Rebound (11 page)

I’m usually quite disciplined about working from home and get much more done than in the office. But today it’s as easy as drawing blood from a stone. I sit in my study, looking out
through the window, staring at my lush garden, and I know I should be feeling extremely lucky that I am where I am, with a beautiful house, great job – despite the on-going shit-storm –
and all the trappings of an affluent life. Of course, I do have a hideous mortgage to repay, thankfully ticking over nicely on a very low interest rate, and I am a prisoner in the golden cage of a
big corporation, but I can live with it. What is bothering me, then? Am I getting broody? Nah, I’ve never wanted to have children and being on the wrong side of thirty-five hasn’t
changed how I feel about it. My friends with kids say the biological clock will wake me up sooner or later, but I haven’t heard it ringing yet. I need to clear my head and I fall back on the
only way I know how to do it: I have to go for a run. I remember what I’ve promised Bell and decide to head to Waterlow Park. Just as well – I don’t want to stumble upon Nicole
with the dogs on the Heath, it would only confuse Wispa.

I trot down the High Street, stop briefly to peek at the bookshop’s window, then enter the park through the gate next to Channing School for Girls. As I pass the tennis courts on my right
I slow down and look back for Wispa, only to remember she’s with Nicole on the Heath.

Waterlow Park is small, but it always takes my breath away when I get to the top of the hill and look at the rich meadows sprawling down its gentle slopes, the elegant trees, the windy alleyways
and the magnificent view of the London skyline below. Today there is a group of happy pensioners, amateur watercolour enthusiasts, scattered on the lawn, busily recreating the view. I can feel my
body and soul sing as I pass them and run down the alley towards the ponds. The singing stops when I see a pale-skinned and almost-naked silhouette lying in the grass, right by my path. Alden. He
seems to be blissfully asleep in the sun, but when I pass him he raises his head and shades his eyes with his arm.

‘Anna!’

Damn. I slow down and turn towards him with a forced smile. I really don’t fancy any company right now.

‘Alden.’

He’s on his feet now, his tan Bermuda shorts riding down his flat stomach, revealing a tuft of dark hair above his belt. Normally I’d enjoy this slightly narcissistic display of a
cute male body, but now it just annoys me.

‘Anna, I’m so sorry about the other night. I really don’t know what came over me. I saw your front door open and . . .’ He waves his arm and gives me his charming
puppy-like look.

‘No worries, Alden, glad you’re OK now.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He brushes his face with his hand. ‘It was just a little tiff with Tina, all well now. You OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, just getting my endorphin rush.’

‘Oh, I get mine from eating hot chillies and sex.’ He winks.

‘Lucky you.’ I can’t help but laugh.

‘You off work?’

‘Working from home,’ I say with a pang of guilty conscience.

‘I can see that. Me too.’ He keeps his face comically straight and I must say he is cute.

‘How’s your film?’

‘Still trying to get funding for it. It’s really tough these days. Even the freelance jobs have dried up. But I have a lodger now, so at least the bills get paid.’

‘I’ll give you a shout if I hear of any DA jobs opening.’

‘That would be awesome, cheers, Anna.’

He waves at me and lies back down in the grass. Strange boy, I think as I continue jogging. There is something weird about him, going on about his girlfriend. Didn’t Tom say they’d
split up some time ago? Why is he acting as if they are still together? He’s either in complete denial about the whole thing or they’ve got together again, unbeknown to Tom.

I do a loop round the park then head for the gate out to Swain’s Lane. When I’m at the gate I slow down and look back, a habit of waiting for Wispa, who’s usually dragging her
paws a bit when we run together. Of course she’s not there, I remember, but when I look back I catch a glimpse of a runner who looks familiar. I stop and turn, but by then the runner has
veered off into a side alley and disappeared behind the bushes. This is not good, my suspicious mind is beginning to play tricks on me.

I get back home and hop under the shower, taking time to check my breasts for any suspicious lumps, a self-check I do regularly since I discovered a benign cyst in my breast a few years ago. I
emerge from the bathroom feeling reassured, clean and energized. I’m ready to do some work. I’m just settling in with a cup of coffee in the study when the front door opens and I hear
the pitter-patter of Wispa’s paws. She comes straight to me, her tail wagging.

