What You Left Behind

by Samantha Hayes

  Jo suddenly stood up and swung round theatrically on her bare feet, her toes sinking into the pile of the carpet. “You know what I fucking think? I think you’re enjoying this. Sitting there, all pious and perfect in your squeaky clean life with your perfect fucking career, passing judgment over the sister who was supposed to have it all, but fucked up. Again.” She went over to the dresser to pour herself some more whiskey. “Well, let me tell you something, Detective Inspector fucking Lorraine Fisher. I don’t have it all and my life is not fucking perfect. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

  “Jo, stop it. Sit down.”

  “Malc and I grew apart.” She overemphasized the words, as if they were a never-talked-about disease. “We just fucking grew apart. Simple as that. Except he was too dumb to notice. Too dumb to be bothered to come home from work or have a decent conversation with me or remember a birthday or anniversary. How simple would all that have been to fix? What an easy problem to have!” She raised her glass, spilling some of her drink. “And now look.”

  “And you were too dumb not to go off with the first man who showed you some attention. Stop swearing.”

  “We were at it like fucking rabbits,” Jo said in an increasingly slurred voice. “Jealous?”

  Her only defense, Lorraine thought sadly, was the drama.

  “For God’s sake, Jo. Freddie’s out there somewhere, desperately unhappy, and you’ve been so wrapped up with your problems, you didn’t notice.”

  “That’s what this is about all, isn’t it?” Jo paused, frowned. She touched her forehead. “All about, I mean. It’s about what happened to you last year.”

  Lorraine reached out toward Jo, wanting to calm her down.

  “Go away!” Jo spat, ducking backward. “Well, I don’t blame Adam, quite frankly.” She wobbled and staggered against the wall. “You fucking deserved it, if you ask me.”

  Lorraine’s hand was swift and sharp, delivering a clean slap to Jo’s left cheek. They stared at each other, breathing hard, no one daring to move. Finally, slowly, Jo brought her fingers up to the red welt on her face—then fell against Lorraine, sobbing hysterically.

  “Please find Freddie, Lorraine. Please. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to him.”

  “It’s fine, it’s OK,” Lorraine said softly. “Calm down. You just need to calm down.”

  Lorraine took her sister back to the sofa and they sat there, Jo’s face against Lorraine’s blouse, Lorraine stroking her hair. Eventually the crying subsided.

  “Is this a bad time?” Adam said from the doorway, shifting uncomfortably. “Burnley just phoned. They’ve found Freddie’s bicycle. It was in the woods where Lenny died.”

  28

  Once I’m back inside, I rattle the door to make certain it’s locked. Freddie can’t get out. And that means no one can get in either. He’s banging about, being stupid because I left him alone.

  “What are you doing, you fucking idiot?” he asks. He’s just climbed down the steps and there’s spit in the corner of his mouth.

  I stand still, letting his horrid words bounce off me. That’s what Sonia told me to do when people are mean to me. She says it will stop me getting angry and wanting to hurt them.

  “I thought you were my mate.”

  “I am your friend, Freddie,” I tell him. I have already said this many times, but perhaps he doesn’t believe me. That makes my legs want to start up their jiggling again. I go itchy on my back. “I am your friend. I am your friend. I am your friend.”

  “Just shut up, right?” Freddie turns around and kicks the table leg.

  “The door is locked and you can’t get out. You are safe with me. I will make you food and keep you in here with me now.”

  “You’re fucking mental,” he says. “You nearly killed yourself hanging up there yesterday.” He points to the beam. “Nearly got me caught too. I thought I could trust you.”

  I don’t answer him because if I did then I would get angry. I go to my fridge. I take out the cheese and eggs, hoping he likes omelettes. I like them. They make me feel good inside. Keeping him locked up makes me feel good inside too. I turn on the gas and carve out a chunk of butter. I drop it in the pan and watch it leak and froth in a runny circle.

  “Tony came in here after they got you down, you know. Came right upstairs and nearly found me.”

