Watching You (4 page)

T
here is a man sitting in a car outside Marnie’s flat with a hat tilted over his eyes as though he’s fallen asleep. A newspaper rests on his lap with a crossword showing and a pen poised above the grid. Marnie walks past the car and up the steps, hearing the driver stir and the car door close.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Marnie slides her key into the lock. He’s wearing a lightweight suit and holding his hat.

“I’m Detective Inspector Gennia of the Metropolitan Police.”

A jangle of alarm runs through Marnie. She thinks of Elijah, cataloguing possible disasters. Kidnapping. Choking. Meningitis. Electrocution. Drowning. How could he possibly drown at day care?

“Your little boy is fine,” says the detective, reading her thoughts.

“Is this about Daniel?”

“No, ma’am.”

The detective is holding his hat with both hands, pushing a dent out in the crown. He glances skywards. “Looks like we might get some rain.”

“You didn’t come here to discuss the weather.”

“Where were you last night between nine o’clock and midnight?”

Marnie won’t meet his eyes. It’s an uncomfortable thing to lie to someone when you fear they know the truth.

“I was at home.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

“My daughter and son were home.”

The detective nods. His hazel eyes seem to blink very slowly. He has thick lashes like a woman and a strange haircut, but everything else about his face is chiselled and angular with skin stretched tightly over his bones.

He’s wearing a wedding ring. Marnie wonders when she began noticing such things. He’s not handsome, but she’s fascinated by the way his lips barely move as he speaks.

“Is that all?” she asks.

“I’m giving you a little time.”

“Pardon?”

“You answered so quickly I thought maybe you didn’t take time to think. So I’m giving you a chance to change your story.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I don’t know
what
I think,” he replies, giving her his boyish smile. “It’s like these shoes I’m wearing. I don’t know if they match this suit or if they make me look like a fashion victim, but I want to believe they’re not completely naff.”

Marnie glances at his needlepoint boots.

“They’re not.”

“Mmmmm,” he says, rocking onto his heels. “Most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned…the leather is so soft.”

He takes a stick of chewing gum from his coat pocket, unwrapping the silver foil and folding the gum against his tongue. Chewing pensively, he gazes up at the block of flats.

“I know you weren’t home last night. Where did you go?”

“I met a friend for a drink.”

“What time?”

“Early.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

“Does it matter?”

“I talked to your caretaker, Trevor. He said you didn’t get home until after midnight.”

“He made a mistake.”

The detective’s eyes move through a range of emotions from skepticism to sadness. Taking out a notebook, he jots something down.

“What are you writing?”

“Just making a note.”

He puts the pen away. “Do you have a good lawyer, Miss Logan?”

“Why?”

“In case I come back with an arrest warrant.”

DI Gennia turns and skips down the steps, putting on his hat and running a finger over the brim.

“Wait!” says Marnie.

The detective pauses.

“Why is it so important to know what I was doing last night?”

“We fished a body out of the river this morning. He was carrying a mobile phone. We traced the last number he called.”

Marnie shakes her head. “That’s not right. He called me this morning.”

“Who?”

“Owen.”

“Who’s Owen?”

“The friend I met last night. He…he was depressed. His mother had just died. He was planning to commit suicide but I talked him out of it.”

“What is Owen’s last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“And he’s a
friend
of yours?”

Marnie doesn’t like Gennia’s sarcasm and she’s annoyed at telling him anything.

“He was an acquaintance rather than a friend. I only met him last night. He was going to jump off Waterloo Bridge.”

Gennia looks puzzled. “The man we found was stabbed to death. His body was discovered shortly before seven this morning floating next to Execution Dock in Wapping. We found his car three hours later, two miles further east, a black Audi.”

Marnie’s breath catches inside her throat like a bubble that won’t break.

The detective is studying her. “We haven’t released the name of the dead man. Perhaps you know it already. The last call made from his mobile was to your number at 8:46 p.m. last night. The call lasted forty-seven seconds.”

Marnie opens the door.

“Why was he calling you?”

She pushes it closed.

“You’re making a mistake,” yells the detective. “You should talk to me.”

