Chapter 28 No One Is Helping
No One Is Helping
I lock myself in one of the cubicles of the police station bathroom and perch my laptop on top of the cistern.
I don’t need to make copies of the video I have of Anna; it’s not on my hard drive, it’s only accessible through my app. I delete my search history and remove all the stored passwords and log-in information for the app and remove the app from my computer.
At the station’s front desk, I pull the cat camera collar out of my handbag, plonking it down on top of my laptop. It seems crazy that I brought it thinking it might be needed for evidence once they’d rescued her. How na?ve I was.
There is a different officer at the desk. She fills out a form and bags up the camera collar, Sharpie-ing my name onto the plastic. She then takes my laptop away, and asks me to wait while they check it, then I can have it back and go.
I sit in an empty row of the blue plastic seating.
It’s a little busier now here, two sad-looking characters, one on each side of the waiting room: a drunk man, late twenties, hands in pockets, leaning way too far over to one side; and a very proper-looking pensioner in his seventies, a newspaper on his lap.
While I wait, I Google Simon Hughes, but there are so many in London, there is no way of knowing which Simon I should be looking at.
Next, I Google Anna Derwent. Again, multiple Anna Derwents appear, until I add the word police.
Finally, an article appears, embedded deep in my results.
Woman Found Dead in Croydon Home
Named by Police
June 27, 2024
A 68-year-old woman who was found dead on Monday at a house in Croydon, South London, has been named by police as retired flight attendant Cynthia Derwent.
Police and paramedics were called to the property on Westover Lane on Monday morning following reports of an unresponsive woman, with Mrs. Derwent pronounced dead at the scene.
A postmortem examination found the cause of death was self-inflicted injuries. No drugs or alcohol were found in her body, and there appeared to be no third-party interference.
Bridget Murphy, a neighbour and close friend of the deceased, described Cynthia as a “lively and bubbly woman with a lot of get-up-and-go.” Ms. Murphy added that Mrs. Derwent had “been dealing with a lot recently. She was on her own, a widow and recently estranged from her daughter.”
Those close to the deceased believe recent personal setbacks may have been key motivators of the events of last week.
Mrs. Derwent, an active member of a local tennis group, leaves behind a vibrant and supportive community that will grieve her loss immeasurably.
Mrs. Derwent’s daughter, Anna Derwent, 32, was unavailable for comment.
I look up from the article as the drunk man stands and looks around somewhat confusedly before unceremoniously walking out of the automatic doors and disappearing into the night.
I wonder if we’re all sleepwalkers, in one sense or another, tumbling drunkenly into one life choice after the next, every choice we make a fabulous idea at the time—only having to deal with the hangover if we stop to take stock.
I look back at my screen. Anna’s mother took her own life. I wonder if it’s more than that, somehow. Maybe Simon did it, made it look like a suicide. If Anna was only “recently estranged” from her mother, maybe her mother was asking too many questions.
The article is from August of last year. Anna said she had been held in the basement room for about a year, so her mother must have died a month or so after Anna went missing. Could that just be a coincidence?
Or, perhaps she was getting too close to finding her daughter? Perhaps I am, too…
I feel suddenly very exposed. How has it not occurred to me until now that I might have put myself in danger by finding Anna? How did it not occur to DI Cobham, either, to mention I might be in danger?
And yet I know the answer to that: he didn’t believe me, he didn’t think I’d actually seen anything. I’m just another strange woman of a certain age; I’m sure he was just glad I wasn’t screaming at inanimate objects.
And I didn’t think this far ahead. I didn’t consider that the police would be absolutely no help. I didn’t think I’d have time to be in danger. I just assumed I’d report it, show them the video, and they’d find the house on some database, rescue Anna, and put Simon Hughes in jail.
But none of that has happened. And now I just have video evidence of quite a serious crime, and for all I know, the criminal knows all about it, who I am, and where I live. If Roger Evans, the angry bike man, could track me down, I’m pretty sure an actual criminal can, too.
If Simon Hughes knows that I’ve been filming his basement, I’m fucked. If Simon is even his real name.
I think of all the men on my street, in my neighborhood: Matt, with his weird empty house—no, his two houses; and Greg, with his three houses; or Chris, who’s away all the time; or the blond man who verbally assaulted Marina; or the Bentley guy, Richard, with the mystery wife in Tuscany or Switzerland or wherever; Roger Evans, with the anger issues; or Arabella’s husband, who I’ve never even seen; or the GP I got diazepam from; or Malcolm, the old man who wild-swims with Pam; or the guy who works at the deli who I smiled at after he said he liked my jacket. Stop.
I force myself to take a breath. The clock above the front desk reads 3:09. I really need to go home, take a diazepam, and go to bed. The relief that I don’t have to fear sleep now is there, but only under the buzzing reality that I haven’t helped Anna Derwent at all, not really.
I get up and head to the unmanned front desk, the officer reemerging to meet me.
“Sorry—I need to go,” I tell her. “Can I collect my laptop tomorrow?”
She looks momentarily mortified. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I thought you’d gone already. It’s all done. I’ll go get it.”
I feel my soul plummet even farther. If they can’t find me in an empty waiting room, what chance does Anna—do any of us—have?