Cross Her Heart: A Novel

by Sarah Pinborough

  “I’ve got stuff to get on with.” On the small desk in the corner is notepaper with everything we know about Katie scribbled down on it—not much—and now it’s up to me to draw up a list of people in my circle, people she could be hidden among.

  “My number’s on there too.” Marilyn is at the door, hesitant to leave me alone. I want to reassure her that despite last night, I can do this. I’m Charlotte Nevill as much as I am the Lisa she knows. “I’ll pick up a pay-as-you-go phone on the way back, but for now, use the hotel phone if you need me, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I get up and hug her gently. “And thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “That’s what friends are for, right?” She grins, despite her tiredness and her pain. Maybe helping me is helping her, giving her strength.

  I wait until she’s gone, put the do not disturb sign on the door and then sit for a moment as the coffee machine gurgles. I feel different. All those tears, years of tears, a lifetime of them, suddenly bursting free, have left me feeling stripped back to the bare bones of whoever I am, clean and refreshed. And I have a kernel of hope. I have Marilyn. She loves me. I am not unlovable. Whatever happens next, I will have been loved.

  We slept together in our underwear, all our damage on show. The marks of our hidden lives. Faded-to-white cigarette burn scars on the backs of my knees from the worst part of those days immediately after, when I wanted to hurt myself, and the fresher, larger bruises on Marilyn’s skin. Once the lights were out and we were safe in the darkness, she told me about Richard. About the slow decline in his behavior, how over the years, irritation turned to rage and then, more recently, to violence, and how she always hoped it would never happen again, all the shame of it. This time it was my turn to listen and wonder how someone could hide a thing like that as a stumbling, stuttering story was told in the night.

  We’re strong this morning, both Marilyn and I. We’ve found that in each other. And I’m calm. Coolheaded. Katie won’t hurt Ava—not yet. She’s many things—crazy clearly among them—but she’s not a cheat. She’s taken Ava to lure me and she’ll want to see that weakness in me when we reunite. This is like some forties gangster film fantasy we would play on the wasteland. She’s Cagney, holed up somewhere, hostages for leverage, and I’m the FBI goon coming for her. We age, but we never really grow up. We never really change. I know Katie.

  When Marilyn asked me, later last night when all the quiet talking was done, what I thought Katie wanted from all this, I lied. I said she wanted what I’d promised. That we’d run away together. Be free and on the run all at the same time. I don’t know if she believed me but she didn’t say any more. What could she say? Katie isn’t real to her, she’s just a bogeyman. A wicked figure from my past. And maybe she is, but back then, she ruined me and saved me all at once. Those days before were some of the best days of my childhood. How can I ever explain it? How I’d never loved anyone like I loved Katie and how I’d never been loved by anyone the way Katie loved me? How precious it is to be loved in this mess of life. I close the door on those memories, running hand in hand across the wasteland, but I remember the deal. The intensity of her gaze. Yes, I know what Katie wants. She wants to kill me. I owe her. A mother for a mother.

  Maybe she will kill me. As long as Ava is safe, I don’t care what happens to me. In some ways, it would be a relief. Justice for Daniel and freedom from the heavy constant guilt that has become my lifetime companion. At least he wouldn’t be alone in the cold anymore. So, yes, maybe she will kill me, and I’m not scared by the thought. I feel Charlotte’s steel in my backbone as I go to the bathroom. I may not be afraid to die, but I don’t intend to make it easy for her. Maybe I’ll kill her. I’ve already killed once. How hard can it be to do again?

  By eight I’m showered and dressed and staring at our notes. We’ve got very little to go on with Katie. Never married. No kids. Cared for her mother. Fragile. No job. There were also no photos of any use. She could be anyone in them. She’s a few months older than me, so around forty now. How would I even recognize her?

  I wonder about the lack of images. Did she hide from cameras, like me? Even though her identity had never been revealed—the papers never had her name or photo—did she worry the world would somehow know and she’d be guilty by association? No, I realize. It was always for this moment. For when she could find me. She needed to stay a ghost, invisible and unknown. She needed to stay hidden as much as me.