S
ome people’s lives make good movies. Some people’s lives make bad movies. The vast majority lead existences that are so mind-numbingly banal they would have an audience chewing on their chairs. Instead of romantic comedies or soaring love stories, they get kitchen-sink dramas and trite tragedies.

Shakespeare was right about the world being a stage and all of us being mere players, but most people can’t act even when they’re typecast as themselves. They lack verisimilitude or they come up with their best lines after the event.

I am the director of Marnie’s life. I don’t write the script, but I set the scenes and let the actors ad-lib their lines. The detective is a new character. I don’t like that he’s watching. I’m not being selfish or hypocritical, but I’ve been doing this for a long time and I have come to regard Marnie as mine.

There is a nice symmetry to where the police found Quinn. The incoming tide carried him as far as Execution Dock. Back in the nineteenth century this was where they brought the condemned prisoners by cart from Marshalsea Prison and paraded them in front of the crowds who gathered along the banks of the river or chartered boats to get a better view. Murderers. Pirates. Deserters. Mutineers. The hangmen from Tyburn or Newgate prisons would do the honors, shortening the rope for acts of piracy so that death came more slowly, which is why they called it the “Marshal’s dance” because their limbs would jerk and spasm as they slowly asphyxiated.

I remember how Quinn looked at me last night, rubbing his eyes to make sure. Then he told me to “fuck off
 
” with so much malice, I wondered where his bravery came from.

For a moment he contemplated putting his foot hard on the accelerator, taking his chances, but chose instead to negotiate because I held a knife against his neck.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, feeling the blade against his skin.

“I came prepared.”

“Can we talk?”

“Keep driving, both hands on the wheel. Let’s talk about men who hit women. Did it make you feel more like a man? Do you feel like a man now?”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re creeping me out.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m sorry. Really I am.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“Call it a blanket apology.”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Saying you’re sorry without being specific is like telling a woman you have a big cock. Everybody knows you’re lying.”

He glanced in the rear-view mirror. His lips were compressed, downturned at the corners.

“Do you always hit women?”

“Sometimes I forget my own strength.”

“I forget myself too sometimes. People often misjudge me, but only the once.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Quinn followed my instructions. Driving carefully. We reached an area of waste ground, flanked by warehouses on two sides and the river on a third. A narrow canal ran through the middle of the weeds and rubble. Large metal doors sealed off the canal from the river, the weight of the water holding them closed. Small rivulets leaked through the seals and rust stained the cables and hinges.

I have often wondered if London should make more of its canals. Most are bleak, boring, lonely, occasionally menacing places. Perhaps they could be planted and refurbished like the High Line in Manhattan, or dotted with bohemian shops and bars, or purified to create urban swimming holes. Gentrified, in other words. Or perhaps they’re better as they are; under-appreciated, under-explored ribbons of old industry through the heart of a modern city.

I touched the side of Quinn’s head and ran one finger behind his ear in a romantic way. He didn’t move. I dropped a plastic cable tie onto his lap.

“Loop it over your hands and pull the end with your teeth…Tighter.”

He looked in the mirror, trying to see the future in my eyes.

“Listen, just take the motor.” He motioned to his pocket. “My wallet—you can have it.”

Before he could finish the statement I had slid the knife across his throat. Not deep because the knife wasn’t particularly sharp. I felt the blood between my thumb and forefinger and smelled the urine soaking his trousers. The car door opened. He tried to run, holding his throat, but he couldn’t yell for help.

At the edge of the canal, he looked at the water below, so black it could have been sump oil or boiling tar. He sobbed and knelt down, pleading with me. I took hold of his hair, tilting his face to mine.

“When you hurt Marnie, you hurt me.”

He gave me a puzzled look before toppling forward.

S
itting at the kitchen table, Marnie tries to steady her heartbeat. What should she have told the detective? Once she started, where would she have stopped? She’d have had to tell him about working as an escort. He would have called child protection and she’d be knee-deep in social workers, threatening to take Zoe and Elijah away from her. How much further would she have to go—telling them about the gambling debts and Patrick Hennessy’s threats and Daniel’s disappearance? So she said nothing and made herself look guilty.

