Kirsty Jefferson

Chapter 1

Nicola Eastly watched the pigeons from her seat in the café overlooking the Piazza del Duomo. They were scurrying about scrambling for bits of bread and whatever else the tourists were flinging in their direction. A couple with a baby sitting in a pushchair had some of the birds gather on top of the handlebar, clambering to be fed, and the baby giggled as one of them kept falling off. This spectacle turned Nicola’s stomach. Pigeons were a blot on the landscape, dirty, filthy things that turned her beloved square into a giant bird toilet. The sight shouldn’t have upset her too much. The tourists loved to feed the pigeons and she had seen much worse. She turned her gaze to the Duomo itself. The sun’s light had created a dappled effect on the white marble façade. Nicola had read that it was one of the largest cathedrals in the world that was made from this material. In her experience most churches and cathedrals tended to be built out of brick or stone. She took a large bite out of her ham and cheese panino, savouring every morsel. This was all she could afford for lunch at the Verdi café; but the view, she considered, was a fair trade off. She opened her purse and frowned; she would have to consider returning to England. The idea of going back after so many months of travelling around Europe was difficult to contemplate but she knew she had to return and face reality. Nicola did not have an endless supply of funds and, if she were honest, there were several things she missed about England. None of which came to mind at that moment as she gazed at the clear blue sky ahead and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun on her face.

Still, her trip had allowed her a glimpse of what life could be like on the other side of the divide between rich and poor. And it had given her the chance to live carefree for a while, visiting places where she had always wanted to go; her mind freed from concerns about whether she could afford monthly utility bills or pay for the weekly food shop.

A tanned man in a dark suit, wearing sunglasses, walked past her table. She glanced up at him and, for a split second, thought it was Tristan Abbott. Nicola held her breath. He turned round and waved at someone. It was not him. Of course, it wasn’t him! That man was in prison. For killing two people. He was not going to be strolling around Milan whilst she was there. He was locked away for good. Still, just the thought of him began to resurrect ugly memories. Nicola pinched her nose and closed her eyes. Don’t think about him! She told herself sharply. Breathe. She drew in a large chunk of air through her nose and blew slowly out of her mouth. After a couple of turns her breathing steadied. Nicola avoided thinking about the events in Ladyford; keeping herself busy to suppress her memories. Her recent travels around Europe had helped in this regard. Nicola had commenced her journey from Paris and visited at least six capitals in Europe. Budapest was her favourite place so far; the gothic architecture and café culture had won her over. Milan, however, was on the verge of replacing it on her imaginary leader board of favourite destinations. She would be sad to leave. But now she had been dragged back to thinking about last year’s court case. Whenever her mind drew her to that period in her life she resisted as best she could. She guessed it was a version of PTSD. Every now and then, such as on this occasion, there only needed to be one thing to set her off and she was right there again, in South London, where it all began. The person she was today would not recognise the woman she had been. The experience had transformed her. Thank God. It was funny though, she often thought during her darker moments, that if she had not encountered the events of that Spring and Summer, she would never have challenged herself, up until then she had been living a life ‘half lived’. Something about living a life in fear, she recalled from a Spanish saying. The idea she had become stronger because of this experience, that she had benefitted from tragedy, was difficult to fathom, unsettling her. Nicola distracted herself by focusing on the crowd in front of her. A multitude of people spilled out over the square like a huge patchwork quilt. Concentrate. Don’t think about it. Breathe. It didn’t work. Her breathing quickened. She began to remember the night of Matthew’s death. Try as she might to stop it, the sight of him lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood flashed in front of her eyes…

*****

Nicola had finished work early on Thursday and, instead of going to the pub with Michelle, she decided to walk home. Tiredness had overtaken her as she’d had a few restless nights. The evenings were lighter now and the temperature was generally milder as spring crept into this corner of London. At night she was hot in her bed; stupidly she hadn’t changed her winter duvet to a spring one, causing her nights of restlessness. This was a big issue for Nicola back then, thinking back on it, now it seemed trivial and pathetic.

