It is dark as I stand on the platform at Elephant and Castle, waiting for the train to take me back north, my body pulsing with nervous energy.
Part of me wants to take the next train to Kentish Town and then run the mile or two straight from there to the address Gordana has scrawled on the back of a scrap of paper. But a rational voice in my head tells me to slow down. Not tonight, the voice says. For God’s sake don’t rush this.
Instead, I step out of the train station onto the high street at Kentish Town. Rather than catching the connecting tube to Camden Town, I stop at the newsagent’s, picking up a half-bottle of whisky to calm my nerves and a box of cigarettes. Making the twenty-minute journey back to the flat by foot, the cold snaps at my heels.
It is not until I am outside the door that I remember the state in which I’ve left the flat. With everything that has happened since the break-in, I’d almost forgotten. Now, the memory of it makes me shiver.
As I place my hand on the front door, I see that in my absence the landlord has heeded my request and had the pane of glass replaced.
There is a sense of relief but still I am cautious as I fiddle with the key before walking upstairs in the dark, my fingers tracing the line of the wall.
Half-expecting to see a window flapping open or some other trace of a second intrusion, I see the room is just as I left it: papers strewn across the floor, my laptop open in the middle of my bed. Pouring a large glass of whisky, I reach for the freezer door, realising I am famished.
Inside there is little more than a half-empty tray of ice cubes, a packet of congealed peas and a loaf of bread.
From the back of one of the cupboards I pull out a tin of beans and heat those along with two slices of bread. All the while, I manage to keep my mind on the task at hand, not allowing it to wander to what I have to do next.
It is what I’ve been waiting for: a real lead, something that might actually tell me what I’ve been so desperate to know – and yet now I feel a hesitation deep within myself.
Once I’ve eaten, I wash my face in the bathroom; the packet of fluoxetine stares back at me from the counter. How long has it been since I last took one? Popping out two, and then a third, to be safe, I swallow them down with a mouthful of water straight from the tap.
Back in the bedroom I top up my glass and retrieve the new packet of cigarettes from my bag.
Reaching for an ashtray, I pull out my phone for the first time since I left Elephant and Castle, and see the answerphone symbol flashing on the screen.
The voice informs me I have two new messages.
‘Hey, it’s Si. I was just wondering how you were doing …’
Si sounds drunk; something about his voice makes me cringe and smile at the same time.
‘So, anyway, maybe see you at work or … Yeah, OK then, see you, bye.’
I listen to him fumble with the phone, cursing under his breath before the line falls dead.
The second message is from Oscar: ‘Isobel, it’s me, I need you to call me as soon as you get this.’
The sound of his voice sobers me instantly. Moving to the sofa to stretch out my legs which are suddenly so tired, I call back, but his phone goes straight to voicemail.
Soon, I can no longer resist the woozy sensation enveloping my brain. Dropping my glass gently to the floor I lean back on the sofa and close my eyes.
I wake to the sound of my phone. My eyes flying open, I pull myself sharply out of my stupor.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s me,’ Oscar says.
I sit up, rubbing my temples with my thumb and fingers. ‘Hi, what time is it?’
He clears his throat. ‘Half seven.’
‘In the morning? Jesus.’ I sit bolt upright, my vision barely keeping up.
Oscar’s voice is cool. ‘We’ve had a call from Missing Persons. Apparently one of our officers put in a call requesting information. Which is strange as I’ve spoken to her and she has no recollection of ever making that call. And funnily enough, the call was made not long after her ID badge went missing, on Sunday.’
I swallow.
‘Oscar, I …’
‘Anyway,’ he says, his voice steady, ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’
As I sit in Reception at Kentish Town police station, waiting for Oscar to escort me upstairs, I am conscious of the penetrating gaze of the officer behind the glass.
When Oscar finally arrives, something in my chest lifts. Closer up, I notice his hair is devoid of the usual gelled coif, his shirt ruffled.
‘Through here,’ he holds open the door. As I pass through, I can’t help but breathe in his familiar smell.
Casting my eye around the open-plan office, I see we are the only ones here.
‘Crime doesn’t start till 9a.m. these days, then?’ I say, and instantly regret it.
‘Aren’t you usually complaining that we’re all locked in offices rather than out on the streets?’
He tries to look blasé, ruffling through a neat pile of papers.
‘Sit,’ he says, pointing towards a chair. I know it is his from the familiar scent of the jacket hanging over the back.
Clearing his throat, he pulls out a photo. ‘Her name’s Eva Krasniqi. She’s been missing a week. Landlady logged it a few days ago in Brighton … It might be nothing, you know how unreliable this kind of information can be, but well, thought you might want to have a look …’
He keeps his gaze fixed to the picture.
I take a moment to adjust to what Oscar has said; blinking, I allow my eyes to settle on the image of the girl. In this picture her hair is a faded red, clearly dyed, chopped shorter than I remember, just above her shoulders, but they are the same large brown eyes and teeth that overlap slightly at the front. In this photo, she is wearing a hospital robe; in her arms lies a newborn baby.
Looking at the woman’s face, I feel the colour drain from my cheeks.
With a start, I feel Oscar’s hand on my arm. ‘Are you all right?’
The finality of the image hits me like a giant wave. Suddenly, all the adrenaline, the need to convince Oscar – and myself – of what I’d seen that night on the Heath drains away, and what is left is a feeling of total deflation.
There is something about the tenderness of the image, this intensely personal moment, that makes me feel like an intruder. Looking away, I clear my throat.
‘So it is the woman you saw?’ Oscar asks.
‘It’s her.’ I stare for one more moment and then I blink hard. This should have been my moment of glory, the moment I was proved right, and yet rather than feeling victorious I just feel horribly sad.
Oscar nods. ‘There’s something else. We got the results through from the fingerprints at your flat. The person who attacked you, he was already on the system for dealing. Looks like you wrote about the gang he was working for last year. Just some kid, took advantage of the broken front-door pane. Who knows who was paying him. You might want to keep your head down for a while.’
I stand, breathing deeply. My voice sounds far away when I speak. ‘Right.’
‘We’ve got an address for her sister,’ Oscar adds as I move to the door. ‘We’ll get someone from family liaison down there to speak to her. So you don’t need to worry about this anymore. Go home and rest, yeah? I’ll call you when we know more.’