The Rumour

by Lesley Kara

  ‘Only I couldn’t help noticing you’re a rather good baritone and we only have three men and one of them can’t even sing.’

  Michael blows air through his cheeks. ‘Not sure a church choir’s really my thing, Mrs C. But I’ll give it some thought.’

  By the time we get to the end of the driveway, Sol plodding ahead of us on his lead, we can’t hold the laughter in any more.

  ‘It’s progress, though, you have to admit.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Michael says. ‘That kind of progress, I can do without, thank you very much.’

  38

  Kay answers her door after the second ring of the doorbell. She looks slightly flustered, but she soon recovers.

  ‘Hello, love,’ she says. ‘Sorry about that, I was just saying goodnight to Marcus and Callie on Skype. It’s nine o’clock at night in Melbourne.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt you.’

  ‘Not at all. We’ve been chatting for ages and they need to get to bed. Gillian lets them stay up far too late, in my opinion. Come in and have a cup of tea with me. I’ve got some lovely carrot cake that needs eating.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Kay, but I really just wanted to bring you this.’

  She takes the gift bag and peers inside. ‘Chocolates. How lovely. You shouldn’t have,’ she says, wagging her finger at me, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  ‘Sorry I missed you when you popped into Pegton’s. I’ve been meaning to thank you properly ever since the party. Alfie looked brilliant as Darth Vader.’

  ‘It was a pleasure, love. Now are you sure you won’t have a quick cuppa?’

  I’m not really in the mood for one of Kay’s watery teas, but she’s already standing aside for me to go in and I don’t like to say no. Not after she’s been so kind.

  ‘Go on, then. But I can’t stay long.’

  Kay’s living room looks exactly as it did the last time I was here. Every surface gleams. It smells the same too – lemon-scented furniture polish.

  I’m watching the tropical fish when she returns a few minutes later with a tray. ‘Here, you be slicing the cake, and I’ll bring the teapot in.’

  As I’m pushing the knife through the frosted icing on top of the carrot cake, I catch sight of my reflection in the screen of Kay’s laptop, which she’s left open on the coffee table. It’s a really old model, but then I don’t suppose she can afford to buy a new one. Not if she’s struggling to find another job.

  My hair’s sticking up at a weird angle and I rake my fingers through it. Then I notice something odd. There’s no inbuilt webcam in this laptop, yet she’s just said she was finishing off a Skype call with her grandchildren. I look around to see if there’s a portable one she might have unplugged just now, but I can’t see one anywhere.

  How odd. Perhaps she just uses Skype as a free telephone, without the video function.

  Kay comes back in with another tray. ‘It’s such a joy, seeing their little faces,’ she says. ‘Marcus has just learned his three times table. He’s ever so advanced for his age. And Callie can count to twenty. Well, almost.’

  ‘Do you have one of those portable webcams then?’

  A strange expression flickers over her eyes. Her neck reddens. She lifts the lid of the teapot and gives it a stir.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, dear.’ She smiles. ‘All mod cons here, you know.’

  A pulse pounds in the side of her neck. She’s lying. There’s no portable webcam. She can’t possibly have been Skyping Marcus and Callie just now.

  But why would she lie about something like that?

  ‘Guess what?’ she says. ‘I’ve found another job. In the garden centre in Mistden. I’m starting next week.’

  Why do I get the feeling she’s deliberately changing the subject?

  ‘That’s great. Well done.’

  She pours the tea. I notice her hand is trembling.

  ‘Are you all right, Kay?’

  ‘I’m fine, love,’ she says, but she isn’t. I can tell.

  ‘I saw Alfie’s dad this morning,’ she says, brightly. Too brightly. ‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he? He looks like that actor who plays Luther.’

  ‘Idris Elba?’ I laugh. ‘I’m not going to tell him that. It’ll make him even more big-headed than he already is.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’ she says.

  ‘He’s a freelance journalist.’

