Page 76 of Don't Let Him In

SEVENTY

Jane Trevally had messaged Ash the previous day:

I know a great geek, a hacker, friend of my stepson. He can unpick the internet like a surgeon He’s going to find out where those fake reviews for Bar Amelie came from. Says to give him twenty-four hours

The online complaints about Bar Amelie from the woman who claimed to have been sexually assaulted there by a gay waiter were easy enough to find. They are everywhere, in every corner of the internet, from Tripadvisor to Google to chat rooms and forums.

Luke Berner himself had replied to her accusations on some platforms.

Dear Jennifer Smith,

We are sorry that you are still pursuing and perpetuating these unfounded allegations. The member of staff in question has been interviewed by the police and released without caution. We have CCTV footage which proves categorically that you were not assaulted on our premises. We have eyewitness reports. This is part of awicked vendetta against myself and our establishment and we will have no compunction about taking you to court over this matter if you do not desist immediately.

Luke Berner Owner/General Manager

As Ash heads out of the clothes agency now, toward the sandwich shop, her phone bleeps and it’s Jane.

He’s got her. Jennifer Smith.

LIVES IN TOOTING

Call me when you can

Ash gets her usual panini from the nice couple in the shop. She pets their scruffy dog and finds herself regarding the couple a little less romantically as she waits for the panini to come out of the toaster. The world, she now knows, is not what it seems. Nobody is what they seem. Everything is an illusion. Maybe, she thinks, this perfect-looking couple are teetering on the edge of financial ruin, maybe she’s having an affair—maybe her partner isn’t even who he says he is, maybe he has another wife, has left abandoned children, death, and destruction in his wake. She shakes these dark thoughts from her head as she crosses the road toward the beach, where she sits on her bench by the sea and lets the weak sunshine warm her skin while she unwraps the panini and clicks on Jane’s number. Jane answers immediately.

“Don’t ask me how he did it. Something to do with IP addresses. I dunno. But her name is Amanda Law, she’s fifty-nine, she used to be an interior designer, quite famous in the nineties and noughties, did stuff for It Girls, Britpop stars, that kind of thing. I googled her—quite pretty, very posh. She went bankrupt in 2006 and was last known to be workingat an interiors store on Wandsworth Bridge Road. Two grown sons, born in 1997 and 1999. And yes, I have her address. When can we go?”

Ash stares out at the channel, the surface soft and gray on this gentle January afternoon. Her heart is racing with excitement, and also nerves. She says, “I finish work at five. I can meet you at six thirty? Usual place?”

Amanda Law’s apartment is in a converted house in a small road off Tooting High Street. The frontage is grimy and sad, and it does not look like the home of a famous interior designer. Jane presses the bell for flat B and Ash feels a flutter of anticipation about what they might be about to encounter. What sort of woman will she be, what sort of story will she have to tell, and how will she react to what she and Jane are about to tell her? A voice comes onto the intercom and Ash jumps with a start. It’s a man’s voice, and for a brief, terrifying moment she thinks it’s Nick—it has a similar tone and quality.

“Oh, hello,” says Jane. “We’re looking for Amanda Law? Is she in?”

“Who is this?”

“We’re old friends.”

“What sort of old friends?”

“Back-in-the-day friends. You know. From her Chelsea days.”

There’s a long silence and then the man comes back onto the intercom and says, “Hold on.”

Thirty seconds later, the door opens and there is a young man in front of them, and at the sight of him, Ash gives an audible gasp. He is the image of Nick Radcliffe: tall and broad, with a thick head of hair, a neat beard, those piercing blue eyes.

“I’m Sam,” he says, “Amanda’s son. Did you want to come in?”

They follow him up a scruffy staircase and through a door on the first floor into a small but very attractively decorated flat. Sam seats them on a sofa in a bay window and gets them glasses of water. Ash watches him in rapt fascination.

“So,” hesays, eyeing them inquisitively, “you knew Mum back in the day?”

“Well, yes and no,” says Jane. “Or mainly—no. But I knew of her. We had friends in common. Lots and lots of friends in common. The nineties. The noughties. London. Chelsea. All of that. You know. And I loved her work. She was brilliant.”

“Yes,” says Sam. “She really was. Look.” He reaches behind him to a pile of books on a shelf and pulls out two coffee-table books, flicks through the pages, points out images of exquisitely designed rooms. “These are hers. Her work made it into a lot of books, a lot of magazines. She won awards, you know.” He closes it and then leans back into his chair and sighs.

“I assume,” says Jane, “that she’s not here?”

A pained look passes across the young man’s face. “Ha. No. No, she’s not here. She has not been here for a very long time. I live here now.”

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