by C. L. Taylor
‘It’s bad,’ he says. ‘Really bad. Jo works part-time but she won’t take Elise to the park or the zoo. She won’t even go food shopping any more, not since she had a panic attack in the corner shop because she thought someone was looking at her strangely.’
‘Wow.’ His boss arches an eyebrow.
Fiona doesn’t know the half of it. He and Jo haven’t had sex for over a year. They had a dry spell before, when she was so afraid of getting pregnant she wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, but then they’d conceived Elise and he’d assumed that everything would go back to normal. It didn’t. It got worse.
‘Anyway, Max,’ Fiona says, gesturing towards her screen. ‘Congratulations. I’ve read your story and it’s good. Very good. How does it feel?’
‘How does what feel?’
‘To get a conviction off the back of your investigation? Five years, he got, didn’t he?’
Max smiles for the first time since he sat down. He would have loved to see the look on Ian White’s face when the police turned up to arrest him. Evil bastard. He’d set up a national chain of money-lending shops that charged single mums, pensioners and people on benefits ridiculous amounts of interest and then turned up at their home and threatened them with violence when they couldn’t pay it back. Coercion, drug-taking and violence were rife. Max had witnessed one of Ian’s goons shoving an old man up against the wall of his own home when he said he wouldn’t be able to eat for a week if he paid up. He couldn’t react. He couldn’t stop him. All he could do was pray that the tiny camera in his glasses was getting enough footage to convict the bastards.
‘And you weren’t worried about your cover slipping? No one at Cash Creditors suspected you?’ Fiona asks.
‘There were a couple of sticky moments but I talked my way out of them.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least.’ His boss smiles tightly. ‘So, are we going to have to start calling you Donal MacIntyre now then?’
‘Nah.’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘He’s old hat. Max Blackmore will do fine, although if you want to call me “sir” that would be fine too.’
He stiffens as Fiona’s smile slips and she raises an eyebrow. Shit. He always takes a joke one step too far.
Chapter 3
The second the buzzer sounds and the door is un-locked I fly through the nursery, dodging coat stands, a papier-mâché homage to The Hungry Caterpillar, and several members of staff.
‘Elise?’ A bead of sweat trickles down my lower back as I fumble with the catch of the gate at the ‘twos room’. Half a dozen pairs of tiny eyes look up at me in interest and alarm as I step into the room. None of them belong to my daughter.
‘Everything OK, Jo?’ Sharon, a woman with a tight ponytail and an even tighter smile, looks up from her position in front of the children, a picture book in her hands. Another of the nursery staff, a sweet eighteen-year-old called Bethan, looks up from the table she’s cleaning. She smiles a hello but there’s confusion in her eyes.
‘Jo?’ Sharon says and I search the faces of the children again, just in case I missed one.
‘I can’t see Elise. Where is she?’
I don’t wait for her reply. Instead I open the door to the garden. It’s empty; the sandpit abandoned; an array of brightly coloured plastic tools lying on the sand, illuminated by the security light.
‘Jo?’ Sharon appears beside me, an irritated expression on her face. ‘What’s the matter. I’m sure Elise is in—’
‘Mummy!’
The plaintive cry from across the room makes me turn. And there she is, my tiny little girl with her dark blonde hair still in the bunches I tied this morning, clutching the hand of Alice, her key worker. I like Alice. She’s kind and gentle and she doesn’t give me lectures about timekeeping if I’m five minutes late.
‘I did a wee wee,’ my daughter says proudly as I dash across the room.
‘In the toilet,’ she adds as I lift her into my arms and press my face into the soft warmth of her neck.
‘It was her idea,’ Alice says. ‘She said she didn’t want to wear nappies any more.’
‘My God.’ I hold my daughter tightly and stroke her hair over and over. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Jo?’ The tone in Alice’s voice changes. ‘Is everything OK? You look very pale. Is it your stepdad? Did something happen?’
