by Julie Corbin
‘Did he, now? Lucky you.’ I hunker down to her height and hug her tight. ‘But guess who’s come to stay?’
‘Who?’
‘Auntie Lisa.’ Her eyes light up. I give her a gentle nudge. ‘Go and tell her all about the good time you had.’
She’s off again, knocking into Julian on the way.
‘The girls had fun, then,’ I say.
‘Great time.’ He unzips his jacket. ‘They had special events on, so Nemo wasn’t the main attraction.’
‘Where’s Lara?’
‘Sezen called me earlier. She met us down on the pier. They’ve gone off to see friends. She won’t be back this evening.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘Who?’
‘Sezen.’
He nods and puts his jacket over the back of a chair.
‘Did she say where she was going to spend the night?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Did you get my message?’
‘No.’ He takes his BlackBerry out of his pocket. ‘There is one from you. Sorry. Left it in the car.’
‘I saw her with the man who came to the door last night. At the roundabout by Lisa’s flat.’
‘Did you?’
‘She told me he meant nothing to her and yet they were hugging like long-lost lovers.’
Julian looks unperturbed.
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a problem?’
‘In what way?’ He walks into the pantry and I follow him.
‘The emails.’
He moves aside a jar of pickles, some tuna fish and a tin of peaches. ‘Why would Sezen have anything to do with the emails?’
‘She might be feeding Georgiev’s men information. It would be a good way to infiltrate our family, wouldn’t it?’
‘But you employed her, didn’t you? You approached her? Her references checked out?’
‘Yes, but you know how clever people can be.’ I think back to my time as a solicitor with the CPS. Even the most unlikely people can be deceitful. ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that she could manoeuvre herself into a position close to us.’
‘No, that’s true,’ he concedes. ‘But Sezen’s Turkish and she’s a mother and just the other day you were telling me how trustworthy she was and that she’d become your friend.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘I thought you were someone who trusted your gut feeling?’
‘Normally I do, but I’m also someone who’s willing to concede that I’m not always right.’ My voice drops to a whisper. ‘In some ways, her being so perfect is too good to be true, don’t you think?’
He laughs. ‘Well, not any more by the sounds of it. Is it the fact that she hasn’t shared the details of her relationship with this man that’s bothering you?’
This irritates me, but still I stay calm. ‘No. It’s the fact that she lied. I think that’s cause for concern.’
‘Do we have any teabags?’
I grab them from the shelf behind me and slap them into his hand. ‘Under ordinary circumstances,’ I continue, ‘of course I wouldn’t be suspicious of her, but these circumstances are hardly ordinary.’
‘And that’s why a cool head is important.’
‘Fucking hell, Julian! I do have a cool head.’
He raises his eyebrows and then starts to smile. I feel the corners of my own mouth twitch in response, but I can’t joke about this. It isn’t funny. Not to me.
‘I do have a cool head. I’m impatient, yes, I admit that, but I can still think straight. I just need the people around me to be honest. Look at the facts. For the last twelve days you, and now we, have been receiving threatening emails. We’re worried about someone kidnapping our child. An unknown man turns up at our house. Sezen talks to him, lingers by the window to watch him, denies he means anything to her and yet next day I see her kissing him. And she gave him a piece of paper while he passed her a wad of cash. How can that be fine?’
He rolls his head from side to side. ‘Put like that, it sounds like you have a point.’
I follow him back into the kitchen. ‘Sounds like?’
‘The two events are not necessarily linked. So she has a secret? It doesn’t make her Georgiev’s accomplice.’ I go to protest and he holds up a hand. ‘But you’re right. Why risk it? We should ask her to leave.’ He pours water into the kettle and switches it on. ‘But it was only yesterday that you felt it couldn’t possibly be Sezen. Mary Percival was definitely in the running, though.’
‘Don’t talk to me about her.’ I put my hands over my face. ‘It’s not her . . . I don’t think.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I had it out with her in the park earlier and . . .’ I shake my head. I don’t even consider telling him. The thought of forming the words on my tongue – she’s my sister – feels too alien. ‘It’s not her.’
