by Sibel Hodge
The old Sean was gone, and in his place was someone we didn’t recognise.
MAYA
Chapter 11
I took a taxi to the garage listed on the card Tony had given me. I didn’t have a car because it was a useless expense. I walked to work and didn’t really leave St Albans that often. I was born and bred here, and there was always plenty going on. I’d drive Jamie’s Jeep sometimes when we went to the countryside for walks at the weekends, and occasionally I’d get the train into London with Jamie or Becca and Lynn. But I’d need to use Jamie’s now if I was going to visit the list of addresses I’d found to see if it had anything to do with why Jamie had killed himself.
I had to pay a storage fee to get the car released. There were more forms to sign, and then I was directed to a row of cars and handed the keys.
Jamie’s black Jeep Cherokee was the third vehicle from the end of the last row. I pressed the remote control, and the doors unlocked. I slid behind the wheel and closed the door. A waft of his aftershave hit me again, and a ball of grief punched its angry fist inside my stomach. I rested my head back against the headrest and pressed my fingers to my eyes to push the tears back inside. Crying wouldn’t do any good. Crying wouldn’t find out the truth about what had happened to Jamie.
I stayed like that for a while, wallowing in self-pity, trying to get myself together, until a horn blasted somewhere and jerked me back to the present. Another smell filtered through my consciousness. Was it cigarette smoke? As I thought I’d smelt in the house the day Jamie died? Or was I just imagining things?
I looked around the car, opened the glove box, and pulled out the vehicle documents: log book, insurance, service history. There was a pen and an ordinance survey map of Hertfordshire. A cardboard air freshener wrapped in cellophane. I checked under the front seats and found a couple of coins and an umbrella. I checked the rear, but nothing was there, so I opened the boot and found a red breakdown-warning triangle, a first aid kit, and a cool bag we’d got from Lidls one day when we’d bought some frozen food. I lifted the material from the flooring and found the spare tyre, a jack, and a small tool kit.
Nothing that told me anything useful.
I got back in the driver’s seat, pulled out the list from my pocket, and turned on the vehicle’s digital display. I selected the satnav option and typed in the first address from Jamie’s list: 10 Crompton Place, London.
I drove on autopilot, and the scenery passed in a haze as I headed out of St Albans, listening to the chirpy automated female voice directing me to London. There were queues and road works, and it seemed to take forever. I didn’t know what I was expecting to find when I arrived, but it certainly wasn’t the well-to-do street lined with big mansions.
Number 10 had a tall brick wall around it and closed wrought-iron gates. Yellow lines on the street marked the parking restrictions, so I drove around, searching for a side street where I could park. I left the car and walked back to the house, spotting some CCTV cameras on the top of the gates and an intercom system on the wall.
Now what? What was I actually going to say now I’d arrived? Had Jamie been here in the days leading up to his death? And if so, why?
I stood there for a few minutes, a biting wind permeating my bones, shuffling from foot to foot. The quiet street had hardly any traffic. What I could see of the mansion over the tops of the gates and wall looked cold and imposing, spooky even, or maybe that was just my imagination.
I pressed the intercom and waited.
A few seconds passed. I looked up and down the street. In the distance, a woman was walking along, pushing a buggy. No one else was around.
I pressed again and heard a burst of crackly static before a male voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Um…hello, is it possible to speak to the owner of the house, please?’
‘Yes, you’re speaking to the owner. I’m not buying anything, so please go away,’ a well-spoken male voice said impatiently.
The CCTV camera moved with a whirring noise, pointing directly at me. I gave it a wobbly smile.
‘Oh no. I’m not selling anything.’
‘Then what do you want?’
I was struck dumb for a moment. What did I want? I didn’t really know. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew someone called Jamie Taylor.’
‘No. I don’t know any Jamie Taylor. Goodbye.’
Another crackle and then there was silence.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wondering what to do next before pressing the button again.
‘Yes?’ the voice said, more clipped and impatient this time.
‘He might’ve visited you recently? He…um…he’s…he died, you see, and I found this—’
‘I don’t know any Jamie Taylor, and he’s never visited me, okay? Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ The ‘goodbye’ was very final.
The woman with the buggy had almost reached me as I turned away from the gates. She was dressed in designer clothes. Her hair was perfectly smoothed into an updo, and her makeup was flawless.
‘Excuse me,’ I said.
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘Yes?’
I detected an accent. Russian, maybe, or Eastern European.
‘Do you know who lives here?’ I pointed at the house behind me.
She shrugged and carried on walking, her high-heeled boots clacking on the pavement.
I looked up and down the street but no one else was around, so I walked back to the car and got out the list, staring at it again, wishing it could tell me something.
10 Crompton Place, London
Moses Abraham, 16 Dean Street, London
Billy Pearce, 43 Scarborough Ave, London
Sean Davidson, Flat 28, Derby Towers, Enfield X
Trevor Carter, 2 Dalton Terrace, Surrey
Dave Groom, 91 Ridge Street, Watford X
What did the X’s mean at the end of some of the addresses? And why wasn’t there a name listed with Crompton Place as there was with the others? I didn’t have a clue.
