The Warning

by Sophie Hannah

  A sociopath? The word is like cold medicine, making me swallow hard. What does it even mean?

  I’ll look it up later. If Tom Rigbey is a sociopath, then I must become one too. Oh, God. I hold my breath and clench my fists, nearly knocked off balance by sudden weakness. I’m not sure I can do this. Please let this whole thing be one enormous misunderstanding.

  “Mum!” Freya calls out, running toward me. “I won the Star of the Week award!”

  “That’s wonderful, darling. Well done.” I say all this without registering what she’s told me. I’m too lost in my own thoughts.

  If I find out the truth about Tom and say nothing, he’ll think I don’t know.

  The possibility that I know and don’t mind because I love him unconditionally will not occur to him.

  Chapter 12

  “DO YOU HATE it? Tell me if you hate it, and I’ll . . . scoot over and propose to that woman over there instead. No, I’m kidding. Is it okay?”

  I stare tearfully at the large pear-­shaped diamond in its open, cushioned box. “It’s beautiful,” I manage to say. “Stunning.” Any minute now, the La Mimosa staff will spot the ring and this will no longer be a private conversation.

  I won’t be able to say no, surrounded by Italian waiters.

  I don’t want to say no. There’s a big, loud “YES” in my head.

  Tom looks delighted. “Try it on, see if it fits. If it doesn’t, I can get it altered. No, wait! Don’t try it on.”

  “Why not?’

  “I think you need to accept first—­officially. You need to say you want to marry me. Assuming you do. If you don’t, that’s fine. I’ll just wade into the River Cam with my pockets full of heavy stones. That’s why I picked this restaurant—­the river’s right outside, full of the bodies of spurned suitors.” He grins. He knows I’m going to say yes.

  Am I, though? If I am, what’s stopping me? Not his over-­the-­top, macabre sense of humor. I like that about him. Other ­people’s chatter has started to seem duller since I met Tom. Every sentence he utters contains a big surprise. Listening to him, talking to him, is the conversational equivalent of unwrapping presents all the time.

  What’s stopping me accepting Tom’s proposal is that I’m not being honest with him. If he knew the truth, he might realize he doesn’t love me that much after all. How would he feel if I told him that, earlier today, I asked two police officers to look into his background for me? I could explain that I’d only done it in the hope of exonerating him, but would that soften the blow?

  Tom’s love for me might not be as unconditional as mine for him. I can’t take the risk. It’s not only that I’m certain he’d be furious if he knew I’d asked two strangers to spy on him. There’s something else too. What if, psychologically, he needs to pretend that the mistakes of the past never happened in order to survive in the present? What if part of my attraction for him is that I don’t know about the terrible things he did, assuming they’re real?

  If I were to say to him, “I know you’re a sociopath, and it doesn’t make me love you any less,” that might not make him happy. It might ruin everything, if it matters to him to remain in denial.

  “Chloe? You look worried. Is everything okay?” Tom puts his head in his hands. ‘I’m such an idiot,” he says. “You’re an idiot, Rigbey! Proposing out of the blue to a woman who barely knows you—­”

  “No, it’s not that,” I try to say, but he talks over me.

  “Look, Chloe, I know it’s too soon to be thrusting diamond rings in your face. I’ve just dived straight in, like a reckless kid—­I knew it was a risky strategy, but the thing is . . . I spent four years with Maddy, living with her, never sure of whether to propose or not because I just didn’t know. I felt as if I ought to want to marry her—­sometimes I was almost convinced I did—­but it also seemed possible that, in fact, I didn’t. That living together was enough. It wasn’t enough for her, though, and when she left for Australia, although I missed her, I wasn’t a wreck. I wasn’t distraught. I could envisage a life without her. I assumed I was just a moderate sort of person who might never marry anybody—­which I thought would be fine, because my work’s so all-­consuming. I thought work was my passion in life.” He stops. Frowns.

  “And?” I prompt him.

