It Should Have Been Me Read online

  Briony pursued him. ‘I know Sarah had a stalker. He was a postgrad. He followed her about, spied on her. She’d gone out with him a couple times at the beginning of the first term, then dumped him.’

  ‘That sounds like Sarah.’

  ‘He wouldn’t leave her alone. We used to joke about him.’

  Nathan caught Lech’s gaze; he was watching the exchange with puzzlement. So were several of the customers. Their scrutiny, the sad doggy eyes of his Polish friend, made Nathan feel hot and ashamed. He headed for the kitchen.

  The gnome followed. ‘I know it’s probably a lot to take in after all this time.’

  He opened the dishwasher, unloaded his tray. By focusing his attention on each small action he managed to suppress his desire to smash her in the face.

  ‘I only want to help, Nathan. You have to believe that.’

  Believe! That was a joke. He didn’t need to believe, he knew. She was just like Sarah. A user.

  ‘Did you tell all this to the police?’

  She dropped her gaze. ‘Well, no. Not at the time. We were all too upset. Later on I tried to go and make a statement. They said the case was closed.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  Nathan found himself staring at her. He’d regained some measure of composure. She wore a huge tent-like dress to cover her many bulges. It was a nondescript colour, camouflage, as if she hoped it would help her disappear. But she was smart, he’d give her that; the tale she’d concocted had plausibility.

  When she smiled a small dimple rippled her left cheek, giving her face a lopsided appearance. ‘Look, I know I should’ve done something more, made a fuss. But well, inertia is easier, isn’t it? We always find excuses. But I’ve felt guilty ever since. All I want is to get to the truth. I feel I owe it to Sarah and to you. I know you’re innocent, Nathan. And you’ve paid an awful price. I’m here because I want to help.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then fuck off and leave me in peace!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jo Boden took the tube to Westminster and headed across the bridge. A watery sun was leaching through the fog, choppy brown waves churned the surface of the river and an icy wind cut into the scurrying pedestrians. It wasn’t a day for tourists and photos, although a few hardy souls were attempting the mandatory selfie.

  Jo wrapped her scarf round her battered face, put her head down and pressed on. Razan had been transferred to St Thomas’ Hospital, which occupied a riverside campus of old and new, tile and glass, opposite the Houses of Parliament. With instructions from Debbie Georgiou, she went in the main entrance and followed signs to the east wing and up to the second floor, where the Intensive Care Unit was located.

  She showed her ID to the sister on duty and was escorted to Razan’s bedside. Not long out of surgery, the sister explained that she was heavily sedated. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial in terms of her prospects of recovery.

  Jo had spent plenty of time in and out of A&E during her spell as a fledgling PC. Ferrying drunks, drug addicts, down-and-outs and victims of violence had formed a substantial part of the work on Response. But the quiet of ICU, the array of monitors, the tangle of tubes and wires, the drips and ventilators, was not an experience of hospitals she was familiar with. Standing beside the bed and gazing down at her chis, she felt awkward.

  Razan’s face was mostly covered in white dressings; only one eye was visible, the grey lid firmly closed. Ardi Kelmendi had been efficient in his punishment. If a woman’s worth was all about appearance – and Jo presumed that’s what a thug like Ardi would think – then he’d made sure Razan would be scarred for life, if indeed she lived, damaged goods that no one would want.

  Jo felt angry and also responsible. How could Hollingsworth call it a strategic decision to use the girl in this way? She’d been exploited. They’d both been exploited. Even if she accepted the justification of necessity, it felt cold and callous to Jo.

  She shifted uneasily from foot to foot and, though her eyes welled, she didn’t cry – that would be unprofessional. Going in alone to rescue her chis was reckless, she knew that. Another thirty seconds could’ve produced a very different outcome. She could’ve been in that bed herself. Or worse. It was a foolhardy mistake, as a police officer she had to acknowledge that, yet she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

  Unruly thoughts swirled, guilt competing with self-reproach; she could taste the bile rising in her throat as her head and nose throbbed. She knew she had to get out. Walking briskly away down the corridor she headed for the nearest exit.

