by Carol Wyer
‘I told him Zoe had left and he seemed pretty annoyed. You know when you don’t quite trust someone? Well, that’s how I felt about him. He asked where she’d gone and I told him I didn’t know. I didn’t like his attitude and I wasn’t going to send a strange man after one of my friends. He might have been one of those crazy-boyfriend types.’
He crossed his arms and pursed his lips.
‘You did the right thing,’ Robyn said, earning another smile from the young man. ‘I don’t suppose you’d mind telling me where Zoe went, would you?’
‘Zoe took a job in London with Super Fit at a really flash gym and now she earns far more money than she ever did here. I wish Super Fit would give me a job. I keep hoping Zoe will put a good word in for me. I’ve got her phone number if you want it. Sometimes we meet up. I miss her. She was such a laugh and a very good instructor. Her classes were always oversubscribed.’
He scrolled down the contacts on his iPhone, wrote down the number on a leaflet for the gym and handed it over with a flourish. He gave her another smile as she thanked him. ‘Any time. And, if you are in the area for a few days, come along to one of my classes.’
Outside, the world was still grey but the rain was easing. No sooner had she got into her car than PC Patel phoned.
‘Got some info for you as requested. Jane Clifford is in a nursing home near Derby. I’ve arranged for you to visit her tomorrow lunchtime. DCI Mulholland needs both Anna and me all day tomorrow or I’d go. Hope that’s okay.’
‘I’ll ask Ross Cunningham to visit her. I’d rather stay here. I’ve got a few more places to visit. I wasn’t planning on hanging around for too long. I’m staying at the Aviator hotel tonight. It backs onto the airport, and since Paul Matthews wrote down TAG Aviation in his file marked Farnborough, I thought I’d go and hang around there and see if anyone knows Lucas. I’m going to Farnborough Hill convent tomorrow then I’ll head back.’
‘I’m still trying to track down Christina and the other names. Anna is working on the laptop. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more news for you.’
He disconnected and Robyn dialled Ross’s number to ask him to visit Jane Clifford.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll go over on my way to my new job. It’s for a nanny-monitoring service. They want a surveillance camera in almost every room. I don’t think they can trust their nanny much.’
‘You might be missing a couple of the cameras. Jeanette asked me to rig the office so she could check you weren’t sneaking in chocolate bars and crisps. She’s pretty sure you are bringing in junk food.’
There was a spluttering sound at the other end of the phone. ‘Please tell me you are joking.’
Robyn laughed and ended the call, only to have her mobile buzz again.
‘Boss, I think you should know. There’s been an incident at Paul Matthews’ house. The old lady who cleaned – Geraldine Marsh. She’s been found dead there.’
27
Then
The bus stinks of damp clothing and wet hair. I wrinkle my nose as more passengers climb aboard. A middle-aged woman in leggings and a raincoat, carrying several bags of shopping, gives me an indifferent stare and squeezes beside me, filling the seat with bags spilling into my space. There’s no apology. I throw the woman a cursory glance and notice the tired, drawn face and disappointment hidden in her eyes. Her yellowed fingers bear no wedding ring, only the telltale signs of heavy smoking. The woman ignores me and sits with her legs spread, bags of shopping balanced on her lap and a mobile phone pressed under her chin as she continues her conversation in a loud voice, ignorant to all around her.
‘No, I told you already. I didn’t pick up any scones from M&S. They were way too expensive. I don’t know why you insist on wasting your money on such luxuries. Yes, of course I collected your pension. I couldn’t have got your shopping if I hadn’t, could I? I couldn’t get any library books by Georgette Heyer so I got you one by Jackie Collins.’ There’s a pause. ‘I really don’t know why I bother helping you out. Well, if you don’t like Jackie Collins, I’ll read it. Honestly!’ She tuts in an exasperated fashion. The conversation continues for some time with the woman getting increasingly frustrated. In the end she stabs at the off button and huffs, then to no one in particular she says, ‘Mothers! They never stop treating you like a kid.’ She turns towards another passenger in the opposite seat to her and complains.