‘OK. So Sezen is now prime suspect?’
‘Julian. Please.’ His face is still sceptical. ‘I feel in my bones that there’s more going on here. If you had seen her at the roundabout, then I’m sure you’d feel the same.’
‘Well, why don’t we ask her when she gets back?’
I can’t leave it at that. She won’t be back until tomorrow and that’s a long way off. Something inside me wants to get to the root of this now. Next thing I know I’m on the top floor, pushing open the door into Sezen’s bedroom. I stand in the middle of the room and look around me. The space is neat and tidy. Both beds are made. Lara’s bed has two of Bea’s soft toys perched on top of the pillow. There is no spare change or used tickets on the chest of drawers, no clothes on the floor or empty glasses on the bedside cabinet. There’s nothing lying around that gives me any sense of who Sezen is or where she has come from.
As I stand there, I think about what I’m going to do next. My fingers want to start poking and prying through her stuff; my head tells me it’s an invasion of her privacy. I should wait. Ask her when she comes back. I’m flying off on a tangent again, determined to force the issue – just like I did with Mary Percival. And look at how that worked out.
On the other hand, this is my home and I am entitled to ensure my child’s safety. I don’t have the luxury of waiting to see what’s behind Sezen’s secrecy. We have two days to try to find the blackmailer. That’s all. If suspicions arise and I can expedite that process, then I need to do so.
A compromise is reached between my conscience and my instinct. I decide that I won’t go through everything. I won’t look at photographs or read letters or diaries. All I will do is see whether there is anything obvious that might give me a clue as to why she’s been lying to me.
I open the drawers one by one, carefully moving folded blouses and underwear to look underneath. I don’t really know what I expect to find, but I keep on looking anyway. The bottom drawer is heavy and stiff. I pull hard and see that she has stored papers and books in this one. I make a point of not reading through them, but a casual glance reminds me that most of what’s written is not in English. Right at the back there is a pouch containing passports – three of them. I bring them out. One is made out to Lara, one to Sezen and the third to a Sylvia Cyrilova, a Bulgarian national. I look at the photo. I look again more closely. I stare at it. I compare one with the other. Her hair is shorter and she’s two or three years younger, but it’s definitely Sezen.
I put the passports down on the carpet and sit back on my heels. Unease spreads through me like electricity, the sensation beginning in my stomach and filtering outwards through my body to the roots of my hair. Sezen is not the sweet single mother she seems. She has two identities. She is Turkish and she is Bulgarian. Or perhaps she is just Bulgarian. Like Georgiev. Of course, that’s hardly enough to convict her, but taken together with the fact that she concealed it and that she has lied to me about the man she met at the roundabout, I think we have a problem.
‘Should you be snooping in here?’ It’s Julian.
He’s standing at the door watching me.
Wordlessly, I hold out the passports.
‘You’ve found something?’ He steps into the room and takes them from me. I watch his face register two different names, two different nationalities, same woman. He looks back at me and I see fear creep into his eyes. ‘I’ll call Mac.’
13
I stand to one side and listen as Julian calls Mac. He explains that we’ve found the passports, indicating that Sezen is far from what she seems. Mac tells Julian he should call him as soon as Sezen comes back tomorrow and that she will be taken in for questioning. In the meantime, he would like to come and see us this evening. He has the case files for the two murders quoted in the email – Carlo Brunetti, Rome, 2006, and Boleslav Hlutev, Sofia, 2008. We arrange for him to come round at eight thirty and I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening with the family, trying to be normal while every twenty minutes or so I run to check my emails only to find that nothing else has arrived.