On that evening, she strode purposefully along her usual route south of Northfield Park. Ladyford Town Hall, where she worked, was a few minutes behind her as she made her ascent up Dempsey Road. She always hated this part of the journey as there was less to see, and the road was straight and appeared endless, as if someone was stretching it out over the horizon. It was lined with Edwardian terrace houses that had seen better days. Cracked and flaky paint could be seen here and there on the outside window frames and doors, and the front gardens had been left untended. Nicola often liked peering into the gardens as she walked past; one day she had seen a dead cat coiled round a big black wheelie bin and wondered whether the owner had forgotten to dispose of it. She distracted herself to forget about the journey ahead. Walking was her only regular exercise and often, after a hard day at work, all she wanted was to take the bus instead, but this way she saved money and kept fit. The houses here were affordable but they were situated in a less desirable area. As she navigated the endless line of green recycling bins that cluttered the pavement, she felt the wind grapple with her hair. The temperature was dropping. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was 5.40. There wasn’t much time before the park manager locked the gates. She also didn’t want to walk through the park when it was getting dark. Still, in ten minutes, she would easily reach it. She could see the black wrought-iron gates ahead and this reassured her, because she wasn’t about to break into a jog. The last time she had run anywhere was possibly in her 30s and that was over fifteen years ago. Steadily, over time, she had grown reluctant to exercise. Perhaps it was a fear that she would hurt herself during a particularly vigorous session? The more likely explanation was that she was always too tired to do anything that overexerted herself.

Upon reaching the gate, she drew a deep breath. This was the part of her walk home she disliked the most. Facing her was the main hill in the park which loomed up at a 45-degree angle, her mini-Everest, as she thought of it. She drew strength from the idea that she was strengthening her thighs and behind, and it was important for her to move around, given her sedentary job as a secretary. Nicola would usually approach the hill at a steady pace and didn’t stop until she reached the summit. This time as she made her ascent, she paused to catch her breath, her lack of sleep had caught up with her. All she needed was to rest a few moments. Halfway up the hill she turned to look behind her; she saw the outline of grey terraced houses and then further beyond could make out the hospital and then, further still, the metallic and glass structures of Canary Wharf. There was a canopy of clouds above and, to the west, she could see what little sunlight was left, peeking out of the clouds. The wind picked up and Nicola instinctively tightened her paisley scarf round her neck and buttoned up the top button of her navy Marks and Spencer raincoat, which she had got for less than half price in a charity shop. There were open green spaces on either side of the path where she stood, and rows of trees lined the edges, with bare branches that curled around like huge, gnarly hands. Nicola shivered; a few specks of rain on her face forced her to continue her walk up the hill. From the top it would only take a few minutes to walk the mostly flat path past the playground, the bandstand, the community garden and out to Red Hill Road where she lived. This whole area used to belong to the Devereux family and Northfield Park had been the name of their manor. Anthony Devereux had been forced to sell it off along with his land after the First World War, when many great estates succumbed to death taxes. Nicola smiled; she was glad she could enjoy the land along with everyone else in the area rather than just having one family living on it. On the other hand, she reflected, if there had never been a great estate here, there would never have been a public park. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined she was walking along a pebbly beach with the wind in her hair and her eyes to the horizon. She opened them again. The park was the one place she could go to relax and forget all the struggles of her world. It was her sanctuary where she built a different life for herself, one in which she had fulfilled her dream of travelling the world and settling down somewhere quiet by the sea. She told herself that the time wasn’t right to change things; it never was. Still, she had this tranquil place to wander round. There was a large community garden with exotic herbs, vegetables and beautiful plants and large open spaces with various species of tree. If she ever felt a bit low, Nicola would put her walking shoes on and take a few turns there. Everyone she passed seemed happier, whether they were out jogging or taking their dog for a walk and, invariably, there would be children squealing and laughing in the playground, which helped to pull her out of her maudlin mood. She approached the northern exit gate.

It was near to closing time and the light was fading but she could still see the gate in front of her. However, her peripheral vision was a blur, and beyond a few metres it was impossible to make out any detail, just shapes. The loud high-pitched, noisy squawk of some parakeets made her jump. She found these exotic birds that had made the UK their home for decades annoying. Many theories abounded about how they originated in the Himalayas and had settled in London; Nicola believed the entire population lived in her park because of the sound they made. If she could find a new habitat for these so-called ‘posh pigeons’ she would. They flew noisily overhead and then the park was wrapped in silence. She hurried towards the gate.