Marnie can’t remember Quinn dropping her home. She recalls getting rid of her clothes and curling up in bed, nursing her ribs, but not the details of the drive and what Quinn said to her when they reached Maida Vale and she opened the car door. Professor O’Loughlin has a special word for these absences, but to Marnie they’re like dropped stitches in the fabric of her day; lapses that she glosses over because she’s too busy or too frightened to do anything else.

She’d wished Quinn dead. Now he is. He was a thug and a bully; he worked for Hennessy, pimping women and collecting debts. He must have had enemies.

Right now Marnie doesn’t have time to think about it. She has an important meeting. Straightening her clothes, she does her make-up. Not too much. She glances at the window. Rain rattles against the pane like thrown rice. What happened to the sunshine? She’ll have to run to the tube station.

She takes two painkillers from a foil packet and washes them down. Then she pours a mouthful of frozen vodka into a glass and swallows it, feeling the liquor scald her throat.

Breathe. You can do this.

Trevor intercepts her as she reaches the ground floor.

“I collected your post,” he says, holding up the envelopes.

“You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“No trouble.”

Bare-armed, he’s wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans over combat boots.

“A man was looking for you earlier. He said he was a detective.”

“I talked to him.”

“He asked me if I saw you come in last night. Is everything OK?”

“Everything is fine.”

Marnie hurries to leave, ignoring a comment on the weather. She wrestles with her umbrella on the front steps and notices a cab coming along the road. She can’t afford the fare, but she’s late. She raises her hand. The cab pulls up. A couple run across the pavement and open the doors.

“Hey! That’s my cab,” she shouts.

A man and woman look up. She’s seen them before. He’s always dressed in a nice suit. Charcoal gray. The woman is less familiar. She has a little girl about Elijah’s age and sometimes goes to the park. She’s one of those irksome mothers who appear perfectly groomed even when they’re feeding ducks or pushing a swing.

“We hailed it first,” says the woman, disappearing inside.

“I’m running so late,” Marnie replies, exasperated.

“Where are you heading?” he asks.

“Tottenham Court Road.”

“We can share.”

“Now we’re going to be late,” the woman says. She has a wheedling voice.

“We’ll be fine,” he says, pushing down the rear-facing seat. He makes the introductions. His name is Craig Bryant. His wife is Eleanor. They moved into the area a year ago, but Eleanor spends most of her time in the country at “the big house.”

“Eleanor doesn’t like London very much.”

“I am
here,
” she says, still annoyed.

“You have a daughter,” says Marnie, trying to break the ice. “I’ve seen you at the park.”

“Gracie,” he says.

“I have a little boy. Elijah. He’s about the same age.”

Bryant’s mobile is ringing. He checks the screen. Answers.

“Tell Anthony not to be so precious…we hate ALL our clients. That’s why we can overcharge them and still sleep at night…I’m on my way to the office now…see if you can schedule a consult. Ask Ginny to check my diary…I’ll see you in fifteen.”

He apologizes. Smiles. He has a great smile. Marnie can see the child in it. Eleanor begins asking about schools and nurseries, all of them too expensive for Marnie to even consider.

“Where do you send Elijah?”

“He goes to the church playgroup in the park.”

“You’re religious?”

“No, it’s cheap.”

That should suffocate the conversation, thinks Marnie, but Eleanor carries on. “What does your husband do?”

“He’s a journalist.”

Eleanor perks up. “Does he work for a newspaper?”

“He’s not around at the moment.”

“Is he on assignment?”

“No.”

Bryant puts a hand on his wife’s knee. “I think she means that they’re not together.”

“He’s missing,” says Marnie, making it sound like something that happens to everyone occasionally and can’t be helped.

Eleanor looks at her husband and back to Marnie. “What happened?”

“He just disappeared.”

“When?”

“Last summer.”

“And you have no idea…?”

“Not a clue.”

“The police?”

“Have given up looking.”

The cab has pulled up. Marnie juggles with her dripping umbrella, looking for money. “How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll get this,” says Bryant.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Good luck with your interview.”

“How do you know…?”

He points to the creased letter in Marnie’s hand. The masthead is from the insurance company. “I guessed.” He hands Marnie his business card. “Should you ever need a lawyer…”

His wife admonishes him. “Not everyone is a potential client, Craig.”

“Maybe I’ll see you in the park,” says Marnie, trying to be cordial.

