by Sue Fortin
The laptop gives a whir and the icon for disc drive F pops up. I click on it.
Surprisingly, there’s only one file. It’s an audio clip, which I recognise from the recorded telephone conversations I have on file at work. I press ‘play’ as the dizziness strikes me again and I have to sit down.
The first voice is Tom’s.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
The next voice is unmistakable. It’s Martha.
‘Oh, that’s a nice way to greet someone.’
‘Fuck the niceties, Martha. When I told you to alienate Clare from everyone, I didn’t mean to push that fucking kid of Pippa’s over. She’s got a broken arm, thanks to you.’
‘Granted, the broken arm wasn’t part of the plan, but really, Tom, you should actually be thanking me because now that bitch Pippa is so pissed at Clare she won’t speak to her.’
‘That’s as maybe, but ease up on the kids.’
‘Okay. Is that it?’
‘No. Are you okay to stay on the phone for a bit longer?’
‘A little while. Marion’s gone to one of her coffee mornings but is due back soon. I managed to wriggle out of it, claiming I have a migraine.’
‘Where’s Luke?’
‘In his studio. I’m out in the garden.’
‘How are you getting on with him?’
‘Luke? He’s a nice guy.’
‘I need you to do me a favour,’ Tom says.
There’s a hesitation before Martha answers and her voice is guarded. ‘Which is?’
‘Get a bit closer to Luke. Make a few waves for him and Clare.’
‘I thought that’s what I was doing.’
‘You need to do more. Clare’s got her suspicions about you and the last thing we need is for everyone to start listening to her.’ There’s an impatience in Tom’s voice and a coldness he usually reserves for his ex-wife.
‘If I’m her ally, though, then she’s more likely to believe me.’
‘Leave Clare to me.’
Martha gives a laugh. ‘Oh, I get it. You want Clare to turn to you. Now, I know you and Clare have history, but I thought that was all puppy love.’
‘It’s unfinished business and business that doesn’t concern you.’
‘If you want me to up my game, then I suggest you up your payment.’ The laughter has gone from Martha’s voice now and is replaced with a steely edge.
‘Don’t play hardball with me,’ says Tom. ‘Remember, I know what you did. All it will take is one call to the police in America and it’s game over for you.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ replies Martha. ‘I’m pretty sure the authorities would be interested to learn that you have been swindling money from the trust fund yourself. I think that’s called embezzlement.’
‘It’s not fucking murder, though.’
I give a sharp intake of breath, sitting up in my seat. Murder? My fears are confirmed. I miss the next couple of exchanges while I take in what I’ve just heard. Aware that Tom could be back any minute I force myself back to the recording and take the mouse to slide the cursor back a few seconds and listen to that part of the conversation again.
‘It’s not fucking murder, though.’
‘It was an accident!’ Martha’s voice is indignant but angry too.
Me, I feel numb. I’m trying hard to take in what is being said. My own head is throbbing and the nauseous feeling won’t go away. Tom is talking again and I make another effort to focus.
‘You pushed her. She hit her head. Fatally. You didn’t call the emergency services.’ Tom emphasises each point, as I’ve seen him do so many times in the courtroom. I imagine him strolling back and forth in front of the witness box, marking each point off on his fingers. ‘You hid the body. You went home to bed. Even when you woke the next morning, you did nothing.
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ Martha hisses.
‘At worst, this could be premeditated murder, at best manslaughter,’ Tom continues, ignoring her. ‘Then there’s concealing a crime and/or evidence, withholding evidence, perverting the course of justice … do I need to go on?’
‘If I go down, so do you.’
‘You’ll go down for life, I, on the other hand, could be out in a few years. I might even get a suspended sentence. My life will go on. Yours, well, that’s not looking so good.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
‘I can assure you, I’m not. I even know where to tell the authorities to look for the body. The woods near the bridge to Talbot Island. It won’t take them long to find her.’ Tom has an air of confidence about him. ‘Ever heard the expression ‘loose lips sink ships’? Well, I have this whole conversation recorded. And our previous one.’
