by T. M. Logan
29
SATURDAY
Sixteen days until the wedding
The Trent Building stood like a sentinel on the hill, sash windows widely spaced in white Portland stone, its angular clocktower standing proud above the boating lake that marked the southern edge of University Park. On the water below, Ryan and I sat side-by-side in a rowing boat, each of us with an oar, as Abbie and Claire reclined on the bench seat at the back in the afternoon sun.
We had spent the morning taking the last of Abbie’s things to Ryan’s house in Beeston, helping her unpack, rebuild furniture and get organised. It felt like an ending of sorts, a sundering, a parting that I was not ready for. I had taken her to university in London every term for three years, helped her unpack there, but that had always been temporary. I had always known that she would return, back to the family home, to her room, to her place in the established scheme of things.
This threatened to be a permanent arrangement.
After lunch, we had driven to the university campus and hired the boat, at Abbie’s insistence. She had always loved it here. When she was little, we had spent long summer afternoons rowing in lazy circles around the lake, followed by a visit to the ice cream van and a walk up the hill to the Trent Building, Abbie high on my shoulders. She’d told me once – when was it? I couldn’t remember – that her earliest memory was of being carried on my shoulders, brushing the tree branches with her fingertips as we went past. Tall like a giant. She would have been about three, maybe four, looking down on the tops of everyone’s heads, the sun on her face. One day she had clapped with such enthusiasm she’d snapped one arm of my sunglasses clean off. I had driven home with one finger pressed to the bridge of my nose to keep them in place.
I concentrated on keeping the stroke of my oar in time with Ryan’s, while he answered Claire’s questions about his volunteering work.
‘What do you do at the hospice, Ryan?’
‘Mostly it’s just talking to patients, sitting with them. Listening to them, sometimes. Their family members can’t always be there, and some people just want company, a friendly face. Other times I take my guitar and play a bit in the communal area, take requests.’ He grinned, his eyes hidden behind mirror shades. ‘The Beatles and The Carpenters normally go down well.’
‘I thought about getting back into volunteering after my father died,’ Claire said. ‘But I wasn’t sure I could cope, seeing people suffering like that when there’s nothing you can do to help them.’
A trio of ducks swooped in and splashed down noisily in front of us, quacking, hurrying to get out of the way of our little boat.
Ryan nodded. ‘I see it as a privilege to help them through their last few weeks or days,’ he said. ‘You meet the most incredible people at St Jude’s. Really humbling, you know?’ He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘And I feel like I’m giving something back.’
‘Ryan’s mum, Catherine, was in a hospice,’ Abbie added softly.
Claire nodded sympathetically. ‘That must have been terribly hard.’
‘They were so good with her, at the end. It was the right place for her to be.’
‘Where was that, Ryan?’ I said. ‘Not here in Nottingham?’
‘At home, in Manchester.’ He stopped rowing for a moment. ‘I was working in London when she was diagnosed but I moved back up there to be nearer to her while she was having treatment.’
Abbie leaned forward to put a hand on his knee. ‘That was so sweet that you moved back home to be with her.’
Ryan nodded sadly, before plunging his oar back into the water. ‘She didn’t really have anyone else. My dad’s been out of the picture for quite a while and so it was just me and Mum for years. Since I was at school.’
I looked at Claire sat opposite me in the little rowing boat, a sympathetic smile on her face, her head cocked slightly to the side. She had always been brilliant at getting people to open up, and – just like Abbie – she was inclined to see the best in people, to take them at face value. Probably the reason why she had such a wide circle of friends.
I had only a few close friends. And I didn’t believe the story about the hospice.
‘I’m thinking about volunteering, too,’ I said. ‘Do you think maybe I could come along to your next session, see what’s involved?’
I looked at him, trying to get any glimmer of a reaction. But all I could see was my own reflection in Ryan’s mirror shades.
‘Sure, absolutely,’ Ryan said. ‘I think you’d be really good at it, Ed.’
‘I’d certainly be interested to find out more.’
‘There’s a bit of a waiting list at the moment,’ Ryan said, ‘and there’s a bunch of training and vetting procedures, CRB checks and all that. But I can definitely mention you to the care manager next time I’m there, bring you some more info back. I should warn you though, it’s not in a particularly nice part of town.’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘Radford, near to where they have that big fair every autumn?’
‘Do you mean Goose Fair?’ I felt my pulse tick as I made the connection. ‘So it’s near Forest Road West, near the High School, around there?’
‘That’s it.’
Coincidence? Or something else? Because that’s the red-light district, where the GPS tracker put you a few nights ago.
Is that you, Ryan? Is that what you do? Are you there to give comfort to the dying? Or to pick up prostitutes on the street?
Which one is the real you?
*
Safely back on shore, I watched from our picnic blanket as Abbie and Ryan took the rowboat back out on their own, just the two of them. Abbie taking her turn on the oars, leaning into the task, pulling strong and straight and even, just as I had taught her. I shivered, remembering my nightmare about her floating helplessly out to sea, oblivious to my shouts of warning. I blinked the memory away. As they neared the first of the little islands she chopped at the water with her oar blade, her giggles high and clear, bouncing back to us from the far shore, the lake glinting in the sun as Ryan held a hand up to shield himself from a drenching. He rose into a crouch, laughing too, holding onto both sides of the boat and rocking it from side to side as Abbie squealed with frightened delight.
