The Warning

by Sophie Hannah

  “You did what?” says Lorna.

  “Do you want me to find out the truth for you or not?” Simon glares at me. “If you do, tell me everything.”

  “Simon!” Charlie hits his arm with her toffee-­sauce-­stained plastic fork. “Chloe isn’t a criminal. She doesn’t have to tell you a single iota more than she wants to.”

  “I didn’t mention it only because I thought it was neither here nor there,” I say, feeling my face heat up.

  “Yeah, well, luckily I found it, and it points in the same direction as everything else. Your tweet to Nadine: ‘What have you got against Tom Rigbey?’ or words to that effect. Hers to you: ‘He’s a sociopath. Leave me alone. You’re blocked.’ You didn’t find that interesting?”

  “No.” I blink away tears. “I found it nasty and slanderous and . . .”

  “Slanderous?” Simon leaps on the word. “Because she didn’t back it up with facts?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “She gave you only one word to go on: sociopath. Still, it’s a big one, as words go. Has Tom said anything to you about being fired? Sorry, I’ll rephrase that: has he ever mentioned the circumstances in which he left either Sagentia or Intel?”

  “No! I’ve hardly had a chance to speak to him about anything. We’ve only just met.”

  And yet you’re wearing a diamond ring—­a ring that means you intend to marry him—­on a chain around your neck.

  I don’t know why I do what I do next. It’s an urge I can’t restrain. Perhaps I’m impatient to have the worst over with. I remove my scarf, hook my finger around the gold chain and pull it out so that the ring is visible. “I had dinner with Tom last night,” I say. “We’re engaged.”

  “Jesus frigging Christ on an arsehole cracker!” Lorna declares.

  “Aren’t you training to be some kind of cleric?” Charlie asks her.

  “Good,” says Simon.

  “Good?” I repeat, baffled.

  “Yeah. It was the next thing I was going to urge you to do: stop avoiding him, and behave toward him exactly as you would if you weren’t suspicious. I was going to say: if he proposes, which you seemed to think he might, say yes. Might seem like odd advice, but you’ll understand in due course.” Simon shrugs. “You’ve already seen him and agreed to marry him, though, so. No need for me to steer things in that direction.”

  “Urgh!” Charlie groans. “Simon—­sorry about this, Chloe—­just tell her, and tell us all while you’re at it. Why can’t we understand right now instead of in due course?”

  “Yes, especially if you’re planning to use Chloe as some sort of bait,” Lorna agrees. “She needs to know what level of risk she’s dealing with. How dangerous is Tom Rigbey?”

  “Simon.” Charlie waves her hand in front of his face. He appears to have drifted into a trance-­like state. “If you’ve found out that Tom was sacked from one or both of his previous jobs, tell us. Why was he fired?”

  Simon fixes his eyes on me: an intense stare. “I assume you looked up a definition of sociopathy, after reading Nadine’s tweet?”

  I nod.

  “So you know that a key trait of sociopaths is the inability to hold down a job or stay in one place for very long?”

  “Tom’s been at CamEgo for long enough to be promoted several times,” I say. “Talented, ambitious ­people often change jobs.”

  “So do sociopaths with forged references,” says Simon. “Who ever checks that references are from the person they’re meant to be from?”

  “Simon, stop tormenting her,” murmurs Charlie. “Whatever you’ve found out, whatever you know . . . seriously. Out with it.”

  “Not found out,” he says. “Worked out. You really can’t see it? None of you?”

  “No, we can’t,” Lorna speaks for all of us. “I did pretty well guessing Tom had been fired, but there’s a limit to how much we can guess.”

  “Apparently,” says Simon bitterly. This is unbelievable. He’s angry with us for not being mind readers.

  “So Tom got fired. So what?” I say. “I don’t care. Who hasn’t been fired at some point or another?” I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I can pretend I have if necessary. If that’s what I have to do to stand by Tom, I’ll do it. “Did he get fired for pretending to have a food allergy?”

  “What the ever-­loving fuck?” Lorna whirls around to face me. “Where did that come from?’