‘Bastard.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
There’s an uneasy silence between the two and I can hear Martha’s breathing deepen as she fights to control it. Not unlike what I’m doing myself right now. She speaks again after a few seconds.
‘So, you want me to make trouble between Clare and Luke? Is that it?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
‘What if he’s not interested?’
‘A good-looking girl like you? I’m sure you can turn Luke’s head.’
‘Why do I get the impression this is not necessarily because you care about Clare?’
‘You’re very perceptive,’ says Tom. ‘I must congratulate you. Put it this way, love and hate are very close friends. If this little part of the plan doesn’t work out, then it’s okay, I have a Plan B.’
‘You’re one sick bastard.’
‘I just like winning.’
‘I’ve gotta go. Marion’s car has just pulled up on the drive.’
‘Don’t let me down, Martha, and if you do really well I might actually give you that pay rise after all.’
I hear the line go dead, but Tom hasn’t cancelled the recording yet as I hear him mutter to himself. ‘Silly fucking bitch.’ Then the recording ends.
I hold my head in my hand. I can hardly believe what I’ve just heard. If anyone was to give me all this information, then I would say that they were completely crazy. That I trust Tom implicitly. That I’ve been friends with him for years and he would never betray me.
The sound of a car horn tooting and the engine revving somewhere out on the street knocks me from my thoughts and I suddenly think of Tom. He’ll be back any minute now.
My heart is racing as I snatch the memory stick from the USB port. I go to put it in the box with the others, but change my mind. This is evidence. I shove it into the pocket of my trousers. Then I remember Tom saying that he had recorded his previous conversation with Martha. There was only one recording on this memory stick, which means there must be another. I search the box, but I can’t see one annotated in the same way.
The sound of the front door opening and Tom whistling as he comes in causes me to nearly drop the bloody box again. I shove it back on the side and hurriedly stand up.
‘Clare! You okay? I’ve got the wine!’
I dart out of the small bedroom and into the bathroom next door, my shaking hand only just managing to slide the lock across.
His voice is getting closer. He’s come through the living room and into the hallway.
‘Just a minute,’ I call as I flush the chain for effect and, looking in the mirror check I don’t look too flustered, I take a deep, steadying breath as I push down on the handle and pull the door open. I fix a smile. ‘Just needed the loo,’ I say, aware there’s a small tremor in my voice.
‘Thought you’d done a runner,’ he says with a wink and then waves two bottles of red wine he’s holding in each hand. ‘Buy one, get one free. It would have been rude not to.’
‘Naturally,’ I say, as I follow him back to the living room.
‘Where’s your glass?’ says Tom as he opens the first bottle.
It’s then I remember that I’ve left it in the small bedroom when I was listening to the recording. ‘
Erm … Oh, err, the bedroom,’ I say, aware that I’m stumbling over my words. ‘I had it in my hand when I went to use the bathroom. I just shoved it on the desk on my way through.’ I stand. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No, it’s okay. Sit there. I’ll get it,’ insists Tom.
He returns a few seconds later with two wine glasses hooked between his fingers. ‘New bottle, new glass, I always say.’
I don’t actually remember Tom ever saying that, but I don’t argue as I watch him set the glasses down and open the wine. ‘Just a small glass for me,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t really be drinking.’
Despite this, Tom pours a full glass and hands it to me. ‘Did you have another look at those files?’ His question catches me by surprise. He doesn’t look up as he pours himself a glass.
‘I thought about it, but decided I really wouldn’t understand them. You’re the numbers man, not me.’ I’m aware of an undercurrent passing between us, one that wasn’t there before. I take a small sip of wine as we both pretend everything is normal. All I want to do is get out of here.
‘Cheers,’ says Tom, raising his glass.
‘Cheers,’ I respond with a faux smile.
