That’s what’s troubling Jake too. He walks out across Bex’s lawn in the moonlight, peering down at the well-kept flowerbeds, feeling the wet grass beneath his bare feet. Kate used to keep an allotment in the village.
‘What if, just for a moment, we buy into this whole doppelgänger narrative and assume that it was Gil who replied to me, pretending to be Kirby,’ he says. ‘He’s back in the UK after nine years, jealous of Rob, of all that he’s achieved, and with only one thing going for him in this world: he looks identical to Rob. If you were set on taking over someone else’s life – becoming that person – social media would be as good a place as any to start. And maybe he’s already begun. If all Rob’s friends are fake accounts, monitored by Gil, it wouldn’t matter which one of them Kate contacted.’
‘And I thought it was just me,’ Bex says. ‘You really think that’s what might be happening?’
Jake can’t be certain about anything any more, not since he discovered Kirby was dead. ‘We have to consider it,’ he says.
‘But why would Gil break cover and let Kate know what he’s up to?’ Bex asks.
‘To send a warning to Rob? A blackmail sting? I don’t know, Bex, but if the story about the birthday party is true, he’s got form threatening others. Maybe he’s in no rush, assumes that Kate will eventually tell him.’
Jake is starting to sound like the resident conspiracy theorist in the Slaughtered Lamb. He blames the internet. He’s been reading a lot of stuff about doubles, and there’s ample evidence online that what Rob told Kate is true: it’s so much easier now to track down your lookalike. And Jake can’t forget how Kate explained to him what it was like to see Rob and believe he was an impostor. She sounded utterly convinced, professional. Like she used to in work mode, when identifying a criminal.
‘Whoever it was, Kate needs to know that Kirby’s dead,’ Bex says. ‘I’ll try her now. Nothing personal, but she might pick up if I ring her.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Jake says. ‘And drive carefully.’
‘This car drives itself.’
He’d forgotten that Bex is in Rob’s fancy Tesla.
‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for all this,’ he adds, without much conviction. ‘I just worry that something else might be going on – that Kate might be in real danger.’
66
Kate
Kate lies back in the roll-top bath and turns on the hot water tap with her big toe. She’s been in here almost an hour and has become quite adept at the manoeuvre. Her trip to Tate Late has been well and truly scuppered. Rob has tried his best to get the front door sorted, but there’s a problem with the facial-recognition software. The contractor is not answering, but Rob thinks he’ll be able to override the system with his master key when he returns.
They’ve also discussed couriering the key over here to let her out, but Rob is now at another office across town and by the time the key’s arrived, he’ll be back here in person. He’s also nervous about handing the master key over to a stranger, which is fair enough. She’s a woman on her own and he doesn’t want anyone turning up to let themselves in.
She reaches across and takes another sip of Sancerre. She knows there might be an alternative explanation for what’s happened here tonight: the front door could be fixed sooner, but Rob is being over-cautious about her personal safety. He doesn’t want her wandering the streets of London so soon after the court trial in Swindon. A part of her would be furious if that were the case. How dare he decide what she can and can’t do? But in light of what happened in Cornwall – her drink being spiked, her nearly being run down in the street, the dead body on the beach – she can hardly be angry with him if he’s being over-protective of her. She’s lucky to have someone who cares.
And it’s turned into a good night in, given the circumstances. She has watched a movie on Netflix, drunk too much wine and eaten a whole bar of Peruvian dark chocolate, which he also bought for her, and she’s now feeling sick. She still hasn’t turned on her mobile and talked to Jake. Their worlds feel further apart than ever as she lies here in Shoreditch, sipping Sancerre. If Jake saw her now, he could be forgiven for thinking that the only impostor is her.
A call on the landline disturbs her drunken reverie. She reaches across to pick up the receiver, careful not to get it wet. It’s Rob again.
‘You still in the bath?’ he asks. His voice is gentle, reassuring. Familiar.
‘How did you guess?’ she says, wishing he were here with her. To her right, of course.
‘I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted it to be,’ he says enigmatically.
‘How you wanted what to be?’ she asks, her smile fading.
The tone of Rob’s voice is beginning to scare her. Does he mean their evening together?
‘Don’t wait up for me,’ he says, sounding almost tearful now. ‘I love you.’
‘Wait,’ she says, sitting up.
The line dies. At the same moment, the lights go out, plunging her into darkness. The bath suddenly feels very cold. Her thoughts try to follow a rational route, like flowing water, feeling their way along the most sensible, scientific path, obeying the laws of physics. It must be a power cut, connected in some way to the faulty front door. The house is over-engineered, too much can go wrong. Something else has come up at work and Rob won’t be back until even later. He was interrupted on the phone, didn’t sign off.
She sits in the darkness for a few moments, aware of her quickening pulse. There’s a noise in the main room. Automated, an electrical hum of some kind. Maybe there isn’t a power cut, just an issue with the lighting. She steps out of the bath, feels for the dressing gown, and shivers as she wraps herself in its soft cotton embrace.
She walks into the main room and watches with horror as the space begins to steadily darken around her. Steel security blinds are sliding down the inside of the windows and the last of the London skyline is disappearing behind them. Within seconds the blinds have shut out the remaining light of the city and she’s now in total darkness. Is the apartment going into lockdown, turning into one big panic room? It’s the sort of paranoid security feature Rob might have. Jesus, just how dangerous can Shoreditch be?
She remembers the roof terrace, turns and feels her way towards the door at the bottom of the stairs. Pulling it open, she’s relieved to see evening light spilling in through the terrace door that she left open earlier. She scrambles upstairs as fast as she can, as if oxygen-starved, and rushes out onto the grass. She feels better already.
The night is balmy, London bathed in a lambent halo, at odds with the drama playing out below. She pauses to get her breath back, tells herself to stop worrying. Why was Rob talking like that on the phone? His voice sounded so fragile, conflicted.
She has a sudden urge to call Jake. He’ll know what’s going on, what’s happening to the house. Where to find the fuse box or master switch or whatever. He’s so practical. This was always her favourite time of day when they were living on the boat. In summer, the two them would sit out in the cockpit, chatting and laughing in the twilight glow, glasses of wine in hand, their heads full of dreams and madcap plans. In those moments, everything used to seem possible.