  Kay puts her cup down. It rattles against the saucer. ‘Is he staying with you at the moment, then?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, he’s moved in.’

  ‘I thought you said you liked living apart.’ She sounds almost cross, as if I’ve let her down in some way.

  ‘We did. But, well, things have changed. He wants us to make a proper go of it.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, love.’ She smiles, but it doesn’t quite work. There’s a strange look in her eyes, as if she’s someplace else in her head. That same mask-like expression I saw on her face yesterday, when she was staring across the road at the police car.

  ‘Yes, yes it is.’ I take a few bites of my carrot cake. It’s delicious and I realize I haven’t eaten any breakfast. No wonder I’m so hungry.

  ‘More tea, love?’

  ‘No, I need to get going. Lots to do today.’

  ‘Of course. Me too.’

  As I reach the end of her path, the postman is just about to turn in and deliver her mail. He looks in a bit of a hurry so I offer to take the pack of letters from him and go back to hand them to Kay, but she’s already gone inside and shut her front door. That’s odd. Before, she’s stood on the step and waved goodbye.

  I push the letters through her letterbox and can’t help noticing that they’re all marked ‘Return to Sender’ and that the addresses have been scored through with a thick, black line. They are all the same. An address in Melbourne, Australia.

  39

  When I get home, expecting to see Michael where I left him, hunched over the dining-room table surrounded by his papers, the house is empty and the table has been cleared. There’s a note propped against the kettle in his large, confident handwriting.

  ‘Something’s come up. Got to go back to London. Will ring you. Michael xx’

  I read it again, as if it might somehow have changed from these three curt sentences into a message that tells me something useful. Like what exactly has ‘come up’ and why has he had to go back to London and how long for? Surely he could have given me a little more information. Like when he’s planning on coming back. Will it be later today? Tonight? Tomorrow? I don’t need every detail of his itinerary, but does he have to be so infuriatingly cryptic?

  I ring his mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. He’ll be driving. I don’t leave a message. I’m sure he’ll ring me when he arrives, although why didn’t he ring before he left? He knows I always have my phone on me. What was the great rush? Surely a couple of minutes wouldn’t have made much difference.

  I wander through into the living room and flop down on the sofa. He’s left his jumper screwed up on the back of the armchair and a dirty mug and plate on the coffee table. There are toast crumbs on the carpet, where he’s been eating in front of the TV. Not loads, admittedly, but enough to piss me off.

  The trouble is, I’ve spent so many years living on my own I’m not used to sharing my space with a man. I’ve got Alfie, of course, but that’s different. He’s a child. I’m being unreasonable, I know I am. It’s been wonderful having Michael here all the time. Cuddling up to him in bed. Going for walks with Sol. And that curry last night was delicious. I just wish he’d spoken to me before leaving.

  Two hours later and he still hasn’t been in touch. I’ve tried ringing him at least seven times and sent him I don’t know how many text messages. Earlier today I heard him promise Alfie he’d pick him up from school, but there’s no way he’ll be back in time. What am I going to tell Alfie when he asks where his dad is, or if he’ll be home for tea? Is this what it’s going to be like from n
ow on? Michael getting so engrossed in his work, he forgets about everything else, Alfie and me included?

  Maybe he thinks he can just carry on like he’s always done, answerable to no one but himself, squeezing Alfie and me into whatever time he has left on the margins of his real world. The world that matters to him most: his work. The irony is that he really does have another woman on his mind now: Sally McGowan.

  The phone rings. This had better be him.

  ‘Hi, hon. I thought it was time for one of our heart-to-hearts. I’m in Costa in between viewings.’

  Tash’s voice is like a blast of normality. A welcome respite from the worries churning in my head.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Greenwich Church Street.’

  I can just picture her sitting on one of the brown leather sofas with a large flat white and a blueberry muffin, watching the hustle and bustle of Greenwich pass by the window, and I wish, more than anything, that I was there too, enjoying a break in the middle of the day, moaning about work and planning our next night out.

