by Cathy Glass
To her utter amazement it was answered by Jacob with a terse, ‘What do you want?’
‘Jacob,’ she said, completely thrown.
‘Yes, it’s still me,’ he replied sarcastically
‘How are you? I’ve been trying to contact Rosie but she’s not picking up. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, why shouldn’t it be?’ he asked sharply. ‘You keep phoning, but she’s out and she’s forgotten her phone.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry,’ she stammered. Relief flooded through her and she felt an absolute fool for not considering the most obvious reason. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. Please tell her I rang.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘Let me know when you’d like to come to dinner,’ she added, but he’d already ended the call.
Elizabeth sat for a moment, gazing through the windscreen. The sun had set now and the streetlamps were on. Thank goodness she hadn’t gone straight up to the flat. He hadn’t known she was outside, so the only evidence of her complete over-reaction was all the phone calls and messages she’d left on Rosie’s phone. Clearly Jacob had been annoyed by them but then he could have answered her phone earlier or texted telling her Rosie was out. But that was how he was towards her now, thoughtless and curt. Of course she’d apologize to Rosie when she next spoke to her, but for now she needed to go home.
She reset the sat nav to the Rectory and started the engine. The voice on the sat nav told her to ‘turn around where possible’. The road was full of parked cars so she’d have to make the turn further up using the entrance to the residents’ car park. She pulled out and around the cars parked in front and then began a three-point turn. As she did she saw a light-blue Fiat just like Rosie’s parked between two larger vehicles further up. And while neither the make nor the model were uncommon, the colour was. When Liz had admired it, Rosie had agreed it was different, and said it had taken her ages to find it as she’d wanted one the same colour as her old car, Betsy.
Elizabeth completed the turn and began slowly down the street towards the T-junction at the end of the road. There were many plausible reasons why Rosie’s car was parked there when Jacob had said she was out. It was quite possible that wherever Rosie had gone was within walking distance, or a friend might have given her a lift, or maybe she’d taken a bus: all perfectly logical explanations. Having badly misinterpreted the situation once tonight, Elizabeth wasn’t about to do so a second time.
She continued to the end of the road and turned left as the sat nav directed. But instead of driving straight on she pulled in and stopped. Jacob had been curt to the point of rudeness, but then he often was with her and Andrew, so she shouldn’t read too much into that. There’d also been an underlying tension in his voice, probably because he was having to speak to her. There was no reason why Rosie shouldn’t be out with her friends and it was feasible, although not likely, that she’d forgotten her phone. Yet that was what was niggling her. Most young people she knew were glued to their phones and if they did leave home without them, they quickly realized their omission and returned to collect them. Indeed, even she and Andrew (and most of their generation) had got into the habit of taking their mobiles with them if they went out.
Elizabeth waited for a car to pass and then made a U turn. The sat nav complained and she switched it off. She turned into Highland Grove again and parked in the spot she’d just vacated, her pulse racing. Switching off the engine, she sat for a moment trying to calm herself before pressing Jacob’s number. He would see her number come up on the caller display. He answered immediately. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Jacob, don’t be angry, I’m parked outside.’
‘What the fuck! You’re outside! Why?’
‘I need to talk to you about something urgent. I’m coming up, OK?’ And before he had a chance to say no she cut the call.
Chapter Fifty-One
‘One sound and you’re dead,’ Jacob threatened, dragging the chair with Rosie tied to it into the bedroom. ‘Understand me?’
She nodded, petrified and aware he meant it. Since beating her in the bathroom and retying her to the chair he’d grown increasingly violent and agitated. He’d sworn at Taco on the phone and threatened to kill him. He kept giving little coughs and patting his chest as though trying to get his breath. Now his mother had arrived, causing him to panic. He went out of the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.
Her face was sore from where he’d hit her and the string around her wrists was even tighter now. He’d tied her legs to the chair as well to make sure she couldn’t make another run for it. But Liz was outside and on her way up. It was a lifeline of hope; she couldn’t believe it. Whatever had brought her here so late in the evening? Perhaps one of her texts or phone calls had been to say she was coming, for Jacob hadn’t let her see her phone. But he’d told Liz she was out. She’d heard him. So she’d need to make her aware she was here: draw attention to herself, signal.
She glanced around the room for anything she could use to make a noise. Whatever she did she’d only have one chance and then he’d be in to silence her for good. She couldn’t throw something at the door or window. Even if she could pick it up with her hands tied behind her back it would be impossible to move her arm into a position where she could produce enough force to throw it and make a noise. Then she saw her make-up purse on the chest of drawers. Inside was a pair of nail scissors. If she could reach them would it be possible to cut through the string with her hands tied behind her? She’d no idea but she had to try. If Liz stayed long enough and kept him talking maybe she would have a chance.
Digging her feet into the carpet she began pushing the chair backwards, inching the legs over the carpet towards the chest of drawers. The doorbell rang. She stopped still, listening, her senses on full alert. She heard Jacob curse his mother as he went to answer the door. Then Liz’s voice, familiar and kind. ‘Hello, love.’ She kept perfectly still, listening and waiting until they were in the living room. Then she continued her piecemeal journey towards the chest of drawers, hoping and praying Jacob wouldn’t come in to check on her.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Elizabeth glanced around the compact neat living space and through to the adjoining kitchen.
