Three weeks later, I waited in the dark for a bus at Aldwych, shivering in a cold wind that threw stinging grit into my face and made my eyes water. I pulled my scarf up to cover my mouth, tucking my chin down to my chest. It had been a long day in court and I ached as if I was coming down with the flu. I hadn’t been getting a lot of rest. I had been staying with Adele in her heroically untidy one-bedroom flat in Ealing, sleeping on the world’s most uncomfortable sofa-bed, but I couldn’t ignore her hints about when I might leave. The despicable Paul had returned a few days previously and that was finally enough to drive me out.
I had phoned Jennifer Gold often enough for updates that she sounded resigned when she answered now: no news. No suspect. Nothing to link John Webster to Vicki, or her violent death. No one had seen anyone coming or going. No one had heard anything. All of my neighbours had been out, or listening to loud music. Even the omnipresent Helen had been elsewhere.
I had asked the landlord if I could break my lease and leave my flat, but he had refused. I could see his point; renting it again was going to be a nightmare given that it was a crime scene. The bloodstains had been cleaned away but you couldn’t clean away the faint disquieting hum of violence. Part of me wished I could just leave it and everything I owned and walk away, but I couldn’t afford it, and I couldn’t stay with Adele forever, and I couldn’t let Vicki’s death fade out of memory until I could prove who had killed her.
This trip was so that I could see what needed to be done before I moved in again, if anything. In addition to cleaning the place and repainting the walls, the landlord had installed a new, cheap alarm system that I didn’t trust at all. Alarms meant nothing to John Webster. There was no way to keep him out, if he wanted to get in.
When it arrived, the bus was almost empty. I went upstairs and automatically sat at the front, because everyone knew that was the best seat and it was never free. The route from Aldwych was a straight line up to the Euston Road, and clogged with traffic as usual. The familiar streets lulled me into a waking doze as each one gave way to the next: Kingsway, Holborn, Southampton Row … Harsh strip lighting made it easier to see what was inside the bus than the outside world, and I found myself staring at my reflection in the window in front of me, with rows of seats behind. The reinforced window glass gave me a double outline, blurring the detail of my features. It looked almost as if someone was sitting in the seat behind me, their movements mirroring mine as the bus hit potholes and bumps in the road on its slow, halting journey. I leaned to my right to rest my head on the glass, and one layer of my reflection did the same. The other stayed where it was.
Pure instinct made me leap to my feet, or try to: as soon as I moved, the scarf around my neck tightened. My field of vision narrowed, darkness rushing in on either side. I clawed at the scarf, desperate for air, pinned in my seat.
‘Don’t fight, don’t run, don’t scream.’ Webster’s breath was warm in my ear, his voice low. ‘Got it?’
I made some sort of sound that he took as assent, and the pressure on my neck eased. I dragged the scarf off completely as panic overwhelmed me: he was here, right behind me, and there was no way to call for help …
‘You’re hard to get hold of, Ingrid. I don’t like getting the bus.’
I coughed.
‘Sorry about your neck, but you do lash out when you’re surprised, don’t you? Or run away.’ A new note entered his voice, one I hadn’t heard before. ‘And we need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘I think you know.’ Irritation sharpened his words. ‘Look at me, Ingrid. Don’t be rude.’
I turned, slowly. Everything had that heightened reality of a disaster, each second lasting an eternity. The empty seats stretched behind him. We could have been the only people in the entire world. I looked at him properly, noting that he had lost some weight that he hadn’t needed to shed: his cheekbones were more defined than before and his hair looked dishevelled.
‘You’ve been talking about me to the wrong people.’
Understanding dawned. ‘The police came to see you.’
He inclined his head. ‘At your request.’
‘I didn’t ask them to interview you.’
‘You told them I broke into your home and murdered a girl.’
‘Did you?’
He looked amused. ‘Of course not. You know that, don’t you? They told you I had an alibi.’
‘I don’t believe your alibi for a second,’ I said, trembling.
‘It happens to be true.’
‘The very fact you say that makes me sure it’s a lie.’
‘How unpleasant, Ingrid.’ He leaned forward. ‘There are easier ways to get my attention, if you missed me.’
‘I didn’t. I don’t want your attention. I’ve never wanted it.’
A commotion on the stairs became two teenagers in massive parkas, laughing and shoving each other. Webster turned his head and looked at them, and whatever they saw on his face stopped them in their tracks.
‘Go away.’
London teenagers didn’t scare easily, as a rule. This pair shrank into themselves and scuttled back down the stairs, suddenly silent. The distraction gave me a chance to collect myself, to remember that this was an opportunity – at least, Adam had said it might be. I couldn’t waste it.
He looked past me, out at the street. ‘This is your stop, isn’t it?’
‘No. Nowhere near.’
‘Come on, Ingrid. You know you can’t lie to me.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘Pretend you know everything about me. It’s a con. Almost everything you say is a bluff.’
He stood up. ‘Most people never work that out. You see, Ingrid? I knew you were special. Now let’s go.’
