I Saw What He Did, page 11
Kizzy agrees. What neither of them understand, because I’m the one caught up in this nightmare, is that I’m so convinced of Mary’s complicity, the thought of ruining her life doesn’t bother me.
We spend another hour going over it all. Every angle, every possibility. But no resolution. Lex and Kizzy are sympathetic but adamant that I should step back, try my best to put it out of my mind and trust that the police are doing what they can. Maybe take DC Phillips’ advice and get in touch with Victim Support for some counselling? After all, I’m likely suffering some sort of trauma.
Our Sunday catch-up ends on a light note with Lex and Kizzy giving me the third degree about Josh, ribbing me about our burgeoning friendship. Although I reiterate to them that we have simply exchanged a handful of messages, mainly in a student-to-student capacity, there is still an unexpected flutter in my tummy when they mention his name.
Kizzy makes me promise to check in with them regularly and keep them updated if there are any more developments.
‘No more maverick escapades to Watford,’ she says wagging her finger, only half-jokingly, in my face.
‘No more ignoring us on the group chat either,’ Lex adds her tuppence worth. I clasp her hand, still not over my dreadful failure at forgetting the party. The guilt must be written all over my face. Lex pinches my cheek affectionately. ‘You know I love you. You’ll be okay, Ren. If you need to talk, you know where we are.’
I nod, unable to speak in case the floodgates open. I give my word that I will have an early night and get back on track tomorrow; back to my life before I got caught up in this whirlpool. We part company with good luck wishes for Kizzy. No more tot’s TV and toddler clubs but back to the adult world of work.
Relieved to have been forgiven, I return home feeling happier, less anxious than I have in a while.
Chapter 9
Less than three weeks before the end
The email exchanges between Josh and I quickly turn to text messages and then phone conversations, not many of which relate to our creative writing course. He tells me about his job as a part-time primary school teacher. It’s a job that suits his character down to a tee. He is witty, unassumingly intelligent and has an equable disposition that is very easy to warm to. Not to mention his ability to listen without interruption.
My decision to entrust him with my recent exploits is not a difficult one. I feel more at ease talking to him about it than to Lex and Kizzy, probably because of his indirect involvement and his familiarity with the people involved. I even share with him my plan to make an anonymous phone call – contrary to the conclusion I had reached with my best friends.
‘There’s definitely something off key about this whole thing,’ he says in one of our phone conversations. His voice takes on a curious tone: ‘If you’re planning to make an anonymous tip-off, how will you know if the police actually visit and search the property?’
I had vague thoughts of watching from a distance, but I hadn’t really thought it through to be honest. But Josh is one step ahead of me. ‘What if we take a trip down there together, make the call and see what happens?’
I could have kissed him through the phone.
So, our first face-to-face meeting (I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a date) is Operation Rusco/Mary: a journey to Watford on a mission of discovery. What has happened to Rusco and is his body festering and decaying at 43 Barcourt Road? This really feels like an alien out of body experience.
Josh informs me that Wednesday and Thursday are his days off, then kindly offers to drive. I decline his further offer to pick me up from my flat. As sweet as he is, and as ironic as it is that I am undertaking this mission with someone I hardly know, I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing my address with him.
I don’t go out of my way to impress, but I take my time getting ready. My favourite jeans, a pale green Bardot top and a light jacket suitable for the changeable weather. I carry my oversized leather handbag and match it with a pair of flat open-toe sandals. At my insistence, and conscious not to inconvenience Josh more than I already have, we arrange to meet in Tottenham Hale, easy enough for me to get to and it marries well with his journey from Wapping.
He picks me up from the station in an electric blue Toyota Rav 4, the scent of newness filling the air the moment I open the door. It feels awkward at first, clambering into the front passenger seat of a car belonging to a person you’ve become familiar with, virtually, but have never met in person. He looks and sounds like ‘Josh’. No surprises, other than his boyish grin and even teeth are more conspicuous in ‘real life’. He is dressed casually in faded jeans and a t-shirt that, from the side, has the hallmark of something designer and expensive.
‘Ren. Very nice to meet you,’ he says, adopting a posh voice and sticking his hand out for me to shake.
I giggle, shyly. ‘Nice to meet you too, Josh.’ I settle myself into the seat, pleased that I made the decision to wear jeans – this is not the easiest car to manoeuvre my way into. He waits patiently as I strap myself in and then we are good to go.
‘How crazy is this, eh?’ I ask rhetorically. ‘I’ve been asking myself all the way here if I’ve entered some mad alternate world. Are we really actually doing this?’ I am blathering, clearly nervous, but Josh doesn’t seem to mind. And it’s not long before we’re chatting away like old friends, which makes the hour-long journey to Watford go by relatively quickly.
We discover a few things in common, not least our career of choice. Like me, Josh’s family set-up lacks the usual rigours and conventions. One of three, with an older brother and sister, his parents were more interested in shaping and enhancing their careers than devoting time to their children. Much of Josh and his siblings’ formative years were spent shipped between a mercurial, domineering auntie (his mum’s sister) and a nonchalant, dismissive uncle (his mum’s brother); neither of whom gave the impression that they were fulfilling this obligation out of love or loyalty but, as Josh discovered in later years, a financial transaction. I’m touched by his openness and impressed that he hasn’t allowed this early lack of stability to blight his relationship with his family.
