hour, I’m lowering their ceilings with plasterboard. I can’t afford to get my head kicked in when there’s a job on, I’ve got kids.’
I stood and watched him go, willing him to feel guilty. I’d never noticed how annoying it was to be called Sweetheart before.
The bridge led back toward the Ziggurat. The great white building was softened by the murk from the river. Rain advanced in mizzling clouds, haloing the Embankment lights and hiding the tops of buildings. In a moment like this, London reconnected to the past. I felt like the latest in a long line of distracted victims who had crossed the bridge looking for help. I had absolutely no idea what to do.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Boy
T HE GREEN LIGHT on my mobile returned at the centre of the bridge. I called the emergency services, something I hadn’t done since my mother’s pressure cooker blew up. Punched 112, selected Ambulance, and got ‘You are held in a queue…’ Friday night in South London. The recorded message only lasted a few seconds, and I was unprepared for the questions that followed, stumbling on the circumstantial detail.
‘Are you a relation?’ asked the controller, assessing the urgency of my request as he waited for the nearest callout, St. Thomas’s, to answer.
‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’
‘But you say she’s in your flat.’
‘It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend.’
‘Does your friend know her?
‘I don’t know, he’s not in the country. Can you just get someone here?’
‘Is she unconscious?’
‘I think she might be dead. She has a thing round her throat.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘One of those plastic tags they use to do up packages. I tried to get it off but couldn’t. And she’s received a blow to the head.’
‘Sorry, love – which is it?’
‘It’s both. I think she choked first.’
‘She’s been attacked then? You notified the police? Someone tried to strangle her?’
‘Yes, and then she fell on me.’
‘So she was up on her feet after she was strangled?’
‘Yes, and her hands were tied.’
‘Hang on, love, you’re losing me. Do you know the victim’s name?’
‘No, she’s a total stranger.’
The operator was clearly used to untangling confused stories, and calmly promised help as soon as possible. I didn’t trust the ambulance to turn up, so next I called the police. This time I tried to sound more organised in my thinking, and got the promise of a constable, but it sounded as if they were very busy and weren’t too likely to send someone just yet.
Looking along the bleak edge of the bridge, I spotted another passer-by and ran across to enlist his help.
That was when some old bloke backed his car over me.
It was an ancient black Wolseley with chrome bumpers and orange indicators and a steamed-over rear window, which was probably why he didn’t see me. He didn’t hit me hard, but it was enough to knock me off my balance. As I watched him alight from the car, I realised he was very old indeed. ‘My dear lady,’ he called, ‘I’m so terribly sorry. I took a wrong turn and was reversing.’ He was wearing a cashmere overcoat several sizes too big and an unravelling brown scarf that was so long he managed to shut it in the door.
‘I wonder if you could help me,’ I began, climbing to my feet.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied, shaking my hand rather formally. ‘I’m a retired police officer.’ He flicked a wallet at me. ‘Actually that’s my library card, I’ve got some proper credentials somewhere.’ He didn’t look like any policeman I had ever seen. They say you know you’re getting older when constables start looking young. This had to be the oldest police officer in London. If you transformed a tortoise into a human being, that was what he looked like, except he had a rim of white hair sticking out like icicles around the sides of his head.
I explained the situation and asked him to come with me, but he told me he
I stood and watched him go, willing him to feel guilty. I’d never noticed how annoying it was to be called Sweetheart before.
The bridge led back toward the Ziggurat. The great white building was softened by the murk from the river. Rain advanced in mizzling clouds, haloing the Embankment lights and hiding the tops of buildings. In a moment like this, London reconnected to the past. I felt like the latest in a long line of distracted victims who had crossed the bridge looking for help. I had absolutely no idea what to do.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Boy
T HE GREEN LIGHT on my mobile returned at the centre of the bridge. I called the emergency services, something I hadn’t done since my mother’s pressure cooker blew up. Punched 112, selected Ambulance, and got ‘You are held in a queue…’ Friday night in South London. The recorded message only lasted a few seconds, and I was unprepared for the questions that followed, stumbling on the circumstantial detail.
‘Are you a relation?’ asked the controller, assessing the urgency of my request as he waited for the nearest callout, St. Thomas’s, to answer.
‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’
‘But you say she’s in your flat.’
‘It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend.’
‘Does your friend know her?
‘I don’t know, he’s not in the country. Can you just get someone here?’
‘Is she unconscious?’
‘I think she might be dead. She has a thing round her throat.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘One of those plastic tags they use to do up packages. I tried to get it off but couldn’t. And she’s received a blow to the head.’
‘Sorry, love – which is it?’
‘It’s both. I think she choked first.’
‘She’s been attacked then? You notified the police? Someone tried to strangle her?’
‘Yes, and then she fell on me.’
‘So she was up on her feet after she was strangled?’
‘Yes, and her hands were tied.’
‘Hang on, love, you’re losing me. Do you know the victim’s name?’
‘No, she’s a total stranger.’
The operator was clearly used to untangling confused stories, and calmly promised help as soon as possible. I didn’t trust the ambulance to turn up, so next I called the police. This time I tried to sound more organised in my thinking, and got the promise of a constable, but it sounded as if they were very busy and weren’t too likely to send someone just yet.
Looking along the bleak edge of the bridge, I spotted another passer-by and ran across to enlist his help.
That was when some old bloke backed his car over me.
It was an ancient black Wolseley with chrome bumpers and orange indicators and a steamed-over rear window, which was probably why he didn’t see me. He didn’t hit me hard, but it was enough to knock me off my balance. As I watched him alight from the car, I realised he was very old indeed. ‘My dear lady,’ he called, ‘I’m so terribly sorry. I took a wrong turn and was reversing.’ He was wearing a cashmere overcoat several sizes too big and an unravelling brown scarf that was so long he managed to shut it in the door.
‘I wonder if you could help me,’ I began, climbing to my feet.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied, shaking my hand rather formally. ‘I’m a retired police officer.’ He flicked a wallet at me. ‘Actually that’s my library card, I’ve got some proper credentials somewhere.’ He didn’t look like any policeman I had ever seen. They say you know you’re getting older when constables start looking young. This had to be the oldest police officer in London. If you transformed a tortoise into a human being, that was what he looked like, except he had a rim of white hair sticking out like icicles around the sides of his head.
I explained the situation and asked him to come with me, but he told me he
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