The Verdict

Chapter 7

2017 – Archway, London

It’s nearly seven o’clock and the Tube is still busy when I get off the Northern Line at Archway station. My thin jacket’s insufficient against the chill. I pull it tight around me and turn the collar up, while casting an envious eye over the woman in front of me wrapped in a cashmere scarf.

I loiter at the exit and check no one’s followed me. Perhaps Audrey was right, I shouldn’t have moved back to this area. Too many memories. It’s only two streets down from the house I shared when I first came to London. The area’s supposed to be gentrifying, which just means the prices have gone up, otherwise it’s not changed since I left, with Turkish kebab houses, Greek cafés and Irish pubs. Lorries spew their fumes into the cold night air as they rumble up the A1 towards Suicide Bridge, a soon to be obsolete sobriquet for the vast iron structure that spans the Great North Road, as an anti-jumping fence is to be erected.

After a couple of minutes I’m shivering and, certain no one has followed me onto the Tube, I head home. Even if my pursuer is imaginary, the texts are real. Turning into my road, I half expect to see a police car, but the street is empty, apart from a few people like me, hurrying to get home, out of the cold and dark.

My flat is on the top two floors of a tall Victorian property. The lounge and kitchen are on the lower floor, the bedroom and bathroom in the attic. I can only afford it because it belongs to friends of Andre, who had nightmare tenants and were willing to take a considerably lower rent from someone who didn’t get raided by the police for growing cannabis. There are still holes in the ceiling where they hung the lights.

Once back inside, I fetch a half-empty bottle of Californian white wine from the back of the fridge. In the local saver shop you can buy it for £3.49. Chilled to nearly freezing, it has no taste.

I sit at the kitchen table, unscrew the cap, fill my glass and stare out of the window at the blurred City skyline in the distance. I finish it quickly and pour another. Many years ago, I set myself a limit, no more than two glasses of wine on a work night. This rule, I’ve broken three times: when my husband discovered my infidelity; when my son called me a whore; and again today, when an unidentified body of someone who died a violent death is discovered on the Downs outside Guildford.

IT’S HIM.

Not her, not the missing schoolgirl, Hayley Walsh – him.

The landline rings. My head’s a little fuzzy from the wine. I go to the lounge, lift the receiver and wait for a low voice, to repeat the menace of the text.

‘Hello, darling.’

It’s Audrey. I should have known. She’s the only person who calls me on the landline.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘How are things with you?’ she asks.

‘Fine.’

‘You don’t sound fine.’

‘You always say that,’ I reply.

‘I can’t help worrying about you, Julia. Neither can your father.’ Robert Hathersley is not my father. ‘I know you made your bed, as they say, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care.’

I ignore the implied criticism.

‘Did you ring for a reason?’

‘Do I need a reason to ring my daughter?’

I wait.

‘I spoke to your husband today. Am I still allowed to call him that?’ she says.

‘How did he seem?’ I ask.

‘He’s not happy.’

‘But did he sound upset, anxious?’

‘I imagine he’s all of those things after the way you’ve treated him.’

My husband could never stand my mother. Only since our separation have they started having cosy chats together. To him, Audrey’s just another weapon to use against me. Not that she sees it like that.

‘I made myself clear I’m one hundred per cent on his side in this matter,’ she says.

‘Your support is always valued.’

‘Well, I can hardly condone your behaviour, Julia. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe fidelity in marriage is important. And it’s just as well I did take that line, because he let me talk to Sam.’

My heart jumps. ‘How is he?’

‘How do you think? Angry, confused – he’s a teenage boy. I had one of those once and they’re like that at the best of times. Not just boys either – you and your sister were moody little madams.’

I hate being lumped together with my step-siblings and try to get her back to the point in hand.

‘Mum – Sam.’

‘Oh yes. Well, he said he’s OK. Studying hard for his A levels. We didn’t talk about you know what, but I know he misses you. I’m sure if you called him, or wrote to him …’

You’re a whore. I hate you. I wish you were dead.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Which means no.’

I walk back to the kitchen and top up my glass. ‘It’s too soon. I need to give him time.’

‘Oh well, it’s up to you. But if he were my son …’

‘I’ve got to go, Mum.’

‘Wait a moment, Julia. Before you do, I was thinking, I mean asking, if I could come and stay tomorrow night.’

‘You hate London. And you know it’s only a one-bed flat.’

‘There’s an exhibition on at the Tate Modern and Vanessa Miller – you know, my old friend, we used to work together at Rackhams – said she was going.’

‘You hate modern art more than you hate London.’

