Next of Kin

by Welfare, Sue

  For a terrifying split second Sarah thought she might have failed. She saw the triumph on Woody’s face and then something more quizzical and surprised as the balustrade unpeeled from the landing and then he was falling backwards, tumbling down into the stairwell, clawing at thin air, the biscuit tin and the box file falling after him, falling end over end, the lids coming open and papers and photographs floating down as Woody plummeted down onto the tiled hall floor below.

  For one terrible moment Sarah thought she might lose her balance and follow him over the edge, but she managed to stop herself and stepped backwards, stumbling back onto the boards and banging her head on the wall behind her.

  Below her Woody hit the ground with a sickening thud and then there was silence. Gingerly, Sarah got to her feet, hugging the wall, for a moment not daring to look over the edge in case Woody was on his way back up, wondering if the fall had been enough to stop him.

  Fearing what she might see, Sarah edged her way across the landing and peered over into the void below. Woody lay below her on the black and white tiles, blood was already beginning to seep across the floor in a dark, almost black, puddle. He was folded at a peculiar, unnatural angle, his legs twisted so bizarrely that he looked more like a broken marionette than a man. Flurries of papers were settling around him like confetti, some close enough to soak up the blood, others fluttering away on an unseen draught gathering up into untidy drifts. It was obvious from his position that Woody was going nowhere.

  Sarah took her time getting downstairs. She could hear him struggling to breathe. There was a bubbling froth of blood forming at the corner of his mouth while one hand grasped frantically, rhythmically at the air. She could see that each breath was an exertion, a great physical effort. He couldn’t move, that much was obvious. His eyes were wide open and as she watched Woody blinked, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Sarah moved in closer so that she was in his line of sight.

  Woody was struggling to say something. She watched him, moving his lips, his tongue working frantically. She was shocked by how tangled and broken he looked, but at the same time felt no compassion, no pity, just a numbed relief that it was finally over.

  ‘Help me,’ he mouthed.

  It surprised Sarah that he was still able to speak.

  ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Help me.’

  She shook her head.

  His eyes widened.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  He tried to smile, each breath wet, thick sounding and bubbling. ‘No one you know,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

  Sarah waited until Woody had stopped making any noise before she went upstairs and picked up Josh’s phone. The line had gone dead. She called 999 but barely had chance to speak before she heard frantic knocking at the door.

  ‘Open up, this is the police,’ shouted a loud voice from outside, and then there were more voices.

  ‘Mrs Ahmed, Mrs Ahmed are you in there? Mrs Ahmed, it’s the police. Can you open the door for us?’

  Sarah walked to the door, skirting the pool of blood that was spreading across the floor and then knelt down and lifted the letterbox.

  ‘I haven’t got a key,’ she said. ‘He locked me in.’

  ‘Are you okay? Where is he now, Mrs Ahmed?’

  Sarah looked back over her shoulder towards the broken clutter of bones and brains, of body and blood on the hall floor. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she said quietly.

  They came in through the back door in the end. The police and the paramedics. They looked at her bruises and the finger marks on her arms, the bruising on her face that she didn’t know she had where she had tried to fight him off in the kitchen. The ripped nails, the torn blouse. The look of terror in her eyes. They took away the note in the bathroom and the biscuit tin and the box files and all the papers, even the one in her coat pocket, and then they took Sarah away in an ambulance.

  Sarah didn’t see what they did to Woody or whoever he was. When she left, he was still lying there in the hall looking up at the ceiling and the landing above; he looked surprised.

  Sarah

  I’ve told the detective everything now, at least as much as I can remember, as much as I want to tell him, as much as he needs to know.

  His expression is sympathetic. He knows that they have checked me over at the hospital to see if I had anything more serious than the bruises that over the last hours have flowered like thunderclouds on my arms, my face and my legs. He knows that they have taken photographs, taken my clothes, taken scrapings from under my nails, combed my hair. I’m lucky to be alive, they said.