By eight o’clock Lisa is tired. I help her shower and then we go through the routine that Lynn has taught me. I have everything I need laid out on the low shelf in the bathroom. Lisa has an infected sore on her right hip. Fortunately, the infection isn’t caused by a super-bug and is healing slowly with the help of oral antibiotics. Still, I take the precaution of wearing gloves and gently clean the wound, making sure I place the used swabs in a plastic bag. Every now and then Lisa winces, but for the most part I manage to do it without causing her discomfort. I organise all the medicines for the next day in a dosette box and put it on top of the cabinet. Then I stand in front of Lisa with a glass of water and half a dozen coloured pills.
‘Who knew?’ she says between swallows.
‘Who knew what?’
‘That you could be such a good little nurse.’
‘Be thankful I haven’t starched the sheets.’ I take her elbow and we go through to the bedroom. I help her swing her legs round into the bed, where Bea, washed and pyjamaed, is lying with her head on one of the pillows, the covers tucked under her arms so that her hands are free. She’s holding the switch for the bedside lamp that Lisa brought with her from the flat. The shade is patterned with stars of all different sizes, and when the bulb is illuminated, the stars make patterns on the walls and ceiling. Bea switches the light off and then three seconds later on again so that she can see afresh the shining stars. When she’s done this half a dozen times or more, I ask her to stop.
‘Auntie Lisa likes it.’
‘Either on or off, one or the other.’
She pretends she hasn’t heard me. She puts it on, then off again.
‘Bea!’ I go to take it from her, but she pulls her hand under the covers and smiles up at me.
‘Sweet,’ Lisa says.
‘It’s her most appealing face,’ I say.
‘More,’ Bea pleads. She holds up four fingers of her left hand. ‘Seven!’
Lisa laughs.
‘That’s only four fingers,’ I say. ‘Four more goes and then you stop.’ I turn back to Lisa. ‘Are you sure you’re OK with her in your bed? She might kick you in her sleep.’
‘I really don’t mind,’ Lisa says. ‘I’ve missed her.’
‘Well, if she gets pesky, just walkie-talkie me.’ I pass her a handset. ‘These used to be Jack’s. It’ll save you shouting up the stairs.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t you just think of everything?’
‘I was going to plug in the baby monitor, but I thought that might be pushing it.’
‘Did you hear that, Bea?’ She settles her pillow close to Bea’s. ‘Your mum thinks we’re babies.’
Bea switches off the light again. ‘You have to be really quiet, Auntie Lisa,’ she whispers, ‘and make a wish for the stars to come.’
Lisa shuts her eyes, her lips moving in a silent wish. I kiss them both on the forehead, close the door and look at my watch. Mac should be here any minute. I pour myself a glass of wine and go to wait in the sitting room. Breathing space. Time to think and reflect. For tonight, the family is settled. Jack is watching television in his room, still complaining about being grounded. Julian had a word with Charlie. I’m not sure what was said, but although he’s still not talking to me, he isn’t avoiding me any more, so I think a truce is in sight. Lisa already knows about the emails, and the boys and Wendy will find out the details on Monday. Yes, there’s a chance that the judge will overturn the order and the blackmailer will be able to get the witness’s name without Julian’s help, but that chance is so slim that it’s not worth factoring in to the equation. What’s bothering me is the thought of a safe house – not just the logistics of packing for all of us but the whole idea of moving somewhere else at a time when home is where I want to be. Like most people, I feel safest in my own home with my own things around me. Going somewhere new, to an unknown neighbourhood, where every creak of the floorboard and every barking dog makes for a panicky moment is not a cheering thought.
A few minutes before nine the doorbell sounds. I open the outside door and Mac comes into the porch. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says. ‘Managed to lose my car keys.’
‘You’re still doing that?’
‘At least once a week.’
I usher him into the hallway. ‘Give me your jacket.’ He shrugs it off his shoulders and I hang it on a peg. ‘Julian’s downstairs in his study.’
‘I phoned him just now.’ He stamps both his feet. ‘He knows I’m on my way.’
‘Oh . . . right.’ I walk backwards into the hallway. ‘Do you want to wait in here?’ I gesture towards the sitting room. ‘I’ll just go down and tell him you’ve arrived.’
