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Authors: Nicci French
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The sky was completely blue, not even a wisp of cloud, and the sun was a washed-out disc, casting no heat. Everything sparkled with frost. Dirty old London looked wonderful.
We were in a street of terraced houses. Most of them were boarded up with planks, some had metal grilles across their entrances and windows. The small front gardens were thick with nettles and brambles and rubbish.
‘It was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Number forty-two,’ said Cross, pointing across the street. ‘This is where you fetched up and scared Tony Russell half to death. You remember this at least?’
‘It’s all a bit of a daze,’ I said. ‘I was in a blind panic. I thought he was right behind me. I was running as randomly as possible to shake him off.’
I looked across at the house. It hardly looked less abandoned than the rest of the street. Cross leant back into the car and retrieved an anorak. I was dressed in a strange assemblage of other people’s clothing that had been found for me in the hospital. I tried not to think of the women who might have worn them before. Cross’s manner was affable and relaxed. We might have been strolling to a pub.
‘I hoped we could retrace your footsteps,’ he said. ‘Which direction did you come from?’
That was easy. I pointed down the street, away from where we’d come.
‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘Let’s go there, then.’
We walked down the street.
‘That man,’ I said. ‘The one in number forty-two.’
‘Russell,’ said Cross. ‘Tony Russell.’
‘Did he see him?’
‘He’s not much of a witness,’ said Cross, ‘old Tony Russell. In any case, he slammed the door shut and dialled 999.’
At the end of the street I expected more rows of terraced houses but instead we were faced with one corner of a huge, almost completely derelict housing estate whose windows were smashed and doors boarded up. There were two archway entrances immediately ahead and others further down.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
‘The Browning estate,’ said Cross.
‘Does anybody live here?’
‘It’s due for demolition. It’s been due for demolition for twenty years.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a shithole.’
‘This must have been where I was kept.’
‘Do you remember?’
‘I know I came from this direction.’ I looked up and down desperately. ‘I ran under one of those archways. I must have been in that estate.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you remember which archway you came through?’
I walked across the road. I looked so hard that it hurt.
‘They’re quite similar. It was dark, I was running desperately. I’m so sorry. I’d had a hood over my eyes for days. I was almost hallucinating. I was in such a state.’
Cross took a deep breath. He was obviously disappointed.
‘Maybe we can narrow down the possibilities.’
We walked up and down the street and into the courtyards through the archway. It was awful. I could just about see what must have been in the architect’s head when he designed it. It would have been like an Italian village, piazzas, open spaces for people to sit and walk and talk. Lots of little passageways so that people could walk through and around it. But it hadn’t worked out. Cross pointed out to me how the passageways had been perfect for all different kinds of concealment, for shooting up, for mugging, for getting away. He showed me where a body had been found in a skip.
I became more and more miserable. All the spaces and arcades and terraces looked the same. And in the daylight it looked like nothing I’d ever seen before. Cross was patient with me. He just waited, his hands thrust into his pockets and his breath curling up into the air. He started asking me about time instead of direction. Did I remember how long it had taken me to run from the building to Tony Russell’s house? I tried to recall it. I couldn’t get it to make sense. He kept trying. Five minutes? I didn’t know. More? Less? I didn’t know.
We were in a street of terraced houses. Most of them were boarded up with planks, some had metal grilles across their entrances and windows. The small front gardens were thick with nettles and brambles and rubbish.
‘It was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Number forty-two,’ said Cross, pointing across the street. ‘This is where you fetched up and scared Tony Russell half to death. You remember this at least?’
‘It’s all a bit of a daze,’ I said. ‘I was in a blind panic. I thought he was right behind me. I was running as randomly as possible to shake him off.’
I looked across at the house. It hardly looked less abandoned than the rest of the street. Cross leant back into the car and retrieved an anorak. I was dressed in a strange assemblage of other people’s clothing that had been found for me in the hospital. I tried not to think of the women who might have worn them before. Cross’s manner was affable and relaxed. We might have been strolling to a pub.
‘I hoped we could retrace your footsteps,’ he said. ‘Which direction did you come from?’
That was easy. I pointed down the street, away from where we’d come.
‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘Let’s go there, then.’
We walked down the street.
‘That man,’ I said. ‘The one in number forty-two.’
‘Russell,’ said Cross. ‘Tony Russell.’
‘Did he see him?’
‘He’s not much of a witness,’ said Cross, ‘old Tony Russell. In any case, he slammed the door shut and dialled 999.’
At the end of the street I expected more rows of terraced houses but instead we were faced with one corner of a huge, almost completely derelict housing estate whose windows were smashed and doors boarded up. There were two archway entrances immediately ahead and others further down.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
‘The Browning estate,’ said Cross.
‘Does anybody live here?’
‘It’s due for demolition. It’s been due for demolition for twenty years.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a shithole.’
‘This must have been where I was kept.’
‘Do you remember?’
‘I know I came from this direction.’ I looked up and down desperately. ‘I ran under one of those archways. I must have been in that estate.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you remember which archway you came through?’
I walked across the road. I looked so hard that it hurt.
‘They’re quite similar. It was dark, I was running desperately. I’m so sorry. I’d had a hood over my eyes for days. I was almost hallucinating. I was in such a state.’
Cross took a deep breath. He was obviously disappointed.
‘Maybe we can narrow down the possibilities.’
We walked up and down the street and into the courtyards through the archway. It was awful. I could just about see what must have been in the architect’s head when he designed it. It would have been like an Italian village, piazzas, open spaces for people to sit and walk and talk. Lots of little passageways so that people could walk through and around it. But it hadn’t worked out. Cross pointed out to me how the passageways had been perfect for all different kinds of concealment, for shooting up, for mugging, for getting away. He showed me where a body had been found in a skip.
I became more and more miserable. All the spaces and arcades and terraces looked the same. And in the daylight it looked like nothing I’d ever seen before. Cross was patient with me. He just waited, his hands thrust into his pockets and his breath curling up into the air. He started asking me about time instead of direction. Did I remember how long it had taken me to run from the building to Tony Russell’s house? I tried to recall it. I couldn’t get it to make sense. He kept trying. Five minutes? I didn’t know. More? Less? I didn’t know.
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