Since I was in London already, I decided to work my way down the list and followed Miss Chirpy’s directions to the address for Moses Abraham.
In terms of geography, the house was only a few streets away, but it couldn’t have been further from it in terms of affluence. At 16 Dean Street was a tiny terraced house in the middle of identical houses in a street lined with cars parked on either side. I had to drive up and down a few times before I finally found a parking space five minutes away. I got out and walked back.
A flutter of nerves danced in my stomach as I rang the bell. I could hear a TV inside, so at least someone was home.
A biracial woman opened the door. She had tired eyes and grey hair, and her face was lined with deep-set wrinkles.
‘Hi.’ I forced a smile. ‘Could I speak to Moses Abraham, please?’
Her eyes widened, her lips falling open, as if she was upset or scared, but she didn’t speak.
‘Is Moses here?’
She looked shocked. ‘Why are you looking for Moses?’
‘Well, um…this is going to sound weird, but I’m wondering if Moses knows someone called Jamie Taylor. I think he may have come here recently.’
She frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Jamie Taylor.’ I blew out a breath. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but he was my boyfriend, and he’s just…died. I found this list of names and addresses, you see, and it had the name Moses Abraham on there at this address. Does Moses live here? Maybe I could talk to him and see if Jamie knew him. He might be able to help me.’
She looked past me, up and down the street, before settling her gaze back on me. ‘Are you a reporter?’
‘No, nothing like that. Like I said, I think my boyfriend might’ve known Moses. Jamie might’ve come to see him.’
‘He can’t have done.’ She started to close the door, but I put a hand out to stop her.
‘Please. I just need to find out what Jamie was doing before he died. He had this address.
Why would he have it? Can I just speak to Moses?’ I pleaded.
Something in my tone made her stop pushing the door. She poked her head round it and studied me for a moment.
I spoke quickly before she shut me out. ‘I’ve got a picture of him. Maybe you might recognise him.’ I fumbled in my handbag, pulled out my purse, and opened it to show her a photo of Jamie I always kept in there. ‘This is Jamie. Did he come here?’
She looked at it briefly and then back at me. Her gaze darted up and down the street again. I recognised her expression for certain now, because I’d become immersed in it. Consumed with it. It was pain.
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘He…he hanged himself.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry about that, but I don’t know how I can help you. He wouldn’t have been here to see Moses. You’ve made a mistake.’ She closed the door in my face.
Tears of frustration pricked at my eyes as I stood there, transfixed to the door, wondering what to do. There was nothing I could do. I put my purse back in my bag and was about to leave when she opened the door again.
She studied my face for what seemed like hours. ‘Your friend really died?’
‘My boyfriend. I really need to know why. What made him do it.’
She swung the door fully open. ‘You’d better come in. I’m Moses’s mum.’
After leading me into a tiny lounge, she stood with her back to the bay window and told me to take a seat on a two-seater sofa covered with a brightly coloured throw.
She folded her arms and watched me warily, as if wondering what to say. ‘What do you know about Moses?’
‘I don’t know anything. That’s why I’m here.’
‘What do you know, then?’
‘All I know is that I found this list Jamie left, and it must’ve been significant to him somehow. He’d taken some time off work before he died, and I think maybe it was to do with the list. I was hoping Moses could tell me why his name was on it. Maybe Jamie spoke to him about something.’
She stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘When did he die?’
I swallowed down a lump of glass in my throat. ‘A week ago.’
‘And when do you think he would’ve come here?’
‘The week before that, probably.’
‘God.’ She ran a hand over her forehead and stared at some photos resting on top of a mantelpiece above a gas fire with fake logs. One was of a biracial boy and girl, both smiling, both around mid-thirties. At the opposite end was a photo of a smaller boy, maybe around eight or nine. She picked up the photo and handed it to me. ‘This is Moses.’
He was gorgeous. Green eyes, light brown skin, a cheeky, glowing smile. ‘He’s beautiful.’
‘Was.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He was beautiful.’ She flopped down heavily next to me on the sofa, as if all the air had been sucked out of her.
I frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s missing. Never been found.’
‘Oh, how terrible. I’m so sorry.’
She took the photo from me and traced a fingertip over Moses’s face. ‘He disappeared in 1984. He was ten years old. I sent him up to the corner shop to get some sweets, and he never came back.’ She sighed deeply, placed the photo on her knee, and looked into my eyes. ‘I can recognise your anguish because it’s one I still have. The need to know. To find out what happened. Believe me, I know all about that.’
‘The police never found him?’
She made a snorting sound, her shoulders stiffening. ‘Bloody police.’ Her lips flattened into a hard line. ‘I reported it at the time, obviously. It was awful. They took a statement and things, but nothing happened. They said they were investigating, but I don’t think they really did. I kept calling this policeman to get updates, and he kept saying they were doing all they could, but it seemed as though Moses had just vanished without a trace. I mean, how can that happen? We live in the middle of London! Someone must’ve seen something!’ She stared at the threadbare navy carpet with its pattern of huge seventies-yellow flowers. Her eyes were distant. ‘I’ve never had any answers in all this time.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think about him. Wonder if he’s still alive. Or…no. I don’t know. Deep down, I don’t think he’s alive. In my head, I think he’s dead. But in here’—she patted her heart—‘there’s always that hope, still.’