He gives me a small smile and walks past me into the room. I try not to feel awkward. This is my home. The familiarity I feel for him is at odds with my role as a wife and mother. He’s from a separate world, one I left behind.
I go downstairs and pop my head round the door of Julian’s study. ‘Mac’s here,’ I say.
Julian is already on his feet and we go upstairs together. In the sitting room, Mac and Julian shake hands.
‘Take a seat.’ Julian gestures towards one of the easy chairs and Mac looks at me first before sitting down.
‘Something to drink?’
‘Coffee would be great,’ Mac says.
‘Have you eaten? We have leftovers from supper.’
He smiles. ‘I stopped off at home for a bit,’ he says. ‘Was in time for some curry.’
‘And you, Julian?’
‘A whisky, Claire. Please.’
I make coffee, pour Julian a whisky and a glass of Merlot for myself. My mind is whirring. Mac is here. He has information on the two cases. I can’t help but feel this might be the turning point. From here we could start to make progress. The safe house may not be necessary after all. Catch the blackmailer and we can go back to normal. I can care for Lisa the way I want to, the boys won’t be restricted, and we can all be a family again.
I give out the drinks and sit down on the sofa next to Julian. I hold my wine glass in one hand and place my other hand down on the couch next to his. I take his hand. He smiles at me. I want Julian to acknowledge that we’re in this together, and I want to show Mac that we are a solid couple.
‘So.’ Mac takes a breath. ‘I came tonight to talk about Sezen but also to give you both an update on the two cases: Brunetti and Hlutev. It’s taken a bit of piecing together, but we think the blackmailer is giving us a clue to the pattern of events.’
‘How so?’ I ask.
‘In both cases, in Rome and in Sofia, the blackmailer infiltrated the family.’ He looks at Julian then back at me. ‘The blackmailer in these two cases was a woman. Our profilers feel that there’s a good chance the same MO is happening here. As was your hunch all along, Claire.’
‘OK.’ I try not to feel pleased that at least I’ve been right about something. Perhaps it will help Julian to take me seriously. I look at him. He’s contemplating the ceiling. ‘Did you already know about these two cases?
’ I ask him.
‘I knew about Georgiev’s links to them and that intimidation was involved but not much more than that.’
‘Was that the reason you had the burglar alarm installed?’
He nods.
I bite my lip and pull my hand away from his. Anger is never far away. It crackles through my chest like an electric sky before the storm fully breaks. I do my best to ignore it and say to Mac, ‘Do you know this woman’s name?’
‘There were two women. The similarities lie in the way Georgiev gained access to the victims. Both times it was through a trusted young woman.’
‘Was either of them caught?’
‘One was. She’s in prison in Italy. She was Georgiev’s girlfriend. He’s had a few over the years.’ Mac looks at Julian. ‘Your witness has spoken about the hold Georgiev has over some women.’
‘He’s charismatic,’ I say.
‘He is. In all the wrong sorts of ways. But some women . . .’ He shrugs. ‘They’re attracted by the power.’ He brings a sheaf of photographs out of the folder, then gives us both a sober look. ‘These don’t make for comfortable viewing.’
Julian nods.
‘I understand,’ I say.
He lays the photographs out on the coffee table, dividing them into two sections. They are from crime scenes. There are full-colour close-ups of the injuries sustained. There’s blood. Lots of it. Mac’s index finger rests on the group of photos to his right. ‘This murder was committed two years ago in the Alexander Nevski Cathedral in Sofia. The man was a priest. His brother repeatedly spoke out against Georgiev’s crime syndicate.’
I examine one of the photographs. The man is young, no more than forty. He is lying flat on his back on a patterned rug. His throat has been cut in one uninterrupted line about four inches across. Spattered blood patterns the wall behind him. His eyes have a glassy stare. His fair hair is stained a brownish-red colour. His build is stocky; he must have been strong. No easy target, then. ‘Was there any sign of a struggle?’
‘None. It seems she caught him completely unawares.’
