second man – the protester – left the carriage anyway, sign hoisted up, moving quickly to catch up with the others.
Somewhere, somehow, I’d managed to lose Sam.
As I got to Hammersmith for the second time with no further sign of Sam, the house was starting to get dark. I glanced at the clock: 9.30. I was fried. I closed the footage and shut down the Mac, then showered. As the cool water ran down my face, my mind rolled back once again to what I’d seen, and then over everything Julia Wren had said earlier. I didn’t need to have seen him on the footage to move things on: I already had Sam’s work, his brotherand the obvious loss of weight. The case was already shifting, and would do so with or without the recording. But the video was a useful starting point and, in an odd way, a symbolic one; a means of zeroing in on Sam’s physical location that day, and – in the moment he exited the train, wherever that might have been – a way to get inside his head.
By choosing a station to leave at, he would have given me a compass bearing for that area of the city, and while it might not have led me to him, it would have given me an advantage. But most of all it would have helped erase the impossible: that a man really
could
step on to a train and then – three stops later – disappear into thin air.
12
As I entered Liz’s house there was the smell of coffee and perfume and the buzz of the electric shower along the hallway. Her living room was understated but stylish: an open fireplace, two black leather sofas, a TV, a huge bookcase; and then a potted palm, big and out of control, which looked like it belonged on a Caribbean island.
I went to the kitchen, got two mugs from the cupboard and poured some coffee, then padded through to the bedroom. She’d finished showering and was drying herself off, steam pouring off her, condensation on every surface. I announced my arrival by singing the
Psycho
shower-scene music.
She smiled. ‘Very funny.’
‘It’s like a volcano in here.’
Rolling her eyes, she hung her towel on the door, and started hunting around in her drawers for underwear.
‘How was your day?’ I asked.
‘I was defending that hit-and-run driver.’
She looked at me, her opinion on him clear to see. Even outside of the courtroom, in the privacy of her own home, she maintained a kind of dignified silence. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to discuss her cases with me, more that she preferred not to judge people, even if sometimes – like tonight – it was hard not to. I liked that quality in her.
‘And yours?’
‘It was okay.’
She looked at me. ‘Just okay?’
I put her coffee down and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘So this guy I’m trying to find gets on at Gloucester Road and then disappears. Just …’ I looked at her. It sounded strange saying it out loud. ‘Vanishes.’
‘How do you vanish from the inside of a train?’
I shrugged. ‘That’s just the point. You don’t. You
can’t
. He must have got off at some point – but I can’t see where. I’ve been over the footage twice today.’
‘No sign of him?’
‘Nothing after Victoria.’
‘He’ll turn up.’ She sat down on the bed and squeezed me, then shifted slightly, as if she’d suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, I bumped into an old friend of yours today.’
‘I didn’t realize I had any left.’
Another smile formed on her face. ‘He was giving evidence in one of the other courtrooms.’
‘Who was the friend?’
‘Colm Healy.’
His name made me pause.
The last time I’d seen Healy was at the funeral of his daughter the previous November. He’d been in a bad way at the time: emotionally damaged, physically broken, estranged from his wife and suspended from his job at the Met. In the weeks before he buried his girl, we’d formed an uneasy alliance, one built not on trust, but on necessity, as we both came to realize we were hunting the same man.
‘Did you say hello?’
‘Yes. He
Somewhere, somehow, I’d managed to lose Sam.
As I got to Hammersmith for the second time with no further sign of Sam, the house was starting to get dark. I glanced at the clock: 9.30. I was fried. I closed the footage and shut down the Mac, then showered. As the cool water ran down my face, my mind rolled back once again to what I’d seen, and then over everything Julia Wren had said earlier. I didn’t need to have seen him on the footage to move things on: I already had Sam’s work, his brotherand the obvious loss of weight. The case was already shifting, and would do so with or without the recording. But the video was a useful starting point and, in an odd way, a symbolic one; a means of zeroing in on Sam’s physical location that day, and – in the moment he exited the train, wherever that might have been – a way to get inside his head.
By choosing a station to leave at, he would have given me a compass bearing for that area of the city, and while it might not have led me to him, it would have given me an advantage. But most of all it would have helped erase the impossible: that a man really
could
step on to a train and then – three stops later – disappear into thin air.
12
As I entered Liz’s house there was the smell of coffee and perfume and the buzz of the electric shower along the hallway. Her living room was understated but stylish: an open fireplace, two black leather sofas, a TV, a huge bookcase; and then a potted palm, big and out of control, which looked like it belonged on a Caribbean island.
I went to the kitchen, got two mugs from the cupboard and poured some coffee, then padded through to the bedroom. She’d finished showering and was drying herself off, steam pouring off her, condensation on every surface. I announced my arrival by singing the
Psycho
shower-scene music.
She smiled. ‘Very funny.’
‘It’s like a volcano in here.’
Rolling her eyes, she hung her towel on the door, and started hunting around in her drawers for underwear.
‘How was your day?’ I asked.
‘I was defending that hit-and-run driver.’
She looked at me, her opinion on him clear to see. Even outside of the courtroom, in the privacy of her own home, she maintained a kind of dignified silence. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to discuss her cases with me, more that she preferred not to judge people, even if sometimes – like tonight – it was hard not to. I liked that quality in her.
‘And yours?’
‘It was okay.’
She looked at me. ‘Just okay?’
I put her coffee down and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘So this guy I’m trying to find gets on at Gloucester Road and then disappears. Just …’ I looked at her. It sounded strange saying it out loud. ‘Vanishes.’
‘How do you vanish from the inside of a train?’
I shrugged. ‘That’s just the point. You don’t. You
can’t
. He must have got off at some point – but I can’t see where. I’ve been over the footage twice today.’
‘No sign of him?’
‘Nothing after Victoria.’
‘He’ll turn up.’ She sat down on the bed and squeezed me, then shifted slightly, as if she’d suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, I bumped into an old friend of yours today.’
‘I didn’t realize I had any left.’
Another smile formed on her face. ‘He was giving evidence in one of the other courtrooms.’
‘Who was the friend?’
‘Colm Healy.’
His name made me pause.
The last time I’d seen Healy was at the funeral of his daughter the previous November. He’d been in a bad way at the time: emotionally damaged, physically broken, estranged from his wife and suspended from his job at the Met. In the weeks before he buried his girl, we’d formed an uneasy alliance, one built not on trust, but on necessity, as we both came to realize we were hunting the same man.
‘Did you say hello?’
‘Yes. He
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