  He’s still scared from what happened. He’s clutching a laptop computer. I haven’t got one of those. He puts it on my table and then goes to the window and drags my curtains closed.

  “It’s only lunchtime,” I say, looking at my watch. “It won’t be dark for ages.”

  He looks at me and shakes his head and that makes me feel funny inside even more. I take an egg from the box, clutching it in my hand. I squeeze it really hard and it breaks and the slime oozes between my fingers. I am staring at Freddie and he has stopped really still and is watching me. He looks at my hand.

  “I will make you an omelette now,” I tell him quietly.

  Smudge threads between my ankles, licking up the spilled egg.

  “Thank you,” Freddie says nicely.

  Slowly, he turns back to the laptop. The screen is glowing. He slumps down in the chair, sliding my drawings across the table.

  “Hey, that is Tony’s computer,” I say, recognizing it again. “He will be cross with you.”

  I am whisking lots of eggs together like Sonia showed me.

  Freddie looks at me. “Yeah, but I got it back for him, didn’t I?” His grin is lopsided as if he’s not sure. “So he won’t be cross and you’d better not fucking tell him, right?”

  I shake my head from side to side until it hurts my brain. I tip the eggs into the pan and grate some cheese. I break a little wedge off for Smudge. He sniffs and pecks at it with his nose before walking away. He jumps up on Freddie’s lap.

  “He likes you,” I say.

  “About the only one who fucking does,” Freddie says, rubbing Smudge’s back. I can hear him purring.

  Freddie has got lots of special words on the laptop screen and I don’t understand it as I am not clever yet but I will be when I’m better.

  “I like you,” I tell him. “And so does Lana because I’ve seen it in the secret place at the back of her eyes.”

  He swings round and curls up his nose at me.

  I crumble the cheese into the pan and watch it melt into the egg. Then I fold the whole thing over on itself like Sonia showed me. It breaks up so I jab the spatula down into it and bite on my lip to stop myself getting cross.

  “It’s ready,” I say, sliding it onto the plate. I put a piece of bread next to it and take it over to the table.

  Freddie has his head in his hands so I tap him on the shoulder.

  “Are you sad?” I ask.

  He looks up at me. “No,” he says, and then thanks me when he sees the food. He whips the plate from my hands and shoves the bread into his mouth. I give him a fork and it’s as if he’s not eaten in days.

  “I am a good cook, aren’t I?” I say proudly. “I could go on the telly on one of those cooking programs that I watch with Sonia.”

  I go over to the door and rattle it again to make sure it’s still locked. Freddie stares at me, holding the plate under his chin, his mouth full of food.

  “The key is in my pocket,” I tell him, patting it. “You can’t get out.”

  “You’ve really locked me in?” He wipes his mouth on his hand. He looks at the door then back at me then at the door again.

  “Yes,” I tell him. He is thinking about everything, about our adventure, about leaving, about going home, about our secrets. “You are my friend now. You are going to stay with me.”

  I sit down next to him and my leg jiggles under the table.

  “Dean was my friend and he is dead and when I get a girlfriend and she marries me she will do the cooking and I will mow the grass and drive the car.”

  Freddie chuckles and shakes his head, then wipes the crust around the plate.

  “Ton
y says it’s rude to do that with your bread.” I don’t like it when people laugh at me. My good feeling inside is going away now.

  He shrugs and stuffs the bread in his mouth. “That’s a bit bloody sexist, isn’t it?” he says. Then he takes a cable from his backpack and plugs his phone into a socket. Half a minute later, the screen lights up.

  “But it’s what Tony says. He says that men should be men.” I pick up Freddie’s empty plate. “And that men should treat women nicely and then they will do what you want.”

  “Is that what he says?”

  Freddie leans really close to me and his face is only a few inches from mine. He grabs my arms.

  I nod my head a lot. “Let go,” I tell him, but he doesn’t.

  “Then he’s an arrogant fucker, isn’t he?”

  I don’t know what that means.

  “Are you angry with Tony? Is that why you stole his computer?”