  ‘How’s life in Pleasantville?’ she says.

  ‘Not so pleasant. Although Michael’s moved in with me, so it’s not all bad.’

  ‘Whaaat? When? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because it’s only just happened. Except now he’s buggered off to London and hasn’t told me when he’s coming back.’

  ‘Whoa. Back up a bit. Tell me everything.’

  So I try to summarize what’s been going on in the last few weeks, rumour and all (although I don’t mention the Liz thing, just in case it really is her), right up till when I found Michael’s note by the kettle.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Tash says. ‘And there was me thinking the most exciting thing to happen in Flinstead was your mum’s neighbour winning Biggest Courgette in last year’s Plant and Produce show.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Seriously, though, let’s tackle the easiest issue first. If Michael says he’ll ring you, then he will. Men are hopeless when it comes to detail. Tommo’s exactly the same. It’s like getting blood out of a stone sometimes. To be honest, hon, it’s going to take you both time to adjust. I mean, I know you’ve known each other for ages, but this is different. You’re living together now. It’s more like a new relationship in that respect.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it,’ I say. ‘For me, that’s exactly what it feels like. But what if he’s just taking it for granted that I’ll be here with Alfie, picking up the pieces? Because that’s how it’s always been.’

  ‘So it’s up to you to set some new ground rules. Talk to him, Jo. Men aren’t like us. They don’t pick up on things, and if they do, nine times out of ten they pick the wrong thing. You have to spell it out to them.’ She laughs. ‘Preferably in words of one syllable. And if you’ve got one of those neon lights, make damn sure you flash it a few times to ram the point home.’

  Good old Tash. She always manages to say the right thing. Michael’s obviously just tied up in something. He will phone me eventually, and then we’ll talk. And if we can’t talk then, if he’s chasing another one of his leads or doing whatever it is freelance journalists have to do these days to keep their heads above water, we’ll make a time to talk soon. I’m overreacting. Dashing off at a minute’s notice is all part of his job. I should know that by now.

  ‘As for this other business,’ Tash says, ‘I don’t know what to think. If sending ominous tweets threatening a child is someone’s idea of a Halloween prank, they sound like a right nasty piece of work. Maybe your mate Kay’s right and it’s the woman from the babysitting circle. What’s her name?’

  ‘Debbie.’

  I don’t go into the business with Kay either. There’s only so much you can cover in one phone call and I don’t want Tash to think I’ve landed in a nest of vipers. Besides, I have to pick Alfie up soon.

  ‘I’d be tempted to bring it up next time you see them all at the coven,’ Tash says. ‘See whose face goes red. Then you’ll know who it is and you can steer well clear of them in future.’

  ‘The fact is, Tash, it could be anyone. That’s what’s so horrible about it.’

  40

  No sooner have I put the phone down on Tash than it rings again. This time it is Michael. About time. He’s probably just looked at his watch and remembered his promise to Alfie.

  ‘Joey, listen. Can you get on a train and meet me at Russell Square?’

  ‘You’re joking. What on earth for?’

  ‘I need you to do me a big favour. I need you to speak to Liz with me.’

  ‘Why would I need to go all the way to Russell Square to do that? She’s just round the corner.’

  ‘No. She’s staying at the Holiday Inn in Bloomsbury. She’s attending an artists’ convention. I’ve just watched her check in.’

  ‘My God, Michael. Are you following her?’

  He sighs. ‘Look, I didn’t tell you this, but she and I have been in communication. I was given her name by someone I know, that ex-hack I told you about.’