‘She’s eighty years old and treats me like I’m ten. “Do this, do that.” I wish the old bat were dead some days. I’ve dragged around town to get her shopping and all she’s done is moan. Pity she can’t get it herself. If she hadn’t broken her hip, she could have. I’ve got better things to do than go out and get her stuff.’
I ignore the woman and wonder what it would be like to be treated like a kid. I haven’t been treated like a child for years. I’m the one who looks after our home, cleans it, cooks and shops for us both these days. If it weren’t for me, there would be no home. At the moment, my own mother is probably unconscious in bed after a night entertaining her boss. These days she spends more and more time in bed. The booze and the drugs are doing for her. She’s becoming emaciated and has a haunted look on her face all the time. She has retained some of her good looks but the way she’s going, it won’t be long before the boss loses interest in her, then where will we be?
I have plans to be gone by then. I’ve been saving, little by little, for the last few months. I’m not going to be like my mother and have sex with men for money or for a house. I have other ways of getting money. That’s the bonus of being a ghost. No one notices you. My father thinks I’m a genius at remaining undetected. I’ve perfected the art over the years and since the episode with Chloe Baker, I’ve even managed to keep a lid on my temper, although both Dad and me know that inside I’m stewing quietly. Some days the pressure in my head threatens to make me explode and I have to go and stab myself to stop it. I look at what my mother has become and exact my revenge. My father has counselled me to bide my time. I have to learn to live first. I have to create a harmless identity and become that person. I have to convince others that I am that person, then, one day, I’ll be able to get even with those who are guilty for my lost childhood and present circumstances.
The woman makes a noise like a deflating balloon and struggles to her feet as the bus lurches to a standstill. She waddles towards the door and clinging to the handrail, clambers down, her packages dangling. The bus pulls away and the woman fades into the distance.
At the next stop I get off, along with several other passengers. I stoop to tie up my bootlace, letting them all move away. Once I’m alone I pull the woman’s purse out of my pocket. She didn’t notice me slide my hand into her bag and take it. It contains one hundred and eighty pounds; no doubt some of it was the old lady’s pension money. I toss the purse into the nearest bin and shove the money into my pocket. I need it more than an old lady. I need it to escape from my miserable life.
28
Abigail felt trapped like a butterfly caught and imprisoned in a jam jar she had no idea how to fight her way out of. Outside, black clouds hung like heavy drapes and rain tumbled from the sky, bouncing on the patio and spitting large drops against the wooden containers of pansies which flattened in submission, their petals drooping and ripped.
She was as unsettled as the weather. Her nerves ragged with anxiety and tiredness. She had not slept all night. Jackson beside her had been unaware of the turmoil in her head. It had required every ounce of restraint not to burst into tears and tell him what was happening to her and to them. She had sent messages to all her close friends asking them not to tell Jackson about what had been posted on Facebook. She explained that she had been hacked and did not want to worry him as he was snowed under with work obligations, but there was always a possibility that somebody would blab. It was the early hours of the morning before she fell into a dreamless sleep. She had woken to an empty bed. Jackson could be heard downstairs with Izzy.
Abigail picked up her phone from the bedside cupboard and logged onto her Facebook account only to discover more disgusting messages had appeared.
She sent another email to Facebook asking them to close her account, and left another message for Zoe – her third – telling her she had been hacked and to ignore the messages. Then she telephoned Claire who was understanding and sympathetic.
‘I’ll tell everyone you’ve definitely been hacked and none of the messages are from you. We share a lot of online friends. Have you spoken to Zoe?’
‘She’s at a conference so she probably hasn’t been on Facebook. I left a message telling her there are some horrible messages but they aren’t from me.’
‘Zoe will know you didn’t post them,’ Claire replied. ‘Your real friends will know you couldn’t have posted any of this rubbish. I’m online now and these messages don’t even sound like you. How on earth did anyone get hold of that photograph of you?’
‘Have you got any copies on your computer or files?’
