by T. M. Logan
‘Dad?’
I jumped at the voice, hitting the iPad’s home button to minimise the calendar. Abbie stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a confused expression on her face.
‘You’re back already?’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘That was quick.’
‘What are you doing on my iPad?’
‘Just looking for news. Have you got the BBC app?’
She frowned briefly but then seemed to lose interest, waving a hand at the tablet.
‘Somewhere on there, I think.’ She grabbed a pair of white earbuds from the kitchen shelf and put them into her ears. ‘Forgot my headphones.’
‘Can’t run without music,’ I said.
She headed out again. This time I waited a full minute, listening to make sure she’d really gone, before opening up the iPad again and going back to the calendar, back to what I’d just found.
10th September. Abbie had entered a note in capital letters: RYAN 34!!!
I scribbled 10/09/86 on a Post-it and shoved it into my pocket.
9
After dinner, I fetched my toolbox from the cellar, hefting it up the two flights of stairs to the top landing. We had bought the big five-bedroom semi-detached more than twenty years ago, with the help of an inheritance from Claire’s grandfather, and with the plan of filling it with children. Just thinking about this still gave me a pain deep in my chest, a dull, cruel throb that wrapped itself around my heart. A child for every room, that had been our plan, maybe a couple more if that was how things worked out. As the oldest, Abbie had claimed the biggest bedroom, on the second floor – the princess in the tower, at the top of the house. Her brother Joshua had the next biggest, the bedroom beside ours.
And then we had lost him, and all our plans seemed suddenly pitiful and cruel and pointless.
Claire had miscarried twice in the two years after our son’s death, and then – without argument, without anger, without dissent from me – had announced that she was going back on the pill.
Abbie still had the biggest bedroom in the house.
The current colour scheme was a muted lilac on three walls, with one darker purple wall facing the dormer window. It was her teenage room: fairy lights strung behind the bed, mirrors and a make-up table, a desk and a sofa bed that, back in the day, Abbie’s friends had used for sleepovers.
I had painted this room more times than I could remember over the years. A few layers below the current paint job was the one that had taken the longest – a full feature wall that had taken me right back to O level Art lessons to create a mural of Alice in Wonderland in painstaking detail, with Abbie at the centre of it all. My Abbie in her own little Wonderland. Back then, she had been a willing helper, daubing paint onto the walls – and herself; her little face a picture of concentration.
It had taken me six weeks of evenings and weekends to complete the mural. When the picture was finished she was so happy she was virtually levitating with excitement, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and telling me she loved it more than anything and I was the best painter in the world. Back when she used to regard me as the fount of all knowledge, the best at everything; when I was the first person she cried out for when she was woken by a bad dream. Claire’s job with the theatre took her all over the country for weeks at a time, which was partly why Abbie and I had grown so close – before she hit her teens. A proper little team, a gang of two. Our games of hide-and-seek had been legendary, sometimes lasting for hours while Abbie found ever-more tiny and obscure places to hide, squeezing herself into the smallest gaps and creeping silently from place to place when my back was turned. Games with her friends often had to be abandoned because she was so accomplished at it. The queen of hide and seek.
Abbie in Wonderland was gone now, buried beneath layers of more recent paint.
In my toolbox, I dug around for a couple of screwdrivers that weren’t too worn down. Went to the en suite shower in the corner of the bedroom, studied the pipe Abbie had asked me to fix. Switched the water on for a few seconds. That was weird. No leaks. It all looked fine to me, like it was in perfect working order. I took out my phone and texted Abbie.
Which bit of the shower hose did you say was broken in your en suite? All seems fine to me. X
I checked the shower again. It was definitely working OK.
My phone buzzed with a reply from Abbie.
Don’t worry Dad Ryan fixed it. I mentioned it was dodgy last night and he sorted it. X
I stared at the message.
Ryan fixed it.
I typed a quick reply, then deleted it.
It was kind of Ryan to take time out, coming to fix the shower in Abbie’s bedroom. It was thoughtful of him, decent even. I freely admitted that I was crap at DIY and didn’t enjoy it, that I often made excuses to put jobs off to the next day, or the next week. But none of that helped the nagging sense that another man had come into my house without my knowledge or permission and usurped me somehow, made my role redundant.
Replaced me.
10
MONDAY
Thirty-five days until the wedding
I sat at my desk, sipping the coffee I’d brought back from lunch and looking out of the big sash window. From the fourth floor of the agency’s offices I could just see the bronze statue of Brian Clough, one of the city’s famous sons with his hands aloft in victory, tourists queueing next to him for selfies. A row of ornate Victorian buildings rose up on the other side of King Street, rich terracotta stone glowing in the afternoon sun.
A glass partition wall separated my office from the rest of this floor. My team, who worked on content and copywriting, took up half of it but most of them were out seeing clients, so it was relatively quiet. Siobhan, my de facto deputy, sat with red pen in hand as she marked up the proofs that covered her desk. Paul, our video expert, opposite her in his habitual ‘JC 4 PM’ T-shirt, noise-cancelling headphones clamped to his head.