  ‘Wait a minute. What are you talking about?’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘I was given the name E. K. Blackthorne as a possible lead. She used to be an art therapist back in the day and she worked at Grey Willow Grange, the remand centre where Sally McGowan was sent as a child.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this last night? Why did you pretend—’

  ‘Please, Joey, just listen. I was told that she and McGowan had a good rapport, and that they’d kept in touch. I was told that …’ He clears his throat. ‘I was told they were lovers.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘As soon as you started talking about the self-portrait you’d found in your friend Liz’s studio I had the strangest feeling that maybe she was the same woman I’d already interviewed. Then when you told me her surname was Blackthorne, I knew for sure. Up till then I knew her only as E. K. or Elizabeth Blackthorne. I got in touch with her via her blog. She agreed to do a short telephone interview about her work at Grey Willow Grange. What it was like. I didn’t mention anything about wanting to track McGowan down. That would have scared her off. I just made out I was interested in writing a piece about the rehabilitation of child offenders and how we only ever get to hear about the failures and never the successes. She lapped it up.’

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘We got on really well. I’d done a fair bit of research into art therapy and its use with damaged children. You know, kids without the language or emotional skills to talk about the shit they’ve been through, how art therapists can coax stuff out of them. We agreed to meet to talk some more. She suggested a café on the Old Kent Road, so I met her there during half-term. You know, when I went back to sort out the flat? I told her what I really wanted to do was to see if I could get enough material to write a book. I still didn’t mention McGowan’s name. I talked about other, more recent cases.

  ‘Amazingly, it was she who brought her up. She said she’d heard from someone she used to know that McGowan might be interested in talking at last. It’s always rankled with her that the popular press never believed it was a game that went wrong. She told me McGowan wants to put her side of the story across in a way she couldn’t when she was a child. Half the stuff about the abuse she suffered was never fully explored during the trial. It’s no wonder the press savaged her. But she’s only willing to speak out if her and her family’s anonymity is preserved.’

  ‘Her family? She’s not still in touch with them, surely?’

  ‘You mean the McGowans? I doubt it. No, I presume she meant the family she has now. Husband, if there is one. And she had a child. I didn’t ask Liz if she was still in touch with her, and she didn’t tell me, but I got the sense she knew that I knew. I felt like we were really getting somewhere and that, in time, if she trusted me enough, she might be willing to broker some kind of meeting.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’

  ‘Because I didn’t realize she was your Liz until you told me
about her last night. I didn’t even realize she lived in Flinstead. And then, as soon as you told me you’d mentioned my name in connection with Sonia Martins and that I wanted to interview her, I knew the game was up, and I was right. She contacted me this morning to say she was very sorry but she didn’t think she’d be able to help me any more. She said she’d made a mistake and the whole idea of talking to McGowan was a non-starter, that she had no clue where she was any more, and that I should concentrate on the other cases I’d mentioned.

  ‘She knows who Sally McGowan is, Jo. I’m convinced of it. I think she probably moved to Flinstead so she could be near her. Please come, Joey. She’ll take one look at me and the shutters will come down, but if you’re there too …’

  ‘But what about Alfie? School finishes soon. Why on earth didn’t you tell me all this earlier, and I could have driven up with you?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t sure if she’d definitely attend the convention. It might have been a wasted journey.’

  ‘I can’t ask Mum to pick him up. She’s still feeling poorly. You know she is.’

  He sighs. ‘Shit. I didn’t think of that. Maybe you could get someone from your babysitting circle to look after him? Please, Joey. If I can find McGowan and talk to her, I know I’ll be able to tell her story the way she wants it told. I won’t do anything to jeopardize her anonymity.’

  He pauses. ‘I’ll meet you at Liverpool Street,’ he says. ‘If you catch the next train, you can be here by 3.30.’

  There’s a desperation in his voice I can’t ignore. I feel myself wavering.

  ‘Well, as long as I can find someone I trust to look after Alfie. Fatima, maybe, or Teri Monkton.’

  ‘What about Kay? You said she was great with him.’

  ‘She is, but … oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s happening with Kay at the moment. I think she’s been lying to me. Lying to all of us. I’d rather ask one of the others, to be honest. Leave it with me. I’ll give you a ring in a little while and let you know if I can make it. Otherwise … otherwise, you’re just going to have to try and talk to her yourself.’