BEX
Jen is behaving strangely. I suppose this isn’t that surprising considering what she saw on Parliament Hill Fields. If I’d witnessed a brutal murder, followed by a suicide, I’m sure I’d be pretty warped in the head too.
I text her and arrange to meet at the Coffee Cup in Hampstead. As she comes into the cosy interior – with its wooden panelling and red carpet it looks like something from the Fifties – she stares around her as if she’s being followed.
‘Oh my God, Jen, are you okay?’ I ask, even before she sits down.
‘You won’t believe this,’ she whispers, taking off her jacket. There is a crazed look about her eyes, as if she is being hunted.
‘What’s happened? You’re really worrying me.’
‘Last night, about ten-ish, I got this,’ she says, thrusting her phone at me.
It’s a series of messages – tweets – from an account called @WatchingYouJenHunter.
‘Jen, that’s so weird,’ I say. ‘Have you told the police?’
‘No, not yet,’ she says, running a hand through her blonde hair.
‘You do intend to, though? And you’ve blocked them, right?’
‘Yes, at some point I will, but I think it might be worth doing a bit of digging first.’
‘Digging?’
‘Just to see who’s behind this – and also to find out whether there’s any truth in it.’
At that moment the waitress turns her attention to us. We order coffee and, after Jen checks out the other occupants of the café, we continue our conversation.
‘What – that Daniel Oliver didn’t kill his girlfriend?’ I give her a sideways, sceptical look that usually brings her to her senses. ‘But you said you saw it with your own eyes. And what about those other witnesses? There was that MP there. And that gay guy, what’s his name, the hedge fund manager. They saw it happen too.’
‘I know it sounds crazy, and perhaps it is, but I have a hunch there’s something not right about this,’ she says. Her head swivels to the right, to the left, as she checks no one is listening to her. ‘Anyway, you know how tough it’s been for me since I lost my column. I just thought if I managed to uncover something, then it could make for a good follow-up piece, perhaps even a book.’
‘Oh darling, I know how tough it’s been for you, I really do,’ I say. ‘But I really don’t think this would be a good thing for you, after—’
‘What, after my breakdown, is that what you mean?’
‘Well, yes, after your … breakdown. The doctor said you should try to avoid stressful situations. If you do need to work, why not try for some more lovely interviews with actors and writers? You do them so well.’
‘Interviews with actors and writers!’ she says, spitting the words out. ‘I want to do some real work for a change.’
‘If you want to take your mind off things, I’ve always said you can start volunteering at the—’
‘I know, and I will,’ she says, sounding guilty. ‘I really will come to the food bank and do my bit, I promise. I realise it sounds selfish, and it is … but I need to start making my own living again. It’s the northern girl in me – you know me and my work ethic.’
‘But, seriously, what are you going to do about this?’ I ask. ‘I don’t like his Twitter handle, not one bit. Do you think it can be traced?’
‘I’ve asked – well, insofar as I’ve searched on Google – and no, it’s impossible, apparently,’ she says. ‘There’s no way of getting someone’s IP address – is that what it’s called? But if the user becomes a threat, obviously you can inform Twitter.’
‘And we all know what constitutes a threat,’ I say. ‘When it’s too late.’
I see terror in her eyes.
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I’m sure you’ll be fine. But you mustn’t do anything rash. Or put yourself at risk – in any way.’
Our drinks arrive – a black coffee for Jen, a skinny latte for me.
‘Thank you,’ says Jen, taking a deep breath. ‘Just to change the subject for a second, you know I was supposed to meet Laurence but then had to cancel because of my deadline?’
‘Yes, and?’
‘I got a lovely email from him. He wanted to know whether I was okay. He seemed worried about me.’
I feel there’s no need to answer.
‘He wants to make another date,’ she continues. ‘To meet up, for drinks or maybe even dinner. But I suppose he always was kind. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.’
‘That was thoughtful of him and it’s good that you can go forwards, as they say. You never know, at some point in time you could be friends again.’
Jen’s mouth twists into a grimace as though she is trying to stop her lips from quivering. Is there something she’s not telling me?
She takes a sip of black coffee and tries to pull herself together. ‘I know – after this, why don’t we take a stroll across the Heath?’
‘Okay, that would be nice,’ I say.
‘I could walk you back to your place.’
After the coffee we walk slowly down Flask Walk, past the little boutiques, artisanal bakeries, and gorgeous flower shops, and the charming, but frighteningly expensive, Georgian houses. When we pass the turning that leads down towards Penelope’s ridiculously large house I ask Jen whether she is happy with her living arrangements.
‘In a funny sort of way I’ve become very fond of Penelope,’ she says. ‘Of course, she’s very different to me, but I admire her achievements – and her spirit.’ She turns to me. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just that you know you can always come back and crash at mine,’ I say. ‘The sofa is yours whenever you might need it.’
‘It’s so nice of you,’ she says. ‘And in the fall-out from … well, you were an absolute godsend. But—’
‘But now that you’ve gone up in the world, living in Hampstead, you could never consider going back to a one-bedroom flat in Kentish Town,’ I joke. ‘Is that it?’
‘Spot on,’ she says. Although she tries to laugh, the laughter is strained, artificial. ‘But seriously, I need to get my life back on track.’
‘I understand,’ I say.
We walk down Well Walk and onto the Heath, a place full of buds and the promise of life even though it’s only mid-February. I make an effort to talk about things other than the case. Jen needs to take her mind off the Oliver–Da Silva thing. And so I rattle on about my job in the planning department of Camden Council, the cuts to local services, the problems with the bloody Tory government, the anxieties surrounding Brexit, until I realise that we are walking not down to the ponds but along the track that leads towards Parliament Hill Fields and Kite Hill.
‘We’re not going in this direction,’ I say, stopping in my tracks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Jen, you know very well what I mean,’ I say. ‘Look, I realise what you witnessed was awful – truly awful – but going back over it all, raking it all up, returning to the scene of the crime. It’s not going to help.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I think it may do,’ she says. ‘The person who sent that message said that I’d seen the whole thing wrongly. That I was missing something.’
‘If you had, I’m sure the police would have spotted it, but the truth is that they came to the same conclusion you did,’ I say. ‘You wrote it yourself, in a national newspaper: it was a case of murder–suicide. Daniel Oliver was driven by jealousy.’
‘But what if he didn’t do it?’
‘Jen, you’re scaring me now.’
‘All I want to do is take a fresh look at the evidence. Perhaps there’s something I overlooked.’
‘But what you’re saying sounds … well, to be honest, it sounds mad. It sounds – you sound – completely fucking insane.’ I realise that my words are harsh, but I need to talk some sense into her. This cruel-to-be-kind approach has worked in the past, and I hope it will work now. ‘You saw him, everyone else there saw him. Who else could have done it?’
‘You can either come with me, or I’m going alone,’ she says. ‘It’s your choice.’
I’ve learned from past experience that it is best not to indulge Jen when she is feeling like this. Even though it’s painful, it’s important for her to realise how irrational she is being. ‘Call or text me when you get back to Penelope’s? Okay?’ Of course, I won’t really desert her. I’ll watch from a distance to make sure she doesn’t come to any harm.