Claire lay back on the blanket, propped up on her elbows. She wore a patterned vest top and pale linen trousers, sunglasses pushed up into her long dark hair.
‘She hasn’t laughed like that in a while,’ she said. ‘Can’t remember ever seeing her so happy.’
We were both silent for a moment, watching our daughter pulling on the oars again, her laughter still echoing across the lake.
‘They’re going to tip that boat over,’ I said, ‘if they’re not careful.’
‘You know what she said to me once?’ She kept her eyes on Abbie. ‘That she felt like she wasn’t enough, she’d not been enough for any boyfriend she’d had, because most of them ended up cheating on her, going behind her back with other girls.’
‘She’s better than any of them deserved.’ I shook my head, then speared an olive with a cocktail stick. ‘Doesn’t still think that way though, does she?’
‘I don’t think she does with Ryan, he seems different. I’m so glad she’s found a good one, at last.’ Claire glanced at me, inviting agreement. ‘Just a straightforward nice guy.’
I said nothing. I’d been waiting for an opportunity to google St Jude’s Hospice to check its exact location in relation to Forest Road West. Was it feasible, this story about volunteering there? Did the geography make sense? How was I even going to bring it up anyway? You see, Claire, I bought a tracking device and put it on his car. He has secrets.
‘Ed?’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s a nice guy,’ she said again, ‘so it would help if you could make a bit more of an effort with him.’
‘I am making an effort,’ I said. You have no idea how much.
‘You don’t have to interrogate him like he’s
on the stand at the Old Bailey. There are subtler ways of doing it, you know.’
I looked out across the water again as Abbie and Ryan navigated around a small island of willow trees.
‘It’s not unreasonable to want to know more about him.’
‘It’s not unreasonable, no. But there’s a right way and a wrong way.’
‘Don’t you have that sense there’s something . . . he’s keeping from us? Keeping hidden?’
Claire sighed, shaking her head. ‘What I think is that he genuinely cares for her, treats her with respect, he’s polite, kind, thoughtful and generous. He picks her up from the train station at midnight, he buys her wine and flowers when she’s had a rubbish day at school, he cooks her favourite meals and doesn’t mind watching Mamma Mia 2 every single time she puts it on because it’s her favourite. He buys us gifts and pays his way and pushes Mum in her wheelchair. And when he’s not doing any of that, he takes time out to fix the shower in her en suite that’s not been working properly for weeks.’ She threw a pointed look at me. ‘Nobody’s perfect, but he’s pretty close as far as I can see.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Almost too good to be true.’
‘There are good ones out there, love. And our daughter deserves a good one.’
‘She does,’ I agreed. ‘She absolutely does.’
My phone rang with an unrecognised mobile number.
‘Mr Collier?’ Farmer’s voice.
I got quickly to my feet and turned away from Claire, taking a few steps towards the little arts centre perched at the edge of the lake. ‘Speaking.’
‘Are you free to talk?’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’
‘Just to let you know, the additional tracking service you requested is now in place. You’ll find the link to our GPS tracking portal through the company homepage, username is your first and last names, no spaces, password is the same. I strongly suggest you change the password on first use.’
‘Right. Got you.’
‘Any questions, you know where I am.’
‘So it’s up and running today? As of now?’
‘Correct.’ Farmer’s voice was measured, quiet. ‘Oh, and Mr Collier? No texts or emails about the tracking service, OK? Just call me on this number if you need anything.’
I lowered my voice, checking there was no one else within earshot.
‘I thought you said it was 110 per cent legal?’
‘It is,’ Farmer said. ‘But I like to keep things clean and simple.’
We hung up and I walked back to where Claire lay on the blanket.
‘Who was that?’ she said.
‘Siobhan from work. A project thing.’
‘Do you need to go in?’
I waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, it’s nothing. It’s all good.’
She studied me for a moment before returning her attention to the boating lake.
Out on the water, Ryan and Abbie were seated side-by-side in the boat now, oars slack as they leaned into each other for a long, deep kiss, Abbie with her head upturned towards him, her long dark hair shifting softly in the summer breeze. They broke off and Abbie laughed.
Ryan saw us watching and raised his hand in greeting, his mouth open in a wide smile.
Claire smiled and waved back enthusiastically.
Beside her, my hands stayed in my pockets.
30
MONDAY
Fourteen days until the wedding
As the days sped by towards the wedding, time at work crawled to a standstill. The restructure was still pending; all I knew was that the one-to-one meetings had been pushed back by another week. I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.
Sitting in my office with the door closed, I found myself checking the GPS tracking portal constantly. It was far superor to what I’d had before, providing real-time data on all the journeys Ryan’s Audi made to create a running report on everywhere he went. I logged all his trips in my little black notebook, noting the time, date and place for everything and putting an asterisk by anything that merited further examination. He had been back to the house in Bestwood again and there were various other short trips around the city that I couldn’t immediately explain. Today, right now, he was at a large manufacturing company in Coventry presumably seeing a client.