‘Anna?’ I hear Nicole’s voice.

‘Yes?’ I put down my coffee and go out to the hallway.

Nicole is standing by the open door, looking pale, clearly distraught.

‘Nicole, you OK?’ I go to her, pull her gently inside and shut the door. ‘Come through to the kitchen. What happened?’

‘There was another rape on the Heath this morning. The whole area’s been cordoned off. There’s police everywhere.’

Nicole sinks heavily down onto a kitchen chair.

‘Another rape?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

She starts sobbing uncontrollably. I put my arm round her and wait for her to collect herself. Then I get up and pour her a glass of water. She takes a sip and wipes her face with her hands.
Belatedly, I offer her some tissues. She blows her nose noisily and clears her throat.

‘I don’t know the details, but the other dog walkers were saying he’s done some horrible things to her . . .’ Her chin begins to quiver again.

‘Have they caught anyone?’

‘I don’t think so.’

We both fall silent, digesting the terrifying news.

‘They were saying she was a jogger. But someone said she was a dog walker and they’re still trying to catch her dogs . . . Oh, Anna, I don’t know if I ever dare to go back
there again . . . My favourite place in the whole world, my sanctuary, my livelihood . . .’

‘I’m sure they’ll catch him.’ I know how feeble it sounds but I don’t know what else to say. I turn the kettle on and prepare two mugs. Tea, the universal British
remedy. With our steaming mugs we move to the sitting room where I switch on the TV and search for the BBC News channel. They are talking about golf, but there is a red crawler at the bottom of the
screen flashing the headline
BREAKING NEWS
and
LATEST
. We wait impatiently as it crawls along: ‘G20 finance ministers back an action plan drawn
up by the OECD to crack down on tax avoidance by multinationals,’ followed by ‘Israel to free Palestinian prisoners.’ And there it is: ‘Police are appealing for witnesses
and information following a serious sexual assault on London’s Hampstead Heath.’ That’s it. I know there’ll be more on the Internet and Twitter, but I don’t want to
further upset Nicole. I switch the TV off.

‘Look, Anna, I think I’m going to take some time off and go to my parents in Milton Keynes. I’m sorry, I really don’t want to leave you in the lurch, but I don’t
think I’ll be dog-walking for a while . . .’

‘I totally understand. Absolutely, go to your parents, that’s a great idea.’

‘I’d better go then and call them.’ She puts her mug down and gets up from the sofa. ‘Oh, nearly forgot, your keys.’ She hands me my front-door keys.

‘Thanks, Nicole.’ I close the front door behind her and put the chain on. Then I go to the study and sit down in front of my laptop. There isn’t much about it in the news yet,
just a short item:

It’s followed by the usual phrase about contacting the police.

But Twitter is buzzing with information. The police are now linking all three attacks. I wonder if that means his previous victim has been able to give a description of him. Apparently this
woman was a jogger. She was attacked on the path not far from Kenwood Nursery and dragged into the bushes. There is one tweet that is particularly horrific, if it can get any more horrific than it
is already. She was found unconscious, with her knickers stuffed in her mouth.

For a long while I just sit at my desk, feeling cold and numb. How could this be possible? One of the most peaceful places in London has just been tainted with yet another brutal, grotesque act
of violence. I feel as if someone has deliberately taken away one of the things I value most, a place I connect with freedom, well-being, spontaneity. And what about the victim, presumably a young
woman, running one minute, full of life, brutalized and left for dead the next. Will they catch the attacker? Will the Heath ever be able to recover? My thoughts go back to the Dior Man. It’s
not him, it’s not him, it’s not him, I keep repeating to myself. Then why do I feel somehow responsible for unleashing all the violence? Here we go again . . . Perhaps I should have
myself checked for OCD and do something about the inflated sense of responsibility. My mobile rings and I let it go straight to my voicemail. But its shrill sound brings me back to reality. I need
to deal with some practicalities. I won’t be able to find a replacement dog walker at such short notice and Bell, who is usually my emergency Wispa-sitter, is away. That reminds me, I have to
email her, just in case the Heath news filters through to Vancouver, although I doubt it. It’s not the Stock Exchange or the Royal Family after all. I email Claire and let her know I have a
stomach bug and am taking Friday off. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, especially not with everything that’s going on, but I simply can’t face work just now. Claire replies
almost instantaneously, wishing me a quick recovery and updating me on the news. I’ll be very sorry if she ever decides to leave her job, I don’t know what I’d do without her. I
compose a short email to Bell, just to let her know I’m alive, and then I curl up on the sofa in the sitting room and fall asleep.