‘I delete all the files once clients have chosen and downloaded the photographs they want. There are no copies. After a couple of weeks they are removed completely. Is it possible someone Jackson knows has managed to do this? His co-pilots sometimes visit your home, don’t they? They might have snapped a shot of the photograph in your bedroom on their phone.’
Abigail thought that unlikely. Overnight she remembered Rachel had been poking about her house. She would have had the opportunity to take a photo of the picture. What puzzled her was why the woman would do such a thing? She seemed to genuinely like Abigail and Izzy. Then she remembered Rachel’s mobile was not a smartphone. It had no Wi-Fi and so would not be able to upload photos to the Internet. The other possibility was that it was the creep who kept ringing her and who was trying to wreck her marriage. Now, it seemed he or she was trying to remove her friends and support. Abigail was gradually being branded a liar or slightly crazy. No matter how many times she denied writing the horrible messages online, people were beginning to suspect she was guilty of it.
Claire continued. ‘Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll email Facebook and say you’ve had your account hacked and it’ll soon be resolved.’
‘Don’t bother,’ replied a weary Abigail. ‘I’ve already done it. I’ll find out who’s behind this eventually.’
Claire agreed and rang off after telling her to stay strong.
Once she felt calmer, Abigail dressed and went downstairs. Jackson had fed Izzy and was sitting with her on his knee, reading her a story about a caterpillar. He looked up and gave Abigail a lopsided smile, last night’s row forgotten.
‘Look, Izzy, it’s Mummy. Isn’t she gorgeous? Even when she’s just woken up, she’s lovely.’
He winked at her and although she smiled back at him, it felt false. She hated hiding anything from her husband, even though she had done exactly that for years. It was time to come clean. She needed to tell him about the phone calls and why she was getting them…
‘You looked so peaceful, I left you in bed,’ he said. ‘You don’t get many chances to catch up on sleep. I was thinking maybe we could ask my mum to come down from Sheffield for a few days and look after Izzy and we’ll take a break. Have a date night or even a weekend away. It’d do us both good. We haven’t had a moment for each other since…’ He left it unsaid.
‘Since Izzy,’ she said. ‘That might be a good idea. I need to learn to let go. Izzy needs me but I need you. Your mum will love being with her. She hasn’t seen her since she was very tiny. It’ll be good for her too.’
Jackson grinned at Izzy and chucked her gently under her chin. ‘You’ll be a good girl for Granny, won’t you?’ The baby gurgled. Abigail steeled herself, ready to divulge the secrets she had been carrying for years, then his phone rang. He answered it, Izzy still on his knee trying to reach for his mobile. His face became serious; a frown pulled his eyebrows down. Abigail busied herself in the kitchen until he appeared again. She opened her mouth to speak but he was not in the mood to listen.
‘James hasn’t shown up again,’ he complained. ‘I’ll have to go and sort out the roster and persuade Dan to come off leave to take the flight to Switzerland. I might need to hire some more staff. We’ll lose the business if we can’t find pilots to fly the clients. I’ll have to cut and run. See you tonight. Come on, Splodge, Mummy’s going to look after you now ’cos Daddy has to go to work.’
He passed Izzy to Abigail and planting a kiss on his wife’s lips, grabbed his hat and left. She would have to wait for another more appropriate time to tell him.
* * *
By late afternoon, Jackson had still not returned. Izzy was crawling on a gym mat, babbling merrily to herself. She grabbed at the hanging mirror, spotted her own reflection and crowed. The sound lifted Abigail’s spirits and she turned towards her child.
‘Come on, let’s play peekaboo,’ she said, sitting Izzy up on her lap. ‘Shall Mummy play peekaboo with Izzy?’ She covered her own eyes with her hands and asked, ‘Where’s Izzy? Where’s Izzy?’ Izzy babbled incoherently. Uncovering them in one quick movement, she said in an upbeat voice, ‘There she is.’ The child clapped her hands in delight.