Walking past the dense copse on her left, she thought she heard raised voices coming from the other side of it and the sound made her slow to a halt. Was it a drunken argument? One man was slurring his words. Two men were both shouting now. Thank God her flat, plastic-soled pumps had – hopefully - kept her presence unnoticed! As she moved on, towards the trees, she heard a shriek which reminded her of the noise a fox makes when mating. She was rooted to the spot, her muscles freezing. She sensed that something terrible had occurred, but she didn’t want to get involved, so she hid behind the nearest tree. Her selfish desire to keep herself out of harm’s way resulted in her inaction. Instead of running and calling the police, she crouched down, out of sight.

Nicola was thankful she was wearing her navy coat, which blended in with the rest of the darkness, and nestled her body up against a nearby fir tree. As she waited for the altercation to end, she hoped that whatever she was standing on was just a grassy floor and there was nothing else underfoot. Parts of this park were notorious places for dog walkers. Nicola hoped she wasn’t standing in excrement…

From her position she concentrated on what was going on. It felt like she had just wandered onto the last scene of a violent play. The slurring man was shouting. And then when she heard the other one, her blood ran cold. Immediately she recognised the voice. It was Tristan Abbott. He had such a distinctive cadence; she was convinced it was him. The plummy undertones mingling with an estuary accent were unmistakable. She listened more closely to the drama that was unfolding a few metres away from her.

Tristan Abbott screamed, “Fucking parasite! Fucking scum! I’m fed up with you always asking me for money. Have you no respect for yourself? Why don’t you work like everyone else?!”

There were muffled cries of pain coming from the other man, and seconds later she heard a dull thud; something heavy landed on the ground. She hoped he was alright. She gasped, but luckily the noise was covered by a blast of wind. Nicola had no idea what to do. There was no way she could remain where she was; she needed to do something, but she was racked by indecision. Nicola had been crouching down for five or maybe ten minutes, but she was too frightened to move. Her legs ached and she was cold, but she was too scared to move for fear of being attacked as well, so she stayed where she was, crouching next to the tree. As she waited, her mind worked overtime, as she tried figuring what had happened. It appeared she had heard something bad between two men in the park. She knew that one of them was Tristan Abbott. Tristan was one of the councillors working at Ladyford Town Hall. He was also a regular at her local church, and the more she thought about the idea that he was a violent attacker, the more ridiculous it sounded. Why would a very popular local councillor do such a thing? And yet here he was, just metres away. She had no idea what he was doing. Now there was silence. As she continued to question Tristan’s motive for hurting the other man so savagely, she thought more generally about him. He didn’t sound to her like he came from Ladyford, more like he had grown up in an exclusive boarding school somewhere out in the countryside. She barely knew him, but she was aware of all the good he’d done in the local community, which was why what she’d just heard perplexed her.

Suddenly there was a screeching sound of metal scraping across the tarmacked ground as the north gate was pulled shut. It must be around 6pm, she guessed, and the park manager was closing for the night. At that same moment, the attacker ran off, the tread of his shoes squeaking as he raced towards the other exit. She guessed he was heading for the one at the eastern end of the park as it was usually the last to be shut.

Nicola now felt safe enough to move and crept out of the undergrowth, wiping various leaves and cobwebs off her. She called out to the park manager as she bounded over to him, “Help! Over here!” Except this came out more like a croak. She shouted this time, “Help! Come quick!”

The park manager moved fast towards her. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

Nicola realised she didn’t know. She answered, “I need you to come with me. I heard a fight… it happened very quickly… I was scared. Can you come with me to see what’s gone on?”

He followed her round to the other side of the copse. They could just make out a man lying on the path next to a wooden bench. They could tell straight away that he was homeless. It was the smell that gave it away. He had that sweet urine stench which lingered on him, the familiar smell of the unwashed and even though the sun had disappeared from the sky, the nearby streetlights illuminated his threadbare, ill-fitting clothes.

The park manager bent down beside the young man, took his wrist, and felt for a pulse. “I can’t feel anything.” He put his other hand on the ground next to him and immediately cried out. As he raised this hand, Nicola saw it was covered in what could only be described as the man’s blood, which she now realised was spilling out of the man’s head. “Do you have a phone on you?” the park manager shouted. “Call the police! Now please. Tell them we’ve found a body. A dead body.”