Tom tugs his tie loose and unbuttons his collar. ‘Think I’ll get out of this shirt and tie.’ He comes back into the room a few minutes later wearing a grey T-shirt. I can smell the fresh dash of aftershave he’s applied. ‘There, that’s better. You not drinking your wine?’
‘No. My head’s hurting a bit, actually.’
‘Come on, it will do you good.’ He slides the glass I had abandoned on the table towards me.
‘No, really, I’m fine.’
And then, out of nowhere, I remember what was bugging me earlier when Tom spoke about the accident. It seemed irrelevant at the time, so much so I must have totally forgotten about it. The thought has finally filtered through and popped to the fore of my brain with the force of an uppercut from a heavyweight boxer. It literally throws me off balance and I close my eyes for a second as I feel my body sway to the left and then back to the centre.
‘You okay?’ asks Tom. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Chapter 29
‘You were at the accident, weren’t you?’
Tom places his glass on the table. ‘What makes you say that?’ His voice is low and I sense a menace in the air.
‘I saw your car parked up in the lane. I’d forgotten all about it, what with everything else. It’s been bugging me that I was missing something important and then it came to me, just now. Like when you’re trying to think of someone’s name and it’s on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t for the life of you get it. And then you can be lying in bed that night or in the supermarket a few days later and, out of nowhere, it pops into your mind.’ I pause and look at Tom. ‘That’s what’s just popped into my mind. I smashed your wing mirror as I went by. Your car was there. But you’ve never said. You’ve been keeping that a secret. Why would you do that?’ The sarcasm is creeping into my voice, mixing with the anger that is surfacing.
‘Clare, stop. You don’t know what you’re saying.’ It’s a warning, not borne out of concern for me, but of fear for himself.
I ignore him. ‘The only reason you didn’t want anyone to know you were there would be because you have something to hide.’ I go to stand up, but my legs are wobbly and I almost stumble. ‘That party we had at the house, when we thought we were welcoming Alice home. You and her were in the garden together. You knew then, didn’t you? You knew she was Martha. What were you talking about?’
‘Sit down, you’ve had too much to drink.’
The second attempt sees me standing, but my head is swimming. ‘What did you put in my drink?’
‘Why would I put anything in your drink?’
My legs are not co-operating with my brain but I make it to the kitchen. I grab a cup from the tree mug and switch on the cold tap so hard that the water bounces back up from the sink and sprays across the work surface; I somehow manage to fill the cup. I fling open the cupboard doors until I find the one with the food in. My one good hand fumbles with the tins and packets, knocking them over. A tin of beans hits the worktop. Finally, I find what I’m looking for. Grabbing the salt pot, I flick the lid and pour it straight into the glass of water. I need to make myself sick. Whatever I’ve ingested needs to come out – and quick.
I raise the cup to my mouth, but it’s taken from me. ‘You don’t need that,’ says Tom, tipping the contents down the sink. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, you know.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I hold onto the worktop to steady myself.
‘We could make a good team together,’ he says. ‘You must know how I feel about you.’
I frown. ‘We’re friends, Tom. Old friends. Friends since we were at school together.’
‘We’ve been more than friends, though, and we can again.’
I shake my head. ‘That was at university. It was nothing serious. We both know that. We’ve always said so.’
Tom slams the cup down so hard on the work surface that the handle comes off in his hand. He chucks it into the sink. ‘You said so. I didn’t.’
‘But, Tom, we went on and fell in love with different people. You married Isabella and I married Luke. We, me and you, we just had a student fling.’ I rub my face with my hand. Everything is totally fucked up.
‘Every time I saw you two together, you looked more and more in love. And it just reminded me how much not in love I was with Isabella.’
‘What are you hoping to achieve by all this?’
