‘Thank you, Isla. I hope you enjoy your stay in London.’
Her smile was practised and bright as she nodded, her gaze already moving to embrace the passenger behind him.
As he stepped onto the passenger boarding bridge he felt a chill blast of March air. Spring may be around the corner but after spending half the week in balmy twenty-six-degree temperatures it felt unseasonably cold. He walked through the arrivals hall, people jostling alongside from earlier flights. Young mothers with babies, elderly people, backpackers. South Asian faces, African, Chinese. White skins, black and brown.
He rang Jenny as he walked.
‘Hi, love. I’ve just disembarked. Everything okay?’
‘Mischa’s just started cutting his first teeth.’
He smiled. ‘Lots of dribble, then.’
‘Oooh, yes.’
‘Aimee?’
‘Squealing with excitement. She fully expects you to take her pony riding again. You do realise what you’ve started, don’t you?’
‘Everyone should learn how to ride a horse. And ski. And play tennis.’
‘Dear God, Dan. You’ll have your daughter going to private school next!’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘Apart from the expense there’s the small fact that you hated it so much you ran away when you were nine.’
He gave a mental shrug. ‘It made me an adventurer.’
‘You can say that again.’ Her voice was dry.
‘Anything I can get you on my way home?’
‘Just yourself. We’ve missed you.’
‘Me you.’
It didn’t take long to get through UK border control and into the car park. He beeped his BMW open, put his carry-on case in the boot. Inside the car he was about to start the engine when his phone rang. 020. A London number. He answered, thinking it was probably to do with work.
‘Is that Dan Forrester?’ a woman asked.
‘Speaking.’
‘My name is Sergeant Milton, from the Kensington and Chelsea Police. I’m making enquiries about Kaitlyn Rogers.’
‘I’m sorry, who?’
‘Kaitlyn Rogers.’
The name rang a faint bell but he couldn’t think why and said so.
‘Hmmm,’ the sergeant said. ‘Your number is in her contacts list. She rang you three times last week on Sunday afternoon, third of March, between three forty-five and five pm.’
Dan checked his phone. Out of the calls he’d missed, two had been from the office and one from Jenny. The other three were from a UK mobile which he had assumed was a phone scam. They’d all been made on Sunday. He recited the number recorded on his phone to find it matched the one the police officer was enquiring about.
‘There’s another number here.’ As the sergeant recited it, Dan felt a chill in his stomach. It was his father’s old number. Why did this woman have it? Dad had died last year.
‘What’s this about?’
There was a pause, then the sergeant said, ‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that Kaitlyn Rogers was found dead last night.’
Dan frowned, half-watching an Asian couple wrestle a vast suitcase into the back of a taxi.
‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘I’m sorry… but Kaitlyn Rogers was murdered. This is a murder investigation.’
Abruptly, Dan remembered the headline on his phone. Woman, 32, murdered in brutal Airbnb bloodbath. She had been staying in Kensington. Sergeant Milton was from the Kensington and Chelsea Police.
‘Are you talking about that woman in your borough? The one who was stabbed in her Airbnb?’
‘I’m afraid so. Yes.’
When he didn’t respond but remained silent, he heard her clear her throat.
‘Is there any chance we could meet today?’
Dan flicked his gaze to his watch, and away. He’d promised to try and get back in time for lunch with the kids. Maybe take an afternoon walk, if the weather remained fine. ‘No. Sorry.’
‘Perhaps I can come to you? The address in Kaitlyn Rogers’ contacts list says you’re at 51 Churchfields in Dartmouth, is that right?’
Another chill. She’d recited his parents’ address before his mother had died. ‘It’s my old childhood home. We haven’t lived there for over a decade now.’
A pause, then, ‘What do you do, Mr Forrester? I mean, work-wise.’
‘I’m a global political analyst.’
From the ensuing silence, Dan thought he’d better expand. ‘The company I work for specialises in advising clients on the potential risks and benefits of investing in a particular country.’
It didn’t sound particularly exciting, but it suited him very well; not only did he meet a wide variety of people and travel the world, but a lot of it was investigative. He used to work for MI5, along with his boss, and although the information they gathered for their clients came from legitimate sources, they both had an unerring nose for tracking down an inside scoop or two.
‘Could Kaitlyn Rogers have been a likely client?’
‘No.’
‘You sound very definite about that.’
‘I’ve only been working there for the past fifteen months. I know every client and potential client on our books.’
Small pause.
‘Where are you now?’
‘Heathrow,’ Dan admitted.
‘Leaving or arriving?’
‘Arriving. You?’
‘I’m at Kensington Police Station. Earls Court Road.’
Dan pulled out his phone and went to the BBC website.
‘I’d really like to see you,’ the sergeant pressed.
Dan clicked on the news headlines. Scanned the piece on the murder of Kaitlyn Rogers.
‘Why? Haven’t you already arrested a suspect?’
‘They’re a suspect. Nothing more, nothing less.’
Dan leaned his head against the headrest. He didn’t want to go into London, but he needed to know if this woman’s murder was a threat or not. Had something from his past come to haunt him? Something he couldn’t remember? His problem was that he’d lost great chunks of his memory when he’d gone through the trauma of witnessing his baby son being killed. Being unable to recall any information from the event was one thing, but it went further than that. Although all his childhood and university memories were intact, the ones of his old job in MI5 had vanished. It was as if he’d never worked there. What if this Kaitlyn Rogers knew him back then? What if she was bringing danger to his door?
‘Okay, Sergeant. I’ll be with you within the hour.’
4
While Mac drove off to find somewhere to park the car, Lucy trotted into the
