‘She’s sure it was him?’
‘Yep. She says she’s seen him around, and one of the girls who works for her says he’s a bit of a lech. She’d been considering making a complaint, but Deborah thought she was being a bit oversensitive. She decided to keep an eye on him, though.’
Becky put her head on one side and opened her eyes wide as if to say ‘Told you so’, but Tom just smiled at her.
‘What time was it?’
‘Twelve twenty, so he couldn’t have got home and back.’
‘Did she hear any of the conversation?’
‘Only “Hang on a minute” as he walked away. We’ve already got his phone records, so I’ll take a look to see who he was talking to. Not many people I’d call for a chat after midnight.’
That was true enough, although Niall was in the middle of a big negotiation about the future of his business. Tom had the feeling Becky was hoping there would be another woman on the scene so she would be proved right about Niall Strachan, and he didn’t want her to become too hung up on that. He was already worried that they were getting tunnel vision about Martha Porter without his best detective becoming fixated on a philandering husband as the only credible suspect.
‘Fancy going to talk to a man who, by all accounts, is equally difficult?’ he asked her. ‘Eddie Carlson is apparently back home from Spain for the summer. He’s got a house in Hale Barns from when he played for United, and despite living most of the year in Cadiz, he still comes back. Let’s see what he thinks of Genevieve now, after all these years.’
‘Fine. Are you coming?’
‘No. I’m going to have another go at the team in XO-Tech. In fact, why don’t you come there with me first, and then you can go to see Eddie? We’ll take both cars.’
‘Okay. I’ll get someone to phone and make an appointment with Carlson for me. Shall I aim for late morning?’
Tom looked at his watch. ‘Sounds good. I need to wait to hear from Rob, but then we’ll head off.’
Tom had spoken too soon. ‘Sir! I’ve got Detective Superintendent Stanley on the line for you. She says she’s been trying to reach you.’
Tom held up a hand to acknowledge the shout and turned to Becky. ‘She’s not been trying very hard; I’ve got my mobile in my pocket.’ He walked over to the desk phone. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, always respectful in front of junior officers with the possible exception of Becky.
He held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. The line was dead. She’d gone because she didn’t ‘do’ hanging on for a junior officer – Tom, in this case.
He bit back his irritation. ‘I’ll be in my office, Becky. If Rob calls with any news from Porter’s place, put him through. And feel free to interrupt if I’m on a call with a certain female senior officer!’
She grinned, and Tom marched back to his office.
He sat at his desk and picked up the phone. ‘I gather you were looking for me, Philippa.’
‘I was indeed. It’s after eight thirty and I haven’t had an update on the Strachan case from you. Did you oversleep? Has the baby been disturbing you?’
She wasn’t asking out of concern for either him or the baby. He knew that. She was concerned that his attention wasn’t solely on the job. He wasn’t going to make excuses or protest that he’d been in since seven.
‘None of the above. I was waiting until we’ve gained access to Martha Porter’s home. DS Cumba’s on his way there now with a search team – or he will be as soon as the warrant is signed.’
‘Are we convinced she’s the killer?’
Tom thought about it for a moment. ‘Convinced is too strong a word. The only motive we know of is that she seemed to be obsessed with the husband. The mobile evidence is interesting but circumstantial, particularly as we found the phone in her desk drawer. One of her colleagues says she saw her put it there that morning, but she could be wrong; it could just as easily have been there all the time. Anyone in the company could have taken it. Interesting that her prints weren’t on the phone – only those of the guy who took it from her drawer. Not sure what to make of that, but I asked the search team to try to grab some DNA, and they just got back to me. Apparently all the surfaces in the office were clean – obviously wiped down. That tells me she has to be guilty, however weak I find the motive.’
‘Next steps, Tom?’
Tom talked her through everything they were planning, including raising an alert using the photo of the child.
‘You’ve ruled out the husband, then?’
‘Unless he can fly a helicopter and has a helipad in his back garden, it seems highly unlikely – he was seen in central Manchester – but we’re sending someone over with photos of him together with pictures of three or four men of a similar age, to be sure the witness picks him out correctly.’
Philippa continued with her questions, but then he heard Becky’s footsteps hurrying down the hall, and with a single knock she pushed open the door.
‘She’s not there, Tom. Neither is the child.’
Tom nodded. ‘Sorry, Philippa. I need to go. No sign of Martha Porter, so I need to get the photo of Alfie circulated as widely as possible.’
He hung up.
39
MARTHA
Alfie was so excited to see the sea when he woke up, and he showed no signs of suffering from his night on the back seat of the tiny car. He jumped up and down with glee when I told him we had time to get breakfast at a café overlooking the beach.
Now he’s sitting eating his scrambled eggs at our table by the window, unable to draw his gaze from the water.
‘This is the best breakfast ever, Mummy.’
I smile as I look at him, wanting to drink in his joy. It takes so little to please him, and until now he’s seemed happy with our monotonous existence – just him and me, our tiny flat and a few board games. It can’t last, though, and however much I want to pick him up and run again, I have to set him free – set us both free.