  I sip the strong coffee. Well, she found me and now I’m going to find her. The circle of fucking life. I crave a cigarette—Charlotte once more coming to the fore, old habits dying hard—but instead I pick up a pen and chew on the lid, like a child, as I start to write.

  The list of names is depressingly short. My life as Lisa has been private, fearful, and small.

  Penny. Highly unlikely. Julia. Not her. I list the various other people I come into contact with through work and none of them strike me as potentials. Too old, too young, been there too long, too dull. Mrs. Goldman? Does she have a nurse or friend who comes to see her? I’ve never seen anyone but her family and they don’t visit often. Someone perhaps when I’m out at work? I put lots of question marks next to her name. Maybe Marilyn can go and talk to her. She’s a lonely old woman, she would talk easily.

  Under the heading “Ava’s Teachers” I start a new list, but from the names I remember from parents’ evenings I can’t see anyone on it who’s new to the school or who has overly befriended her. A teacher would probably be able to get into her bag to steal her keys. And they’d know where we lived. They’re all possible, but it doesn’t feel right. Teachers have background checks, degrees, etc. How much could Katie fake? Don’t underestimate her, I tell myself. She was always too clever for her own good.

  Ava’s friends go under another heading. This is the biggest gray area. I have done my best to know as much as I can about her life, but as she’s grown older it’s been harder. Alison was constantly telling me I had to let her be a normal teenager. Well, so much for that, fuck you very much, Mrs. Probation Officer. Secret Facebook messages. How many people did Ava know who I never met? People who could learn about me through her?

  The swim club girls I know, and I cross them off my list. Katie didn’t have any children and there are no wicked stepmothers newly arrived on the scene. I’d have heard.

  I stare at the page, stumped. She found me through Jon. Maybe I should start with him. Go there and talk to his neighbors. I know I can’t as soon as I have the thought. The police will be all over his place and any woman turning up and asking questions will get picked up straightaway. I wish I had Marilyn’s phone. At least I’d be able to look up news reports on him. See if there’s anything we’ve missed that’s not showing on TV.

  The list blurs before my eyes I’m concentrating so hard. Katie, Katie, where art thou? She wants you to find her, Charlotte reminds me. This is a game. She won’t be a total stranger. There will be clues. Something jars in my memory and I frown. Something I really need to remember.

  And then I see it. Plain as day. I know who Katie is.

  58

  Her

  It’s hard to disappear completely. I should know. I’ve done it several times. You have to plan. A lot. And well in advance. Small amounts of money moved around at first. Yes, there may be paper trails, but generate enough paper and it causes a mess that no one can be bothered to dig through. Most of planning is waiting. I’ve become very good at waiting. My mother finally died—some accidents happen more easily than others if you use a drunk mechanic to fix something—and I put my plans for my carefully invested inheritance into action.

  I traveled. Foreign bankers are always less stuffy about the rules of cash bank accounts if you know how to persuade them. I sold property to offshore companies deep in the web of assets I owned. I sold companies to various of the identities I forged, ready for when I might need them.

  You’re looking at me like I’m crazy, Ava. So I didn’t go to school or universit
y, but I never stopped learning. I slept with the kinds of criminal and white-collar people who could teach these things and when I’d taken all I could from them, I’d vanish. Probably a relief to both parties. I’ve never been overly lovable. Mother would tell me so in her later years. When she’d started to see me rather than the princess she’d always wanted.

  Charlotte always longed desperately to be loved. I didn’t. I’d had her and she was enough. Charlotte though, I knew she’d always need someone. And the thing with people, as you know, little Ava, is that they talk. The bigger the secret, the more likely it will eventually burst free gloriously loud, telling everyone at once, and that’s what happened with your father.