I shut the door between my office and the rest of the floor. As I sat back down at my desk an email dropped into my inbox from Georgia Smart, the managing director’s PA.
Julia asked me to remind you she’s still waiting for your response on the consultation doc. The extended deadline is tonight and everyone else has submitted their feedback. Thanks.
– Georgia
Shit. The restructure. I glanced at the yellow cardboard folder that had been lying on my desk for the last week and fired a quick response back.
Sorry – it’s on my to do list. Will finish this afternoon and send to her by close of play.
– Ed
I slid the yellow folder in front of my keyboard. Flipped it open and read the cover sheet for maybe the twentieth time.
It was the usual corporate dance, and not my first time around either. I wondered again whether I was on the MD’s hitlist – whether she’d already decided where the axe would fall. We all had to go through the motions of giving our feedback anyway. I clicked on Word and opened a half-finished document, put my hands on the keys and stared at the screen, trying to pick up my train of thought.
On the screen in front of me, the words blurred.
Flipping the yellow folder shut again, I dropped it into my desk drawer. Minimised the document on my screen. I needed to do something about Ryan. To shake the tree and see what fell out, see where the gaps in his story started to appear.
Angling my screen a little bit further away from the door, I got to work.
I had synchronised the saved web pages from my laptop and clicked through them all again now. Ryan’s Facebook and Twitter accounts – nothing new since Saturday night. Ditto LinkedIn and Eden Gillespie. I studied a page of Google results generated by a search for Ryan Wilson court. I’d already ploughed through pages of similar search results from Ryan Wilson criminal to Ryan Wilson background, drawing a complete blank every single time.
I pulled up the headshot of Ryan from his company website, hoping that in looking at it again in the cold light of day my suspicion might diminish. Hoping
that I would see nothing but a handsome young professional with good intentions.
Wrong. If anything it was worse, not better. Ryan’s eyes seemed to challenge me, to mock me, to laugh at the banality of a Monday afternoon in my little office.
I went back to his LinkedIn page. Where to start? At the beginning. The first entry on his digital CV was his undergraduate degree in psychology from Manchester University. I was always amazed at how many places didn’t bother to check references, or simply took an entire CV on trust. I always liked to check for myself when I recruited to the team – and I had the tools to do the job.
Moving onto the website of HEDD – Higher Education Degree Datacheck – I logged in to the company’s account and filled out a request form, copying across the details from Ryan’s LinkedIn page.
Name: Ryan Wilson
Dates of attendance: 2005–2008
Institution: University of Manchester
Course title: Psychology
Course type: BSc
Degree classification: 1st class
For the last field, I took out the folded Post-it note from my wallet and checked the date.
DOB: 10/09/86
I clicked ‘continue’ at the foot of the page.
Proof of consent from the individual is required.
I downloaded a PDF consent form, signed it with what I hoped was a fairly indistinguishable flourish and added it to my request. Then I realised my mistake. For the check to go through, it also required a verified email address for the candidate so they could be informed the information about their background had been given out, and to whom.
Shit.
That was a problem: Ryan would know that I had been checking, and Abbie would undoubtedly find out. But then it hit me – it was solvable too. I flushed with shame at how quickly I was heading for something that was certainly unethical and probably illegal too. I went to my Gmail page and selected ‘Create new account’, working through a variety of usernames until I hit upon one that was available, [email protected]. The verification checks would be routed there within the next ten to fourteen days – and Ryan would never be any the wiser.
Next on Ryan’s CV was his five years in the army. I had never recruited any ex-forces staff before but another quick Google search took me to the website of the Army Personnel Centre. I clicked on the tab for Reference for Prospective Employer and pasted the Glasgow address and instructions into a new document.
Please note that the written consent of the individual to disclose the information should be forwarded with the request for a reference.
I filled out the consent form and added the same barely legible signature. The army also needed contact details to inform the candidate that their service record had been requested. I filled in the field with the fake email address I had just created. Hesitated. A moment of guilt washed over me, but I was already too far in to stop now. I pressed submit and sat back in my chair, a tight knot forming in my stomach.
It was a start, but it was never going to be enough on its own.
I checked my watch. Exactly five weeks from now, 3.30 p.m., Abbie would be married. Thirty-five days. Eight hundred and forty hours.
I looked out through the glass partition wall into the main office again. Only Paul remained, eyes fixed on his screen. I shut down my computer and grabbed my jacket off the coat rack in the corner.
If I left now, I could probably catch Ryan as he left work.
11
I stood staring up at the windows for a few minutes, trying to discern any movement behind the dark tinted glass above me. Eden Gillespie occupied a modern six-storey office building constructed on stilts, thick grey columns of concrete which gave a view through to a parking area underneath.