  “And then I saw you on Bridge Street and . . . well, actually it wasn’t only love at first sight. I heard your voice, too. Her Highness might be the singer of the family, but . . . you have a lovely voice, Chloe. Even when you’re yelling like a Wall Street trader whose entire collection of shares has just . . . deflated, or whatever shares do. I fell in love with you, and I thought to myself, ‘That’s the woman I’m going to marry. That disheveled shouty one over there.’ ”

  “Tom—­stop.”

  “Ah. Okay. Oh dear.” He looks dejected.

  “I want to say yes, I really do—­”

  “You do?” He perks up. “Excellent! Then say it.”

  “Tom, there are . . . things about me that you don’t know. Things you might not like if you knew.”

  “Such as?”

  I hear Nadine Caspian’s voice in my head: Tell him nothing, trust him not at all.

  “There are things you don’t know about me,” Tom says cheerfully. “When I was in my early twenties, I pretended I was allergic to fish. Not just mildly. I led all my colleagues to believe—­well, I told them—­that if I consumed so much as a drop of fish oil, I’d very likely die.”

  I laugh. “Er . . . why?”

  “Long story. The simple explanation being youthful foolishness. Basically, I went out drinking one night with friends when I should have been getting an early night before an important work away-­day. Next morning I found myself temporarily paralyzed and incapable of anything more demanding than puking into a bucket. I was too sick to stagger to the bathroom. If I’d told my boss the truth, he’d have thought, rightly, that he ought to promote someone else—­someone less hedonistic and more responsible. I considered offering a lame excuse like food poisoning, but no one would have believed it, so in a moment of desperate panic, I trotted out a story that no one would think to doubt because it was so . . . extreme. And tragic, too. Poor me: ever-­present risk of ghastly early haddock death, what a great loss, et cetera.”

  “But . . . in the story, how did you explain why you’d eaten fish if you were so allergic?” If I’d been Tom’s girlfriend in those days, I could have helped him to eliminate continuity errors from the lies he told his boss.

  “A very astute question.” Tom chuckles. “As I recall, my story involved a curry house kitchen being culpably negligent and allowing a sliver of cod to fall into my kofta Madras. Everyone at work was enormously sympathetic, as per my cunning plan. I got the promotion, and was stuck with a fake allergy. Remembering the lie and acting accordingly was so exhausting, I left within a year and started a new life at a different firm, where I quickly established my bona fides as an enthusiastic fish eater.”

  “I’ve never seen you eat fish,” I tell him, looking at the chicken liver pate and melba toast on his plate. “You’ve ordered meat whenever I’ve had meals with you. Not even a prawn cocktail starter.”

  “Wait—­you’re accusing me of lying about not having a fish allergy?” Tom teases me.

  “Do you think anyone can ever really trust anyone?” I ask him.

  “Yes. I trust you,” he says. “Now, since you’ve heard mine, please spill all your guilty secrets. I promise you, I’m a hundred percent unputoffable.”

  Yes, because he’s a stalker. Lorna’s voice this time.

  I wish they’d shut up, all these more-­sensible-­­people-­than-­me who have somehow managed to invade my mind. I need to be able to hear my own thoughts, draw my own conclusions.

  “Or, if you’d prefer, you can remain mysterious,” Tom suggests. “I like a good mystery. If you want to keep quiet about y
our shady past as a drug kingpin, that’s fine by me. What is a kingpin, by the way? I’m not sure I’ve ever known.”

  I love him. And I’ve never heard the word shady said in such a wholesome way.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Yes what? Oh!” Tom’s eyes widen. “You mean . . . yes, yes?”

  “Yes. Yes yes.”

  “You’ll marry me?”

  “Haven’t you had enough yeses yet?” I take the diamond ring from the box and slide it onto my finger. “It’s a bit loose. Sorry.”

  “Damn. I’d better order you another pizza, with extra cheese—­fatten you up.” Suddenly Tom looks worried. “Do you want to check with Freya before saying yes-­yes?’

  “No. If she complains, I’ll put her up for adoption.” I laugh. Tom doesn’t.

  Sorry. Just a little sociopath joke there.