  She strode out of the hospital into the heavy winter chill and westwards along the riverside walk; her pace didn’t slacken until she reached Vauxhall Bridge where she found herself staring over the parapet at the roiling river.

  Exercise, indeed any kind of movement, always made her feel better. She found if she kept her body busy, the carping critical chatter in her head tended to trail off. But it was not a day for admiring the view. Sharp needles of rain started to thrash across the bridge and soon drove her to seek shelter.

  She skirted the front of the giant SIS building at Vauxhall Cross and wondered if her new job would involve working with the security services. The headquarters of MI6 rose up like a mad mash-up of a brutalist car park and an Aztec temple. But she didn’t even know if what she’d been offered was a new job. Vaizey had spoken of a secondment, which sounded temporary. Still, it was an opportunity and she needed to focus on that instead of ruminating on mistakes. Looking back, allowing the past to haunt you, had to be resisted at all costs. She knew this only too well.

  Finding refuge in a small coffee shop at the southern end of the bridge, she treated herself to a hot chocolate heaped with marshmallows. The sugar hit and two more painkillers helped improve her outlook. Whatever Vaizey wanted her to do, she wouldn’t disappoint him. By the time she’d finished her drink she was imagining the promotion that would surely result from this.

  She visualized it in detail – Vaizey giving her the news personally, praising her in front of the team. Part of her still felt ridiculous when she did this exercise but she persevered. Sometimes it worked. She’d spent her teenage years in therapy; twice a week, her parents had insisted. She’d hated it, but it had produced one or two useful techniques. She stepped out of the coffee shop on to the rain-slicked pavements having more or less banished thoughts of Razan from her mind. At least for the time being.

  She set off back along Albert Embankment towards Waterloo, where she planned to pick up the tube. This was an area of London that was rapidly changing. The shabby backstreets were full of building sites and skips. Trains rumbled by on the nearby mainline. West of Vauxhall Cross at Nine Elms luxury apartments were sprouting up all around the new American Embassy. Beyond that Battersea Power Station was being refashioned into a residential oasis. Hard-hats and high viz jackets would soon be replaced by foreign wealth. Living somewhere like this would never be possible on a copper’s wages. But she wasn’t envious. London had always been about money and the battle to grab or steal more of it. Anyone with the job of protecting its citizens couldn’t fail to be aware of that.

  She put on headphones and scrolled through the playlists on her phone to find some upbeat music. But before she could make her selection the phone buzzed with an incoming call. Glancing at the caller ID her heart sank: Mum. She let the call ring out and go to voicemail. But she knew what would happen next. Alison Boden would leave a lengthy garbled message and then ring again, and again, more or less continuously, until her daughter responded. It wasn’t yet midday, so a little early for her mother to be up and about.

  The drizzle had turned into a heavier downpour. Jo took shelter under the cantilevered canopy of a posh new hotel and decided to give in to the inevitable. The phone buzzed again. This time she answered.

  ‘Morning, Mum. You’re up early.’

  ‘Jo, I cannot believe it. I seriously cannot believe it!’


  Wincing, Boden clicked down the volume control. Alison was clearly upset, but there was nothing new there.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They phoned me. They just phoned me. I was half asleep when I answered. So at first I really didn’t believe it.’

  ‘Slow down, Mum. Who phoned you?’

  ‘Victim liaison. Someone – I don’t know – some name I didn’t recognize. You are not going to believe this, Jo.’

  ‘Well, no. Not until you tell me.’ The bored hotel security man – cheap black suit, earpiece – was giving her a suspicious once-over; she must look bedraggled and poor. She gave him a smile.

  Her mother’s melodramas and the histrionics that usually accompanied them had been a feature of her life for many years. Calls like these happened on average two or three times a week. A row with a neighbour, an altercation with someone in the supermarket queue, a refusal by the GP’s receptionist to give her an emergency appointment with her favourite doctor, the only one who understood her. The difficulties of Alison Boden’s life were legion and since her husband left her, when Jo was thirteen, there had been no one but her daughter to sort them out.

