Elle （Past）
ELLE
PAST
After the release of the artist’s sketch, and the emotional appeal by Bryony’s mum in the US, I waited for DC Moss to call and tell me that they’d found the person responsible for Bryony’s murder.
When a month had gone by without news, I called DC Moss.
She said that although people had come forward with names, the police had been able to eliminate each one from their inquiries.
“Is that it, then?” I demanded. “Is whoever killed Bryony literally going to get away with murder?”
“I hope not.” DC Moss’s voice was somber. “For various reasons, it’s a complex case.”
My heart began beating faster. “I’ve just thought—if he’s still out there, am I in danger? He saw me at the window, he knows where I live. He must know that it was me who helped create the artist’s sketch.”
“Not necessarily. The sketch could have come from anyone who thinks they saw Bryony in a car with a man. But be vigilant. If you feel uneasy, or see something that worries you, call me or dial 999.”
Over the next few weeks I scanned the road before leaving the flat, making sure there wasn’t anyone hanging around.
But nothing out of the ordinary happened and I began to relax, until one Friday evening, three months later, when I was having drinks with Jaz and some of our friends in a pub on The Cut.
It was five months since I’d bumped into him outside the supermarket but I recognized his voice immediately.
It came from behind me and as I turned my head toward it, I told myself that it wouldn’t be the same man, just an American from the same region of the US with the same accent.
His face was in profile and as I caught a glimpse of it, my reactive body jerk sent lager splashing onto my jeans.
My friends howled with laughter, causing the man and his drinking buddies to look over to where we were sitting.
His eyes didn’t meet mine but seeing him face-on set my heart racing.
I was a hundred percent sure he was the guy I’d bumped into outside the supermarket, the guy I’d seen driving the car that Bryony Sanders had gotten into.
And not just because he was wearing a pale blue shirt under his navy jacket.
He and his buddies soon lost interest and returned to their conversation.
I dug in my bag for a tissue and dabbed at my jeans, giving myself time.
I wasn’t sure if I should say something to Jaz and our friends.
They knew how much Bryony’s murder had affected me and would probably rugby tackle the man to the ground if I pointed him out to them.
What if I was wrong? I dithered for a moment, then decided to let DC Moss deal with it.
I used my damp jeans as an excuse to leave the pub, telling Jaz I was going home to change and would be back soon.
As I was leaving, the man broke away from his group of friends, calling to them to have a good weekend as he made his way to the door, shrugging on a beige raincoat as he went.
Worried that he might recognize me, I hung back, giving him space, then followed him out, already scrolling my contacts for DC Moss’s number.
A recorded message asked me to hold. I looked along the road; the man was almost out of sight and, making a snap decision, I pulled the collar of my coat around my neck—it was a dreary November evening and it had been drizzling all day—and hurried after him.
I was still waiting for DC Moss to pick up when the man disappeared into Southwark tube station, slapped a card onto the reader and went through the barrier.
I stopped where I was but when he disappeared down the escalator to the Jubilee line, I began to panic.
If DC Moss didn’t answer soon, I’d lose him forever.
A few seconds later, as if in response to my fear, my call was cut off and when I tried to redial, I saw that I was out of battery.
It was one of those now-or-never moments.
Taking out my credit card, I went through the barrier and ran to the escalator.
I could see the man farther down, so I hurried after him and caught up with him on the next escalator, where I stood a dozen or so steps behind him before following him onto the westbound platform.
A train had just come in; the man stepped onto it so I hurried to the next door along and hopped on.
I had taken the Jubilee line before but only as far as Baker Street.
I studied the tube map and when I saw that the end station was Stanmore, I prayed that the man wasn’t going all the way there as it would take the best part of an hour, and nobody knew where I was.
I was aware that what I was doing was foolish and possibly dangerous but it was too late to turn back and I truly believed that Fate, or Providence, had placed the man in my path so that he wouldn’t be able to get away with what he’d done.
I glanced surreptitiously at him. He was staring ahead so I couldn’t scrutinize him as much as I’d have been able to if he’d had his head bent over his phone or a book.
I made a leisurely sweep of the carriage, as if I was looking around and allowed my eyes to linger on him for a few seconds.
If my phone had been working, I would have taken a photo to send to DC Moss.
Physically, he looked as good as I remembered.
His thick dark hair, neatly parted to one side, was just long enough to reach the collar of his raincoat and I would have bet a hundred pounds that under the casual suit and the telltale blue shirt was the body of a man who worked out several times a week.
It was hard to believe that someone so wholesome could do anything bad but the fact was, he’d picked up a young woman in his car and that young woman was now dead.
A shiver ran through me at the thought that I was potentially in close proximity to a murderer.
Just as I was beginning to reach the end of my comfort zone—we had already gone past Baker Street—the man stood up and moved to the doors.
I glanced at the tube map; the next station was St. John’s Wood.
He got off and I followed him along the platform, then up the escalator and onto the street, where he turned right and stood at the crossroads, holding a free newspaper that he’d grabbed at the exit over his head to protect him from the rain.
Once again, I hung back, using the time to take in my surroundings.
I’d heard St. John’s Wood was upmarket and I could see why.
Tall trees, their branches reaching into the night sky, wide roads and ultrasmart low-rise luxury flats gave the area a feeling of opulence, to say nothing of the Maserati that cruised by, swiftly followed by an Aston Martin.
Jaz, with his love of fast cars, would have been in his element.
The pedestrian light turned green and I crossed over the road behind the man, to a street where large detached houses replaced the blocks of luxury flats.
He walked for about a hundred yards, then ran across the road, the newspaper still above his head, and disappeared through a black iron gate nestled into the left-hand side of a redbrick wall.
From where I stood on the other side of the street, I looked up at the house partially hidden by the wall, shielding my eyes from the rain with my hand.
Spotting a set of larger, black-railed gates farther to the right, I moved along the pavement so that I could see through them.
Two cars were parked side by side in the wide driveway in front of a double garage, one silver, the other black.
My heart thumped; the car the man had been driving had been black.
My eyes swooped to the beautiful white house to the left of the driveway.
Its upper floor had four leaded windows equidistant from one another.
A light came from the farthest window to the right but the other three were in darkness.
On the ground floor, a large bow window curved outward from either side of the front door.
Lamplight spilled from these rooms, casting a golden glow over the front lawn.
Near the gate that the man had gone through, a monkey puzzle tree jutted above the wall, its prickly branches glistening with raindrops.
Even in the dark, it was one of the most beautiful houses I’d seen.
Wanting to see if the black car had silver rims around the windows, I crossed over the road and approached the gates.
My presence triggered a security light and as the garden lit up, I ducked out of sight and hurried to the tube station, repeating the name of the road and the number of the house so that I could give them to DC Moss.
Back at the flat, I plugged in my phone. There were several messages from Jaz asking where I was and I realized I’d been gone for nearly two hours. I ignored them and called DC Moss, who, this time, picked up.
“It’s Elle Nugent,” I said. “I’ve found him—the man who picked Bryony up in his car.” My words came out in a rush. “He was in a pub on The Cut. I tried to phone you but I couldn’t get through, then I ran out of battery, so I followed him. He lives in St. John’s Wood, I’ve got the address.”
“You should have called 999. If the man you saw was involved in Bryony’s murder, you could have been in danger.” DC Moss’s reproach was gentle but it told me what I already knew, that I’d acted foolishly in following the man.
“He didn’t see me, I’m sure of it,” I said.
“That’s good. Thank you for your vigilance but please don’t make a habit of it.”
“Will you let me know what happens?” I asked, once I’d given her the address.
“I’ll call you if there are any developments.”
And I’d had to be content with that.