‘I do not hate modern art. You’re always telling me what I do and do not like. I’m open to all kinds of art.’ As long as it predates 1900. ‘And don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements. I can take the sofa.’

Audrey Hathersley would as soon sleep on a park bench as a sofa.

I can’t think of a good excuse for putting her off and she did lend me the deposit for the flat, which she had to lie about to Robert to get hold of. Besides, having company might do me good – stop me rattling around in my own head.

‘Have my bed. When are you coming?’ I ask.

‘Vanessa and I are going to the midday viewing then having a spot of lunch. I’ll be there by five. I can let myself in.’

After I’ve hung up, I return to the kitchen and ferret around for something to eat. There’s half a packet of crackers left and a little cheese in the fridge. I eat them with the remains of my wine. I’m just finishing the glass and thinking about going to bed when the landline rings again. I pick it up, expecting Audrey’s forgotten something.

‘Hello,’ I say.

Silence.

‘Hello.’

Sharp breaths hiss at me through the receiver. I’m about to put the phone down, when a voice whispers, ‘Better get your story straight.’

A low, rasping voice. An unnatural voice, not the caller’s own. Not a text to my mobile phone, a call to my landline – a link, a specific location. Whoever’s making contact knows where I live. It’s intimate and menacing. I want to ask who it is, but the words won’t escape my mouth. The line goes dead.

I rush to the window and look outside. A black and white cat is scratching at the door of the house opposite, desperate to escape the damp chill of an October night. Headlights swing from the main road and onto our street, briefly spotlighting the cat, which ceases its scratching as if ashamed to be caught in so undignified an act. The lights power past and it’s left yowling for its absent owners. Nothing else moves. I look at my mobile then the landline, waiting for it to ring again. It doesn’t.

I reread the text from earlier. It’s still there, it’s real, I’m not losing my mind. I need a plan. It can only be a matter of time before this person states their intention or someone joins the dots.

Chapter 8

1995 – Archway, London

Ghosts do not exist. It was Julia’s imagination that heard the tread of heavy workmen’s boots behind her as she walked down the dimly lit streets of North London. Paranoia caused her to spin around to find a deserted pavement. Since escaping Guildford, she sensed a pressure on the edge of her bed that woke her in the night and made her turn on the light, expecting to see Genevieve sitting there, tearful and confessional.

‘I knew Dominic would come back,’ she had said. ‘I hadn’t understood the form.’

Maybe Genevieve was right, maybe they all came back in one form or another.

But recently the footsteps behind her hadn’t been heavy. And when she spun around the street wasn’t empty. A man would pull his head under the hood of a winter jacket and duck into a doorway.

There had been no contact between her, Gideon and Alan, a blessing mostly. But a tiny part of her wanted to speak to them. Did they hear the dull thump of Brandon’s boots behind them when they crossed a street? Did they catch the scent of beer and sweat as they opened their eyes in the morning? She wanted to ask them, does knowing you’re going insane mean that, actually, you’re not?

Julia had finished work late that night. The pub, just off Goodge Street, had been busier than usual and it had taken forever to empty the drip trays, wash down the bar and hoover the floor. By the time she emerged from Archway Tube station, with sore feet and an aching back, it was gone twelve. The entrance hall funnelled the wind. Discarded crisp packets and flyers spiralled above her, in mockery of autumn leaves. Julia pulled her collar up against the cold and bent her head to the wind as she crossed Junction Road and descended the hill.

When Pearl had moved in with Rudi, she suggested Julia took over her room in the shared house on Fairbridge Road. Julia had accepted. The last of Pearl’s housemates had moved out the following month. The new ones were strangers. Julia liked it that way – they left her alone.

Pearl often phoned and even came to the house. If she hadn’t been busy decorating her new place in Maida Vale, she would have been more persistent in her calls, which Julia failed to return. Like Audrey, Pearl saw too much.

Andre had moved back home to live with his parents while he studied for a Master’s in business administration. He could rarely afford trips to London.

Working two jobs kept Julia busy, stilled her mind and gave her an excuse to avoid all of them. The new exciting careers she’d dreamt of when living in Guildford had turned into working as a receptionist by day and a barmaid by night. She hardly spoke to her customers at the pub and had only the most functional conversations on the reception desk. Perhaps ghosts were only the mind pushing out loneliness.

On her infrequent days off, she would walk for miles and miles, up Highgate Hill or the Great North Road underneath the Hornsey Lane Bridge – Suicide Bridge they called it – a popular spot for self-destruction. Julia would end up in Hampstead or Alexandra Palace and carry on walking to exhaustion and beyond. Only when physically drained would her body allow her to sleep. Pills terrified her. How easy it would be one night to decide that she couldn’t face the next day and be found by one of her housemates, her face contorted, a paper envelope in her hand.