  Jo didn’t resent this. It was simply how it was. She’d learnt to be patient and she’d learnt not to engage. Alison had received various conflicting diagnoses for her condition. Sometimes they’d called it post-traumatic stress disorder, other times clinical depression. She’d seen an army of therapists, had been prescribed enough pills to make her rattle, but the truth was rarely discussed: she’d never recovered from the murder of her eldest daughter, Sarah, when Jo was eleven. Her mother soldiered on in her own chaotic fashion and one way or another they coped.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line punctuated by shuddering gasps.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum. Just tell me. I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  ‘Victim liaison phoned me up to tell me – they’re letting him out.’

  Jo took a deep breath. She’d been expecting some stupid row. This was genuinely surprising.

  ‘Well, we knew this was on the cards—’ She felt her own annoyance rising. If Nathan Wade was being released on licence, why hadn’t victim liaison had the good sense to speak to her first? Katie Carr, their original family liaison officer, retired long ago and had since died. Some idiot in the office hadn’t taken the trouble to read the case file properly.

  ‘How can they, Jo? He was sentenced to life imprisonment. So why doesn’t life mean life?’

  ‘That’s not how the system works. We’ve talked about this. Did they say when?’

  ‘Shortly. She said they’d phone again once he’s actually out. That bastard goes free but Sarah’s still dead!’

  ‘He’s not free exactly. He’ll only be released on licence. They’ll be keeping a close eye on him.’

  ‘It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!’

  ‘It’s the law, Mum. He’s served his time.’

  ‘Sixteen years, eight months and five days since I lost my baby!’ She was sobbing now. ‘I’m still serving my time, every hour of every single day! When will I be free?’

  Jo swallowed hard. She fingered the plaster on her broken nose. ‘Listen, I’m going to come over, okay. Make yourself a cup of tea and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ She waited for a reply, none came. ‘I love you, Mum.’

  Wiping away the flecks of rain with her palm she peered at the screen. But Alison Boden had already hung up.

  Jo stood alone on the damp pavement as a cascade of warring emotions engulfed her. Remembering her dead sister could do this, which was why she always resisted it.

  There were few traces left of the actual person that Sarah had been. But as a ghost her presence was huge. Myths and tales, especially Alison’s fantasies, had taken over. Jo did her best to ignore these. Becoming a detective had given her a different handle on the world. She’d interviewed enough witnesses to understand that perceptions varied, memories were fallible. Everyone’s brain nattered away with its own unique story. Truth was as slippery as an eel. This left only one way to cope as far as Jo could see: hold fast to the evidence. Ignore the rest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  10 October 1999

  Brighton

  Dear Pixie,

  I’m really sorry to hear that you don’t like the new school. If it’s any consolation, I hated it myself for about the first month. But trust me, Pix, things will change. It’s a big step going from a little primary school and all the mates you’ve known since forever to a huge High School. No one wants to be in the babies’ class again. But, contrary to what you might think, Mummy and Daddy are not trying to make your life a misery. They want you to be happy and to have all the chances that going to a really good school will bring.

  I know some of the girls are snotty and posh, but inside they’re as scared as you are. That’s why they band together and say all the nasty stuff they do. You just have to ignore them. When you see them coming, pretend in your head that you’re Tank Girl and give them the look. Then they’ll leave you alone and pick on someone else.

  The first week at uni was awesome. When it’s your turn, and it will be one day, you are going to love it, I promise. Freshers’ Week is basically one long booze fest and an even longer hangover! (Don’t tell any of this to the parents!)

  We had this three-legged pub crawl in town and I was partnered with this postgrad, much better than some spotty first year with BO! We came third. It was so much fun. He’s hot. Plus he has a car! A CAR! The other girls on my course are green with envy. I know he really likes me. So watch this space!

  Well, Pix, I’ve got to go. I have my first seminar this morning and, despite what you might think, I do intend to do some actual work while I’m here.

