I Know What I Saw

I stare at the photofit that appears on the screen and realise that I don’t actually know what the woman looks like. All I can see is her dark hair and her body as it is bent back over the table. I remember her bloodstained shirt. No, wine-stained.

‘Not her,’ I say to Amit. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘We’d have more luck with a name,’ he says then. ‘I know you don’t know it but we might be able to find it.’

This shocks me a little.

‘What? How?’ I say.

‘Well. Who is she, this woman? Where do you know her from? Where does she work?’

I shake my head at every question.

‘Where does she live?’ he says, running a hand through his hair.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Wait – if you know the address, can you find out on the computer who lives there?’

‘Probably,’ he says nonchalantly.

‘How?’

‘Just,’ he says, and then looks at me as I wait for more. Finally, he waves his hands in the air and says, ‘World Wide Web magic.’

‘42B Farm Street, Mayfair,’ I say. ‘Type that.’

We sit at the computer for the next few minutes as Amit slips effortlessly from one website to the next. He has the ability to flick back and forth between lists and sites before I’ve even registered what is on them.

Finally, he looks up and says, ‘I can tell you when it was bought. But that’s all I’ve got.’

‘The flat? Really?’ I say, surprised.

‘Yep. It was bought in May 2017 for – wow, 7.2 million pounds.’

The number makes me blink. ‘Does it say who by?’

‘No. But you could find out by looking at the electoral register, apparently,’ he says after a few more clicks.

‘Can I do that online?’

He taps away for a moment before turning to me. ‘You can either go to Westminster Council and look at it. Or you can buy it.’

‘Buy it?’

‘Yep. But it looks expensive,’ he says. ‘I think it’s for companies, really. Credit cards or whatever.’ He taps away some more and then looks up, his face brighter. ‘Or the Land Registry has a thing, look. You can buy a title register for three pounds. Not sure what that is though.’

There aren’t three pounds on my person but I need the information. ‘The title register will tell us who owns it. Amit, I can pay you back, do you think you could?’ I say, but before I can finish the request, he has already completed the form and typed a bank card number into it. Within seconds the title information comes back.

‘Summary of title, address,’ he says, scrolling down. ‘There it is, owner: Arathorn Industries Limited.’

I sigh but muster the energy to thank him.

‘No probs,’ he says but continues to tap away. ‘Yeah. No good. Can’t get any details of the directors or anything.’

The screen shows that the company is registered offshore. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry, Amit. I think I’ve wasted about an hour and a half at least of your study time.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I was going to do French. Can’t stand it. Who is she, by the way – the woman?’

‘I don’t know. But something happened to her and I need her name so I can ask the police if she’s missing.’ Even as I am saying it, I realise I’m not making much sense. ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘What time is it?’

He points the cursor at the screen again. ‘18:58.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

He nods, and I get up and leave.

Once outside I weigh up what I know. An expensive flat. No more than that. A spectacularly expensive flat. A place for a millionaire, even a millionaire tied up in enough illicit wealth that he can call on fixers to fix his mistakes. Maybe this wasn’t even his first murder. A person like that who can click his fingers and have people emerge from the shadows to clean away his messes could develop a taste for mess.

The cold makes me huddle into myself and then from nowhere, the side of her face blooms into view, framed by dark mahogany curls. I couldn’t save her. I correct myself: I could have saved her but I didn’t. And now I can’t even find her. How many people might be looking for her? How long could she go before being missed? That website that Amit happened upon, documenting the thousands of people who go missing, showed me that most people go missing quietly. A person or two notices. The police don’t have time to devote much effort to them. And then, months later, they are found – dead in a field, by a road. Just dead. Is this what will happen to her? Will she die without a body or a funeral?

I can’t let that be what happens.

At Rory’s funeral there was nobody from home. Everybody, except me and Grace, was from his new life – work colleagues, mainly. A few friends from Cambridge who went on, like him, to live and work in London. All these young men and women stood at the graveside, their faces in ruin but their clothes immaculate. Funeral chic. The women cried, the men nodded quietly. Afterwards a few came to pay their respects, and offered me their hands to shake.

‘They didn’t know him,’ I said to Grace.