Paul charged toward home, the rain still hammering down, his car an exasperating distance away. On his street, the colored ink was bleeding out of the Freya posters, making grotesque rainbows in the puddles. He took several down and folded them gently inside his coat as if to keep her dry. Glancing up at his flat, he imagined his parents and George inside, wondering what was going on. There was no time to explain. Where would he even begin?
Paul got into his car and reread the text that had interrupted his talk with Steph.
It’s Yvette. This is my personal number—use this from now on. I did some digging. Sanderson still lives near the Chainwell Estate. Don’t say anything to Glover. Please be careful. I hope I’m doing the right thing here.
She’d followed it with an address and postcode. Paul keyed it into his GPS, still disbelieving even as the location was confirmed. Sanderson had moved barely two miles from the old tower block, had stayed close to the memories all this time.
Thank you, Paul replied to Yvette. So much. His chest swelled with gratitude and hope, temporarily masking his dread of the journey he now had to make. As he set off, anxieties old and new swarmed in. The echo of Steph’s question in the stillness of the church.
Did you kill someone?
Once this nightmare was over—and he had to believe it would be—how could he make his wife and daughter understand, and forgive him? How could he even describe his former life of confused identity, confused loyalties? Buddying up with a man who’d potentially committed an unforgivable crime; getting closer than he should have to a woman who had no clue who he was. Freya and Steph would surely see him differently if they knew, just as he’d always feared.
His whirling thoughts accompanied him along the motorway and distracted him from his approach to Nottingham. Then, suddenly, his destination seemed to be moving toward him, rather than the other way round, and he was falling into a once-familiar part of the city, becoming enclosed by dilapidated buildings and burned-out social clubs. Perhaps it was the years that had passed, or the life Paul now lived, but the estate seemed sadder than ever. Paint peeled off the houses like flaking eczema; the whole place reeked of blocked drains.
He parked where he could and sat for a moment, afraid that as soon as he got out he’d be someone else. Someone capable of causing irreversible damage. He thought of Freya, of Steph, of the clean smell of home and the breeze along the Thames. Until he felt calm enough to get out of the car.
As he discreetly followed his phone’s directions, his eyes sought blonde ponytails, navy Puffa jackets, sneakers with mint-green soles. Instead he saw the landmarks of his former life, like objects from a dream: the streets he’d stalk at night when insomnia plagued him; the corner where a phone booth had once stood, from which he would call in his updates to Glover. He passed the closed-down pub where Sanderson used to drink, and Paul, too, once he’d managed to befriend him. Countless hours spent trying to get his target drunk, trying to tease out confessions, hints, anything. Some nights, when he could, Paul would take Nathalie there alone. They’d play dominoes in the back room, shooting smiles at one another, touching knees beneath the table. And Paul would forget, too often, to ask her things relevant to the investigation. Would forget he had any other purpose but to try to make her happier for a few hours.
Pain seeped across his chest. He rammed his fist against it and counted his breaths. He couldn’t have a panic attack now. Couldn’t run away, like his mind was shouting at him to do. Chin up, he used to tell Freya at half-time in soccer, if her head was dropping with defeat. He saw her pushing her fringe out of her eyes, straightening her blue-team bib, never one to give up without a fight.
She’d had permanently grazed knees at that age. When Paul thought of her childhood, he thought of endless jungle animal plasters. He imagined sticking one over his thrashing heart now, his messed-up head. Patch yourself up and press on.
The outer fringes of the estate were less familiar. He found himself in a maze of sleepy terraces, punctuated by shops that weren’t obviously either open or closed. Then Google Maps told him, matter-of-factly, that he’d reached his destination. An unassuming cul-de-sac with a faded no ball games sign. Paul took a deep breath and pulled up his hood, trying to remember how to become invisible.
Ducking behind a tree, he stared across at number 18. A small, unremarkable house. He didn’t know what he’d expected. He used his phone camera to zoom in subtly, seeing no lights or movement. When he panned up toward a dark window in the roof, he wasn’t sure why it sent a zip of adrenaline through his blood, an urge to holler his daughter’s name. Freya, are you in there? He could feel her everywhere now, even in this place where she didn’t belong.
What now? Wait, watch? Paul had almost forgotten the periods of anxious limbo that were a big part of investigating. The constant, smoldering fear—of discovery, of failure. He didn’t even have the cushion of a false identity anymore, the support of listening ears at the end of a wire. In fact, he felt gut-wrenchingly alone.
He had only one lifeline. In the shadow of the tree, he speed-texted Yvette: Do you know if Sanderson works? What are the chances of him being out right now?
Then, more waiting. Staring at his phone, at the house, left and right along the street. Spooking at every sound.
Finally, a reply: He works in a garage. Taylor’s. I don’t know his working hours but according to their website it closes at 6.
Paul checked the time: 4:40.
Tom Glover’s voice filled his head now, ordering him away. But Paul was far beyond caring about the consequences for himself or the police. Further down the street he found a small alleyway, overgrown with weeds, which led him round the back to a row of locked gates. He counted until he reached the right one, his gaze sweeping the rear of Sanderson’s house.
Stripping off his coat, Paul was reminded of how he’d felt after the Sanderson job had come to an abrupt end and he’d finally peeled off the clothes he’d worn while “in character.” He’d taken a long bath in searing-hot water, as though to burn away the last of Paul Jacobs, but afterward he’d felt empty. The real Paul hadn’t been waiting for him after he’d shed the snakeskin of his false persona. As months had passed he’d feared he’d never find him again, until he’d met Steph and she’d slowly helped him believe he still had substance, without even really knowing she was doing it.
Thoughts of her fired his determination. He reached up to grip the top of Sanderson’s fence. Pull-ups had once been his forte, but now they got harder with each passing year. He gritted his teeth, bounced on the spot, used all his strength to heave himself up. The wood was sharp as he grasped for purchase. His left leg caught and he almost dropped headfirst, but managed to tumble sideways onto a damp lawn. He lay panting, bones groaning, and squinted up to see if he’d alerted any neighbors. There were no stirrings, so he crept to Sanderson’s back door.
Locked. Paul didn’t want to have to smash a window. He’d have to rely, if possible, on his knowledge of Sanderson. On the fact that he was a man of habits, who would never risk the indignity of being locked out of his own house.
Paul crawled around the patio, testing its slabs; none lifted. He patted the back wall but found no loose bricks. Once he’d checked the neglected plant pots, he turned his attention to the small shed. It was built on a wooden platform with a narrow gap between that and the ground. And there it was: a glimmer of metal. Paul found a stick and poked it beneath the shed, exhaling as he maneuvered a silver key toward him.
He hurried to the back door, slid in the key, and he was inside. Standing in the kitchen of the man who hated him most in the world, looking at a dark blue coffee cup in the sink, a leftover bread crust on a plate.
After more than twenty years, he had infiltrated Sanderson’s life once again.