world of TV and live in Muswell Hill.”
“Yes.”
“So she must know you.”
“No. She knows of me, evidently—she knows facts about me—but she doesn’t know me because I don’t know her. I can’t believe I need to say it again, but it seems I do, so please listen carefully this time: the person making these calls is a stranger to me.”
PC Hilton blushes and writes something down in her notebook. I hope it’s the words “Note to self: stop being a dick immediately.”
“All right,” she says, looking up. “So you can’t think of anyone you might have offended? Any incident that might have sparked this off? Obviously, if you do think of anything or remember anything, let me know.”
“Are you serious?”
“Without meaning to,” she adds quickly. “I’m not saying you’ve deliberately intimidated anybody, but people can take offense at the strangest things, can’t they?”
“They can, yes.” It’s important to sound conciliatory. Three words of mollification: that’ll do. “But you’re missing the point. These phone calls aren’t about me or anything I’ve done or not done. Yes, of course I’ve upset people from time to time—plenty of them.”
“Exactly.” PC Hilton sounds relieved that at last we are in agreement. “We all have.”
“Yes, and if I thought there was any chance this caller was one of the people I’ve annoyed over the years, I’d tell you. But she isn’t. She’s a complete stranger. Look, she might have gotten a few details about my life right, but there’s a lot she got wrong. She thought I should know who she was and what she was talking about, and I didn’t. She’s confused. She thinks I’m a different person, someone who’s involved in . . . some kind of ongoing situation with her that I know nothing about! You’re not going to find her by looking at my life. Trace the calls if you want to know who she is.”
“If it continues, we’ll look into doing that,” says Phoebe Hilton. “Justine, you have to understand that in my job, so often I’m hampered by people withholding the details that would enable me to help them most effectively. While it’s understandable that people are embarrassed or ashamed to share certain pieces of personal information—”
“I’m neither embarrassed nor ashamed. I’m irrelevant.”
“How do you mean?”
“Whatever’s going on, it has nothing to do with me. It’s about her, whoever she is. I can’t help you beyond what I’ve already told you. You’re the one who can help me. You can get the calls traced. Taking action to protect civilians from threats is your job, not mine. I don’t have a job.” I can’t help smiling as I say this. “I’ve done my bit. I’ve reported the threatening phone calls. Over to you.”
“Leave it with me,” she says.
And you’ll do what? I want to ask. Don’t I have a right to know? When can I expect to hear from you?
Instead, I do what a nonpushy person would do: I thank her, exactly as I would if I were grateful for something, and leave.
This time I head straight for the school: no dawdling to admire the beauty of the grounds. I park the Range Rover and march up the path, fixing my eyes on Beaconwood’s pink decorated façade, as if by keeping it in sight I can prevent the building from vanishing into thin air.
If it can happen to a schoolboy, why not to a school?
I know what I believe and I am eager to be proved right or wrong. I believe that, until very recently, a boy called George Donbavand was a pupil here. He must have walked up this path every weekday morning, heading for the big wooden door as I am now.
I believe it because Ellen says it’s true and she isn’t a liar. Not usually, anyway. Only about homework.
One person who’s willing to tell me the truth—that’s all I need.
The school’s door has an arched top and a large iron knocker that parents have been asked not to use because it’s too loud. I press the less disruptive buzzer,
“Yes.”
“So she must know you.”
“No. She knows of me, evidently—she knows facts about me—but she doesn’t know me because I don’t know her. I can’t believe I need to say it again, but it seems I do, so please listen carefully this time: the person making these calls is a stranger to me.”
PC Hilton blushes and writes something down in her notebook. I hope it’s the words “Note to self: stop being a dick immediately.”
“All right,” she says, looking up. “So you can’t think of anyone you might have offended? Any incident that might have sparked this off? Obviously, if you do think of anything or remember anything, let me know.”
“Are you serious?”
“Without meaning to,” she adds quickly. “I’m not saying you’ve deliberately intimidated anybody, but people can take offense at the strangest things, can’t they?”
“They can, yes.” It’s important to sound conciliatory. Three words of mollification: that’ll do. “But you’re missing the point. These phone calls aren’t about me or anything I’ve done or not done. Yes, of course I’ve upset people from time to time—plenty of them.”
“Exactly.” PC Hilton sounds relieved that at last we are in agreement. “We all have.”
“Yes, and if I thought there was any chance this caller was one of the people I’ve annoyed over the years, I’d tell you. But she isn’t. She’s a complete stranger. Look, she might have gotten a few details about my life right, but there’s a lot she got wrong. She thought I should know who she was and what she was talking about, and I didn’t. She’s confused. She thinks I’m a different person, someone who’s involved in . . . some kind of ongoing situation with her that I know nothing about! You’re not going to find her by looking at my life. Trace the calls if you want to know who she is.”
“If it continues, we’ll look into doing that,” says Phoebe Hilton. “Justine, you have to understand that in my job, so often I’m hampered by people withholding the details that would enable me to help them most effectively. While it’s understandable that people are embarrassed or ashamed to share certain pieces of personal information—”
“I’m neither embarrassed nor ashamed. I’m irrelevant.”
“How do you mean?”
“Whatever’s going on, it has nothing to do with me. It’s about her, whoever she is. I can’t help you beyond what I’ve already told you. You’re the one who can help me. You can get the calls traced. Taking action to protect civilians from threats is your job, not mine. I don’t have a job.” I can’t help smiling as I say this. “I’ve done my bit. I’ve reported the threatening phone calls. Over to you.”
“Leave it with me,” she says.
And you’ll do what? I want to ask. Don’t I have a right to know? When can I expect to hear from you?
Instead, I do what a nonpushy person would do: I thank her, exactly as I would if I were grateful for something, and leave.
This time I head straight for the school: no dawdling to admire the beauty of the grounds. I park the Range Rover and march up the path, fixing my eyes on Beaconwood’s pink decorated façade, as if by keeping it in sight I can prevent the building from vanishing into thin air.
If it can happen to a schoolboy, why not to a school?
I know what I believe and I am eager to be proved right or wrong. I believe that, until very recently, a boy called George Donbavand was a pupil here. He must have walked up this path every weekday morning, heading for the big wooden door as I am now.
I believe it because Ellen says it’s true and she isn’t a liar. Not usually, anyway. Only about homework.
One person who’s willing to tell me the truth—that’s all I need.
The school’s door has an arched top and a large iron knocker that parents have been asked not to use because it’s too loud. I press the less disruptive buzzer,
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