As she approached her house, she saw a man waiting on the pavement outside. It wasn’t Gideon or Alan – wrong build. She felt sick. Could it be Brandon’s father? No, this man wasn’t old enough. He was mid-thirties, wore corduroy trousers and a blue parka.

Julia walked past and opened the gate, without acknowledging him. She was halfway up the path when he said, ‘Ms Winter.’

‘Yes,’ she said automatically.

‘My name’s Mike Lancaster. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m trying to find someone. A Mr Brandon Wells. His parents haven’t heard from him in fourteen months. They’re extremely concerned and have hired me to try to find him. I thought I’d start by speaking to everyone who shared his house in Guildford. See if he’s been in touch. You lived there at the same time I believe.’

‘The police already asked me about this, back in Guildford. He stole some money.’

‘The family aren’t convinced by that version of events, especially as they’ve heard nothing from him.’

‘Then they should contact the police. I can’t help you, Mr Lancaster. Now please, I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning.’

Lancaster came through the gate and held out a card.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘My contact details, in case you do remember anything.’

Julia took the card without a word and walked to the door, pausing as she placed her key in the lock. Lancaster was still waiting, watching her. She turned to him.

‘Have you been following me?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘You have – for the last month, at least.’

He responded with a cough that suppressed a laugh.

‘Ms Winter, I was paid to find you and ask about Brandon. The Wells’ budget doesn’t stretch to long-term surveillance. Would I find something out if it did?’

‘Goodnight, Mr Lancaster.’

Julia shut the door behind her. Through the spyhole she watched his distorted image move away under the glow of orange streetlamps. His size and gait were not that of her pursuer. Ghosts don’t exist. If Mike Lancaster hadn’t been following her, who had?

Chapter 9

1994 – Guildford

It would have been difficult to find two women of the same age who contrasted more than Julia’s mother and Genevieve. Despite driving two hundred miles to Guildford in an overstuffed car on a hot day, Audrey’s navy blue suit remained crease-free, and she only needed a hat to look as if she were going to church. With her neatly curled crop, a splash of Rive Gauche and discreet gold stud clip-ons – Audrey considered pierced ears to be vulgar – she could have stepped straight out of the 1950s.

For Genevieve, the 1970s were an unending inspiration. She answered the door in loose silk trousers and a kimono-style top, the fabric impregnated with the scent of lemon and cinnamon. Julia was relieved she’d at least dispensed with the turban. Instead, enormous gold and jade earrings swung to her shoulders. Her hair was pulled away from her face and a single long plait, which Julia assumed to be a hairpiece, hung to her waist.

‘You must be Julia’s mother. Delighted.’ Genevieve tilted her head and flicked her eyes upwards, in an almost flirtatious manner. ‘Do come in,’ she cooed, oblivious to Audrey’s incredulous look. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea, Mrs Winter?’

‘It’s Hathersley. And no thank you,’ Audrey replied in an icy tone.

As before, Genevieve behaved like a theatre director giving a backstage tour.

‘The bathroom,’ she said with a dramatic sweep of the arm as if it were Sir Laurence Olivier’s dressing room, leaving Audrey’s eyebrows disappearing under her hairline.

‘Does she smoke marijuana?’ she asked Julia when they were unpacking together in the bedroom.

‘How should I know?’

‘She looks the sort. If there’s anything like that going on, you move out straight away. Go to a hotel. I’ll send you the money.’

‘It’ll be fine. I don’t need looking after, Mum. I’m twenty-three. You were married with a kid at my age.’

‘That doesn’t stop me worrying. Things are different now. Twenty-three is young. I’ve still no idea why you had to move so far. If it was to get away from Christian, you could just as easily have gone to Birmingham or Worcester, not the other end of the country. I can’t see how it’s any easier to find someone new down here than at home – probably harder, they’re not so friendly, unless they’re like your landlady, which is not the sort of company you want to keep.’

Audrey gave the door the disapproving look she’d like to have given Genevieve.

‘Finding someone new? That’s the last thing I want.’

‘Now, Julia, you don’t want to end up like your Aunt Rena.’

‘I’d love to be Aunt Rena.’

‘Julia, no!’