The danger is on all sides now, and much as I try to convince myself that they can’t possibly find evidence that I killed Genevieve, there’s one fear that has haunted me for years.
They could have proof that I have killed before.
We all make mistakes. No one is infallible, and I can chart my life by my missteps along the way. Each poor decision, whether mine or my parents’, has brought us to where we are today.
LAKESIDE
As the months wore on, Aram invited more and more people to join us, and Mum became increasingly exhausted. She and Dad welcomed everyone into our home, but it soon became clear that Mum was expected to cook all the meals as they took their places at our table. She was feeding twenty people three times a day, and the numbers were set to grow as Aram’s influence spread.
She looked as if a strong breeze would knock her down, and I could see Dad watching her. There was a distance between them now, but there was no doubt in my mind that he loved her as much as he always had. One day a look of determination settled around his mouth, and he turned from her to the other people around the table.
‘Listen, everyone. We need a rota. You all need to help. It’s too much for Nicola to do this alone. I do what I can, as does India, but Nicola does all the cooking, and then there’s the cleaning and everything else. I’m sorry, but if you’re eating at our table every day, we need you to help with food preparation, clearing away afterwards, with laundry and keeping the bathrooms clean.’
His comments were met with total silence. Those around the table either looked down or sneaked a quick peek at Aram before dropping their gaze. No one responded.
The meal was just about over. Knives and forks clattered onto crockery as everyone left whatever was remaining on the plate in front of them, waiting for Aram to speak.
‘Leave us, please.’
Without a word, chairs were pushed back and everyone left apart from Mum, Dad, me and Aram. He looked from one of us to the other and smiled. ‘The manner in which everyone left should have told y
ou all you need to know,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, Aram?’ Mum asked, her voice shrill. I looked at her white face, the skin around her eyes a violet colour, her hands shaking. I wondered where my mum had gone.
‘When I said “Leave us”, no one in the room had any doubt that we – the four of us – are “us”. They are “them”.’ He looked from Mum to Dad, his head on one side. ‘You don’t understand, do you? We’re all guests in your house – we’re not equal. Joel said so himself when he said “you’re eating at our table”. We have no right to be here, except by your good grace.’
Mum’s mouth dropped open. ‘But we’ve welcomed everyone you asked us to. We haven’t turned anyone away.’
‘That’s true – you haven’t. And as you say, you’ve “welcomed” them, because you are the owners, the beneficent ones. You have set yourselves above them all. No, not only them. Us – because I am included in that number. We all feel we’re on borrowed time.’
‘We haven’t asked anyone to leave,’ Dad said, his voice reflecting his horror at the thought.
‘You didn’t need to. They can’t be here forever, because it’s not their home. On top of their insecurities and their need to find a better understanding of life – which only I can give them – they know that at any time you may become bored with your benevolence, and then they’ll all have to go. Many have told me they’re willing to sell their houses so they can stay here with us permanently. But while they are your guests, and no more than that, they can’t risk it.’
Mum and Dad looked at each other, and even as a child I could see they had no idea what to say.
‘They’re not alone,’ Aram continued, his lips a thin straight line, his eyes two fierce dark pools. ‘I too have to consider the position in which you place me.’
Mum leaned across the table, clasping her fluttering hands together. ‘Oh Aram, you can’t believe for a moment we would ever ask you to leave, surely?’
From his pocket Aram pulled the small glass sphere that he often rolled between his palms, and he held it up.
‘You see this? This represents the soul of each person I’m helping. I hold it, warm it, soothe it, until it is at one with the temperature of my skin. This is your soul, Nicola, and I hold it in my hands. If I were to drop it, what would happen to you?’
It wasn’t a question that required an answer, but he told us anyway.
‘If I dropped it right now onto this stone floor, it would shatter, sharp shards scattering to hide under furniture, in cracks in the floor. Some fragments would never be found. And it would be impossible to put it together again, to rebuild it into a whole.’ He lifted it high. ‘This is your soul, Nicola.’ His eyes moved to Dad. ‘And yours.’ And then to me. ‘And yours.’ He paused and his gaze flicked back to each of us in turn. ‘And yet, despite all that I do for you, I remain nothing but a guest in your house, relying on your generosity for my food. I have to ask for money if I need to buy something that’s essential for me to carry on my work, and I rely on your charity. How do you think it makes me feel? How do you think any of us feels?’
Mum was staring at him, her eyes filled with pain and remorse. She glanced quickly at Dad, who was biting his lip, then back at Aram. Suddenly her lips curled in a smile.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘We can fix this. We can give you an allowance. That way you’ll never have to ask.’
With that, Aram stood up from the table, raised the ball high above his head and let it fall to the floor to fracture into a thousand pieces.
Mum was inconsolable. As Aram had turned to leave the room, she’d jumped to her feet, begging him to come back, but he’d ignored her. Within seconds, Dad had his arms around her – a rare sight these days – and I grabbed a dustpan and brush and tried my best to get up every tiny shard before one of us cut our feet. No one wore shoes.
‘What did I say?’ Mum sobbed. ‘I thought I was being kind.’