  I read the story in Spain. I got the newspapers every day after Charlotte was released, and never missed one. You have to be meticulous if you want to find someone. How could I risk a tiny detail or photo evading me that could lead me to her? As it turned out, she was all over the front pages when it happened. When he told. I devoured every word. All those ridiculous details he made up to make himself sound better and her sound worse. I knew that whatever happened I’d have to kill him one day. Just for being so pathetic, if not because I needed to, and as it turned out he came in far more useful dead than alive. Everything ties up so nicely.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the story he sold. The waiting was much harder after that. God, it was hard. What if he died? Drank himself to an early grave? Had a car crash? Life never seems more fragile than when your success depends on someone else staying breathing a few years longer. But lack of patience destroys plans. People get sloppy. I had to focus on what I needed to do and hope fate would stay on my side with Jon. I had to wait for years. But I had plenty to keep myself busy.

  The first thing I had to do was kill Katie Batten off. It was easy. If you’re unloved, no one asks questions or looks for you. Certainly not the Spanish police with their hands full of drunk and high teenagers. Who’s going to waste time looking for some drowned Englishwoman’s body? So, once she was dead, I activated one of my other dormant identities—the government isn’t the only one who can create those—and bided my time. I couldn’t put myself in Jon’s world straightaway. He needed to forget her, you see? He needed to be over it. To have her words vague in his head. To have forgotten all mention of Girl B. Time and space were required.

  I still checked the papers, of course, every day like clockwork, but after Jon’s betrayal, your mother was obviously much more careful. And she had you to focus on. To love. To keep safe. She’d want to stay settled. Give you the childhood she never had. A big heart, Charlotte. Damaged, but big.

  After a while, I moved into Jon’s area, got a job—supermarket checkout girl—and waited some more. I let a life build up around me. People believe lives, as if they’re the truth of a person rather than the window dressing. You only have to look at Facebook. All those miserable people trying to outshine each other with holiday photos and humble brags and #feelingblessed. Adding people they’ve never met and thinking they somehow know them from the shit they share. One random friend in common. Your father didn’t like social media. After his experiences with the press, I think anything with media in the name was a turnoff. But he was lonely and sober and he made it so easy to get close to him. Slowly, slowly I let him fall in love with me. Well, not with me, but with Anna. Anna the shopgirl. Sweet and giving.

  They say women are the softer sex. The more emotional. Which fool decided that? A man in love is weakness personified. A man in love will tell you anything. Share anything. Give you everything. And he did. Once I turned on that tap inside him, the whole story poured out. He loved you, you see, in his own weak way. He showed me the letter your mother sent him back in 2006 when he’d given her the money. He’d kept it.

  He said they’d called you Crystal, but he thought she’d change your name to Ava. She’d always wanted to call you Ava but he hadn’t let her. He thought it was an old woman’s name, but now he thought it was beautiful. He whined and whined about wishing he knew you or knew where you were and hated that you probably knew nothing about him. Nothing good. He wanted you to know he loved you.

  I had to bite back a laugh, if I’m honest. What is it with men? They create their own misery and then act as if it was somebody else’s fault. So much self-pity in their genes. Or in their jeans? He wanted to find you but he had nothing to go on and he’d tried to contact the probation services about it but they’d told him he’d have to wait until you were eighteen. What did he expect? He’d cost them a whole new identity and I for one know that’s not cheap.

  I told him to forget you. I told him it wasn’t healthy and he should move on. I said his future was with me. He was weak—always weak—and agreed. I took the letter, of course. It was dwelling in the past.

  He didn’t deserve to keep that letter—he hadn’t seen the clue to where you both were, right there in front of his eyes. The small faded postmark on the envelope. I did though. I saw it very clearly indeed.

  59

  Marilyn

  It was good I came back early because I wasn’t long out of the shower when Simon rang up to my room and said he’d arranged a meeting room for some things he wanted to go through with me. He’s pale and the slump in his shoulders screams tiredness and I don’t need to ask why.

  “You look a bit under the weather,” I say, my heart sinking as he thuds a pile of printouts and training manuals down on the table and turns the projector on. There’s a plate of pastries there too, but neither of us takes one. “I’m sure there are other things I could get on with today.” Like continuing to help a suspect on the run.

