks to a friend of hers who’d known the music reviewer, before he – along with half the paper’s better-paid, more experienced staff – was made redundant.
Scanning the roundabout, the endless stream of Volvo estates and Land Rovers cruising towards Highgate Village, I finally spot a police car, parking on the double yellow line opposite. Sergeant Morley, I remind myself as Oscar steps out, an overcoat partially obscuring his uniform. He’s had a haircut, I think before I can stop myself, and self-consciously I run my hands over my own hair which I realise I haven’t brushed in days.
Looking up, he catches my eye and then looks away again, pretending to survey the street so as to limit the awkwardness of eye contact as he makes his way towards me. I wonder, briefly, if he’ll try to hug me, or offer a kiss on the cheek. It’s more than a year since he last touched me. Thankfully, he pulls up a chair and nods his hello, the sound of metal scraping against concrete.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ I say, businesslike, suddenly nervous in his company.
‘It’s good to see you. I can’t be long … Give me one of those then,’ he reaches across and pulls out a cigarette, using my lighter.
When did he start smoking again?
As he looks up at me, his voice shifts uncomfortably. ‘So how have you been? After yesterday I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you …’
‘I’m fine. Look, Oscar,’ I say, cutting to the chase, uneasy about where this conversation might otherwise lead.
‘It’s about what I saw … on Saturday … I’ve found something.’
He doesn’t reply at first, so I continue, ‘I went back to the scene. There’s something I need to show you.’
I stand, pushing back my chair as if to leave as the waitress comes over.
As if he hasn’t heard, Oscar looks up at her. ‘Yeah, I’ll get a bacon sandwich and an orange juice. The same for her.’
‘Oscar, there’s no time,’ I say but he smiles at the waitress and she moves away, ignoring me.
For a moment he fiddles with his napkin, and it is all I can do not to reach over the table and shake him.
‘Oscar?’
When he finally speaks his voice is strained, ‘You went back?’
‘Yes, I went back. I just told you—’
‘But I told you we searched the place, Issy, there was nothing there.’
‘Yes, I know you did. But you were wrong. Like I told you. I just went back there and there’s something you need to see …’
For a moment, I see the colour rising in his cheeks.
‘He’s cleared the ground,’ I say, not waiting for a reply. ‘The spot where they were arguing, it’s been cleared. The rest of the area, the ground was moist and dark, but the part where I saw the fighting, it’s dry. The earth is a completely different texture. You know, the top of it, like someone’s brushed away the top layer.’
Oscar continues to smoke his cigarette.
‘The spot where he attacked her, Oscar! Can you hear me? There’s a perfect line – one side the earth is damp, the other is dry. He must have been trying to get rid of something …’
At that moment the waitress arrives, setting down our drinks. Oscar nods, taking a sip and glancing indiscreetly at her chest while she fiddles around with the condiments.
Once she leaves, I lean forward. ‘Please. Did you hear me?’ There is a hint of desperation in my voice now.
‘Yeah, I did,’ he says finally. ‘We’ll check it out.’
His tone is nonchalant and my expression pleads with him to carry on, for him to say something, anything, that suggests for a minute he has been taking me seriously.
When he remains silent, I stand. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you right now. You can see it with your own eyes.’
‘Is, sit down.’
There is a kindness in his expression that makes me want to punch him.
‘Come on. Your hands are shaking.’
‘I need you to listen to what I’m saying.’
The waitress returns and hands us two plates.
After a moment, I pick up the sandwich. ‘Fine, I’ll eat the sandwich.’ I take one mouthful and then another, huge, tearing bites which swell in my throat. Through the chewing I speak again, ‘Is this better? Now will you listen to me?’
There is a stinging silence and finally I swallow, letting my face drop into my hands.
‘OK,’ I say, trying a new tack. ‘You’re right. I’m tired. Really tired.’ I bite my lip. ‘I appreciate you looking out for me. I do, and yes, I need some sleep. A spa maybe, I’ll have a spa …’
I try to smile, to look normal. To show him how reasonable I am capable of being.
‘Listen, Osc, how long have you known me?’ I try to fix his gaze, but he keeps his attention on his sandwich.
‘Hey? Come on.’ I give him my best smile, one hand tracing a finger through my hair.
‘You know me, the reason I’m tired is because I’m worried. I’m really worried, because I know something bad has happened to that girl.’ I move my head to catch his eye, his face struggling to resist mine. ‘You know I wouldn’t be like this if I wasn’t sure something happened, right?’
He looks up, his eyes flinching as our gaze meets. ‘It’s not that I doubt your certainty, Issy …’
‘Please, Oscar.’ Without thinking, I reach out and touch his hand. My fingers rest there for a moment, and then I pull them back, the memory of the contact too much to bear.
‘Seriously. I don’t understand why you’re being like this, it’s like you don’t want to find out what happened to her.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ he spits, the people at the table next to us falling quiet.
Lowering his voice, he continues, ‘You don’t understand why I’m being like this?’ His eyes scan my face.
‘Listen to yourself! Take a look in a mirror every now and again! You look like shit. You look ill. You’re supposed to be taking things easy …’
‘Oh, come on, Oscar …’
‘No. You come on. You listen to me. Whatever is with this crusade you’re on, whatever this is, it has to stop. Now.’
I stare back at him, the heat rising in my cheeks.
‘What?’ A brief silence falls between us. It is Oscar who speaks next.
‘I’m sorry.’
He looks away, sniffing hard. My cheeks feel as though they’ve been slapped, my skin pricking with rage and hurt and confusion and disbelief, all wrapped up in one chaotic bundle.
Oscar’s face is flushed, his lips locked into line. I can almost hear him grinding his teeth.
‘You know what?’ I say, standing and picking up my bag. ‘Fuck you.’