  The detective slides a photograph across the table from the file that he has alongside him.

  ‘I’d just like you to take another look at these photographs.’ He quotes the reference number so there can be no doubt later which photograph I’m looking at.

  ‘Do you know this man, Sarah?’

  ‘No. I don’t know him. But I’m certain that this is a photograph of the man from the passport that I found in Woody’s room.’

  ‘You’re positive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good. He’s the real Woody. His name is Mustapha Sid Ahmed. Thirty-two. A Pakistani national over here on a student visa.’

  I turn the picture towards the light. ‘Where is he? Is he okay?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, he’s dead. We found a body in Soham, in a barn, that we believe may be Mr Ahmed. We suspect that the man you knew as Woody was responsible for Mr Ahmed’s death and then stole his identity.

  ‘He killed him?’

  ‘It would appear so, which is why Farouk, the man you knew as Woody, dropped out of college and cut off all contact with Mr Ahmed’s parents.’

  ‘But that can’t be true; Woody can’t be Farouk. Farouk was the man who Ryan borrowed the money from, the man at the Kirby Road house that Woody was afraid of.’

  ‘I’m afraid that was probably just smoke and mirrors on Farouk’s part. It’s highly probable that your brother never actually met the man he believed was lending him the money. Farouk, masquerading as Woody, pretended to act as an intermediary when in fact it was him lending your brother the money.’

  ‘But the money was real. Ryan bought a van, new clothes, tools.’

  ‘Yes, it was taken fraudulently from Mr Ahmed’s bank account. We’ve yet to ascertain exactly how much money was in the account before his death, but it was a considerable sum. Most of it missing, having been drawn out in cash. It appears that Farouk killed Mr Ahmed and took his passport and other documents, his bank account, his savings, his life.

  ‘The two men bore a passing resemblance to one another, certainly close enough for Farouk to be able to pass himself off as Woody for the purposes of bank fraud. Farouk kept his old flat on in Kirby Road and the landlord thought the real Woody had moved out and come to live with you.’

  ‘Because that’s what I told him when I went to take the mail back?’

  ‘That’s right, although I’m sure Farouk probably told him much the same story, and as a result of that the landlord didn’t bother to report Woody missing. He believed he had just taken his things and moved out.’

  ‘To avoid Farouk who the landlord knew was bullying him?’

  ‘Yes. And as Mr Ahmed, Woody had paid up front for his stay there; the landlord wasn’t over keen to track him down in case he wanted his money back.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s dead? His parents will be devastated. They were so proud of him.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sarah. We’re waiting for DNA analysis to confirm it but Farouk kept a number of Woody’s personal possessions, his books, his clothes, a jacket, a hat – most of his wardrobe actually, to try and make the transition to someone who could pass for an MBA student, while he systematically drained Woody’s bank account, and accessed and spent the allowance his parents were providing for him.’

  ‘So who is he? The man I married.’

  ‘His real name is Farouk Holbein although we believe this i
sn’t the only name he’s been using. He’s a career criminal, petty theft, fraud, identity theft – until now we had no reason to believe that he was violent but this changes things obviously.’

  ‘And did he plan all this? Woody, Ryan – me?’

  ‘I can’t say that for a fact, I think he just saw an opportunity and worked it. There is no doubt he was clever. When it looked like one revenue stream might be about to close he needed another and latched on to Ryan and then when he realised Ryan was a dead end, he saw the house and your inheritance and hooked into another cash cow.’

  ‘Ryan and me?’

  ‘Not just you. We’ve got evidence of benefit fraud on a large scale. Multiple claims, multiple identities. In your case he wanted your house, possibly even your lifestyle. Settled, respectable, in a nice house in a good area. You can see how that would play out to his advantage if he was hoping to dupe other people.

  ‘As Woody Ahmed he was your next of kin, so with or without a will he would have been the sole beneficiary to your estate once Ryan was gone. I think he saw that one very clearly.’