I want to tell her that I have just driven across Bristol at breakneck speed, certain that the woman who tricked her way into my car had somehow harmed my daughter. I rang Max over and over again but he didn’t pick up. Neither did Fiona, his boss. I tried to call the police but I couldn’t breathe, never mind talk, and I ended the call before it connected. My hands were shaking so much it took me three attempts to get the keys in the ignition and the car started. I want to tell Alice all these things but, more than anything else, I want to get Elise home. We will both be safe there.
‘Jo!’ Alice shouts as I hurry through the nursery with Elise’s legs wrapped around my waist and her small face buried into my neck. ‘You haven’t signed her out. And you’ve forgotten her coat!’
I fumble with the door latch. Other parents are waiting to be let in, watching me through the glass panel. Their smiles turn to frustration. I can’t get my fingers to work properly, I’m shaking so much. Finally, Sharon appears beside me. She thrusts Elise’s bag and coat at me and then opens the door with one swift turn of the latch. I mutter an apology to the other parents as they part to allow me out of the door.
‘She looked a bit wired,’ a woman says, sotto voce, but loud enough for me to hear, as I step out onto the street.
‘Probably a couple too many glasses of wine at lunch,’ someone comments and a chorus of laughter follows me out onto the street.
Back home I pause as I reach the living room, Elise’s cup of milk in my hand. Outside in the street a woman is laughing – a loud, throaty cackle that makes all the hairs go up on my arms. Paula knows the name of our road. She’s seen me take Elise to the park. She’s probably watched us leave the house. I’ve already checked – twice – that all the doors and windows are locked but I dart to the front door anyway and jiggle on the handle to make sure. Still locked.
I hurry back into the living room where my daughter is still on the sofa, staring at the TV, a blanket over her legs, and Effie Elephant, her favourite soft toy, clutched to her chest.
‘Milk,’ she says as I cross the room, peel back the curtain and peer outside. Two women, both of them dark-haired, saunter down the street. The one on the right cackles again and her friend punches her playfully on the arm. It’s not Paula. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.
‘Here you go, sweetheart.’ I force a smile as I hand the cup of milk to my daughter. Her gaze doesn’t flicker from the screen. She’s entranced by Makka Pakka placing rocks, one by one, into a wheelbarrow. She’s relaxed and happy … I just wish I felt the same.
‘Mummy’s just going to pack a few things so we can go and visit Granny and Grandad for a few days. I’ll be back in a second. I’m just going upstairs.’
I move quickly, running from room to room, gathering up clothes, nappies, toys, toiletries and medication, freezing whenever I hear a strange sound, shouting down to my daughter to check she’s OK. I throw everything into a large wheeled suitcase and then return to Elise’s bedroom. I stand in the middle of the room with my hands on my hips as I scan the shelves for anything I may have missed. I can’t believe Max did this to us. He swore to me that he would never put our family in danger. He reassured me over and over again that we would be safe, that no one would come after us as a result of his investigation. And I believed him. I don’t know who was more naïve, me or him. Our marriage has been on its last legs for a while. I’ve tried to keep it going, for Elise’s sake, but I can’t do this any more. I can’t spend my life with a man who puts his career before his family’s safety.
I return to my bedroom and zip up the suitcase then open it again. Have I got absolutely everything I need for Elise? It do
esn’t matter if I’ve forgotten something of mine but we’ve got a problem if I forget something of hers. I can’t ask Mum to leave Andy’s side to go to the shops for me. And if I go …
I grip hold of the chest of drawers and take a steadying breath. I can do this. I’ve driven up to Mum’s loads of times and nothing has happened. I know the route: M5, A41, all the way up. Approximately three hours. It’s nearly 7 p.m. now and Elise will probably sleep the whole way.
‘Sweetheart!’ I bump the suitcase down the stairs, abandon it in the hall and step back into the living room. ‘Mummy needs to put a nappy on you before we go. Just in case you fall asleep and have an accident.’
Elise looks at me and shakes her head.
I hold out a nappy and give her an encouraging smile. ‘Let’s just pop this on now and then we can go. We’re going to see Granny and Grandad.’
