ideal, obedient victims.
I got off the train at Bank and came out into the fresh air in the shadow of the venerable Bank of England itself. I noticed, as always, the sudden upsurge in wealth that distinguished the Square Mile from the rest of central London. The bars advertised twenty types of champagne, the women wore immaculate suits and carried bags worth multiples of my salary, everyone walked fast and talked loudly in acronyms that were meaningless to me. The City was all about money, making it for other people and for yourself, and it was so far removed from my world that I felt as if I’d landed in another country. Disorientating too was the sense that the glass-and-steel modernity was just the latest layer of development. The history of the place lived in the street names and the idiosyncratic angles they took along medieval byways. Pudding Lane, where the Great Fire had started in 1666. Cheapside. Tokenhouse Yard. Threadneedle Street. The old thriving life of the city seemed to stir in the shadows, the names a reminder of a time when trade was in the things that kept you alive, like bread and poultry, not futures and securities.
I walked towards the Monument, thinking about Anna Melville and how she had journeyed to work, and the other women and how they had lived. Kirsty had been a planning officer with Westminster Council. Maxine was in an insurance company just off Long Acre. It wasn’t surprising that they worked near one another given that central London was quite compact and, during the working day, densely populated. It was a truism to say Londoners tended to know small areas in minute detail but have the haziest idea of the rest of the city. My frequent changes of address made me more conscious than most that London was still a collection of villages, as it had been in the dim and distant past, and you could live in your village quite happily without ever needing to go much further afield. Covent Garden was within walking distance of the City and Westminster, but it would be unusual for someone to be familiar with all three areas, unless they were a taxi driver.
He could be a taxi driver. I made a note to mention it to Godley. Assuming, of course, that the superintendent was willing to listen to anything I had to say. I’d been determined to do my job, regardless of what I knew about him. I knew he was a good police officer and I loved working on his team. But I hadn’t allowed for how awkward it was going to be.
Kirsty Campbell had loved her job too. Maxine Willoughby had lived for hers. If Anna Melville had been dedicated to her work too, that was practically the first and only thing I’d found they had in common. The more I looked, the less I found that they shared.
Except for being dead, of course.
I found Anna’s office and asked for Vanessa Knight. The receptionist stared at me covertly while I waited for Anna’s boss to meet me.
The lift doors opened and a blonde woman shot out, her heels skidding a little on the polished floor. She rushed over to me.
‘You’re the policewoman. Come with me.’
When the lift doors closed, she looked at me. ‘I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I’ve never spoken to the police before about anything.’
‘I just have a few questions about Anna.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it in the lift.’
‘No. Of course not. Of course.’ She jabbed at the buttons. ‘Oh God.’
‘Are you all right?’
She leaned against the side of the lift with one hand pressed against her chest. Her rings sparkled in the lights as she took deep, quivery breaths. ‘I just get very nervous. I’m being so rude. Oh help.’
‘Mrs Knight, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Just try to calm down.’
‘Okay. Yes. You’re right.’ She looked at me piteously. ‘I’m going to be lost without her, you know. Anna. I don’t know how I’m going to cope.’
Which was very different from, ‘I’m going to miss her.’
When the lift doors opened
I got off the train at Bank and came out into the fresh air in the shadow of the venerable Bank of England itself. I noticed, as always, the sudden upsurge in wealth that distinguished the Square Mile from the rest of central London. The bars advertised twenty types of champagne, the women wore immaculate suits and carried bags worth multiples of my salary, everyone walked fast and talked loudly in acronyms that were meaningless to me. The City was all about money, making it for other people and for yourself, and it was so far removed from my world that I felt as if I’d landed in another country. Disorientating too was the sense that the glass-and-steel modernity was just the latest layer of development. The history of the place lived in the street names and the idiosyncratic angles they took along medieval byways. Pudding Lane, where the Great Fire had started in 1666. Cheapside. Tokenhouse Yard. Threadneedle Street. The old thriving life of the city seemed to stir in the shadows, the names a reminder of a time when trade was in the things that kept you alive, like bread and poultry, not futures and securities.
I walked towards the Monument, thinking about Anna Melville and how she had journeyed to work, and the other women and how they had lived. Kirsty had been a planning officer with Westminster Council. Maxine was in an insurance company just off Long Acre. It wasn’t surprising that they worked near one another given that central London was quite compact and, during the working day, densely populated. It was a truism to say Londoners tended to know small areas in minute detail but have the haziest idea of the rest of the city. My frequent changes of address made me more conscious than most that London was still a collection of villages, as it had been in the dim and distant past, and you could live in your village quite happily without ever needing to go much further afield. Covent Garden was within walking distance of the City and Westminster, but it would be unusual for someone to be familiar with all three areas, unless they were a taxi driver.
He could be a taxi driver. I made a note to mention it to Godley. Assuming, of course, that the superintendent was willing to listen to anything I had to say. I’d been determined to do my job, regardless of what I knew about him. I knew he was a good police officer and I loved working on his team. But I hadn’t allowed for how awkward it was going to be.
Kirsty Campbell had loved her job too. Maxine Willoughby had lived for hers. If Anna Melville had been dedicated to her work too, that was practically the first and only thing I’d found they had in common. The more I looked, the less I found that they shared.
Except for being dead, of course.
I found Anna’s office and asked for Vanessa Knight. The receptionist stared at me covertly while I waited for Anna’s boss to meet me.
The lift doors opened and a blonde woman shot out, her heels skidding a little on the polished floor. She rushed over to me.
‘You’re the policewoman. Come with me.’
When the lift doors closed, she looked at me. ‘I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I’ve never spoken to the police before about anything.’
‘I just have a few questions about Anna.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it in the lift.’
‘No. Of course not. Of course.’ She jabbed at the buttons. ‘Oh God.’
‘Are you all right?’
She leaned against the side of the lift with one hand pressed against her chest. Her rings sparkled in the lights as she took deep, quivery breaths. ‘I just get very nervous. I’m being so rude. Oh help.’
‘Mrs Knight, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Just try to calm down.’
‘Okay. Yes. You’re right.’ She looked at me piteously. ‘I’m going to be lost without her, you know. Anna. I don’t know how I’m going to cope.’
Which was very different from, ‘I’m going to miss her.’
When the lift doors opened
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