For once, even though by then I was only twelve years old, I thought I understood Aram. I may not have had as many self-awareness sessions with him, but he was my teacher, and his lessons reached far beyond any predictable curriculum. He was, he told me, trying to teach me a new way of thinking in a world that knew only selfishness, greed and vanity.
‘Can I say something?’ I whispered, not knowing if my mum would appreciate my thoughts. We were so distant these days, with all of her energy spent on either feeding everyone or meditating with Aram to heal her soul.
She ignored me and lifted her head from Dad’s shoulder, pushing him away. ‘No, Joel. That doesn’t help. India, go to your room.’
‘But I don’t think you understand why he was so upset,’ I persisted.
She turned, placed her fists on the table and leaned on them. ‘You think you know him better than I do? You don’t. Do you understand? I’m closest to him, closer than anyone. And I don’t know what upset him, so why do you think you do?’
She was angry. The thought that I might have better insight into his feelings was more than she could bear. I realised she thought Aram was hers. I had noticed that when any of the other women laughed with him, or even touched him, she hated it.
‘I know you insulted him,’ I said, a note of defiance in my tone.
‘What did you just say?’ She marched round the table, raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face.
‘Nicola!’ Dad shouted. ‘What are you doing? There’s no need for that.’
She spun round. ‘There’s every need. She has no respect. What did Aram say at the last group meeting? He singled India out as the person in the room most likely to put herself before others, to think herself better. She looks people in the eye when she’s not been invited to. She’s too bold. And everyone agreed with him.’
She said this with glee – as if the public humiliation of her daughter was something to be relished. No one had spoken up for me. No one dared.
I bowed my head, my tears splashing onto the stone flags I had just cleaned. I knew I was proving both Mum and Aram correct by speaking, but what if he left?
‘You insulted him by telling him you’d give him an allowance. You were treating him as an inferior. He says none of us should be inferior to others. We shouldn’t own things which give us power over others,’ I whispered into the now silent room.
No one spoke. I could feel Mum’s eyes on me, weighing up my words, wondering if I was right. Finally, she broke the silence: ‘What are we going to do, Joel? We need him. We all need him.’
The thought – even to me – of life without Aram seemed unbearable. We had learned that the world outside these walls was not to be trusted, that if any of us left, we would be turning our back on our family and security.
‘Leave it to me,’ Dad said. ‘I can fix this.’
And he did. Within weeks, ownership of the house was placed in a trust. I never understood its terms, but I knew that Aram was in control. And our money was placed in a fund that he could draw on whenever he wanted, no questions asked.
The money and the house that had given my parents such high hopes and excitement for the future were no longer theirs.
40
The trip to XO-Tech hadn’t been as helpful as Becky and Tom had hoped, and they left the building to go their separate ways feeling a little deflated. Elise Chapman had a lot to say, but little of any significance. She talked again about the raised voices in the argument between Martha and Genevieve but said the only thing she heard that she had since remembered was Martha saying ‘It’s not my place’. But that wasn’t even slightly helpful.
A woman called Caroline had said she felt sorry for Martha.
‘None of us disliked her, although it’s true she kept her distance. Maybe she had the right idea. Exaggeration is Elise’s forte,’ she said. ‘Best not to tell her anything. And, for what it’s worth, I can’t imagine Martha throwing herself at Niall in the way they’re all saying. Yes, I saw her hurry from the kitchen, and she was looking disturbed but not necessarily upset.
I’d drunk less than everyone else because I was driving. And I know Niall avoided being alone with her from then on, but I can’t see it. She wouldn’t even share her home address, for goodness’ sake, so I doubt she’d have been willing to share her body!’
Becky saw Caroline’s point. She hadn’t met Martha, but she seemed a closed book. Why would someone so private lay themselves open like that? Maybe she’d had one drink too many. God knows, Becky had done some daft things in her time under the influence of alcohol, but she preferred not to dwell on them.
A rather sweaty-looking Spencer Johansson, in an even more garish T-shirt than the day before, had confirmed from the photo Tom showed him that the knife recovered from the culvert matched the one they kept in the kitchen – a knife which, according to the search team, was no longer there. He’d also confirmed that he’d spoken to Niall Strachan after midnight to check on progress with the deal.
Now Becky had the pleasure of meeting Eddie Carlson. Would he have held a grievance against Genevieve for so long? Or maybe since he’d come back to Manchester, he’d started seeing her again.
Becky was driving down a road lined on one side by big, impressive houses, looking all the more beautiful because the sun had temporarily broken through the heavy dark clouds and the trees and shrubs were in full leaf. Where she caught glimpses through open double gates, she could see the gardens were well maintained, and the houses were lucky enough to face open fields on the opposite side of the road.
She turned into the drive leading to Eddie’s house and was impressed. It was a relatively new property in red brick, built to a traditional design with double windows either side of a central front door, and while the Italian-style cypress trees may have been a bit too much for Manchester, they looked good. She clamped down on her low expectations of the interior as she pressed the bell. She was predisposed to expect all footballers to have poor taste, but remembered Tom telling her once that just because something wasn’t her taste, that didn’t make it bad.
Close Your Eyes Page 16