‘No.’ Her bottom lip wobbles. ‘No nappy, Mummy.’
‘Elise, please.’ As I sit down on the sofa I hear the sound of keys being turned in the front door.
A second later my husband flies into the room, his cheeks ashen and his eyes wide. He takes one look at Elise and scoops her up into his arms, pressing a hand against her back as he holds her tightly against his chest. He notices me watching.
‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I thought Elise was … I … you can’t leave a message like that and then NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE.’
Elise yelps in shock as his shout fills the living room.
‘Sorry, sorry, baby.’ He strokes her hair, his wide palm cupping the back of her head. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Max,’ I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. ‘Can we talk about this in the kitchen, away from Elise?’
‘I’m sorry!’ Max says, the second we step into the kitchen. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I was just … fucking hell, Jo, you really scared me.’ He rubs his hands over his face, peering at me through the gaps in his fingers.
‘You were scared? Where the hell have you been? I rang you. I called you as soon as it happened.’
‘I was in a meeting with Fiona.’
‘Seriously?’ I can’t keep incredulity out of my voice. ‘Have you got any idea what I’ve—’
‘I’m sorry. OK. Just tell me what happened.’
He listens, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, as I tell him about being followed down the street, about Paula getting into my car, about the threat she made to Elise. I pause when I reach the end, waiting for a reaction, but Max doesn’t say anything.
‘What?’ I say. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I …’ He runs a hand over his hair. ‘I’m shocked I guess. I’m … trying to make sense of what happened.’
‘Make sense of what? A stranger got into my car, started rooting around for something and then threatened Elise. And she knows you, Max. What is there to make sense of? We need to ring the police.’
‘The woman said her name was Paula?’
‘Yes.’
‘Paula what?’
‘She didn’t tell me her surname.’
‘What did she look like? I worked with someone called Paula about six or seven years ago. She left on maternity leave and didn’t come back.’
‘Was she blonde, early fifties?’
‘No. She was in her twenties, mixed race. And she didn’t have a problem with me.’
‘You can’t think of anyone else called Paula who might know you? Someone you investigated or did a story on?’
‘No. I’d remember if I had. And I’ve only done one investigation, you know that.’
‘But you’ve interviewed loads of people and run hundreds of stories. There has to be at least one Paula that you’ve pissed off over the years. Maybe we should ring Fiona,’ I add before he can object. ‘She could search the archives or something. Then we’ll have something to take to the police.’
‘No.’ Max shakes his head. ‘Jo, I’m not ringing Fiona. For one she’ll be at home by now, and two …’ He tails off.
‘Two, what? Why are you looking at me like that again?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you don’t believe me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re giving me the same look you gave me when I told you about my panic attack in the corner shop.’
‘Oh God.’ Max slumps back against the kitchen unit. The cheap MDF creaks under his weight. Our house isn’t the only thing that’s falling apart. ‘Do we have to talk about that again?’
‘Yes, we do. I told you I felt threatened by the way that woman was looking at me and you said—’
‘That she was just concerned because Elise was having a tantrum. Jo, it’s her shop. If I owned a shop and some kid was screaming their head off I’d stare at the mother too!’
‘Today was different! Paula threatened me. She threatened Elise. I can’t believe you’re not taking this seriously. Look!’ I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my daughter’s rainbow-coloured glove. ‘She gave this to me. There’s no way she could have got hold of it unless she’d been near Elise. I put both gloves in her pocket when I took her to nursery this morning.’
My husband runs a hand over the back of his neck and gives me an exasperated look. ‘Have you checked Elise’s pockets for the other glove?’
I glance towards the front door where I dumped my daughter’s things as soon as we came in.
‘That’s a no then.’ Max strides out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He picks up Elise’s coat, thrusts his hands into the small pockets and then turns his attention to the bag. He pulls out our daughter’s spare clothes one by one. When it’s empty he turns his attention to the other clothes, hanging up on hooks by the front door. Scarves, hats, coats, jackets, hoodies and umbrellas fall to the floor as he selects, searches and then discards them.