  “I didn’t steal it. I told you. I found it. So you can just keep your mouth shut.”

  I nod lots more.

  “And yes,” Freddie continues, “I am angry with Tony.”

  “Why? After Simon died he got really sad you know. It made him shout and punch and kick. Lots of things in the house got broken. He was cross at Simon for what he did.”

  Freddie nods slowly. “I don’t know jack shit any more, pal.” He reaches into his pack again and pulls out a bottle of vodka. He swigs straight from it.

  I know that’s bad to do because Sonia cried when Tony did it once.

  “Who’s Jack Shit?” I ask.

  Freddie is laughing again, but it’s a laugh that doesn’t sound happy. “It just means I don’t know anything.”

  “Tony knows things. He’s a doctor and doctors are clever. I’m not clever. I can only do drawings.”

  Freddie is huffing out air all over the place now and I don’t even know if it’s laughing or nearly crying or if he’s really angry. Maybe Jack Shit knows. I put my hand in my pocket and touch the lucky stone that Stella gave me.

  “Lana will be just like Tony when she’s a doctor.”

  “I fucking very much doubt that.”

  Freddie swigs again and does a burp. He holds out the bottle to me, but I turn my head away.

  “You really don’t know, do you, Gil?”

  “What?” My palms are itching.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Freddie stands up. He goes to the door, rattles the handle. I am much bigger than him and step in the way.

  “It’s no use escaping,” I tell him. “You have to stay with me now.”

  Then his phone rings and we both stare at it, all lit up and buzzing next to the laptop. Jiggling across the table.

  “Not again,” Freddie says. “I don’t want to speak to anyone.” He goes over to the table, yanks the power cable from the phone, and presses the button to turn it off. “Least of all my mum.”

  His cheeks are red and his hands are curled up and tight, like hands go when people are about to cry. He is pacing about now, knocking into a chair.

  I grab him by the shoulders. “It’s OK, Freddie. I will look after you.” I pluck a tissue from the box just like Sonia does for me.

  He snatches it. “Fucking adults, right?” He blows his nose and settles back down at the table, doing something on the computer that I don’t understand.

  I make a cup of tea. Sonia says it makes everything better.

  When I put the mugs on the table, Freddie’s face has gone really pale. He slowly shuts the laptop lid. “Fucking fucking hell,” he says in a whisper. Then his cheeks burn red and he starts to rummage through all my drawings on the table. He’s getting them all creased.

  “Don’t do that,” I tell him, but he doesn’t listen.

  “Where are they?” he says. “The ones I saw earlier. Show me.” His voice is louder now and he keeps saying show me, show me over and over until he’s yelling it really loud.

  “Show you what?” I ask, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear me and my drawings are going on the floor now and that’s making me sad and cross. “Stop it!” I say, and grab his arm. I can feel him shaking, right down to the bones deep inside his body.

  He yanks out of my grip and shoves his phone and the computer into his backpack. “Open the fucking door, you freak!” he screams. His whole body is shaking, even his voice.

  “Oh no,” I say politely. I set my hands on his shoulders. “You have to stay here with me now. You’re my friend.”

  29

  “Jo’s sleeping it off, so I’m going to see Bill. He said he was free this afternoon.”

  Bill was an old family friend as well as an expert in document and digital forensics.

  “I’ll come with you, Ray. I want to see what he thinks. And I’ve canceled meetings so I can stay on to help.”

  “Thanks, Adam,” Lorraine replied.

  Central Forensic Services was based in modern offices on the edge of the Warwick University campus. Friday-afternoon traffic clogged the approach on the A45 and caused Lorraine to rummage in her handbag and fish out ten Silk Cut cigarettes she wasn’t even certain she had.

  “I’ll lean out,” she said, pre-empting Adam’s disapproval and lighting up.

  They’d been stuck at a set of lights, waiting to turn left, for what seemed like an age. Finally, they were cruising down the long, leafy length of Kenilworth Road.

  “Pull in there,” Lorraine said ten minutes later as they approached the two-story building.