  I’m going to send you a new tape of all the cool stuff I’ve collected. Can’t neglect your musical education, can we? I hope you’ve followed my instructions and binned those Spice Girls posters! Geri was the only good thing about them in my humble opinion.

  Went to a gig by this awesome new band called Coldplay. Chris Martin is gorgeous. Pin back your ears, Pix, they are gonna be BIG! You heard it here first!

  Take care of yourself my little Pixie. School will get better, I promise. And remember the family motto – DON’T LET THE BASTARDS GRIND YOU DOWN!

  Tons of love and hugs,

  S xxxxxxxxxxxx

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nathan had a well-worn repertoire of tricks, which, used judiciously, usually got him what he needed. Pulling a sickie was one he rarely used and no one thought his stomach complaint was anything other than genuine. A potion was administered by the nurse at the medical centre – her guess was mild food poisoning or a bug – he’d swallowed it obediently and was given permission to remain in his cell for the rest of the day.

  The stomach ache and nausea wasn’t a total lie. He was nervous with fear and what worried him most was his own reaction to the disruptive events eddying around him. He couldn’t afford to get angry. He needed time to steady himself, to think and to plan. He’d bribed one of the screws to keep him in the loop about when the parole board was due to meet. Would his case be on the agenda at their next meeting?

  The moron had been unable to tell him that, even though Nathan had supplied him with some useful information about how one of the jail’s major dealers was bringing in large quantities of high-grade skunk by drone. Ford had been an old RAF base, then a Fleet Air Arm station and Nathan wondered how its old denizens, the Few, would have regarded the secret comings and goings of these pilotless craft loaded with contraband.

  The prison officer had failed to pass the intelligence up the chain. Bought off by the dealer, was Nathan’s guess. The end result was Nathan was the one shafted, but there was nothing new in that. It was simply how the system operated; get over it, move on. But it had upset his equilibrium, as had Briony Rowe. And he was still in the dark about his exact release date.

  Sitting on his bunk he pressed his fingernails into his palms un
til it hurt. Then he tried to focus on the red welts he’d created in his own flesh. Pain helped, pain was cleansing. The craving for drugs continued to niggle, especially when he was feeling stressed. The voice in his head whispered: Just this once, it won’t do any harm.

  Harm? That was a loaded word. Did Briony Rowe have any concept of the harm she’d done him? She wanted to get to the truth, she said. But her truth was merely another story. And it certainly wasn’t a story that would help him. He pondered, struggling to detach his thoughts from any sort of emotion. Maybe all women were users. Perhaps it was a survival mechanism, part of their DNA.

  He decided to meditate. For the rest of the afternoon he sat cross-legged on the floor. The vinyl covering had a cushioned underlay providing insulation, it was also easy to clean. He liked that. Most of the nicks he’d been in were grubby and rank, cold concrete permeated with years of grime and cleaning fluid. But being in an open prison wasn’t so bad. He had his own cell, his books; he didn’t need anything else. He thought about the weight of his body pressing down into the soft plastic. This helped him relax as he let his thoughts come to rest on his breath.

  Sarah had had a stalker. That was the thought that popped up. He made a determined effort to let it go. But it wouldn’t. Persistent little bastard. Sarah had a stalker, who could’ve been a postgrad. But how could that be? They didn’t know any postgrads. They were first years. Postgrads didn’t mix with first years. Back to the breath. His chest felt tight, his stomach muscles rigid with tension. What you resist persists, so said the Zen masters. The thought-stream was a river, you had to let it flow.

  He’d noticed Sarah at their very first lecture, it was hard not to. Her hair was golden, an unruly halo framing her face. But it wasn’t just the fact she was stunningly beautiful; she had a light in her eyes and an unexpectedly dirty laugh. He remembered the first time he’d heard it. After a lecture, they were all filing out, someone made a joke. Sarah tossed back her head and an unrestrained gravelly howl erupted from her perfect lips. He stood rooted to the spot. He felt the vibrations of that sound in his bones, in his belly. In that moment she’d bewitched him. But for all of that first term he’d watched her from afar. Girls like that frightened him. Such confidence was unnerving. She seemed to know something he didn’t.