For Audrey, Aunt Rena was a sad example of what could befall a woman who didn’t secure a man young enough in life. In her fifties, single and childless, Rena was to be pitied. ‘I’d feel a little more sympathy for her if it wasn’t all her own fault. If she had just made an effort with any of her men, I’m sure one of them would have married her.’ The fact that Aunt Rena seemed perfectly content, had travelled the globe, published several bestselling travel memoirs, and was currently residing in Buenos Aires with a younger man called Norberto was scant consolation to Audrey. And any attempt to persuade her Rena could be happy was met with utter incredulity.

‘I just mean, I don’t want to end up with someone on the rebound,’ Julia said. ‘I need to give it some time.’

‘Not too much time,’ Audrey said.

Arguing was pointless. Audrey’s opinions were as inflexible as her spine, and Audrey Hathersley never slouched.

Julia stood back and let her mother organise her clothes, alphabetise her books and move the bed to use the available space more efficiently. Only as Audrey was leaving did Julia realise she didn’t want her to go. They had never been apart for any significant length of time. Aunt Rena told her that Audrey had suffered several miscarriages and, before Julia arrived, Audrey had believed she was unable to carry a baby to full term.

‘Even after you were born, she hovered over your cot. Convinced you were about to stop breathing,’ Rena said.

And fourteen months later, Julia’s father died. She couldn’t mourn a man she’d never known, but it must have devastated Audrey, though she never spoke about this period in her life. The wrench at their separation must have afflicted Audrey as much as Julia. But displays of emotion weren’t Audrey’s way. She considered them as vulgar as pierced ears. Julia could think of no reason for asking her to stay longer, and as she had said earlier, she was twenty-three, an adult, not in need of her mother.

‘I better go, it’s a long drive,’ Audrey said. ‘Give me a hug.’

Julia gave her a longer squeeze than usual and was engulfed by the scent of Rive Gauche. Audrey handed her fifty pounds in cash, ‘for emergencies’, then went out to the car. Julia followed her and watched as the little blue Fiesta chugged to the end of the road.

Genevieve had gone out to meet a gentleman friend and the house stood empty. Julia returned to her room, sat on the bed and looked out of the window. Audrey would be getting onto the motorway by now. In a couple of hours, she’d be hundreds of miles away.

What was she doing here? Escape to overcome heartbreak should have meant adventure – not a corporate job at a medium-sized firm in the Home Counties. She should have gone to France, lived in Paris, the Latin Quarter, had an affair with a handsome artist called Emile, who lived in a small flat above a café. They’d stay in bed till noon, making love and smoking Gauloises. Later, they’d amble downstairs to the café, share a bottle of wine with friends and talk politics and philosophy until the late evening, before falling back into bed.

Instead she was fetching an iron from the utility room to press the clothes for her new job at Morgan Boyd next week. She took the iron and ironing board to her room and allowed it to heat up as she fetched coat hangers from the wardrobe and pulled her work blouses from her case.

Her escape didn’t have to be France. She could head south to Portugal or Spain, work in a bar and send a postcard to Christian – Wish you were here?

Mechanically, she pressed the blouses, the steam having little effect on the deep creases. She could leave now. Repack and catch a train to London. Pearl would let her crash on her floor until she found a job. She stopped ironing. London was no more likely than France. It wasn’t lack of language skills stopping her. It was cowardice. Julia craved safety and certainty, a proper job with steady money. Adventure was for other people.

She hung the blouses in the wardrobe, returned the iron and board, then sat on the bed and pushed her back to the wall. The elation she’d felt at leaving home, the hope of catching up on exciting life experiences, evaporated. She no longer felt the thrill of sticking two fingers up at Christian and his new girlfriend, Ellie – See, I don’t care, I’ve got a new life. Christian and Ellie would be glad she was gone. They could carry on their perfect lives without the anxiety of running into Julia at unexpected moments, prodding their consciences, a reminder of their lies and broken promises.

It was Saturday night and Julia was alone, in a house and in a town where she knew no one. She was the only one suffering for her choice. Tears bubbled up and she couldn’t stop herself sobbing. What on earth had possessed her to come to this place? She wished she’d gone back with Audrey. She wished she’d gone home.

Chapter 10

2017 – Archway, London

Better get your story straight.

The caller has been careless and left their number, a mobile. I could ring it back. Not from my phone and not from Garrick’s phone – I don’t want to provide any link between it and me. I consider the payphone on St John’s Way. It’s a bit of a walk and it’s dark and if I am being followed … Part of me doesn’t want to know who this is. Can it be the same person who’s sending the texts, and are they warning or threatening me? I shouldn’t have started drinking. I need a clear head. I try to think of a scenario in which the texts are the result of some hideous coincidence but there’s no wriggle room. Someone knows. The best thing to do is nothing, to wait and see, though that hardly constitutes a plan.