  ‘But what about being deported; his application for the right to remain?’

  ‘Just part of the con to get you to agree to marry him. Farouk is a British citizen. His mother was Algerian, married to a British national, although Farouk’s biological father is unknown. He’s been in and out of care since he was five. It would appear he was just using Woody’s student status and vulnerability as a means of influencing Ryan and yourself.’

  ‘But if he didn’t need them why did he take all those photos, the wedding pictures.’

  ‘He might have anticipated needing to use them to back up his claim, when it came to claiming your estate, you know “here we are as a happy family”. And having gone through his possessions it would seem that he has nothing from his own past or childhood. Who knows, maybe he thought of you as his family. His next of kin.’

  I stare at him and shake my head. ‘I didn’t want him as part of my family.’

  ‘Obviously not, Sarah, I can understand that. We also found documents in his room and at his previous address on Kirby Road that indicated he was trying to raise a loan against your property, although I think he eventually decided it would be better for him to wait until he had the opportunity to sell.’

  ‘You mean when Ryan and I were both dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. He was happy to play the long game.’

  ‘The long game?’

  ‘He had his flat on Kirby Road where he could live the kind of lifestyle that he preferred, entertaining women, taking drugs – and he had you both where he wanted you. Although we can’t prove it we believe he also may have been responsible for your brother’s death. That just left you, and he had already inferred to our officers when they came round to inform you about Ryan’s death that you were mentally unstable and having emotional problems long before your brother died.’

  ‘Are you telling me that if I hadn’t fought back he could have got away with it?’

  The detective sucked at his teeth, taking his time to reply. ‘I’d like to think not, but it’s not impossible – which is one of the reasons why we’re re-examining a couple of other cases with some similarities to this one.’

  ‘He’s done this before?’

  ‘It’s possible. Likely.’

  Finally he turns off the recorder and looks at me. Really looks at me.

  ‘I think we’re done here, Sarah,’ he says.

  When I get to my feet my whole body aches. I stretch but it doesn’t help, it just makes the pain more intense.

  ‘Is it all right if I look at them again?’ I ask, nodding towards the things on the table.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he says.

  I get up and walk over to the table, and look at the things arranged there. I take a long look at the stain on our marriage certificate. It’s about the same size as my hand, shaped like a flower and mahogany brown and I know now that it’s blood. And now, looking more closely, I can see that there is blood on everything.

  These are the papers that were on the floor in the hall where Farouk died. There are little droplets on letters, splashes on the papers, something crusty and dried on the corner of the tin, and smeared over the receipts and the bills.

  I put the certificate back where it came from, very carefully, back on the table, back in its place, and move it with my fingertips till it is square with all the other things. Although everything is in plastic bags I can clearly see what’s inside. There are the box files and the biscuit tin and then, alongside each one, the contents are set out, inside evidence bags, all numbered, all neatly arranged, evenly spaced: passports, some photographs, letters and bills. Lots of envelopes. And my old mobile phone, not lost after all but stolen by Farouk and hidden.

  The room is very quiet. Dust motes spin in a shaft of afternoon sunlight.

  ‘It’s over now, Sarah,’ says the detective. ‘You should go and get some rest. We’ll need to see you again. There will probably be more questions, and I’m afraid you can’t go back to your house at the moment. Have you got somewhere you can go and stay until we release it back to you?’ The detective speaks in a soft voice.

  I’m not sure, but I don’t say that. Maybe Anessa or maybe a hotel. Maybe somewhere anonymous would be better, somewhere I can sleep.

  ‘There will still be some formalities to go through; but for now you need to have a rest, get something to eat.’ He’s smiling as he puts the photographs from the table back into his folder. ‘It’s going to take a while,’ he said. ‘There are people you can talk to. Victim support.’

  I stare at him.