  She and Adam got out of the car and went inside. The receptionist immediately showed them through to Bill’s office.

  “It has been too long,” Bill said in a loud, overstated voice, “way too long.” Beaming and red-faced, he grabbed Adam’s hand, pulled him close, and slapped him on the back with the other. Then he dragged Lorraine in for a kiss and a tight hug. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

  The last time they’d seen him was when he and his wife had invited them round for dinner at their home in Kenilworth.

  “It’s been about six months, I think,” Lorraine said, removing the clear plastic folder from a brown envelope.

  They sat down on two black leather sofas set at right angles to each other at one end of Bill’s spacious office. An intern brought in a tray of tea and a tin of biscuits. Lorraine noticed Bill had put on a bit of weight. His faded jeans strained around his girth and his green checked shirt was slightly untucked. Bill never wore a suit.

  “How’s Sandy?” Adam asked.

  “She’s very well, thanks. Off on one of her charity dos soon. South America this time, I believe. A whole bunch of them cycling up some mountain.” Bill was shaking his head fondly. Sandy was always going on some adventure or another, raising money for good causes.

  A network of tiny lines had deepened around his eyes at the mention of his wife, Lorraine noticed.

  He clapped his hands together. “So, what have you got for me?”

  Bill’s enthusiasm for his work was infectious; it was his drug. He’d dealt with thousands of cases for the police and other government agencies over the years, as well as working with solicitors both on a criminal and civil basis. What Bill didn’t know about handwriting comparison or document analysis wasn’t worth knowing. He’d appeared in court numerous times as an expert witness, including cases for Lorraine and Adam.

  “It’s a sad one, I’m afraid,” Lorraine began. She knew Bill had a couple of lads at university, one at Warwick studying law, the other in Edinburgh reading English. “It’s a suicide note, homeless lad, nineteen, killed himself by crashing a stolen motorbike into a tree. Massive head injuries. The note was found in a locker where he kept his belongings at a homeless shelter. He was a regular there.”

  Bill took the plastic wallet and looked at the photocopied note. He preferred to work from original documents, but Lorraine had made certain it was a clean copy. He shook his head slowly as he read. “Sad indeed.” He placed it on the table. “Easier to just take an overdose, surely?” His head retrac
ted in disbelief. “It’s an elaborate way for a homeless lad to go.”

  Lorraine made a similar gesture back and shrugged. “Dean Watts was registered at the Job Center in Wellesbury. He’d done a couple of courses—how to apply for jobs, that kind of thing. They were able to provide me with a few samples of his handwriting.”

  Lorraine slipped another folder from the envelope and handed it over. Bill curled in his lips as he read Dean’s letter in which he tried to convince a builder to give him a job as a laborer.

  “Who was the SIO on this?” Bill was almost smiling.

  “Detective Inspector Greg Burnley,” Lorraine replied.

  “Never heard of him,” Bill said, and picked up both samples, holding them side by side. “But I can see why you wanted me to take a look.”

  “SO THE NOTE is a fake,” Lorraine said half an hour later, back in the car. “Which means Lana might be telling the truth.”

  She hadn’t been able to resist a second cigarette and was thankful Adam wasn’t being high and mighty about it. It was just that the blend of work and home—something she’d never been comfortable with—had set her off. She was stressed, and she wanted her nephew back.

  “Then who wrote it?” Adam said.

  They were on their way to the Justice Center to see Burnley, show him the handwriting comparison, and give him Bill’s off-the-record but adamant conclusion that Dean Watts had not written his own suicide note. Not even close were Bill’s final words. Although, he’d added, someone had made a decent attempt to copy his style. “I’d say they had access to something the deceased had previously written,” he said. “But it’s all in the tiny details, and they’re dissimilar in every way.” Lorraine had suspected as much but wanted professional confirmation.

  Burnley came out of his meeting especially when they arrived. Lorraine glanced up and thought he looked both inflamed and joyous as he approached them down the corridor, his short legs making hard work of the distance. She was leaning against a wall, finishing off a reply to a text from Grace.