I reached out and touched her arm, trying to comfort her.
‘I don’t think I’m ever going to find out. Not now. Not thirty-odd years later. Someone knows something, though. Someone is hiding something.’
‘Did Jamie come and talk to you about Moses?’
‘No. I’ve never seen your boyfriend before. I’ve been away for a couple of weeks, staying at my sister’s place in Manchester. I only got back yesterday.’
Questions tumbled around my tongue. ‘Maybe Jamie tried to come here, looking for Moses because he didn’t know he was missing, but you were away at the time.’ Then a thought struck me. ‘Actually, Jamie used to live in London when he was a kid. Maybe Jamie knew Moses from back then. Maybe they used to play together and he was looking up an old friend?’
‘Let me see your picture again.’
I retrieved my purse, slid the photo of Jamie out of the plastic cover, and handed it to her.
She studied it with a frown of concentration then shook her head. ‘No. I don’t recognise him, but then kids change so much. But I don’t remember any Jamies around here, and I’ve lived here all my life.’
‘How about James?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
She handed me the photo back. I carefully replaced it in my purse.
‘The not knowing is the worst thing,’ she said softly, the emotional wavering of her voice unmistakeable. ‘It gets easier to bear, but still…I keep hoping that one day he’ll turn up on the doorstep as if nothing’s happened.’ She turned to me, her eyes moist and haunted.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again.
‘Do you think your boyfriend knew something about Moses disappearing?’
Her words hit me like a slap in the face. ‘I…God, no. He couldn’t have.’ Could he? No, of course not.
‘Why would he have Moses’s name on this list, then?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Maybe it would explain why he killed himself. Guilt is a good reason for suicide.’ She twisted in her seat then, the pain etched on her face giving way to suspicion.
‘No. No, I…’ I trailed off. ‘I mean, Jamie would’ve been about Moses’s age when he went missing, so he couldn’t have known anything.’ I shook my head.
‘So why was my son’s name written down, then?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What possible reason could there be? Unless he was trying to write an article about it? Or he knew something.’
‘I…God, I really don’t know. Jamie wasn’t a journalist. He worked in IT. Like I said, they must’ve been friends when they were kids, or maybe they went to school together at one time and Jamie was trying to reconnect—that’s the only explanation.’
‘Which school did Jamie go to?’
I tried to think if Jamie had ever mentioned the name of it before. After we’d met, I’d talked a lot about growing up, stories from school, my teenage years, drunken holidays with my girlfriends, the usual kind of past things shared with a partner. Jamie had told me the same kinds of stories about his childhood, too, but he’d never mentioned which school he went to. ‘Um…I don’t know.’
This time her eyes were wet and imploring. ‘If you know something about Moses, you have to tell me!’ She grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
‘I don’t! I really don’t know anything. I’m sorry for upsetting you. Look, maybe I shouldn’t have come here and stirred all this up for you.’ I stood and rushed to the front door. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’
But as I opened it, another question fil
tered into my head. ‘You said you’ve lived here all your life? One of the other addresses on Jamie’s list was 10 Crompton Place. It’s not far from here. Do you recognise that address?’
Confusion spread across her face. ‘Crompton Place? The big mansions?’
‘Yes. Do you know who lives at number ten?’
‘Not my kind of people. There are a lot of bigwigs up there. MPs, judges, businessmen, showbiz types.’
‘Right. Well, thank you, again.’
‘If you find out why your boyfriend had Moses’s name written down, promise you’ll let me know?’
‘Of course.’
With more questions than answers, I walked down the tiny path, feeling her eyes boring into the back of me.
MPs. Judges. Important people. A missing boy.
What were you mixed up in, Jamie? What secrets were you hiding?
JAMIE
Chapter 12
The months passed, and the abuse continued, Scholes ruling with terror and brutality and Barker ruling with veiled kindness and treats. The good cop and the bad cop of the paedophile world. But both of them instilled fear, punishment, pain, degradation, and humiliation.
I didn’t think things could get worse, but I had no idea.
It was my birthday. I thought about the birthdays I’d had when I was still at home with Mum. The jelly and ice cream, pass the parcel, pin the tail on the donkey, the presents. Most of all, the cuddles and laughter. The only way birthdays at Crossfield differentiated from every other day was it meant we got a present. One present. Except we weren’t allowed to keep it. We weren’t allowed to keep anything. Nothing was ours. Not even our bodies and minds. Usually, we got a book. Barker believed we should read a lot. But whereas I’d immersed myself in books when I’d first arrived, as a means to escape my existence, now I was jealous of the characters in the books because they could go anywhere and do anything and be anyone, and it just made an anger fester away inside because I couldn’t.
At breakfast, I was given my present by Barker. Stig of the Dump. I thanked him profusely, knowing full well it would be taken away at the end of the day and put in the common room with all the rest of the books I couldn’t bring myself to read anymore.