  “No. What makes you say that?” Simon asks me.

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Come on.” Abruptly, Simon stands up. “No, not all of you. Just Chloe. We’re going to see Nadine Caspian. You need to hear her story. Until you do, you won’t understand. It’s not going to be easy for her to tell it, or for you to believe it, but it’s the only way.”

  Chapter 15

  HALF AN HOUR later, Simon and I are outside Nadine Caspian’s house: a beige newly constructed three-­story that some might call a terrace and some a maisonette.

  “Ready?” says Simon.

  I nod. Yes, I’m ready, but for what?

  He rings the bell, then stands and stares at it, as if expecting it to reply to him directly.

  I’m wearing my engagement ring on my wedding finger because he told me to. I didn’t want to without knowing why, but I did it. I don’t want to have to see or speak to Nadine Caspian, but here I am: bribed by the promise that soon I will know everything.

  Without warning, tears fill my eyes—­tears that have to be gone by the time Nadine opens the door or Simon turns to look at me, whichever happens first. I blink frantically. Squeeze my eyes shut. Better.

  I hate this. Not only the doubt surrounding Tom, but also I hate that this used to be my thing to wonder about—­my problem, mine alone—­and I seem to have handed over control to . . . well, to everybody. I’m not in charge of anything, least of all myself, and I want to be. If I were braver I’d take Freya and disappear to somewhere far away from Lorna, Simon the peculiar policeman, Nadine Caspian . . . I don’t want any of these ­people in my life, so why are they?

  Don’t be silly—­Lorna’s your best friend.

  And Tom? Do you want him in your life?

  Yes, I do. Whoever he is, whatever he’s done, I want him. I love him. I’m also frightened that loving him might be about to get harder. So far, I’ve been able to present a defense based on my belief in his innocence, but what if that’s about to change? What if he did something truly terrible, and there are no mitigating circumstances, and I don’t stop loving him? I’m worried that, if that happens, I won’t be able to defend myself.

  “Come on,” Simon breathes, pressing the bell again.

  “She might be out,” I say, and he looks affronted.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the screen. “It’s a text from Tom,” I say.

  “Show me.”

  Of course: my fiancé might be a dangerous sociopath, so from now on I must hand over all private messages to the police.

  I pass my phone to Simon. Tom has sent a photo of himself sitting at a table—­it looks as if it might be the CamEgo staff canteen—­with a salmon fillet on a plate in front of him. His message says, “See? No fish allergy! T xx”

  “Text back as if nothing’s wrong,” says Simon. I flinch at what this must mean. “It’s some kind of joke, so be jokey in your response. Send kisses back—­whatever you’d normally do. You’re his trusting fiancée as far as he’s concerned, so act like it.”

  Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.

  I start to compose a message to Tom: “Fish on plate, not in mouth—­not proof of eating! Pictures or it didn’t happen, as my friend Lorna would say. C xx”

  “Wait—­she’s coming.” Simon moves closer to the door. “I heard something moving inside.” He presses the bell a third time. “Let me see that before you send it.”
<
br />   Too numb to do anything but obey, I show him my reply.

  “Good. That’s good.” He smiles, not entirely successfully. As if he hasn’t had much practice. His mouth looks like a Venetian blind that’s been hiked up too much on one side.

  A serious crime must be involved, or he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t care enough to give up his time.

  The door in front of us opens, and I’m face-­to-­face with Nadine again. She’s wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a pink cotton hoodie. Her eyes widen. “How did you . . . ?” She gawps at me.

  “How did she know where to find you?” Simon completes her sentence for her. “She didn’t. I found you.” He produces a small flip-­open wallet and holds it in front of Nadine’s face. “DC Simon Waterhouse, Culver Valley Police.”

  Nadine laughs. “A detective? From the back of beyond, but still—­why am I getting a visit from a detective? Whatever she’s told you—­”

  “She hasn’t been able to tell me anything because you haven’t told her anything, but that’s going to change. Today. Now. No more dropping hints and running away. The three of us are going to have a proper conversation. Can we come in?’