I wake up to Wispa snoring on the floor by the sofa. My back is stiff from being curled up in one position for too long. I look at my iPhone and realize I’ve slept for
two hours. It always happens when I’m stressed, it’s my body’s way of switching off to let the mind rest. There are five voicemails on my phone. Two from work (Gary and Sarah
– both can safely be ignored), two from Michael and one from my friend Kate in Norfolk. I call back Michael straight away.

‘I was a bit worried about you. This Heath thing, how awful . . .’

‘Terrible. I must say, it’s shaken me badly.’

‘No kidding. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it on the news . . . What are you doing tonight?’

‘Me? Nothing.’ I really don’t fancy any social activities.

‘That’s perfect, darling. I’m coming over with a bottle of wine. And I won’t take no for an answer. Shall I bring some food as well?’

‘I’m sure I can rustle something up.’ I smile at his way of being bossy.

‘Lovely. Have to rush now, see you in a couple of hours.’

I put the phone down and realize I’m really glad he’s coming. I was dreading an evening on my own.

I grab Wispa’s leash and we walk to the High Street’s grocer where I pick up some mushrooms, broccoli, beef tomatoes, rocket, a couple of ripe avocados and gloriously fragrant fresh
basil. It’s going to be a pasta night. I throw in a punnet of huge yellow raspberries, get a tub of ice cream at Tesco and the dinner is sorted. It’s not going to be Ottolenghi, but
simple flavours with a nice bottle of wine can be equally satisfying. I decide to take a larger loop going back home and enter Waterlow Park for the second time in a day. It looks different in the
sunset: with the longer shadows and reddish light it feels more dramatic, mysterious. Wispa trots off with her nose to the ground and I sit down on a bench, absorbing the view. It’s hard to
imagine anything bad happening in such a peaceful place. I think of the Heath and the horrendous drama that played out over there this morning. Such an evil act changes the energy of the whole
place, makes it cold and unfriendly, with danger lurking in every shadow. Will I ever dare to go back there? Will I trust it again? I call Wispa, who is sniffing around a rubbish bin, collect my
shopping bags and climb the path towards home.

Before I start cooking I go to my study and check the BBC news on my laptop. There’s a bit more about the Heath rape. The victim has been identified as a twenty-eight-year-old woman who
lives locally. There is a short video of Detective Chief Inspector Vic Jones addressing the public. She’s a tall woman with short curly hair and a kind face.

‘This was an appalling and violent attack by an individual with a propensity for violence towards women,’ she says and somehow I trust her that she’ll do everything to catch
the rapist. ‘I am grateful to a number of witnesses who have already come forward and appeal for anyone else with information to contact us. We would particularly like to hear from any other
women who live in this area who may have been assaulted on the Heath.

‘I can understand why you may not have come forward, but if this has happened to you then you may have a vital piece of information that can help us stop him.’

The video clip ends and I sit staring at the laptop, digesting what she’s said. She’s linking the rape attacks, although she hasn’t said it directly. Any piece of information
can help them stop him. Stop him, I repeat in my head. It means she thinks he’ll do it again. I play the clip once more and this time it feels as if she’s talking to me.
You may have
a vital piece of information
. Do I? Is it relevant? Is it up to me to decide? And do I have a moral obligation to go to the police with the Dior Man story? I vacillate, unable to make up my
mind.

I’m in the kitchen chopping the vegetables for the sauce when Michael rings the doorbell. As he walks in, dressed in a stylish linen summer suit, he complains about the disappearance of
the lovely wine shop in the High Street.