‘There’s Rosie’s phone,’ Jacob said rudely, thrusting it under her nose. ‘I told you she was out.’
‘I know, I believed you,’ she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘It’s you I’ve come to see. Could I have a glass of water please? I’m very thirsty.’ She took a step towards the kitchen.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, brushing past her. ‘You stay there.’
When did he start issuing orders that she obeyed? But she remained where she was and watched him. He looked ill. There was a sickly pallor to his skin which she hadn’t seen since he’d been on the transplant list waiting for a donor, and he was perspiring heavily although it wasn’t that hot in the flat. His breathing sounded laboured too.
‘You haven’t got a chest infection have you?’ she asked. ‘You know the immunosuppressants lower your body’s resistance.’
He ignored her and returned with the glass of water, which he thrust into her hand.
‘Thank you, can I sit down?’
‘Suit yourself.’
She perched on the sofa. ‘Are you all right?’ she tried again, genuinely concerned.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You don’t look well. Have you been keeping your hospital appointments? You know how important they are.’
He shrugged dismissively. ‘What’s it got to do with you? You don’t care.’
She flinched. His comments still hurt even though she now knew it wasn’t him talking. She took a sip of water and set the glass on the table. ‘Jacob, there’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve found out – about transplants. Can you sit down please so we can talk?’ He was standing a little way in front of her, shifting agitatedly from one foot to the other. It was making her more anxiou
s.
‘I’m OK here,’ he said bluntly. ‘Say what you have to quickly, I need to go out later.’
‘Really? It’s late.’
‘To collect Rosie.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She took a breath and summoned her courage. She knew what she had to say was going to anger him, but she had to tell him and make him aware so he could hopefully stop himself from doing more harm.
‘I’ve been doing some research,’ she began, ‘and although it’s not proven a hundred per cent, there’s lot of evidence to suggest that some people who receive transplants take on the mental and physical characteristics of the donor. It’s called cellular memory.’ She paused and looked at him for a reaction. The old Jacob with intellectual insight and understanding and would make the connection, but he was just staring at her.
‘So?’ he demanded.
‘I think that’s what has happened to you.’
His lip curled into a ridiculing smile. ‘What? That I’ve become someone else? Don’t be so daft.’
‘Yes, sort of.’
He began laughing, loudly and derisively. Then he stopped as quickly as he’d begun and his eyes narrowed accusingly. ‘You gotta be joking me. If I’m rotten it’s your fault, because of the way you treated me. You never showed me any love or affection. Not one bit. You treated me and my dad like shit. You’re an evil bitch and I’d say you got the son you deserved.’ He grinned humourlessly.
Now she knew where his words had come from, they weren’t the shock they might otherwise have been. She swallowed, trying to keep calm. ‘Jacob, what you are saying is not true of our family, but it is true of the donor’s. Listen to me please, you have to understand what’s happening to you.’
She stood and took a step towards him. She needed to make him realize. ‘I’m not the only one who believes this, there is a lot of research. I’ve been reading articles and talking to a doctor who researched cellular memory in depth for his PhD. He’s confirmed it does happen. There are many documented cases. Cellular memory is the way cells hold and transfer memory in their DNA. A girl in Brazil found her blood group had changed after a liver transplant, and in another case a man’s DNA changed completely after a heart transplant. So in many ways they were more like the donor than their previous selves.’ He sneered but she continued.
‘It doesn’t happen in all cases and some changes are quite minor, like changes in food or music likes and dislikes, but others have experienced astounding changes – some for the better and some for the worse. I’m sure that’s what’s happened to you, Jacob. Try to remember what you were like before the transplant and compare it to how you are now.’ She stopped, breathless.
‘It’s an excuse!’ he said, without giving her words any consideration.
‘No it’s not.’ She placed her hand on his arm and he shook it off. ‘I’ve traced your donor. I’ve spoken to his mother. He was called Shane Smith and he was bad. It wasn’t all his fault, he was never shown much love as a child and he got into a lot of trouble with the police. Just as you are doing now. You have to believe me, Jacob. If you’re aware of what’s happened, then perhaps you can stop yourself doing more bad things and change your future. I came here tonight on purpose to make sure Rosie was safe. I’m worried sick you could harm her like you did Eloise. Please Jacob, I beg you, think about what I’m saying. Remember the person you were and how you’ve changed.’ She paused, willing him to understand and accept what she was saying.
‘Bullshit!’ he said. ‘You’ve made all this up to save your own skin.’
‘No!’ she cried, grabbing his arm again. ‘It’s true, Jacob. I can show you evidence if you let me.’
‘Liar!’ he cried, moving away. ‘You’re making excuses for the way you treated me.’
‘Jacob! Not only are you behaving as Shane would have done but you’re living with his girlfriend – Rosie.’ She hadn’t intended to blurt this out but she needed to make him understand.
‘You’re mad!’ he said, taking another step away. ‘It just shows how evil you are, making all this up.’
‘No. It’s true, really. Shane lived here with Rosie right up until he died. His mother told me.’