Abigail laughed at the response and repeated the game several times before reversing the game and covering Izzy’s eyes with her hands. Her heart ached with love for Izzy and she wished she could remember times when her own mother had played games like this with her. She doubted that would have been the case. She had no warm memories of early days or bright toys, songs or story times. She pushed the thoughts away. If she dwelt on them too much, other nastier memories would float to the surface and she couldn’t have that. Her past was exactly that – in the past. Even Jackson had no idea of what she had been through. She had fabricated a life that he would understand. She had made up stories about trips aboard and Christmas days filled with laughter and visits to adventure parks. A life where her parents had been proud of their girl until both had passed away in a car accident while she was working abroad in Turkey.
Jackson had enjoyed a happy, wholesome upbringing with parents who had read to him every evening, eaten Sunday roast with him and spent summer holidays at the seaside in a small cottage they owned, scouring beaches for shells and small creatures, or flown kites with him, or treated him to donkey rides and ice cream. Jackson often spoke of his precious childhood filled with glorious memories that Abigail would have cherished had they been her own. His mother had not worked and had welcomed him when he returned each night from school with freshly baked cakes and jam sandwiches for tea. They had been a perfect family unit. How Abigail wished she could have had such normality in her life. She had that now. She had a life with Jackson and Izzy and Toffee.
Toffee leapt onto a kitchen chair and began to groom himself. Abigail collected Izzy and sat her on her knee. ‘Story time,’ she said. Izzy grabbed at her sock and tried to pull it off while her mother spoke.
‘Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a nice house with a fluffy cat. Do you know what the cat’s name was? Toffee, because he was the colour of cream toffee.’ Izzy looked up as if listening. ‘She had a mummy who loved her very much and a daddy who also loved her very much.’
* * *
Izzy played contentedly in her playpen, leaving Abigail free to prepare dinner for Jackson and her. She had set the table as she used to before they had had Izzy. Three thick red candles stood in the centre waiting to be lit. Next to them was a bottle of uncorked red wine. It would be a romantic night. She would put effort back into her relationship with Jackson.
She checked the clock on the cooker, saw she had about twenty minutes before Jackson would be home, and scooped up Izzy. Since the shock of hearing the imaginary whispering voice, Abigail was loath to leave her unattended. She wasn’t willing to take any chances even if the voices had all been in her head. The locksmith she called that morning had changed all the locks in the house but now she would have to explain to Jackson why she had felt the ne
ed to do this. He would think she was being stupid. Still, that was a risk she would have to take.
‘Come on, little cherub. You can come with me while I get ready,’ she said, carrying the baby upstairs into the bedroom with her. Izzy rolled around the king-sized bed while Abigail zipped through the rails of expensive clothes. A few minutes later, with hair fluffed out, she was dressed in tight jeans and a white top that left little to the imagination. Her deep red glossed lips looked inviting and she practised a sexy pout in front of the mirror. Tonight she would remind him who he had fallen in love with. She would put the terror and upset of the last few days behind her. She would tell the anonymous caller to get lost and threaten to report them to the police. She was going to end it now and go back to her normal life, the life she had worked so hard to create.
‘Do you think Daddy will like this outfit?’ she asked Izzy who cooed back. ‘I think he will. I think Daddy will like it very much. And we’ll all be a very happy family, forever.’
Returning downstairs she noticed she had an email alert. It came from an unknown email address with the handle [email protected]. The email subject read ‘The Truth’. A sense of foreboding took over, almost as if she could feel the contents of the email and knew they were about to alter the course of her life. She placed Izzy in her high chair with a rice cake.
She picked up her mobile to read the contents of the email then hesitated. She could erase it and be none the wiser. She could continue her life as it was and tonight have a wonderful meal with Jackson and then sit beside him on the settee and laugh and drink wine, before falling into each other’s arms. Her world went into slow motion as she automatically clicked onto the email that read, ‘First she’ll take your husband’s heart. What will she take next? Your house? Your life? Your child?’ Abigail’s hand trembled as she downloaded the attachments.
