I See You by Clare Mackintosh
Perhaps Katie isn’t dead. Perhaps she’s been raped, or beaten up. What will happen to her if I’m not there, at a time when she needs me most? I can’t let Melissa kill me.
Suddenly I feel cool air on a tiny patch of newly exposed skin.
I’m loosening the tape. I can get free.
I think quickly, allowing my head to sink down to my chest, in an attempt to make Melissa think I’ve given up. My thoughts are whirring. The doors are locked, and the only windows in the kitchen extension are the huge skylights, too high above my head to reach. There is only one way to stop Melissa from killing me, and that is to kill her first. The thought is so ridiculous I feel light-headed: how did I get here? How did I become the sort of woman who could kill someone?
But kill Melissa I can. And I will. My legs are too tightly strapped to even think about getting loose, which means I’m not going to be able to move fast. I’ve managed to loosen the duct tape around my wrists enough to gently pull out one hand, careful not to move my upper arms. I’m convinced my plan – such as it is – is written all over my face, so I glance at the screen, without hope of seeing Katie, but nevertheless desperate for some sign of movement from that shut door.
‘That’s odd,’ I say, too fast to consider whether I should have kept my thoughts to myself.
Melissa looks at the screen. ‘What?’
Both my hands are free now. I keep them clasped behind my back.
‘That sign’ – I nod towards the upper left-hand corner of the screen – ‘at the top of the escalator. It wasn’t there a minute ago.’ The sign is a plastic yellow folding one, warning of wet surfaces. There’s been a spillage. But when? Not while I was watching.
Melissa shrugs. ‘So someone’s put out a sign.’
‘They didn’t. It just appeared.’ I know the sign wasn’t there when Katie came up the escalator, because it would have been in front of her for a second. As for when it appeared … well, I can’t be certain, but I haven’t taken my eyes off the CCTV image for more than a few seconds since Katie disappeared, and every time I’ve seen a high-vis jacket I’ve kept my eyes trained on the wearer, desperately hoping I’ll see them walk into the room where Katie is.
There is a shadow of concern in Melissa’s eyes. She leans close to the screen. The knife is still in her right hand. Both my hands are now free, and slowly I move one of them; first to the side of the chair, then by tiny degrees down towards my legs. I keep my eyes trained on Melissa. The second she moves, I sit up straight, putting my hands behind my back, but it’s too late; she sees the movement in the corner of her eye.
Beads of sweat form on my brow and sting my eyes.
I don’t know what makes Melissa glance towards the kitchen counter, but I know instantly she’s realised what I’ve done. Her eyes flick to the knife block. Counting the knives; seeing one missing.
‘You’re not playing by the rules,’ she says.
‘Neither are you.’
I lean down and wrap my fist around the handle of the knife, feeling a sharp pain as the blade cuts my ankle on its way out of my boot.
This is it, I think. This is the only chance I’m going to get.
38
The marked car raced along Marylebone Street on blues and twos, narrowly missing an open-top bus that pulled out in front of them as they passed Madame Tussauds. Kelly listened to the response officers in the front discussing that day’s game at Old Trafford over the wail of the siren.
‘How Rooney could have missed that, I don’t know. If I was paying someone three hundred grand a week I’d bloody make sure they could kick straight.’
‘Can’t perform under pressure, that’s the problem.’
The lights changed to red at Euston Square. The driver pressed his horn, switching the sirens to a high-pitched warble, and the cars in front began to peel apart, allowing them through. They turned right into Bloomsbury and Kelly turned up her radio, waiting for the update they were all desperate for. It came as they neared the West End. Kelly closed her eyes and let her head fall briefly against her seat.
It was over. For Katie Walker, at least.
Kelly leaned forward between the two front seats. ‘You may as well slow down now.’
The driver had already heard the update and was switching off the sirens, dropping down to a more appropriate speed, now that there was nothing to gain from making on immediate. No one to save.
When they reached Leicester Square he dropped her off outside the Hippodrome and she ran towards the Underground station, flashing her warrant card to a bored-looking woman standing at the ticket barriers. She had come in via a different entrance than she had intended, and she looked around, trying to get her bearings.
There.
The door to the maintenance cupboard was scuffed at the bottom, where people had pushed it open with their feet, and a poster urging passengers to report any suspicious packages curled up at the corners. A sign told members of the public access was forbidden.
Kelly knocked twice on the door, then went inside. Even though she knew what she’d find inside, her heart was still racing.
The maintenance room was dark and windowless, with a desk and a metal chair on one side, and a pile of signs stacked against the opposite wall. A yellow bucket on wheels stood in one corner, filled with greasy grey water. Beside it, a young girl sat on a plastic crate, cradling a cup of tea. Even without the confident pout evident in the photo on the website, Katie was instantly recognisable. Her mass of highlighted hair fell around the shoulders of her coat; its padded white segments making her look bigger than Kelly knew she was.
White.
18 years old. Long blonde hair, blue eyes.
Blue jeans, grey ankle boots, black V-neck T-shirt with oversized belted grey cardigan. White knee-length puffa coat, also belted. Black handbag with gilt chain.