  “No! You can piss off, is what you can do.”

  Simon grabs my left hand and pulls me forward. “Look—­see this ring? It’s an engagement ring. Looks pricey, doesn’t it? Biggest diamond I’ve ever seen on a real person’s finger.” I wonder how many fake ­people’s fingers he’s seen. I wonder if I’ll be wondering about fakeness for the rest of my life: fake fingers, fake fish allergies . . .

  “I’m guessing you can work out what it means. Tom Rigbey asked Chloe to marry him last night and she said yes.”

  Nadine is staring at my ring as if it’s a crushed cockroach.

  Simon says, “Chloe didn’t listen to your warning, evidently. If you want her to, you’re going to need to tell her more. If you don’t, I will.”

  Scorn contorts Nadine’s face. “How can you tell her what you don’t know?”

  “I know enough. Speros, Jackson and Decker . . . and you’re going to fill in the rest. Let us in.”

  What? Speros, Jackson, Decker? The names mean nothing to me. Nadine, who suddenly looks frightened, understands. I don’t.

  She opens the door wider and steps back so that her back is flat against the wall. Simon, still holding my arm, pulls me into the house.

  There are no pleasantries, no offers of cups of tea or glasses of water. In silence, we proceed up the stairs to the first floor lounge. It’s tidy, with beige walls, a wooden floor and white furniture—­furry white poufs in front of the chairs instead of footstools. The fireplace is the smallest I’ve ever seen, and looks wrong. This is a modern room with a balcony overlooking the garden. It doesn’t need and shouldn’t have a fireplace.

  There’s a glass coffee table between Nadine’s chair and where Simon and I are sitting. On it are some magazines and two bottles of nail varnish: one dark green and one silver. There are three framed prints on the walls, matching ones: cats with triangular, glittery faces. I’ve seen these pictures before on cards in shops. Maybe not these exact ones but the same kind.

  “Go on,” Simon says to Nadine. “Time to give Chloe the explanation she deserves. Tell her—­tell us both—­your story. The truth. Leave nothing out.”

  “It’s difficult for me to talk about,” she says.

  “Yeah, I bet it is.” Simon sounds unsympathetic. “Why don’t you start with Speros? That was the first one, wasn’t it? Then Jackson and Decker next. Then CamEgo. Where next, Nadine?”

  Silence.

  Questions are stampeding in my head, but I mustn’t say anything. Simon is the questioner. He’s made that very clear. I am the listener, passive and compliant, about to be rewarded with the truth. Keep your mouth shut, Chloe.

  “Funny how you were so eloquent and articulate when you warned Chloe to stay away from Tom,” says Simon. “You didn’t tell her much, but what you said was powerful. Memorable. Yet now you can’t seem to say anything at all. Why is that?”

  “Someone please tell me what going on, before I go crazy,” I blurt out. “What’s Speros? Who are Jackson and Decker? Are those other companies Tom worked for? Did they get rid of him?”

  Simon turns to face me. “Why do you ask that? Is it because I told you Tom had been fired?”

  “Yes. And now you’re mentioning company-­sounding names I’ve never heard of.”

  “You’re wrong, Chloe. You’re too suggestible. If you think back over what I said at the market stall, you’ll realize I never said that Tom had been fired from anywhere. He hasn’t. He’s never been anything but an exemplary employee.”

  “What? But you said—­”

  “I asked you if he’d said anything to you about being fired. I asked if he’d mentioned the circumstances in which he left either Sagentia or Intel.”

  “Yes, and you said Lorna’s question was the right one, when she asked if he’d been sacked.”

  “It was the right one. I wanted to get you all thinking along those lines: ­people being fired.”

  “You also said sociopaths tend not to be able to hold down jobs for very long, and have to fake references to get new jobs.”

  “Yeah, I did. But I never said any of that applied to Tom Rigbey, did I?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t memorize every word you utter, I’m sorry.”

  “Take it from me,” says Simon. “I didn’t. Because Tom Rigbey has never been forcibly ejected from any company he’s worked for. Tom Rigbey is not a sociopath. Yes, sociopaths often get fired. Who do you know that’s been fired recently, Chloe? Anyone spring to mind?”