I found myself moving in front of him down the narrow stairs to the lower deck and stepping out of the central doors, because I had no choice.
He drew my arm through his as he reached the pavement a split second after me. I made one attempt to pull free, but his grip was firm enough to bruise.
‘Shall we walk and talk? I’m afraid we’ll find some trouble for ourselves if we stand here, since we’re so close to King’s Cross. Haven’t you ever noticed how train stations attract exactly the wrong sort of people?’
‘I’m starting to.’
He smirked. ‘It must have been a nice break for you to have a change of scene. I would have thought it was worse to have to deal with the Central Line every morning, but what do I know?’
I tried to free myself again and failed. The fear was like lightning running through me. He’d known where I was. He’d been watching me when I was in Adele’s flat.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ he murmured. ‘There’s really no need.’
‘What do you want, John?’
‘Why did you tell the police I tried to kill you? Why did you tell them I killed the girl?’
‘Didn’t you?’
He shook his head, his face sombre.
For a moment, I doubted myself. Then I remembered that was his great gift: convincing you that black was white. I got a grip on myself. ‘I think you tried to kill me, John, but you killed Belinda instead, and then Vicki surprised you when you were in my flat so you killed her. Now you’re just trying to cover up because you took too much of a risk and you’re scared you’ll get caught.’
‘I’m not scared of anything.’ Again I had the impression he was being honest. Remember you can’t trust him. ‘I’m a little bit concerned for you, though, Ingrid. It looks as if you’ve run across someone who genuinely wishes you harm. Don’t you think you should try to find out who they are?’
‘Not if it’s you.’
‘But it’s not. And whatever about Belinda, this other girl’s murder feels personal. There’s a real anger to it, isn’t there? Maybe frustration that it wasn’t you. Maybe they did to her what they’d planned to do to you.’
‘No one wants to hurt me except you.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve always been wrong about that.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘I just want to understand you.’
‘By taking me apart, like a clock.’
‘If necessary.’ He sniffed. ‘You should make a list of everyone you’ve ever annoyed. All the people who hate you.’
‘Again, I’m not aware of anyone who feels that way about me.’
‘No?’ He looked amused. ‘Think about it though, for me. And you don’t have to worry any more. I’m going to help you.’
‘Help me?’ I laughed, a cracked and horrible sound. ‘You must be joking.’
‘Don’t be tedious, Ingrid. You need me.’
‘The police—’
‘Are useless. We know that. That’s why I have to get involved. I’m your best resource. Forget the police, Ingrid. They’re five steps behind and bound by the law. If you want someone to save you, you need someone like me.’
‘I’ll never need you.’
‘That’s not what your phone message said.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You called me.’
‘I certainly did not.’
He dug in his coat pocket for his phone, flicked to voicemail and held it up. ‘Listen.’
‘John, I need to talk to you. I need your help.’ The voice was high, frantic. ‘Please. I’m sorry, but I’m scared. Come and find me.’
It was like stepping into ice-cold water: the shock of it drove the breath from my lungs. John Webster lied all the time, but on this occasion, he was telling the truth.
It was my voice.
And I had no recollection whatsoever of making the call.
‘That can’t be me. I didn’t call you.’ I stared into his eyes. They were as hollow as a predator’s, hungry with the desire to destroy me, and nothing else. ‘How could I call you? I don’t even have your number.’
For the first time, a little assurance drained out of him. ‘You don’t.’
‘I never have.’ A thought struck me that seemed, in that moment, hilarious, and I felt myself start to smile. ‘You always hid your number when you phoned me. You must remember that. All those heavy-breathing calls were from a withheld number. I could never call you back.’
He frowned at me, not used to being laughed at. I should have known he would strike back, and hard. ‘So then the question is who has the skills to fake a phone call from you? Who could record your voice and cut it together so it sounded like you begging for help?’
The wind swirled around my throat like an invisible hand, plucking at my hair, chilling my skin. I felt my smile fade.
‘Don’t tell me you forgot about poor old Mark, the love of your life, who was so good with sound recording he had his own bloody studio.’
Mark.
‘He’s in Canada.’
Webster’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘That’s where he is. He lives there now. Permanently.’
He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘He’s back, beautiful. Didn’t you know?’
No was the obvious answer. I shut my eyes for a second, gathering my strength. ‘Why should he tell me he was back? We’re not in touch.’
‘I suggest you remedy that straight away and find out if he was responsible for this.’ He waggled his phone at me before he slipped it into his pocket.
‘Where does he live?’
‘Are you asking me for help?’ Webster took hold of my chin, twisting my face up so he could look at me. ‘I’ll help you, if you ask nicely.’
I shook my head, beyond speech.
‘The time will come, Ingrid, when you will beg me to help you and you’ll promise me anything I like in exchange. Until then, you’re on your own.’ His words were clipped, his mouth tight. Usually he controlled his emotions; this was unusual. ‘I’ll be sorry when you’re dead, but do remember, it will be entirely your own fault.’
He let go of me and moved away into the crowds without a backwards glance. I stood where he had left me, still trembling long after he was out of sight.