Size 8–10.
Leaning against a wall behind Katie was a broad-shouldered man with dark hair. He stepped forward and held out his hand to Kelly.
‘John Chandler, covert officer with British Transport Police.’
‘Kelly Swift.’ She crouched down. ‘Hi, Katie, I’m Kelly, one of the detectives involved in this case. Are you okay?’
‘I think so. I’m worried about Mum.’
‘Officers are on their way there now.’ She put out a hand and squeezed Katie’s arm. ‘You did really well.’ DC Chandler’s radio message confirming that Katie was safe had been swiftly followed by confirmation of what Kelly had suspected: Zoe was being held by Melissa West, owner of several cafés in London, including Espress Oh!
‘It was horrible.’ Katie looked up at John. ‘I didn’t know whether to believe you or not. When you whispered in my ear, I wanted to run. I thought, “What if he isn’t an undercover cop at all? What if that’s just his cover story?” But I knew I had to trust you. I was scared Melissa would realise what was going on, and hurt Mum.’
‘You did brilliantly,’ John said. ‘An Oscar-winning performance.’
Katie attempted a smile, but Kelly could see she was still shaking.
‘I didn’t have to do much acting. Even though you’d told me what was going to happen, the minute you pulled me in here, I decided everything you’d said to me was a lie. I thought that was it. Game over.’
‘I’m sorry we had to put you through that,’ Kelly said. ‘We knew the CCTV had been hacked, but we didn’t know to what extent – we didn’t know exactly how much could be seen. When we saw your profile on the website we knew we had to get you safely off the Underground and away from anyone who might want to hurt you, without letting Melissa know we were on to her.’
‘How much longer do we have to wait in here? I want to see Mum.’
‘I’m sorry, we needed confirmation from the control room they’d switched over the CCTV feed.’
Craig had responded swiftly to Kelly’s concerns that Melissa might be able to see Katie and DC Chandler leaving the maintenance room, thereby blowing their cover. He had switched the
As she opened the door, Kelly’s radio crackled into life.
‘We need an ambulance to Anerley Road,’ came the disembodied voice. ‘It’s urgent.’
Katie’s eyes widened.
‘Tell them to make on silent, and hold off when they get to the address.’
‘It’s just a precaution,’ Kelly said quickly, as the younger girl’s eyes filled with tears. She turned the volume on her radio down until it was virtually inaudible. ‘Your mum’s fine.’
‘How do you know?’
Kelly opened her mouth to give more platitudes, then closed it again. The truth was, she didn’t even know if Zoe Walker was still alive.
39
The blood is everywhere. It spurts uncontrollably from Melissa’s neck, covering her desk and turning her shirt crimson. The fingers on her right hand spring open, and the knife she was holding clatters to the floor.
I start to shake. I look down and realise I, too, am covered in blood. My own knife is still gripped tightly in my right fist, but the adrenaline I felt when I stabbed her has passed, leaving me dizzy and disorientated. If she comes at me now, I think, I won’t be able to stop her. I have nothing left. I reach down and with my free hand I pull off the duct tape from around my ankles, kicking over the chair in my haste to move away from Melissa.
I needn’t have worried. Both her hands are clamped around her throat, in a futile attempt to stem the stream of blood that pulses between her fingers and coats her hands. She opens her mouth but no sound comes out, beyond a rasping, bubbling noise which causes red foam to coat the inside of her lips. She stands, but her legs won’t comply, and she sways unsteadily as though she’s drunk.
I cover my face with my hands, realising too late that they are speckled with blood which smears across my cheeks. It forms a dull shadow on the edge of my vision and fills my nostrils with a metallic tang that makes my stomach heave.
I don’t speak. What would I say?
I’m sorry?
I’m not. I’m filled with hatred.
Enough hatred to stab the woman I thought was my friend. Enough hatred to watch her, now, fighting for breath, and not care. Enough hatred to stand by as her lips turn blue and the urgent beat of her blood slows to a quiet, imperceptible rhythm. The fluid that a moment ago was spurting feet away from her, now ebbs gently, its urgency spent. Her skin is grey; her eyes the only living thing in a dying husk. I look for remorse, or for anger, but see none. She is already dead.
When she falls it isn’t to her knees. She doesn’t stagger, or clutch at the desk in front of her like in a film, or reach out to grab me and take me down with her. She falls like a tree, crashing backwards on to the floor with a bang to her head that makes me foolishly worry it might have hurt her.
And then she’s still; hands splayed out to her sides, and her eyes wide open, bulging slightly out of her ashen face.
I’ve killed her.
It’s only now the regret sets in. Not because of the crime I’ve committed, or even because of what I’ve seen – a woman drowning in her own blood. I regret it only because now she’ll never have to face her crimes in a court. Even at the end, she’s won.
I sink to the floor, feeling as drained as though the blood had left me, too. The key to the door is in Melissa’s pocket, but I don’t want to touch her body. Even though there are no signs of life left in her – her chest does not rise, there is no death rattle as air leaves her lungs – I don’t trust her not to suddenly rise up; to grip my wrists with bloodied hands. She lies between me and the desk and I sit and wait for my body to stop shaking. In a moment I will need to step carefully around her, to dial 999 and tell them what I’ve done.
