Paparazzi Jo Fenton (the first e reader .txt) 📖

up quite a rapport by the time I get to the front of the taxi queue. She gives me a card just before I get in the taxi.

“Lovely to meet you, Becky, although not the best circumstances. Call me if you need any help when you return here later, or if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Thanks, Amy. You’ve been really kind. Look me up next time you’re in Manchester.”

Once in the taxi, I direct the driver to a shopping centre in Kensington. I’ve done my research, and this was the location of the Tube station where I was planning to get out and start my walk. A shopping centre is also an innocuous destination for a passenger from Euston. All the same, I don’t calm down much during the journey. I’m very on edge after my experience at the station, and keep looking back to make sure we’re not being followed. I know I’m doing a terrible job of looking like an innocent shopper, and eventually the driver asks me through the intercom if I’m okay.

“I had an unpleasant experience on the train and was accosted again when we got to Euston. I just want to make sure he’s not following me.”

“Poor wee lassie,” says the driver, in deepest Glaswegian. Then he fills my ears with tales of taxi chases, and crimes that he’s been involved in solving. It turns out that he’s a private detective when he’s not being a cabbie, and we have a lovely chat, exchanging business cards at the end of the journey when he drops me off. I put the card into my purse and thank the driver before getting out at the shopping centre.

Glancing round, I can’t see anybody suspicious. Everyone just appears to be going about their business of shopping, chatting with friends, walking (or in one case, running) towards the Tube station or the nearby Overground. I check my watch. I have half an hour before I’m due to meet Sylvia. There’s enough time to pop into Waitrose and grab something to eat along the way. I’m suddenly hungry. Settling for a banana and a Twix, as they’re easy to munch on the move, I pay, and return to the street. I’ve memorised the route, but it takes a minute to get my bearings. My watch tells me I now have only twenty minutes. How on earth can it take ten whole minutes to buy fruit and chocolate? There’s no point dwelling on it. I take a deep breath and hurry toward the designated meeting place.

I’m a little out of breath when I arrive outside the flats with just one minute to spare. I do a quick survey of the surroundings. This is a pleasant residential road, with lots of big houses, well-kept gardens, and mostly well-dressed but otherwise ordinary people walking dogs, jogging, and doing normal activities that would be expected in this sort of area. There’s a bell on the door against the flat number, but the name tag next to the number is blank. I press the bell. An intercom vibrates, and a female, cultured voice says, “Who is it?”

“Becky. I have an appointment.”

“Come in, dear. First floor. It’s the flat on the left.”

The door buzzes, and I push it open. In the hallway is a mirror, and a quick glance at it shows me how flustered I look. I have a rummage in my bag and extract a hairbrush and lipstick. Twenty seconds later, I’m on my way upstairs. I notice a lift, but choose to take the stairs as I’m in a hurry.

The door to the flat on the left is open, and in the doorway is a smart lady in a wheelchair.

“Come on in.” She smiles at me, a welcoming expression that makes me feel more at ease. I realise I’ve been on edge all day.

I follow her into a lounge – a beautifully-proportioned living room that looks strangely plain and unlived-in. Blue velvet curtains adorn the windows, which are darkened by Venetian blinds, slanted to allow a view of the street. There is a TV in one corner, and sofa opposite, in a fabric to match the curtains. The single armchair is arranged so that the sofa, chair and TV enclose a small coffee table. It’s a fairly classic arrangement, so why does it feel so odd?

Sylvia, who I presume is my host, answers my unspoken question.

“I don’t live here, dear. No one does. This is a convenient meeting spot. The lift makes it accessible to me, and I live a short distance away. The TV allows for more pleasant passing of time. It is occasionally useful to stay overnight, so the flat is furnished, but not excessively so.”

“Surely if you want it to look more normal, wouldn’t it be… er… sensible to have some pictures, or pot plants, or something in here?”

“We only acquired it recently. It could do with some work, I grant you.” She beckons for me to sit on the sofa. “How was your journey?”

I’m not sure why, but there’s something in her voice; an expectation, perhaps, that my trip here was not uneventful. My suspicion grows as I describe my day so far, and she nods, looking totally unsurprised throughout.

“Was the man on the train one of your people?” I ask.

“I sincerely hope not, dear. I’d be appalled if one of ours was as clumsy and uncouth as that.” She smiles again. “No, I can think of two reasons your journey was as challenging as it was.”

“What would they be?”

“Well, the first is that people like you attract trouble. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, but there are certain people to whom certain situations will gravitate. Agatha Christie had that in mind when she wrote Miss Marple – an elderly lady around whom a ridiculous number of murders occurred. Obviously she was a fictional character, but there are people like that, and I believe you’re one of them.”

“All the murders I’ve been involved with have been