Josh seems to have come up with a plan and I feel grateful that he is sharing this burden with me, even taking the lead. There is a scintilla of excitement in his voice when he tells me about the throwaway phone which we will use to call the police. As we turn onto Barcourt Road, I point out the house to Josh. We find the first available parking spot and he switches off the engine, swivels round in his seat and takes a long, intense look at number 43.
‘Just an ordinary street, isn’t it? Can only wonder what goes on behind closed doors,’ he says pensively, his thoughts mirroring those that I had on my previous visits.
‘Nothing is as it seems right now,’ I muse. ‘I always thought I was a good judge of character. And then Mary came along.’
‘Mmm. I agree. Things aren’t always what they seem,’ he says, repeating my words. ‘Neither are people.’ We are both lost in thought.
Josh slaps his palms on his knees, snapping us out of our respective trances. ‘I say we find somewhere away from here to park the car. We can go for a stroll, make the call and then wander back in this direction.’ He looks to me for approval and I nod, happy to go along with the plan.
‘Do you think the police will come immediately?’ I ask, having no idea what sort of priority police give to anonymous calls. ‘What if they don’t think it’s important enough for them to come out straight away – or even at all?’ I’m asking these questions as if Josh has all the answers when we are as inexperienced and ignorant as each other.
‘I guess it all depends on what the caller says to them,’ he says, winking boldly at me.
We find another spot about three streets away, close enough that we can walk to Barcourt Road in about three minutes. We use Google maps to locate the local police station so we have some idea of the direction they will be coming from. The road we are on is not too far away from the High Street, so we head in that direction to grab a bite to eat before we put our plan into action.
Another revelation that my judgements are not quite on point – Josh’s six-foot plus stature dwarves me; he is much taller than I imagined and a bit on the lean side. I have to quicken my pace to keep up with his long strides.
Being on foot provides a much different experience of Watford, and I am pleasantly surprised at the vast indoor shopping centre; a steady flow of shoppers moving between floors and shops. We skip through all of this and make our way to the top floor. Café Gee is our eatery of choice, though neither of us has the appetite for anything more than coffee and a pastry. I whip my card out and insist on paying before Josh has the opportunity to, and then we perch on a couple of high stools in front of a long bar-style table.
‘Feeling okay?’ Josh asks considerately, as if he can sense the tightness settling in with every second that draws us nearer to the deed.
‘I’m good!’ I respond, tearing off a piece of my flaky almond croissant. ‘But let’s think about something else for a bit. My brain needs some time away from sinister thoughts, especially if I want to enjoy this.’ I hold my pastry up in the form of a ‘cheers’.
Josh dives in too, washing down a chunk of pain au raisin with a gulp of hot coffee.
‘So, tell me what you love most about teaching children, and why you only teach part-time – I take it the two aren’t mutually exclusive?’ I ask, genuinely interested. ‘Actually,’ I say changing tack, ‘more importantly, what made you want to become a teacher?’
‘Simple answer,’ Josh responds, brushing crumbs from his t-shirt, ‘I had crappy experiences at school but loved learning. There’s got to be synthesis somewhere, so that’s what I want to create. A happy balance.’
I find his response inspiring. ‘And have your young charges found that happy balance?’ I ask.
‘Mmm; it’s a work in progress but I think I’m winning. And I was born to win,’ he says, beaming with confidence and positivity. ‘Must be ten times harder teaching teenagers.’ He switches the attention to me. ‘At least my students are still malleable; haven’t yet been scorched by the kinks in the system.’
I tell him about the high and low points of teaching teenagers, realising how much I miss some of my lively, dramatic students. We exchange anecdotes about some of the funny encounters we have had in both the classroom and the staffroom.
Fuelled with enough sugar and caffeine to shake off any negative thoughts, we stroll away from the town centre, back towards the car. We are about to turn onto the road we are parked on when Josh pulls out his phone. I look up at him, but he doesn’t so much as glance at me. He slows down, fingers tapping on the pad, then puts the phone to his ear. Seconds later, it’s as though he has transformed into a different person right in front of me.
‘Police! Can I have the police please?’ his voice has taken on a breathless, urgent tone.
A slight pause.
‘Yes, yes, you can. I’ve just seen someone violently attacked in my neighbour’s house. There’s someone in there and I’m sure he’s dead!’ I look around, afraid that someone may overhear this dramatic performance. Josh sounds so credible. There is no way the recipient of this call can doubt him.
‘No. I cannot tell you my name. You just have to trust what I’m saying and send the police now! They are dangerous people… 43 Barcourt Road. Watford.’ Josh terminates the call and we both quicken our pace. He begins to dismantle the phone, completing the task as we reach the parked car.
‘Wow, that was genius!’ I enthuse. ‘Are you sure you haven’t done something like this before?’ I ask, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment. My heart is in my mouth.
‘When you work with kids, you learn to take on different personas,’ he says casually. ‘Wait till you see my Ogre impression!’