“I’m rarely in London,” replies Eleanor, making no attempt to reciprocate.

Marnie steps into the downpour, pleased to be outside. Dodging the spray from passing traffic, she runs along the street, counting down the numbers. The building is a 1920s six-story office block, with a pillared porte cochère over the main entrance. Standing in the marbled foyer, Marnie looks down the list of company names. Life General is on the fifth floor. She takes the lift and pushes through a heavy glass door into a reception area that is half the size of her flat.

“Didn’t you see the stand outside?” says a receptionist, who is pointing at Marnie’s dripping umbrella as though it’s nuclear run-off.

“I’m sorry.”

The receptionist is pregnant, squeezed into a skirt that must be constricting blood flow to her legs. It could explain her mood. She answers a phone. There is a script and a tone:
Good afternoon, Life General, can I help you?

Marnie uses a tissue to mop up the puddle on the floor.

The receptionist comes back to her, peering over the edge of her desk. “Who do you wish to see?”

“Mr. Rudolf.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“I told him I was coming.”

The receptionist punches keys on her computer and picks up the phone. Marnie takes a seat, glancing at her watch. She has to pick up Elijah from nursery in under an hour.

Fifteen minutes go by. She asks the receptionist to call him again.

“I’m here,” says Mr. Rudolf, emerging from a swinging glass door. A lean, sharp-featured man in his mid thirties, he’s wearing a navy suit, white shirt, and crimson club tie. Marnie follows him to an office with a large picture window that looks across the street. He doesn’t close the door. A blue foolscap folder is centered on his desk.

“How can I help you today?”

“I wanted to ask about claiming on my husband’s life insurance.”

“I thought I explained the situation on the phone.”

“Yes, but I don’t think you understood…”

“Has your husband been found?”

“No, but I
know
he’s dead.”

“You
know
.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It’s obvious. Nobody has sighted him. He hasn’t touched his bank accounts or turned on his mobile phone or contacted his friends or family. The police have stopped looking. Don’t you think Daniel would have contacted someone if he were still alive?”

Mr. Rudolf takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before releasing it in a long sigh. “Under the terms of our life policies we don’t assume a missing person is dead until seven years have passed and only then when all proper avenues of investigation have been exhausted.”

“What avenues?”

“The usual ones.”

“Where do you think my husband is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he’s alive?”

“That’s not my area of expertise.”

“So what you’re saying is that I must keep paying premiums on a policy that I cannot claim for seven years unless I can produce my husband’s body?”

“We cannot settle your claim without a death certificate.”

Marnie looks at her hands. She feels dizzy. It’s as though she’s stood up too quickly from a hot bath.

“Do you have children, Mr. Rudolf?”

“Yes.”

“Is your life insured?”

“Of course.”

“If something happened to you, would you want your wife to be kept waiting for seven years?”

“I hardly think that’s the—”

“I can’t access his bank accounts. I can’t cancel his gym membership. I’m still paying his annual credit card fees. I can’t stop his direct debits. I can’t divorce him. I can’t mourn him. I can’t change his address or redirect his mail or wind up his investments. I was married to him for five years, but I don’t have any rights because he disappeared instead of dropping dead in front of me. I have two children. I’m trying to feed them and keep a roof over their heads. I’m begging you…please.”

Mr. Rudolf won’t look at her.

“Can I get some sort of advance payment?”

“We don’t make advance payments.”

“I’m owed three hundred thousand pounds. We paid our premiums every year. This isn’t right! You’re trying to take our money.”

“This isn’t my decision. We have rules. We have formulas—”

“Formulas?”

“We cannot pay a claim without a death certificate.”

“How do I get that?”

“Talk to a lawyer.”

Mr. Rudolf shuffles paper now, wishing to end the conversation. Marnie’s voice grows louder, but she doesn’t realize that she’s shouting until a security guard comes to the door. Marnie tries to hold on to the arms of her chair, but her fingers are pried loose and she’s forced to her feet and frog-marched along the corridor to the lift.

It’s not until she’s outside that she remembers her umbrella. They won’t let her back inside. She blinks and looks at the puddle lapping over her shoes. Pedestrians flow around her, dashing between doorways as if they’re stealing bases, ignoring her tears, which look like raindrops.