Katie. I need to tell them about Katie. They need to go to Leicester Square; I need to know if she’s still alive – she needs to know I’m okay, that I haven’t given up on her … I stand up too fast, my feet skating on the slick of blood that seems to cover the entire floor. A stripe of blood dissects the computer screen on which I can still see the CCTV image, the door to the maintenance cupboard still resolutely closed.
As I find my balance I hear the distant wail of sirens. I wait for them to die away but they grow louder, more insistent, until they hurt my ears. I hear shouting, then a crash that echoes through the house.
‘Police!’ I hear. ‘Stay where you are!’
I stay where I am. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.
There’s a thunderous noise in the hall, and an almighty bang as the kitchen door flies open and hits the wall behind it.
‘Hands in the air!’ one of them shouts. I’m just thinking how ridiculous it is to expect Melissa to do that, when she is clearly incapacitated, when I realise they mean me. Slowly, I raise my hands. They are covered in blood, which has streaked across my arms, and my clothes are stained dark red.
The officers wear dark boiler suits and helmets with visors down and POLICE in white letters on the side. There are two at first, swiftly followed by another pair who arrive in response to the first’s clear command.
‘Support!’
The first two approach me, stopping several feet in front of me. The other pair move rapidly around the room, shouting instructions to each other. Elsewhere in the house I hear more police moving around. The sound of running feet is interspersed with cries of ‘Room clear!’ which drift down into the room in which we stand.
‘Medic!’ someone shouts. Two new officers push through and run to where Melissa is lying on the floor. One of them presses their hands against the wound in her neck. I don’t understand why they’re trying to save her life. Don’t they know? Don’t they know what she’s done? It is a pointless endeavour anyway; the life has long since left her.
‘Zoe Walker?’ It is one of the two police officers in front of me who says my name, but their helmets mean I can’t tell which one is speaking. I look from one to the other. They have positioned themselves two metres or so apart, so that as I look forward one is at ten o’clock, the other at two. In every respect they are mirror images of each other; one foot slightly forward, their hands above their waists and open-palmed; non-threatening, but ready for action. Behind them I see the medics kneeling beside Melissa. They have laid a clear plastic guard across her face and one of them is pushing measured breaths into her mouth.
‘Yes,’ I say eventually.
‘Drop the weapon.’
They’ve got it all wrong. It was Melissa who had the knife; Melissa who held the blade to my throat until the skin split. I take a step forward.
‘Drop the weapon!’ the police officer says again, louder this time. I follow his gaze, looking up to my right hand, where the silver blade gleams through its coating of blood. My fingers snap open of their own accord, as though they have only just become aware of their contents, and the knife skitters across the floor. One of the officers kicks it further away from my reach, then pushes up the visor on his helmet. He looks practically as young as my children.
I find my voice. ‘My daughter’s in danger. I need to get to Leicester Square – will you take me?’ My teeth are chattering and I bite my tongue. More blood; my own, this time. The officer looks to his colleague, who lifts his own visor. He is much older, a grey beard neatly trimmed beneath kind eyes that crinkle at the corners as he reassures me.
‘Katie’s fine. She was intercepted by one of our officers.’
The rest of my body begins to shake.
‘There’s an ambulance on its way – they’ll take you to hospital and get you sorted out, okay?’ He looks at his young colleague.
‘Shock,’ he explains, but it isn’t shock I feel, it’s relief. I look beyond the officers. A paramedic is kneeling beside Melissa, but he isn’t touching her, he’s writing
‘Is she dead?’ I don’t want to leave this room until I know for sure. The paramedic looks up.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God.’
40
‘Not much of a celebration,’ Lucinda said, looking at the packet of peanuts Nick had torn open and put in the middle of the table.
‘I’m sorry it’s not up to your usual standards, your ladyship,’ Nick said. ‘I’m not sure the Dog and Trumpet does caviar and quail’s eggs, but I can see what’s on the specials board, if you like?’
‘Ha ha. I didn’t mean that. I just feel a bit flat, you know?’
‘I feel the same,’ Kelly said. It had been so frantic; the drive on blues and twos to get to Katie Walker, followed immediately by the race to reach Zoe, marked police cars screaming to a halt outside Melissa’s house. The ambulance had held off at the end of Anerley Road; the waiting paramedics unable to do their job until it was safe to enter. For the last few hours Kelly doubted her heart rate had dropped below a hundred beats a minute, but now she was crashing.
‘It’s just an anticlimax, that’s all,’ Nick said. ‘You’ll bounce back tomorrow, when the hard work really starts.’
There was a huge amount to do. With access to Melissa’s computer, Cyber Crime had been able to swiftly shut down findtheone.com, and access the full list of members. Tracing them – and establishing what, if any, crimes had been committed – would take somewhat longer.
Companies House checks had revealed that Melissa West was the registered director of four cafés in London; Melissa, Melissa Too, Espress Oh! and an as yet unnamed business in the heart of Clerkenwell, banking impressive profits despite the absence of sink, fridge or cooking facilities.