‘She must have taken both gloves,’ I say from behind him. ‘Max, we need to ring the police.’
But he’s off again, sidling past me to the pile of coats hanging on the banister.
‘Did you wear this today?’ He holds up a soft grey coat from Wallis.
‘Yes. Why?’
He thrusts a hand into one pocket, then the other, then holds his palm out towards me. Lying alongside a screwed-up tissue and a packet of raisins is a tiny rainbow-coloured glove.
‘Look.’ He plucks the other glove from my fingers and places it on his palm, making a pair. ‘Two gloves. They were both in your pocket. Did you blow your nose while you were walking to the car?’
I automatically touch my nose. My nostrils are red raw from the streaming cold I’ve had for days. ‘Possibly. I can’t remember.’
‘Well, there you go then. One of the gloves fell out of your pocket when you took out a tissue. And this Paula woman picked it up and gave it back to you.
‘You’re tired, Jo,’ he adds before I can respond. ‘You haven’t been sleeping well and work has been stressing you out. A stranger got into your car and you freaked out. That’s perfectly understandable.’
Irritation bubbles inside me at the patronising tone of his voice and the ‘poor little woman’ look on his face, and I have to fight to keep my tone level.
‘You’re right, Max. I am tired. And I am stressed. And OK, maybe I got it wrong about the glove, but I didn’t misinterpret what Paula said. She definitely threatened me.’
‘OK.’ He touches a hand to my arm. It’s a weary gesture, one that matches the look in his eyes. ‘Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that we do ring the police.’
‘OK.’
‘Now, imagine that you’re a police officer. Someone rings you up to tell you that a stranger handed you something that you dropped and then told you to look after your daughter’s things. Does that sound like a crime to you?’
‘It does if they also say, “And your daughter” with real menace.’
‘Like the woman in the shop looked at you with menace?’
‘That was different. I’ve already told you that!’
‘OK, fine.’ Max crosses the kitchen, lifts the phone from its cradle and hands it to me. ‘Here. Ring the police. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.’
I watch as he shuffles away down the hallway, hands in his pockets, his shoulders curled forward. As he disappears into the living room Elise squeals with joy and I turn the phone over and over in my hands.
Chapter 4
Weakness. That’s what I saw in her eyes. Weakness, fear and indecision. If a stranger had coerced me into letting them into my car I’d have yanked them straight back out again. No, scratch that, I wouldn’t have let them in in the first place. But Jo’s soft. She’s vulnerable. She walks with her head down, eyes fixed on the pavement, fingers twitching against the tired, worn material of her winter coat. She’s a natural target. How can you have respect for someone like that? Someone who flinches if you look at her the wrong way? Who doesn’t trust her instincts? Someone who is so very, very easy to manipulate …
Chapter 5
I didn’t ring the police. I thought about it all evening, debating the pros and cons as Max turned on Netflix and settled back on the sofa with a bag of Doritos and a bottle of beer. I could barely look at him. Every crunch, every munch, every slurp made my skin prickle with anger. When we were first married he’d jump to my defence if someone was even inadvertently rude to me on a night out. He’d walk nearest the road on a rainy night to protect me from splashes. He’d jump out of bed and grab his baseball bat if I heard a noise downstairs. I thought he’d be on to the police the second I told him what had happened. Instead he looked at me like I’m some kind of hysterical neurotic. How can I ring the police if my own husband doesn’t believe me? All I’ve got is a first name and a description. What could they possibly do with that? Then there’s the fact that I’d have to go into the police station and that’s not something I can deal with right now.
At 11 p.m., when Max finally went to bed, I thought about ringing my best friend Helen who lives in Cardiff with her little boy Ben. But it was too late. She’d have been in bed for an hour at least. Instead I sent her a text asking her when would be a good time to have a chat, then I took out my laptop and Googled jobs and places to live in Chester. I’ve been thinking about moving away from Bristol for a while. What happened last night was the last straw.