  “I’m fine. Not enough sleep.” I don’t need any further explanation. Lisa’s the news story of the month, and although the police haven’t revealed any fresh evidence, that’s not stopping all the news channels from continually talking about her and digging through her past. Might be useful for Lisa and me, but probably less so for Simon.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “I want to go through the various training programs and reward schemes we have in the Manning group for both contract workers and full-time staff. I like to make sure everyone has a chance to achieve their potential.”

  “That’s the sort of thing Lisa would say.” The words are out before I can stop them. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—it’s just—well, whatever she did or didn’t do, that was her philosophy when hiring people and I don’t have any reason to think she was faking it.” I speak defensively, and part of me is challenging him to fire me. If he did, my life would be fucked, but at least I’d be out there helping to find Ava.

  I expect him to snap at me, but instead he glances up as if wanting to say something, yet not knowing how to. “It’s odd, isn’t it?” he says, eventually. “I mean, odd isn’t a big enough word, but it is odd.”

  “What do you mean?” My heart thumps. Is he trying to catch me out here? Has Penny told him about my outburst yesterday and he’s trying to figure out how crazy I might be?

  “What they say she did. What she did. I don’t know.” His jaw is tight. “I told her once that I’d made mistakes in my past. Did things I shouldn’t have done. I was involved in—well, I guess illegal activities would be the truth. They say never ask anyone how they made their first million. I wouldn’t want to have to answer that question. Not honestly, anyway.”

  “We all do things we regret.” I don’t know what else to say, but I want to keep him talking.

  “I’m a good judge of people. I always have been. I’ve had to be at times.” He looks at me, direct. “And all these things in the press, this new murder, her ex, and Ava . . . it’s so hard to believe. I can’t get my head around it. I mean, could she really have done all that? The . . . the thing in the past, well, it’s awful and terrible and I’ll never understand it, but it was a long time ago. This new stuff? Another murder? While we were around her? It doesn’t feel right. Not at all.”

  There’s a brisk knock at the door and a woman in her fifties in a smart suit bustl
es into the room to join us, a sharp, efficient smile on her face. “Karen Walsh. Head of in-house staff training. I manage everything across the leisure and hotel range. You didn’t have to join us, Simon.” She smiles at him, but it’s clear that his presence is unusual.

  “I like to keep my hand in,” he replies, and whatever moment we had to talk about Lisa has passed. I want to punch the woman in the face for interrupting. Does Simon think Lisa’s innocent of Jon’s murder too?

  He turns his attention back to the paperwork. “These are the presentations the new staff will all be seeing on our training days. We have very high standards that have to be exact across all the hotels so it’s important there’s nothing unclear. Penny tells me you’re pretty much seconded to me for now. You may as well know as much about the business as you can absorb.”

  Oh great. So Penny has told him about my outburst. I look down at the long and tedious list of things they want to work through. This is going to take hours. “Let’s get started,” I say, through gritted teeth. “Sooner we begin, the sooner we finish.” Why today, I think, as he turns the main light out and starts the projector. Why, when Lisa needs my help? I look at him. He’s staring at the screen but his mind’s not on it. He’s too tense. A different knot is untangling in his thoughts. I know how he feels. I’ve been through it myself.

  At the front of the room, Karen Walsh starts talking through the first presentation, and although I try to focus, I can’t. My head is buzzing. What if Lisa gets seen? What if she can’t figure out who Katie is? What if we don’t get to Ava in time? And could Simon be an ally?

  60

  Lisa

  I didn’t spray my hair but just ponytailed it, and kept my makeup light. This is a nice part of town and, although I’m sure they’re not all curtain twitchers, for now the brash look isn’t going to suit me. As it is, the streets are quiet, people either at work or maybe away on long summer holidays, months in France or Spain, the kind the people who own these large detached homes take as a reward for burning themselves out to pay the mortgage.