‘Do you have any idea how much maintenance I have to pay Isabella? I have to pay for that bloody great big house she lives in. Can’t be a modest two-up two-down, can it? No, it has to be a big fuck-off house in the most expensive part of Brighton. And then there’s all the things she needs for Lottie: the private riding lessons, the one-to-one swimming lessons, stage school on a Saturday, French lessons with a private tutor. I could go on and on. And on top of that, I have to live myself, pay for this place, my car, my own lifestyle.’
‘I don’t understand. What has any of this got to do with me?’
‘Luke’s cheated on you with Martha. I showed you the evidence. Leave him and we can be together.’
I laugh. ‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s not quite that simple. What about Martha? And Alice?’
‘What about them?’
I look into Tom’s eyes and all I see is a blank space. He’s totally removed from his actions. He has no sense of empathy for what’s happened to me.
And that is the thing that frightens me the most. I need to get out of here. I don’t trust Tom and what he’s capable of. My eyes give me away as I glance at the door. Tom doesn’t miss this and blocks my exit route. I don’t wait to find out what he’s going to do next. I grab a tin of beans that had fallen out of the cupboard earlier and with all the strength I can muster, I smash it into the side of his head.
He looks at me. Unmoving. A trickle of blood comes out of his nose. He raises his fingers to his lip, dabbing at the blood, before inspecting his red-stained fingers. I’m trapped against the worktop. I’m not sure if Tom is swaying or if I am. And then he falls to the floor. I let out a cry and then there’s a silence in the room.
Dear God, I think I’ve killed him.
The need to get as far away from him as possible is almost overwhelming but I know my body is beginning to shut down. Whatever Tom put in my drink is taking its toll. I grab the broken cup and once again fill it with water and salt. I force myself to drink it. To gulp it down. It’s disgusting and my throat wants to close, to spit it back out, but I refuse to give in. And then, my stomach convulses and I’m throwing up. It looks like blood as the red-wine vomit splatters the sink. I repeat the process with some more water and salt and my stomach burns as I throw up for a second time.
I remember being told when the girls were little that if they were ever to ingest any bleach or something like that, to give them mil
k to line their stomach and stop it being absorbed into the bloodstream. I have no idea if this is right or not, but I snatch open the fridge and grab a plastic bottle of green-top milk from the door. I gulp down as much of the milk as I can, not wanting to cause myself to throw up any more.
I step over Tom and, as I do so, he groans and puts out his hand. I scream as his fingertips touch my ankle and I stumble out into the hallway. I look back through the doorway and Tom is pulling himself up onto all fours. He lifts his head and our eyes lock. For a moment, I’m static. Unable to think. Unable to move.
He shakes his head, like a dog who has got hold of a toy in its jaws, and putting one hand up on the breakfast-bar stool, hauls himself to his feet. He rubs the side of his head. ‘That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,’ he says.
The sound of his voice snaps me out of the trance I’m in. My survival instinct kicks in and I’m racing down the hallway, through the living room and out onto the landing before I can even think straight. I hammer at the button to call the lift, but looking up at the numbers I can see that the lift is on the ground floor.
‘Clare! Wait!’ Tom is out on the landing, his hand to his head, his other holding onto the doorframe. ‘Don’t go. We need to talk. We can sort this out.’
‘No, Tom, it’s too late.’ I’m too scared to cry but I know my heart is breaking inside. I turn and push open the door to the emergency exit. Momentum carries me through and I’m on a small metal fire escape on the outside of the building. My body crashes into the rail, tipping me forwards. I scream. I think I’m going to fall, but I manage to hold on tight to the rail with my one good hand. I push myself back to safety.
Rain is lashing at my face, made stronger by the fierce wind of the storm. My hand skims across the water that is sitting on the handrails as I thunder down the steps, the fresh air bringing a new sense of awareness to me. My feet work fast as I try to put as much distance as I can between myself and Tom. I’m on the second floor when I hear the crash of the fire-escape door above me. I hear Tom call my name, but the words are whipped away by the wind and then I feel the vibration of his feet on the rungs and the dull thud of his steps as he too belts down the staircase.
