The woman who masqueraded as a nurse at the hospital is called Yulia Protopopov. She did a little mule work about a decade ago, which is why her fingerprints are still on file, and since then she’s changed her name to Julia Grant, moved a couple of times and is trying to live off the grid. But that’s tricky these days, especially when you’ve got a kid.
Julia’s daughter is called Willow and finding her through state education records is simple. I don’t even need to hack any systems to confirm it’s the correct Willow Grant. Her school has a helpful Twitter account and several months ago posted a few photos of a day trip to Bannockburn. And there, in one of them, I can see Julia in profile.
The following day, I wait at the school gates. A man meets Willow and walks her to a complex of apartments that’s upmarket without being the province of millionaires. There’s a small water feature in the atrium. A pool with a modest fountain and through its clear water I can see coins that people have tossed into it. I wonder if Julia has thrown loose change into the water, and what she wished for as her money sank beneath the surface.
Willow and the man enter a flat on the first floor. I make a note of the address. Google it. Looks like Julia works from home as she’s listed as a masseuse using the premises for her job. I find an online advertisement for the business and call the number provided.
‘Hello?’ It’s Julia’s voice.
I feel faintly absurd putting on a fake London accent so she won’t recognise me. ‘Hi, do you have any appointments available, please?’
‘What are you after?’
‘Straightforward back massage.’
‘What for?’
I suddenly realise I have no idea why people have massages. Are they supposed to relieve stress? Having a stranger pummel my flesh would only increase any anxiety I might be feeling, but I vaguely recall that’s not the widely accepted view.
‘Works been crazy recently,’ I reply. ‘Been under a lot of pressure.’
‘I’m a professional masseuse. I don’t offer anything extra. You understand that?’
‘Look, a girl at work said back massages can help relieve tension. If you’re busy, no problem. I can call somewhere else.’
This seems to reassure her and I book an appointment for the following morning.
*
When I ring the entry buzzer to her flat, I’m wearing a face mask, glasses and a beanie hat, so I doubt she’ll recognise me, but just to be on the safe side, I dab the tip of my index finger onto my tongue and smear it across the lens of the video doorbell.
She buzzes me in after a brief conversation and meets me in her hallway.
‘Thanks for getting here on time,’ she begins. ‘You’ve no idea how many . . .’
I’ve removed my glasses and mask and as I take off my hat, she clocks who I am and falls silent.
‘It’s all right, Julia. I’m not here to harm you in any way. I just need to ask you a few questions.’
I’ve been in this situation a million times and the people I’ve cornered react in wildly different ways. Some deny who they are. Others rage at me. I’ve had people physically attack me and some try to scarper.
Julia’s reaction is by far the worst I’ve ever encountered.
Her lower lip trembles for a moment and she begins to weep.
‘You’re Marc Novak, right?’
‘Yes. I’m a private detective. Julia, you’re not in any trouble.’
‘Not in any trouble?’ She wipes a tear from her face. ‘Novak, you’ve just murdered me.’