  I think of West Side Story, the musical my school put on when I was seventeen. Tom is right: I do have a nice voice. Long before Freya was born, I was the singer of the family. As Maria in West Side Story, I sang, “I love him. I’m his. And everything he is, I am too.” I sing those words again now, in my head.

  “I think it should be fine?” Tom says as if he’s asking a question. “Freya likes me, doesn’t she? Damn, maybe the forgotten-­music emergency dash wasn’t enough. I might have to buy a God costume, appear in her room in the middle of the night and say in a deep booming voice that I decree Tom Rigbey must marry her mother and nothing must stand in his way.”

  “Oh, I thought you were already wearing your God costume,” I say drily. ‘I assumed you had it on permanent loan.”

  For the first time since we met, Tom laughs at my joke as much as I laugh at all of his.

  Chapter 13

  THE NEXT DAY, Lorna and I meet Simon and Charlotte again—­not at the Eagle this time, but, bizarrely, at the market’s waffle stall in the square. Simon’s choice, according to Lorna, because he didn’t like the Eagle yesterday. Apparently neither Charlotte nor Lorna succeeded in suggesting another indoor venue that met with his approval.

  What the hell’s wrong with him? Why didn’t he like the Eagle? How can an open-­to-­the-­elements market stall be the best option? It’s cold, windy, raining, and the four of us are shivering in plastic chairs around a wobbly table. Our heads are protected from the rain by a canvas cover, but we’re still getting damp because it’s blowing in horizontally. Simon didn’t even order a waffle—­just a cup of tea. The man who handed it to him, who is now making waffles for the rest of us, keeps shooting bemused looks in our direction. I can tell he’s thinking, “Why on earth do they want to sit here on a day like today?”

  One good thing about being freezing cold is that I can keep my scarf wrapped tightly around my neck and hide the gold chain I don’t normally wear. My engagement ring is dangling from the end of it, since it’s currently too loose to wear on my finger, and Lorna would spot it straightaway, given half a chance.

  Everyone assumed I would cancel my dinner with Tom last night. No one has thought it worth asking me today, to check that I did.

  Simon’s holding a notebook in his hand—­the kind only a man would choose, with nothing decorative about it. He’s not reading from its pages yet, but he stares at it as he speaks, as if his dialogue is written down there. “All right, there’s a lot of detail and none of it remarkable, so you’ll need to pay attention. I’ll repeat it if I have to but I’d rather not have to.”

  I’d rather not be accused in advance of falling short when I’ve done nothing wrong, but, unlike Simon, I’m too polite to say so.

  “Overview first, then specifics,” he says in the same slightly disapproving tone. “Everything Tom Rigbey told you about himself and his life appears to be true. He’s got no criminal record. On paper he seems to be a blameless citizen.”

  I’m basking in the warmth of the relief that’s flooding my system when Simon adds, “That’s why I said listen carefully. You’ll also need to think carefully. The answer—­the missing information—­isn’t obvious, but it’s here, contained in what you already know and what I’m about to tell you. Once you see it, you can’t miss it . . . but you might have to look hard in order to see it.”

  Charlotte says, “I feel obliged to say, Chloe: I haven’t a clue what Simon’s talking about, and I’ve heard the full spiel twice already today, so you’re not the only one in the dark.”

  I don’t understand. Isn’t she his wife? Why didn’t she ask him to explain it to her before they got here? That’s what I would have done.

  “Tom Rigbey was born in Levenshulme, Manchester, in 1981. He has one brother—­Julian, the Fallowfield dentist—­and a sister, Rebecca. Did he mention her to you?”

  “Yes, but not by name. He said they weren’t close.”

  “They aren’t,” Simon agrees. “She lives in London and works for the CBI.”

  “Which is what?” I ask.

  “The Confederation of British Industry.”

  “Oh.” I’m none the wiser. Okay. Tom’s sister works . . . somewhere businessy. That’ll do. “He told me she lived in London.”

  “Right. Parents—­Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for the last five years, as he said. They have a shared swimming pool at their apartment building, as Tom described, and I’ve found no reason to disbelieve that the armadillo in his Twitter avatar isn’t one he encountered and photographed beside that pool.”