He was furious now; rage had replaced disbelief. She could see it in his face and the way he held his body. He was reacting just as Shane would have done, she was sure. All-consuming anger and bitterness were replacing rational thought. She jumped as he grabbed the glass of water and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a cascade of splintered glass and liquid. ‘I’ll kill her, the two-timing bitch! I’ll fucking kill you both.’ His eyes were glazed and bloodshot, blazing with anger. He turned and went into the kitchen, coming back with a carving knife.
‘No, Jacob!’ she screamed and backed away. ‘You don’t have to hurt anyone any more. Put the knife down. Try to remember who you are – Jacob, my son. Andrew is your father. He lives with us. We both love you.’
He continued towards her as she backed into the hall. ‘You’re a lying bitch!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done to me.’ Then suddenly he was gasping for breath, and his hand shot to his chest as the colour drained from his face. She watched in horror as his knees buckled and he crumpled in a heap, the knife falling from his hand and clattering onto the wooden floor.
‘Jacob!’ She rushed to his side and dropped to her knees. ‘Jacob?’ His eyes were closed; he was unconscious but breathing. She ran to fetch her phone, pressing 999 for the emergency services as she returned to his side. ‘Ambulance,’ she said, dropping to her knees as the call connected, ‘Quickly. My son has collapsed. Flat seventeen, Hill Court, Highland Grove. Yes, he’s unconscious but still breathing. He had a heart transplant a year ago.’
Then as she waited for the ambulance, praying that despite everything Jacob, her son, would live, a noise sounded from somewhere close by. Like a door opening. She instinctively looked towards the front door but it remained closed. A figure appeared at the other end of the hall.
‘Rosie!’ Her face was swollen and her lip was bleeding but worse than that was the fear in her eyes. Elizabeth went to her, opened her arms and held her close. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed. ‘You’re safe now. I’ll look after you.’
‘Shane?’ Rosie asked quietly.
‘You heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so sorry, I should have told you sooner.’
‘But I didn’t even know he was dead.’
Elizabeth pulled back in surprise. ‘You didn’t know? Oh Rosie, he died in hospital three days after the accident. It was sudden. A blood clot to his brain. Didn’t you see it in the newspaper? His organs were used for transplant.’
‘No, I was in such a state that I shut myself away and tried to get over what had happened. I didn’t want to know anything about Shane any more. I’ve always been terrified of him finding me again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So this wasn’t my fault?’ she said, looking at Jacob.
‘No, love. It wasn’t. But there’s no need for us to mention any of this to anyone, ever. It can be our secret.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
One month later, DC Pamela Small sat at her office desk, going over the list of contacts in Oliver Cambridge’s mobile phone. There’d been a handful of contacts who for various reasons they hadn’t been able to speak to on their first trawl through, and as they were no nearer finding out who was responsible for Cambridge’s murder they were having a last-ditch attempt before the active investigation was closed. Pamela now crossed off Jacob Wilson’s name, having just spoken to his mother. Like most of the contacts in Cambridge’s phone Jacob’s number was there because he’d been supplying him with cannabis. Jacob’s mother had just confirmed her son had been a regular user – buying it from Chez – and he’d been with her on the night of the attack. She’d said Jacob was now in hospital, fighting for his life. That poor family, Pamela thought. Some people had more than their fair share of ill luck. Bad enough to have a son born with a congenital heart disea
se but to have a heart transplant fail and require another one was something else.
Jaded, and in need of a change from going through the contact list again – ‘Repeat everything before we put this to bed,’ the boss had said – she set aside the list and looked again at the forensic report. Perhaps something would strike her afresh, open up a new line of inquiry, although she doubted it. Forensics had been very thorough as usual but they hadn’t been able to lift much of use from Cambridge’s possessions. He hadn’t regained consciousness before his death so hadn’t been able to give them a description of his attackers, and lying in the rain for a whole weekend had washed away any useful forensic evidence. They knew from the footprints on his body and clothes that there’d been more than one assailant, and he’d died from multiple internal injuries and pneumonia. For a while they thought they might have one decent fingerprint, on the metal buckle of Cambridge’s belt, but when they’d run it through the police computer it had come out as a match for Shane Smith, who’d died in a car accident the year before. So either the belt had once belonged to Shane or he’d come into contact with it at some time before he’d died, or the fingerprint had been smudged after all, for not even identical twins shared the same fingerprints.
She continued reading the report, going over what she and the team already knew, then with a small sigh put it aside and returned to the list of phone contacts. She had a hunch Cambridge knew his attackers – possibly thugs he’d crossed; the drug world was merciless and brutal. She’d spoken to his supplier who was more ruthless and brutal than most, even offering him sweeteners if he could help identify the attackers, but he claimed to know nothing of the attack, which was highly doubtful. Likewise, Cambridge’s so-called mates had been ‘unable’ – which Pamela took to mean unwilling – to tell her what they knew, obviously fearing reprisals. So it was looking increasingly likely that this case would join the hundred or so other unsolved murders that were filed away each year in the UK. Cold cases as they were known, no longer being actively investigated but left open in case a new lead came up.