From my vantage point across the street I couldn’t see any obvious security presence, just a low barrier and an entrance/exit for staff vehicles. The air here tasted grimy, edged with diesel and thick with fumes from the nearby train station. I crossed the road, dodged between hooting traffic and walked through into the Eden Gillespie car park as if I belonged there, as if I was looking for my own vehicle among the rows of BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes and Porsches. There it was: Ryan’s spotless black Audi A6, parked at the end of a row. He was in today then, working in one of the offices above. OK.
With a quick check over my shoulder that no one was looking, I took out my phone and snapped a picture of Ryan’s car, number plate included, before walking slowly back out onto the street. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the registration number – not yet at least – but it was a handy thing to have. I walked back to my Peugeot, parked on double yellows just down the street, the germ of an idea forming in my mind.
Back behind the wheel I fixed my eyes on the front entrance of the Eden Gillespie building. From here, I could see all the staff as they went out or returned from seeing clients. No sign of Ryan yet. It was just after 4.30 p.m. so I had a little bit of time to play with – I wasn’t normally home until 5.30 at the earliest.
I drummed the top of the steering wheel, the black plastic hard and unyielding beneath my fingers. This is stupid. I’m supposed to be going through that restructure document for the boss. What am I even doing here? What do I even think Ryan is going to do?
And yet still, here I was. Sitting in my car, waiting for my daughter’s fiancé to appear through the doors. I had been in town, our offices were only half a mile apart, so why not? Maybe it would put my mind at rest. Have a look at where my prospective son-in-law worked? See where he lived? See where he went? Where was the harm in that?
As long as Ryan remained oblivious.
I took my sunglasses off the dashboard and slipped them on. Rummaged in the glove compartment until I found an old Nottingham Panthers baseball cap, pulling it low over my head.
So what are you going to do?
Nothing. I wasn’t going to do anything. I was just making discreet enquiries, nothing more. Like the due diligence checks when you buy a house or sell a company – to make sure that everyone is on the level and there are no nasty surprises waiting for either party. To make sure no one has the wool pulled over their eyes. It was absolutely standard in those circumstances, and they weren’t even anywhere near as important as this. Not even close. I was just doing the due diligence. That was all.
At 4.48 p.m., Ryan emerged through the revolving door in a dark suit, briefcase in one hand, phone pressed to his ear. He walked quickly to his car and got in, reversing out smoothly and driving to the exit onto Canal Street. He indicated left and pulled out, accelerating quickly down towards Maid Marian Way.
I turned the ignition and slipped into traffic behind him.
12
Ryan drove quickly, moving in and out of traffic, his black Audi A6 cutting smoothly through the early evening rush hour as he approached the hospital where Abbie and Joshua had both been born. I settled in the lane, three cars behind him.
Abbie had said his house was in Beeston, west of the city centre – which meant Ryan would proceed straight over the roundabout. But Ryan didn’t go straight on. At the last moment, his Audi indicated right and shifted lanes. I didn’t notice until the last moment and had to pull out quickly to stay with him, pushing my way into a gap between cars to the sound of angry honking from behind. I raised a hand to my rearview mirror in apology as we pulled up at a red light before the junction.
I followed Ryan around the roundabout onto the ring road, north. He wasn’t going home, his flat was west of here, this was the wrong direction. Maybe one last client visit before the end of the day? Maybe a shortcut? Five-a-side football?
Maybe something else.
Ryan drove with a smooth confidence, shifting lanes in the thickening traffic with practiced ease. It was a little bit faster than I was used to driving and I could feel my pulse thudding in my neck. I tugged at my collar to loosen it. I was just able to keep the Audi in sight. I’d seen the films, read the books – the trick of it was to stay close enough so that we weren’
t separated at traffic lights, but not so close that I ended up sitting right behind him.
Where are you going, Ryan?
We passed a retail park and Ryan cut across two lanes, indicating left off the main road. I speeded up to get through the light before it changed, closing the gap as it went amber and just flashing through the junction on red. Hopefully there was no camera.
The traffic was thinner here, away from the ring road. I dropped back, putting some space between myself and the Audi, hoping Ryan hadn’t noticed the silver Peugeot that had been in his rearview mirror since he left the city centre and was now directly behind him.
We drove into Bestwood, a large estate of 1930s council houses in a tough neighbourhood that had achieved unwanted notoriety as the home turf of the Gunn family, a criminal cartel that had finally been brought down a dozen years ago after a string of highly publicised murders. Its other rather unfortunate claim to fame was as the birthplace of prolific serial killer Harold Shipman. I had a passing familiarity with the area because of what I’d read in the news, but what was Ryan doing here? It wasn’t the kind of place that you went to without a reason.
A group of young lads in dark hoodies and baseball caps stared as the black Audi passed by, their heads swivelling as one to follow it down the street. Ryan went through another amber traffic light and I had to stamp on the brake to avoid a young woman marching across the road with a pushchair. The Audi accelerated away and I craned my neck to see further up the street, catching a flash of the car as it turned right, deeper into the estate.
