‘The usual?’ the woman behind the bakery counter asks, sliding one into a paper bag for him.
‘Not today, thanks,’ Jake says, sweeping back his long hair. His empty stomach rumbles in protest. ‘I think you’ve got a package for me.’
‘Here we go.’ She passes him a padded envelope.
Jake knows at once that it’s not a book. Too small. At least it’s not a bill. Or a court summons. He’s had too many of those recently. On his way out, he stops to look at the small ads: teenagers offering to babysit, mow lawns. He could do that. Easier than writing. His novels are only published in Finland now.
He crosses the street to walk in the sunshine and heads back to his boat via the station. As he passes, he spots Bex, Kate’s best friend, on the crowded platform, all big hair and chunky shoes. He likes to chat with her even if the feeling is far from mutual. She’s his last remaining connection with Kate. He didn’t cherish Kate enough, according to Bex. It’s not easy when you’re broke. He hasn’t seen Kate since she left hospital. Since she shacked up with her tech millionaire.
‘Alright?’ Bex says as Jake approaches.
‘Off on holiday?’ he asks, glancing at her wheelie case.
He suddenly feels like a hick in his canal clothes that smell of diesel and woodsmoke. There was a time when he was on this platform every morning in a suit, commuting up to London to work as a crime reporter. Kate used to complain that he’d turned feral, become more interested in spotting otters than writing bestsellers.
Bex nods awkwardly.
Is she going to see Kate? ‘Somewhere nice?’ he prompts.
Their conversation is even more stilted than normal. He’s only two years older than Bex, but he feels disconnected, out of touch.
‘London,’ she says, without conviction. ‘Friend of a friend.’ With that, she raises her eyebrows and turns to the train that’s just pulling in.
Back at the narrowboat, Jake steps on board, ducks down below and opens the small package at the galley table. There’s no note, just a memory stick. He checks the printed address label again and looks at the postmark: East London.
Why was Bex being so weird?
He slips the stick into the USB port of his old laptop and clicks on the new icon. A video file appears. He leans in closer, watching the grainy CCTV footage that’s already begun to play.
It takes a few moments to realise that the woman sitting at the bar is Kate. She’s on her own, looking at her phone. Jake glances at the date in the bottom right corner of the screen: ‘10.05 p.m., 14 February’. He shudders at the memory. In the other corner it says: ‘Bluebell 2’. The only Bluebell pub he knows of is on the way to Swindon. A barman comes over and starts up a conversation with Kate. Jake stares, transfixed, as the barman turns his back, fixes a bright orange drink and passes it to her. An Aperol spritz, her favourite.
The image judders and the CCTV feed is now looking down on Kate. Jake watches the scene play out again from the new angle. ‘Bluebell 3’. It’s like trying to spot a magician’s sleight of hand. And then he sees it. There. A definite pass across the top of the glass, just before the barman slips in the ice.
Jake sits back, his mouth drying, and picks up the package again, checking inside in case he’s missed anything. Empty. Whoever sent it has spotted something that they want Jake to see too. Why now, six months later?
He gets up from his desk and glances at his watch. It’s too early for a beer, even on a Saturday. Not that he’s got any. All there is to drink is his kombucha, fermenting in the corner. He puts on the kettle, trying to order his thoughts.
Valentine’s Day is a date he’ll never forget. Kate was working late, a relief as he hadn’t planned anything romantic. When his phone rang, he thought she might be calling to suggest they meet for last orders. Instead, she accused him of cheating on her. As part of her job, she’d been trawling through hours of recent CCTV footage and by chance had spotted Jake with another woman in a shopping mall. It was a cruel twist of fate and Jake never got the chance to explain.
An hour later, Kate crashed her Morris Minor Traveller on her way home. He’s always thought it was an accident.
He doesn’t now.
9
Kate
After Ajay has gone, Kate settles down at the easel, determined to finish the painting of Stretch – less pig, more dog. The results of the recognition tests were encouraging, giving her hope that her painting skills will return too. Stretch, though, has other ideas and won’t lie still. He’s almost six months old and already likes a thirty-minute walk every day.
‘You win,’ she says as he trots off out of the kitchen towards the back of the house. She watches him for a second and wonders where he’s going. He doesn’t usually disappear out of her sight. She gets up, paintbrush still in hand, and is about to follow him when she pauses at the fridge. She bought some Cornish Yarg yesterday, thick and creamy. She pulls on the fridge handle, but it doesn’t open. She tries again without success.
‘Rob, the fridge won’t open,’ she says a moment later, talking to him on the phone. She’s a lot calmer now than she was a few hours ago. He’s still on the train to London.
‘Sorry, it must still be in diet mode. Stops you snacking between meals.’
‘But I’m not on a diet.’ Sometimes she despairs of this house, Rob’s love of so-called smart technology.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘And it thought I was down for the whole weekend. Try now.’
‘Thanks.’ She shakes her head in disbelief. The fridge door opens. Rob controls everything in his life from an app. Everything except her.
‘You OK?’ he asks. ‘No more migraines?’
‘Hungry.’
‘How was it with Dr Varma?’
‘He did some tests, thinks my brain is recovering.’
She suspects that Ajay has already sent over the results to Rob and that Rob is just humouring her.
‘That’s great news,’ he says. ‘I said you were improving.’
‘I guess so,’ she replies, looking forlornly at her half-finished painting of Stretch.
After a quick chat – Rob interrupted a work call to take hers – she lets him go. Stretch has not returned. She walks down the long corridor, eating a piece of Yarg. At the far end, it’s right to the big spare bedroom, where Bex always stays, or left to a storeroom. Where’s Stretch gone?
She stops in her tracks. The door to the storeroom is open. That’s a first. It’s been locked ever since she’s been here. Rob’s got an obsession with laptops and computers and once told her he keeps quite a few of them in the storeroom for security. The whole house is very safe – security lights and cameras everywhere, triple locks on the outside doors. Kate told him it wasn’t necessary, but he installed them soon after she moved in, thought she was being naive about her previous life, the nature of her police work.
Stretch appears in the doorway.
‘What are you doing in there?’ she says, as if it’s his idea to be nosy.
She follows him through the door. It’s more of an office than a storeroom, dominated by a large black desk and a picture on the wall behind. In the corner there’s a stack of old laptops, at least ten of them. There are no windows, which is out of keeping with the rest of the light-flooded house. The back wall is cut into the hillside and the front wall adjoins the guest room.