It’s nearly three in the morning before I finally sleep, my head spinning with information overload.
When I wake the next day, around midday, unusually rested but somehow drowsy from the excess of unmedicated sleep, I force myself to brush my teeth and shower, pointedly ignoring the computer that sits drained of life on the kitchen table.
Forcing myself to put on my shoes, I pick up my keys and move down the stairs towards the street and head across the road to the café. Once I have my coffee in hand, I stand in the doorway and look out at the cars, wondering where the hell to go.
Turning left, I ignore the usual path towards the office to my right where the road splits at Camden Town tube station, veering towards the Stables market, weaving through the crappy jewellery and incense stalls, stopping briefly for a crêpe when my stomach tells me it’s time to eat.
It must be around two when I make my way past the Hawley Arms, resisting with every inch of my body the desire to step into the pub. Instead, I sit by the canal and smoke until the packet is empty, watching the ducks pick at the contents of an old plastic bag. After a while I turn back and exit onto the street at the bottom of Kentish Town High Street.
Turning left, I stop at the Owl bookshop and browse the titles before carrying on, passing the refuge, walking without stopping until I reach the Heath.
Jess’s memorial bench stands at the top of Kite Hill. It is less than two weeks since I sat here on the way back from the squat party, and yet already it feels like a lifetime ago.
The trees have begun to shed their leaves and I wish I’d worn a scarf. The light is fading from the sky. I should head home and make food, but I want to stay here a while longer. Drawing my feet up onto the bench, I look to my left and notice a man walking up the hill towards me from the direction of South End Green. For a moment, I shiver. As he moves closer, I notice he is smoking a cigarette and it is almost as though he senses I am going to ask him for one even before I call out. Without saying a word, he walks towards me and offers me the packet. I take one and nod my thanks, reaching into my pocket for a lighter as he moves away again.
Closing my eyes, I inhale, imagining the sun caressing my cheeks, Jess’s laughter as we ran through the grass towards the bandstand, the promise of another long summer.
When I open my eyes sometime later, the sky is dark. In the distance, stationary blue lights throb on one of the streets just off the Heath. From here I can see an ambulance and several police cars. Whatever has happened, it’s not an old lady who has slipped in the bathroom.
For a minute I picture myself following the path from here down to the street I know well, with the tall, wisteria-clad houses. I imagine myself standing at the foot of the front steps with their expensive tiles, and calling out to one of the police officers for information on what has happened.
And then I breathe in; I turn and walk in the other direction.
At home, the tidiness of the flat momentarily confounds me. Moving across to the kitchen counter, I deposit a bag of supplies on it, pulling out a loaf of bread and some cheese and then turning on the kettle. Watching the flow of pedestrians on the street through the window, I wait for it to boil before moving to the sofa, sitting cross-legged, eating a sandwich, flinching as the mug of tea burns my lips.
For a minute, I flick through the channels on the TV, but there is nothing on and so, moving back to the table, I pick up my computer and lift the lid, wondering what sort of film I will choose to watch. The laptop is still dead and so I plug it in to charge, trying to ignore the voice in my head telling me it’s long past time for a drink.
Seizing the distraction of the computer when the screen lights up, I lift the lid and the photograph from my previous search stares back from the page.
Not now, I tell myself. Watch a film, for God’s sake. Just for one night, chill the fuck out.
But there is something about the image of the three people in the photograph that will not let me go and as I read the caption again, I move back towards the sofa, dragging the laptop charger with me, the sound of the television disappearing into the background as I begin to type notes.
James McCann is an associate at McCann Legal and Partner, off Queen Square in London. McCann trained as a solicitor before joining the firm in 2004.
In the official headshot accompanying his biography on the law firm’s website, it is hard to determine the colour of his eyes, which meet the camera’s lens with a self-assurance that is less debatable.
As I trawl through the pages on Google, as well as the usual social media sites, trying to throw up any more information about this man, the only trace I find of him is on LinkedIn, which simply states a repetition of the brief line on his firm’s website, as his job description. No background on his education. No former employers.
The frustration throbs at the front of my head. I could kill for a drink. Pinching the top of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, I close my eyes. How could it be that a lawyer at an apparently top-class firm, judging from its presentation, could be so invisible? Or rather, why? Most lawyers were like peacocks, desperate to be looked at. It wasn’t like he was a prosecution barrister, who might fear retribution from aggrieved clients.
From the little I have gauged about McCann, he is the signatory for PKI Ltd. From the lack of visible presence online, and the fact that, according to its listing on Companies House, it is owned by another company, there is every reason to believe this is little more than a shell. Flicking back to the only other image of McCann I can find, at the party, as if something in his face might give him away, my attention turns to the other man in the photo.
When I copy and paste his name into Google, the information is more forthcoming. Clicking on a newspaper obituary from the previous month, I read:
The late David Witherall, who died this week after being hit by a car in his home city of London, was the heir to the FTSE 100 company TradeSmart, owned by his father, Clive Witherall. He leaves behind a wife and two children.
There is a photo accompanying the article. A young family, on a beach somewhere, their faces turned to the sun. They are crouched down, each of the parents with an arm over one of the girls.
Something about the picture has an almost hypnotic effect, and as I stare at it, my headache eases. After a moment I look away and highlight the second name from the caption: Irena Vasiliev.
Running my eyes briefly again over the article I’ve previously read, denouncing Vasiliev as a money launderer and supporter of violent regimes in Africa, a thought strikes me and I move the cursor back up to my search history.
Highlighting the name of the company TradeSmart, I open a new window and search for Companies House.
And there it is. As the page opens up before me, I sit forward, adrenaline pumping.
‘Shit.’
My fingers are shaking as I pick up the phone and dial the office.
‘Ben,’ I say, as soon as he answers. ‘I’ve got a story. It’s to do with the murder on the Heath …’