The rest of the morning I had spent googling DNA home testing kits, aware that it was a bit crazy but comparing prices and details anyway. If I got a sample of Ryan’s DNA, could I find out anything that would help me to discover who he really was? It would certainly be another piece of the puzzle. The problem was, most of the kits asked for a swab of saliva from inside the cheek, and I hadn’t quite worked out how to go about getting that yet.
I bookmarked the pages to come back to them later.
I refreshed my Hotmail obsessively, ignoring most of it, checking the junk. Hoping for an early sign of the investigator’s report that I had paid so handsomely for, even a hint of any initial findings. Keeping my phone switched on twenty-four hours a day in case he needed to get in touch. But so far, Joel Farmer had remained obstinately silent since the phone call at the lake.
An email from the manager at St Jude’s Hospice dropped into my inbox. I clicked on it but my anticipation was immediately dashed.
Dear Mr Collier,
Thank you for your recent email and for your interest in St Jude’s. I’m sorry but we are not able to confirm the names of any staff here, even if they are volunteers . . .
I had suspected they wouldn’t play ball, but it had been worth a try all the same. The St Jude’s story nagged at me, like an itch I couldn’t scratch: it was another part of Ryan’s perfect life that I wanted to peel back, to see the reality beneath.
I see it as a privilege to help them through their last few weeks or days, he had told us on the lake. And I feel like I’m giving something back.
There had to be another way to expose that particular lie. I was willing to bet he’d never set foot in St Jude’s in his life. Opening a new browser window, I did a quick Google search and found the website. It was simply, tastefully done with soft tones and high quality images.
St Jude’s Hospice is an independent local charity. We care for people whose illnesses are no longer curable, enabling them to achieve the best possible quality of life.
An idea occurred to me. I picked up my phone and dialled the number.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘My name’s Edward Jones, I wonder if I could make an appointment?’
*
Gerald Matheson, the manager of St Jude’s, was a small plump man with thinning hair and round, dark-framed glasses. We shook hands at reception, his grip soft, and he led me down a wide corridor with open bays off to each side.
‘Thanks again,’ I said, adjusting the visitor’s lanyard around my neck. ‘For letting me come in at short notice.’
‘I think it’s so important for people to come in and have a look at a place, get a feel for it, before making a commitment, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Your mother, did you say?’
‘Mother-in-law,’ I said quietly. ‘Cancer.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
It was hospital-ward warm and smelt of disinfectant and air freshener, the two scents blending in different proportions as we walked through. He showed me an empty bay of four single beds, quickly running through the daily routine for patients, staffing levels and visiting times, then led me further down the corridor out into a large open-plan area with half a dozen patients sitting in large red armchairs around a low table.
‘So,’ Matheson said, ‘this is the communal area.’
A few heads turned towards us and I nodded a hello to the nearest patient, a painfully thin man in his sixties with a paisley bandana covering his head. We made small talk, the patients at the table warm and friendly and only too eager to chat, before Matheson was called away by a member of his staff.
‘My da
ughter’s fiancé actually volunteers here,’ I said casually. ‘Maybe you know him? His name’s Ryan.’
By the time Matheson reappeared at my shoulder, I’d asked six of the patients and a couple of visiting relatives if they had met my son-in-law to be, a tall dark-haired volunteer who played the guitar.
None of them had.
‘Ah, Mr Jones,’ Matheson said, giving me a smile. ‘So have you found out what you need to know?’
‘Yes,’ I shook his hand again. ‘Yes, I have.’ I turned to the patients. ‘It was lovely to meet all of you.’
There was a collection box at the front desk. I took all the notes from my wallet and pushed them into the slot on my way out.
31
WEDNESDAY
Twelve days until the wedding
‘Who’s Ryan Wilson, Ed?’
I looked at the four people facing me across the conference table. My boss Julia, asking the questions, Georgia, taking notes, James Moss, the client director, and – most ominous of all – Amanda Armstrong, the director of HR, who regarded me with emotionless grey-blue eyes. For a second or two I thought about lying; I had become quite good at it these past three weeks. But I had the feeling that would only make things worse.
And it looked bad enough already.
‘He’s my daughter’s fiancé,’ I said.
‘I see,’ Julia said, her voice brittle. ‘When’s the big day?’
‘A week on Monday.’
‘I’m assuming you’re not his biggest fan.’
I hadn’t even had a chance to take my jacket off before being hauled into the big conference room on the top floor, and I could already feel the sweat start to dampen the shirt under my arms.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m going to make this quick, Ed. For everyone’s sake.’
She passed five sheets of paper across the table, stapled together. I scanned the few at the top: My work browsing history from the last few weeks, with dozens of items picked out in yellow highlighter.
Ryan Wilson army
Ryan Wilson Manchester
Ryan Wilson police
GPS tracker
GPS tracker legal UK
