‘I can imagine,’ said Banks. ‘Poor lass. Make her part of your inquiries in the area. Have another chat with her. See if she can remember anything else. Find out if she’d ever seen our boy or knows who Stokes was.’
Gerry made a note on her pad. ‘Will do, guv.’
Zelda felt a surge of excitement when she woke up the following morning. She was getting closer; she could feel it. She had slept far better than the previous night and could remember no bad dreams, not even fragments. Her nights were unpredictable, as were the moods of despair and feelings of worthlessness that washed over her like tsunamis out of nowhere and swept all hope away. She had no way of foreseeing them. Or the panic attacks. Sometimes she could guess later that a specific incident had set off the chain reaction — a face in the crowd that seemed too much like one of the men who had abused her, groups of men behaving aggressively, men giving her certain glances or making lewd comments, bedraggled, frightened-looking girls sitting on pavements hugging their knees and keeping their heads down as they begged for loose change. But her panic didn’t always require any of those triggers to set it off.
Raymond had learned to leave her alone when such feelings enveloped her, though more and more she found herself going to him for comfort, wanting to be held. That had taken a long time. Her psychiatrist, if she had one, would no doubt have noted it as a positive sign, an acceptance of the need for human warmth and help she had spurned for so long after her traumatic experiences. But Raymond never questioned her, never asked for explanations; he simply gave her comfort when she needed it. Maybe that was why she had started to trust him after so long, to love him. She was quite aware that the only two men she had ever loved, apart from her father, whom she could hardly remember, were much older than she was, but she didn’t dwell on it. She was happy with Raymond, happy in a way she had never thought she could be again, and as happy as she could ever be, given the nightmares and the shame and the guilt — not for what she had done, but for what she had allowed it to do to her.
That morning she indulged herself in a large latte and a blueberry muffin at the Caffè Nero on the ground floor of the Oxo Tower. Joggers flashed by, and already the tourists were holding up their mobiles for selfies along on the waterfront. Two excited young women, who looked as if they were preparing for a modelling session, sat at the next table and discussed angles and locations with their photographer. With her black hair tied back in a loose chignon, accenting her high cheekbones, and her dark eyes, olive complexion and slender but shapely figure, Zelda herself might have been taken for a model, though her uniform of jeans, white open-neck shirt and kidskin jacket were hardly the apex of haute couture. She did notice the photographer glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, as if appraising her, from time to time. It made her feel a little uncomfortable but didn’t bring on a tsunami.
Foyles was in full swing when Zelda arrived, a huge, bright book emporium with a wonderful sense of natural light and space. There were the requisite displays of notebooks and gift items by the ground floor cash registers, but beyond stood a wall of recent titles facing out towards the reader. For a few moments, Zelda just stood there, overwhelmed, reading titles but not really taking them in. On her previous visits she had always been either browsing or searching for a specific title, but this time she had no idea where to begin. She had vaguely worked out how she would approach Keane’s girlfriend, but not how she would find her in the first place. At least she wasn’t working the ground floor tills, so that was a start. These things all seemed so easy in movies, but in real life they were a different matter. She didn’t think she looked threatening or dangerous, so she hoped that the people she talked to would trust her and not feel they needed to hide the truth or call the police.
She decided that the best thing to do would be to check out all five floors first, and if there was no sign of her there, she would start showing the photograph around to members of staff. She was nervous about that, as she had no more of an explanation for it now than she had the previous evening in the restaurant. No doubt she would think of something.
And so she began her search, walking each floor, checking the faces of anyone at an information desk, carrying or stacking piles of books, adjusting shelf displays or talking to customers, until she arrived at the gallery and cafe on the fifth floor. The woman serving behind the counter there definitely wasn’t the one she was looking for; nor were any of the people sitting at a table enjoying a coffee break.
Zelda started working her way back down again, this time showing the photo to every employee she met. She had no idea how many people worked in Foyles, or how the hierarchy functioned, but one or two people she talked to thought they recognised the woman but just couldn’t place her. Some merely seemed suspicious and were unwilling to help her at all.
Finally, Zelda got lucky on the third floor.
‘That looks like Ms Butler,’ said a young girl on her knees, shelving business self-help books.
Zelda’s spirits revived. ‘Where can I find her?’
The girl’s expression turned guarded. ‘Who wants to know?’ she asked. ‘And where did this photograph come from?’
‘I’d just like to talk to her. That’s all.’
‘I wouldn’t want to get her into any trouble.’
‘She’s not in any trouble. Honest,’ said Zelda, dredging up her best smile.
The girl chewed on her lip for a few moments, then said, ‘Ms Butler. Faye. She’s head of our art department. You should find her on the ground floor.’
Hadn’t Banks told her that Keane was involved in the art world when the two of them had crossed swords a few years ago? He had moved on now, if the photograph with Tadić was to be believed, but that didn’t mean he had completely left his earlier interests behind.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Zelda.
The girl nodded and went back to shelving books. Zelda walked down the stairs to the ground floor. She approached a young man rearranging a stack of books on a table centrepiece and asked if Ms Butler was around.
‘Faye?’ said the young man, glancing around. ‘She was here a few moments ago. Must have nipped into the office. Can I help?’
Zelda smiled sweetly. ‘No, thank you. I really need to talk to Ms Butler.’
‘OK. Won’t be a jiffy.’
He disappeared through a STAFF ONLY door and reappeared a minute or two later with the young blonde woman in Zelda’s photograph. It had been difficult to tell her age when Zelda had followed her and Hawkins along Oxford Street just before Christmas, but now Zelda saw her in the flesh, she guessed that Faye Butler was probably about the same age as she was. Faye approached, a puzzled expression on her pixie-ish face, and said, ‘Hello. I’m Faye Butler. Ron here says you want to talk to me.’
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Zelda said. ‘Yes, I’d like to talk to you if you have a few moments to spare.’
‘What’s it about?’ Faye asked, dismissing Ron with a wave of the hand.
‘It’s about Phil Keane. I understand you go out with him, or used to.’
Faye folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what you want, or who you are, but I’ve never heard of any Phil Keane.’
Before Faye could turn and walk away, Zelda held out the photo. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’
Faye paused and examined the photograph. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where you got it, but it’s me. Perhaps I’d better call the police?’
Zelda took a deep breath. After the next step, there would be no turning back. ‘I am the police,’ she said.
‘Do you have identification?’