  What could he mean?

  Only one thing.

  Having stopped for a second, the world starts to turn again, in a different direction.

  “You,” I breathe, staring at Nadine.

  “At last.” Simon sounds relieved. “Chloe Daniels, meet Nadine Caspian the sociopath.”

  Chapter 16

  “I’M NOT ANY label that applies to a group of ­people,” says Nadine. If she’s shocked or hurt to be described as a sociopath, she doesn’t show it. “I’m me—­an individual.”

  “One who’s been fired three times now,” says Simon. “And for the same thing in all three cases. It’s an unusual form of transgression, I’ll grant you that. As you say: individual. At Speros Engineering, you picked on one Martin Kennett—­like Tom Rigbey, Kennett was a man way above you in the office hierarchy. You were friendly and helpful to him to his face, but every so often you’d take someone aside—­someone you thought might be about to get close to him, someone who seemed to think well of him—­and you’d warn them about him. ‘Keep away from Martin Kennett—­he’s bad news, seriously bad.’ You probably put it more poetically, I’d imagine, since you described Tom Rigbey as a plague. You don’t want to deny any of this?”

  “No.” Nadine smiles. “I warned ­people about Martin, yes. I think it’s important to warn ­people, even if it’s not what they want to hear. It’s for their own good.”

  “You were fired from Speros because, although your hints gained some traction initially and some ­people did keep their distance from Kennett, you shared your poisonous warnings with one person too many. Eventually, someone with more-­than-­average confidence in their own opinion refused to be swayed, and instead thought, ‘Hang on a minute. There’s no way Martin Kennett’s evil or dangerous, and no one should be trying to blacken another person’s name at work without hard facts to back up her story.’ I don’t know who that person was, Nadine. The bloke I spoke to at Speros wouldn’t tell me her name. Maybe you know it? Anyway, whatever her name was, she went to her boss and made a fuss. Martin Kennett versus Nadine Caspian became official and guess what? You had nothing to back up your claims and hints, did you? You were revealed for what you were. Are, I should say: a spiteful
troublemaker who picks on innocent ­people at random, then warns others about them. That’s all you do—­but it’s enough.”

  “Don’t you think it’s important to warn ­people against danger?” Nadine asks Simon, as if she’s heard none of what he’s been saying. “As a policeman, I’m sure you issue warnings all the time. Warnings are good for society, and for individuals.”

  “It’s a clever tactic, if you want to destroy other ­people and their relationships,” Simon goes on as if she hasn’t spoken.

  I’ve never heard a conversation like this before. For me to join in in any way feels impossible. Both Simon and Nadine seem to be trapped in their own private worlds, speaking but not hearing. Set apart, in two sealed bubbles, miles apart. I’m frozen, trying to listen hard and remember every word.

  “Jackson and Decker, exactly the same story,” says Simon. “This time it was the MD you selected as your victim, Iain Jackson. You took ­people into corners and advised them not to trust him, even with the smallest thing. You said it in a way that implied a detailed backstory, untold suffering . . . and it was bullshit. Lies. All made up. Iain Jackson might have done terrible things to ­people—­anything’s possible—­but if he had, you knew nothing about them. You had no reason to think he was any more dangerous than anyone else at Jackson and Decker. As with Speros, you weren’t quite subtle or selective enough. You told one person, eventually, who wasn’t content to avoid Jackson from that moment on purely on your say-­so. He made an issue of it, demanded proof, and you had none. He started to suspect you were the person everyone needed to be warned about. A short while later, you got fired for the second time. Then history repeated itself at CamEgo—­your third sacking in four years.”

  Simon turns to me. “Chloe, when you heard Nadine had lost her job, you feared Tom had made it happen because you’d told him enough to make him fear she was onto him. Not true. There was nothing to be onto. Nadine was on her way to getting the boot anyway. Several ­people at CamEgo were wise to her antics, but it was the conversation you had with her on the stairs that speeded up the process.”