  “Is the armadillo relevant to anything?” Lorna asks impatiently.

  “Anything might be relevant,” says Charlotte. “We don’t know yet.”

  “No,” Simon says flatly. “The armadillo’s got fuck all to do it. Forget him. It,” Simon corrects himself.

  “Right.” Charlotte mutters. She looks disappointed. We sit in silence for a while. I suspect I’m not the only one disobediently remembering the armadillo.

  “Tom’s friend Keiran with the expensive BMW—­that’s also true.” Simon plows on. “Keiran Connaughton. He and Tom were in the same year at Manchester Grammar School and have stayed friends since. Bear in mind, one sign that someone’s a dangerous sociopath is if they have no one in their life who dates back very far—­no one in a position to reveal that they’ve changed their various stories over the years. But . . . not the case here.”

  There’s that word again: sociopath.

  And if it’s not the case that Tom has no long-­standing friendships, if he’s not a sociopath, then what bad and dangerous kind of person is he? What’s the problem? Simon’s tone strongly suggests there is one and that it’s serious, but I can’t work out what I’m supposed to be listening for.

  “The burger-­wrappers-­and-­empty-­cider-­bottles-­in-­expensive-­sports-­car story? Completely true,” he says. “I’ve seen no evidence that Tom is dishonest. Butch and Sundance, the bull terriers? True.”

  “You contacted Keiran?” I say, surprised.

  “Charlie spoke to him.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Me,” says Charlotte. “Everyone calls me Charlie except Lorna, who refuses to.”

  “Because it’s a cheap-­and-­nasty perfume, a life-­destroying drug, and horribly unisex,” Lorna explains.

  “Can we not get sidetracked?” says Simon. “Maddy, the ex-­girlfriend, is in Australia where she’s supposed to be. She had only good things to say about Tom. So, let’s move on to his education and work history. After Manchester Grammar School for boys, he was an undergraduate and then a graduate at Peterhouse, here. He got the best results in his year when he graduated, and he’s worked for three companies since. He started his career at Sagentia, just outside Cambridge. Got promoted through the ranks very quickly there. Then he went to Intel, who we’ve all heard of, and worked there for a few years, in America.”

  I’ve heard of Intel but I can’t say I’m sure what it is. A computer company? Tom has never told me he lived and worked i
n America. My stomach tenses. Is it coming now, the shocking revelation?

  “He got promoted by Intel, stayed there for four years, then made another move: back to England, to CamEgo. He’s been promoted twice since he got there, and now holds the top position that someone in his field can: CSO.”

  Finally, Simon looks up, in time to see three waffles with toffee sauce and maple syrup heading toward our table. “That’s it,” he says. “That’s everything I found out.”

  Chapter 14

  THE SUGAR RUSH from my waffle—­which is probably delicious, but I barely taste it—­ought to make my brain move faster, but it’s not working. Neither is the caffeine from my second cup of tea. “I don’t get it,” I tell Simon. “I listened as carefully as I’ve ever listened to anything—­I don’t need you to repeat a single word—­but I didn’t hear anything worrying or suspicious.”

  “Me neither,” says Charlie.

  Simon jerks his head at Lorna. “What about you?”

  She’ll never admit she spotted nothing. Never. After a few seconds, she says, “His three jobs—­did he move around by choice from company to company, or was he sacked? You say he ‘went’ from Sagentia to Intel, then ‘made another move’ to CamEgo . . .”

  Simon lurches forward, nearly knocking over our flimsy plastic table. “That’s the question I was hoping to hear.” He looks happy, or what I assume is happy for him. Not grumpy, anyway.

  “I think it’s a daft question,” I say. “Sorry, Lorna, but . . . Intel, CamEgo—­these are serious companies. He wouldn’t have got a job at either without amazing references from his previous employers, would he? And he wouldn’t have got those if he’d been fired.”

  “Are you sure?” Simon asks me.

  My breath catches in my throat. “No, but—­”

  “Forget guessing and focus on what we know. Facts. Indisputable ones. When were you planning to tell me you tweeted Nadine Caspian yesterday?”