Josh redirects our footsteps, taking us past the car to the end of the road and round a corner. We do a round-the-block slow walk, and it’s as we approach the car again that we hear the distant sound of sirens. We look at each other, the air palpable between us.
‘No need to get into the car then,’ he says simply.
He falls in step beside me, placing his arm lightly around my shoulder as we walk, giving the image of a local couple out for an afternoon stroll, oblivious to what may be about to unfold. The sound of sirens draws nearer, and it’s not long before we see the flashing blue lights. Two police cars and an ambulance. They whizz by at the top of the road adjacent to us. We continue walking, heading to the location where they will pull up imminently. I move closer to Josh; my Trojan horse to the rescue. I’m anxious, but confident that this is the smoking gun I’ve been holding out for.
A minute feels like an inordinate length of time, but that is all it takes before we turn onto Barcourt Road to witness the hive of action already in motion. Curtains are slightly parted; doors open and people walking by have stopped to look. Just what we need to help us blend in. I relax slightly. By the time we have number 43 in sight, police officers have already entered the property. A couple more, who both appear to be wearing bullet proof vests, speak into walkie talkies beside their car. I spot a female officer, engaged in conversation with the neighbour to the left of Mary’s house. I am holding my breath, almost certain that the next thing I see will be Mary being led from the property in handcuffs, but it seems we are a long way away from that. Josh and I remain at a distance, across the road. The moment the police begin asking for names, addresses, witness statements, and everything else, we may need to make a swift exit.
I glance across at Josh, noticing the look of intensity on his face. He seems to be as invested in this as I am.
‘Do you think they’ll find anything?’ I ask, not quite sure why I’m whispering.
‘Well, they obviously took the call seriously, which is just what we hoped,’ he responds, looking at me closely. ‘Are you okay? You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.’
‘Feels like it too,’ I reply truthfully, feeling the unpleasant prickles of sweat throughout my body. ‘I just wish I’d followed up on this last week when it first happened. What if he’s been moved already? Or what if I could have saved him?’ My mind flits back to the scene I witnessed: Mary heaving the hefty bundle into the waiting van. Then I’m accosted by an overload of uncontrollable and heinous images of Rusco’s body, hacked to pieces, unceremoniously stuffed into the large sack.
Josh seems to get my line of thinking.
‘If anything’s happened to him in that house, they’ll be able to work it out. There will be traces. We just have to trust they do their job thoroughly.’
I have a sudden thought. ‘What about the address I followed Mary to? What if it’s connected? Maybe the police should be searching that property too.’ I look to Josh for approval. Perhaps we should make a second anonymous call.
His expression clouds over in a way I can’t quite read. Then I follow his line of vision. Emerging from the open door of number 43 is a police officer leading someone out. The culprit, head down, has a dark shawl or sheet covering them. I try to work out from the height and physique whether it’s Mary, but they are bent so low, it’s impossible to tell if it’s male or female let alone anything else. They are led swiftly into one of the awaiting police cars. There is a buzz of voices and indistinguishable conversations both over the walkie talkies and with the police officers present. A van has turned onto Barcourt Road and is slowing as it nears number 43. It stops in the middle of the road, parallel to the offending house. At the other end of the street, at least two other police cars have arrived, blocking that end of Barcourt Road. More officers emerge from the cars. Then I see it. The line of red tape being used to cordon off part of the road.
The doors of the van open and two figures emerge. Like astronauts preparing for a moon expedition, the scene of crime officers create a solemn sight as they exchange a few brief words with one of the officers, then make their way into the house.
By now, doors and windows are wide open as people gawp in awe at the scene unfolding in front of them. Officers, like ants, are suddenly everywhere, notebooks and pens to the ready as they converse with residents, knock on doors and begin what will probably be a long and thorough investigation.
In situations like this the sense of unity is tangible. Residents – who have probably never exchanged more than a nod to each other in the past – clutter together, keen to conduct their own investigations and post-event analysis. The gossips at the ready with insightful, more than likely flawed, revelations about what they saw, thought they saw or knew about the residents of number 43. But, as someone whose presence here is more than a passing opportunity to gape and engage in conjecture, I tune in to a conversation taking place a few feet away from where Josh and I stand.
‘I said it, didn’t I? Something’s happened to that poor chap. He was never alright, was he? Kept him hidden away they did.’ The recipient of this one-sided conversation lets out a regular stream of ‘Mmms seemingly aware that her response isn’t required.
‘Didn’t see much of him at all, did we? I only ever caught him looking out of the window when she was out. God knows what he went through in there.’ She tuts loudly, eyes never leaving the scene. The police are now galvanised into action. From the middle of the road, they fan out in a wave, requesting that everyone move away from the scene and re-enters their homes. It appears they are keen to cordon off the entire street. The car containing the suspect is still parked in front of the house, the engine now running. I squint, trying desperately to get a final look at the person, but they are snugly disguised beneath the dark sheet, not to mention the shaded windows of the police car.
‘Might be time for us to make a move,’ Josh says, drawing me out of my absorbed state. ‘I think our work here is done.’
