EPISODE SIXTY-FIVE
Forensic evidence revealed that Savita Kapoor
was raped and strangled on Tunbridge Wells Common, and the DNA tests proved
that the perpetrator was Malcolm Ellison, as if anyone could have had any doubt
about his guilt.
The daily papers and the Sundays carried front page stories of the murder, and
for days Tunbridge Wells swarmed with reporters and paparazzi trying to milk as
much as they could from the story.
Sheila Ellison, much to her children’s disgust, sold her exclusive story
to one of the tabloids, exaggerating her husband’s animal lusts and habits
between the sheets, thus justifying the hefty sum the tabloid was paying her.
Savita’s funeral service was held at a Catholic church in Wembley. Nicky took the day off work to attend, but
was worried about meeting Savita’s parents and relatives, since all the
newspapers ran the picture and story of the way Malcolm had been set up when he
anticipated a threesome. At the last
minute, she changed her mind about going, and went instead to St. Augustine’s Catholic Church in Crescent Road, where she knelt
and said a prayer for her friend and colleague, and lit a candle for her. Feeling slightly guilty for her cowardice,
she walked aimlessly through Calverley Park, then sat on a bench and toyed with her mobile. She sent Jason a text message, telling him
she missed him. He had his own business,
as a central heating engineer, and she thought he was probably at work and
wouldn’t respond quickly. But he
responded in less than three minutes. His text message said:
Like 2 cheer u up babe, cum 2 my place 2nite & b my lover, all u have 2 say is yes, luv Jason xx
She deliberated for less than a minute, then sent him a text in the
affirmative. The die was cast.She was
committed.She put the recent events
behind her, brushed them away like so many niggling doubts and troubling
thoughts.Now life was moving on.
*
As Tunbridge Wells shopping centre teems with shoppers going in and out of the
Victoria Centre, anyone watching the monitors of the CCTV security cameras will
see nothing more than another uneventful, typical Saturday afternoon, pretty
much like the previous one, and the one before that; people going about their
business and spending money. However, keen
observers of body language might notice Nigel and Jackie, standing outside
Argos, having a quarrel over something as trivial as the
empty yoghurt pot Jackie had abandoned on the coffee table in Nigel’s house
because she didn’t want to miss the start of an episode of Silent Witness. Nigel was
peeved to discover that Jackie, who had implied that she watched little
television, was in fact quite addicted to many programmes, and the strain of the
impending marriage is beginning to take its toll.
Do CCTV cameras single out Dave Whitby, who stands outside Superdrug? He looks
like a man loitering with intent. But
the reason for his shifty demeanour is the recent argument he’s had with Mary
over his intention to do a six week summer season in Blackpool. Now she is part of his life, she has objected
to him leaving her to cope on her own.
‘Tough!’ he said. ‘It’s what I do
for a living.’ And this had erupted into
a major scene, followed by sulks, and a refusal to follow her and her sons into
Superdrug. He shuffles about, like a man
with something to hide, hands deep in pockets, head sunk low, unaware that we
can all be seen by the myriad cameras in our shopping centres, and without the Big Brother element of sound, our
demeanours are open to any interpretation.
But no CCTV observer would have been suspicious of Nicky and her new boyfriend,
as they stop outside HMV in the Victoria Centre. They look like many a young couple in love as
they exchange lingering kisses. Now that
their relationship has been consummated, not only are they blissfully unaware
of the Big Brother presence of
shopping mall security cameras, they don’t even notice the people around them
as they hold each other close, lost inside their own sensual world.
Because there are so many shoppers milling about in the centre, no camera can
actually single out Vanessa. Unless it
is with an imaginary telephoto lens of a feature film camera zooming in on her as
she heads towards HMV where she is bound to bump into the young lovers. She stops and the camera goes in tight on her
face. This female Cain, who has no boyfriend at the moment, is consumed with
jealousy as she watches her younger sister kissing the rather good looking
Jason.
Avoiding them, she dashes into Marks and Spencer’s, hurries through the store
and out the other side, then goes round to Criminal Records, where she can
probably by the latest Coldplay album a few pounds cheaper anyway.
On her way through the precinct, she doesn’t notice the middle-aged couple
gazing into the window of Mothercare.
Anyone focusing a camera on Ted and Marjorie couldn’t fail to notice his
hangdog look, sharply contrasted with her assertive body language as she
discusses her plans, and it is obvious as he nods absently that his mind is
elsewhere. Perhaps it is in an antique
shop in the Pantiles, where Donald is giving a potential customer his best
price on a china teapot.
Any camera able to pan across from Mothercare over to Starbucks, would pass Maggie
and Craig, sitting on stools in the window, heavily discussing their plans to
sell Craig’s fish and chip shop. Like
Ted, he nods while Maggie does most of the talking. He is reluctant to join his sister in this
venture, but feels he has no choice.
If the same camera were to track on a dolly, rounding the corner from the
precinct into Monson
Road,
it would pick up on Claire and Mike, standing outside a travel agent’s. Naturally, he is unaware that his ex-lover is
less than a hundred yards away, drinking a medium cappuccino. But now he is reconciled with his wife, and
they have just exited the travel agent, having booked a fortnight in Crete. He holds his plastered right hand up in front
of her and grins, asking her to be gentle with him. She kisses him briefly and lightly on the
lips, and he reflects on his dissatisfaction with life in general, and is now also
reconciled with the realisation that he has returned to the ordinariness of his
life, which is perhaps as it should be.
His plastered hand is a reminder that he now wants his life to be
uneventful.
But the man responsible for his recent pain is not far away, standing in the
queue by the checkout at Tesco Metro.
Having wrapped the few groceries he is buying, he hands the checkout
girl a ten pound note. As soon as she
opens the till, he leans over and snatches the notes, then – abandoning the
groceries – he legs it out of the supermarket and across the road. Squeal of
tyres and the blast of a car horn. He
runs round the back of Meadow
Road. Nobody pursues him. He walks up to the fifth floor of the car
park, picks up his Renault, and drives back to Tonbridge. And it’s that simple. No CCTV cameras have got a clear image of
Tony Rice as he dashed head down towards the car park. He has got away with it. Less than a hundred and fifty quid, but at
least he has his beer money for the rest of the weekend.
Back on his own manor, strutting towards his local, he knows he won’t be
pursued for such a petty crime, and he has become just one of the many ordinary
people going about their business on a Saturday afternoon.