  He smiles grimly. ‘Don’t try to rush it. You’ve been through a lot, you’re lucky to have got out of it alive. You might like to know that we’ve got statements from Farouk’s associates who have confessed to beating your brother up and threatening you. Are you okay?’

  I look up and nod. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.

  I don’t tell him that I meant to kill the man I knew as Woody. I don’t tell him that I don’t care what he was called, or that in the bathroom I had made my mind up, that I made a plan, that I wanted him dead, that I planned to lead him upstairs, that I intended to kill him, that it was him or me. I’m not sure if he guesses. If he does he doesn’t say anything.

  The uniformed female constable is still standing watching us. She smiles at me now as the detective indicates the door and then opens it for me.

  ‘I think we’re done here for the time being, Sarah,’ he says. His tone is conspiratorial and gentle, as if I’m a child. ‘If there is anything else you can think of, anything at all, then all you have to do is call me. This is my direct line.’ As we walk along the corridor he hands me a business card from a little case he has in his inside jacket pocket. ‘We’ve arranged to have some clothes brought in for you. And I’ll be in touch if we need anything else. Are you sure you’re okay?’

  I nod, but unsatisfied, he waits until I look him in the eye.

  ‘Yes, really, I’m fine,’ I say. Which is a stupid thing to say because we both know I am anything but fine.

  Then it occurs to me that I don’t really care anymore what he believes or understands, or even, really, what happens to me now, because it is finally all over and the man I married is dead – whoever he is or was – and I am free, and nothing can touch me now, and nothing can be worse than where I’ve been. Nothing.

  The officer smiles. ‘I believe Josh is waiting for you outside,’ he says.

  I look up at him. ‘He’s here?’

  He nods and then he opens the door into an office space.

  Josh is sitting on a bench. He has a hold-all by his feet. As I step outside he stands up. He hasn’t shaved and he looks tired and drawn as if he hasn’t slept.

  As our eyes meet I feel my pulse quicken and I’m filled with something like delight and relief and joy, and a hundred other things that don’t have a name, and I feel my eyes fill with tears.

  We stand
for a moment. I think he is nervous, I know I am. And then Josh smiles and opens his arms and the tension I have been holding in my spine eases and I step into his embrace, letting him hold me.

  ‘I brought you some clothes,’ he says, holding up the bag.

  But I don’t want to be away from him, instead I relish the heat of his body and the smell of him and the way my body moulds into his, it makes me want to stay in his arms forever and forget everything else. I can hear sobbing and it takes me a moment or two to realise that I’m the one crying.

  Josh holds me tight up against him, pressing his lips to my hair. And then he takes my hand and the policeman guides us through a maze of corridors, and then Josh leads me out of the police station.

  It is dark outside, and cold. The glow from the streetlights is reflected in the puddles, a taxi goes past and on the other side of the road a young couple stroll by, hand in hand, chatting to each other under the shelter of a blue and white umbrella.

  For some reason I’m surprised that ordinary life is still going on.

  I start to shiver again and my teeth start to chatter. Josh pulls me close and, taking his jacket off, wraps it around my shoulders; it is only then that I realise I’m still wearing the police tracksuit and the beach shoes.

  ‘I need to explain,’ I say to Josh.

  He smiles down at me. ‘There’s plenty of time for that. The truck is just round the corner,’ he says. ‘I’ve lit the fire. Let’s go home.’

  And we do.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank everyone who has helped me get Next of Kin written, edited and out into the world.

  Huge thanks to the dream team - Susan Opie, Jane Dixon-Smith, Maureen Vincent-Northam and Rebecca Emin for helping sort out all the practicalities of copy, cover and content as well as offering lots of encouragement, advice and support!

  A really big thank you too, to the amazing people who volunteered to read Next of Kin when it was just a draft - especially Lisa Garwood and EM Dawe who not only read it, but went through it with a fine tooth comb and picked out all kinds of bloopers, typos and errors – Thank you! Your thoughts, comments and input have been absolutely invaluable.