The Strangers We Know

by Pip Drysdale

  And also, if I’m going to be really honest here, there was another reason I didn’t want to call her: I knew she’d try to talk me into doing something I didn’t want to do. Something that sounded like a good idea but I knew in my marrow wasn’t. Not yet.

  I’m not sure how long I sat on that cold floor, muffling my sobs with my hands, but eventually the tears stopped and a strange calm came over me. Slowly, I pulled myself up and went to the kitchen sink. I turned on the tap, splashed cold water over my face then dried it off with my t-shirt.

  My bag was sitting right there on the counter, and my laptop was inside. So was that little silver USB stick with all Oliver’s files on it. I picked it up, moved over to the sofa, pulled out my computer and fired it up. The white Apple sign glowed bright in the darkened room as I chewed on my inner cheek.

  So you see, the plan was not to run from the police – I wasn’t trying to buy a fake passport and move to Mexico or Bora Bora, was I? The plan was simply to wait until I had something more to give them than just me on a platter.

  Because the papers are always filled with articles about how the police are overstretched and understaffed, how things ‘slipped through the cracks’. I’d already been one of those things once in my life. And if I was right and someone had framed me, then I knew the case against me would be strong. And even if they hadn’t framed me, I was still the spouse, he’d still cheated, there was still a witness to say we’d fought, a scratch on his face, my DNA in it and a life insurance policy I’d organised all by myself.

  So when I walked into that police station to see DCI Holland, I needed to have a strong alternate suspect.

  Think, Charlie, think.

  Who would want Oliver dead?

  And why?

  It couldn’t just be a ‘why’ I believed. It had to be one DCI Holland would buy into too.

  And so I opened up a Word document and started to type: s-u-s-p-e-c-t-s.

  Then I sat there, tears burning in my eyes, watching the cursor flash back at me from the screen. Shit. Why hadn’t I watched more CSI? Because I had no idea what to write down.

  My first reflex action (don’t judge me, I’m simply giving you a true account of events) was to do what I always do when I’m confused: ask Google.

  I pulled up a browser and typed in: UK, homicide, men killed by.

  The first search result was an information page on homicide in the UK from the Office of National Statistics (mildly concerning that this happens so much that it needs a special web page). I clicked on it, my eyes scanning through the information for something that might guide me.

  Seventy-six per cent of suspects convicted of homicide tended to be male.

  So a man probably did this.

  I scanned through the other stats hoping something would make sense to me.

  While 50% of women are killed by a partner or ex-partner, men are far more likely to be killed by a friend or acquaintance (30%).

  Well that’s nice. But everyone loved Oliver. Everyone. Even me. Even after everything.

  So it had to be about something else.

  And to my mind, there were only two reasons people murder other people: love or money.

  Was it some crazy woman he’d met on an app? Or someone’s husband?

  But that would be a crime of passion.

  And a crime of passion is a gunshot, or a stabbing, or something you can’t do silently. It’s loud and messy. It’s amateur. It’s not a well-planned, slip in while he’s all alone, kill him and then slip out again affair.

  No, that’s money.

  It had to have something to do with Oliver’s business dealings, with one of those AK-47 types he said he worked with sometimes.

  I’d never truly understood what Oliver did for work, but does anyone ever really understand the inner workings of another person’s job unless they do it themselves? He didn’t understand why acting meant so much to me – the freedom to be my rawest self and have it applauded instead of shunned, to be absolutely in the moment, to forget my own pain for just an instant – and he didn’t care about vintage dresses or how clever Chanel had been to sew little chains into the hems of her suits to make them hang so well. But what I did understand of it went like this: he was in private equity and he specialised in Latin America and West Africa. That meant he spent a lot of time in places like Brazil and Nigeria. There were others too, but those two were the main ones. As many of the companies he invested in were unlisted, he couldn’t just do it via a screen. He had to go over there and negotiate directly with the boards. Most of it was straight up, but every so often he’d come back from a trip with this white pallor and an expression that scared me. I’d always suspected the break-in at our old flat had something to do with one of those people because he’d insisted on life insurance soon after that happened. And when I asked him why, he’d said it was nothing to worry about, but that there were people out there who weren’t as scrupulous as he was. He was just trying to protect me if ‘the worst thing happened’.

  It makes my stomach shrink to admit it now but there was something sexy in the danger, in the mystery of it all.

  A wave of love washed over me as I realised what he might have been up against: that he’d tried to protect me. Though, that didn’t really tally with the dating apps and the sex parties and the lies he’d told me … It was as though there were two sides to him and I’d only ever been introduced to one of them.

  My computer screen flashed back blue-white in the gloomy room as Tess’s words from the night before banged around inside my skull: ‘Did you know Oliver had a company in the Cayman Islands?’

  Because no, I did not.

  And weren’t offshore bank accounts always used for something shady? What did she call it? Lucamore. That was it. Lucamore Enterprises. And so I typed that into the search field of the thumb drive: L-u – But I didn’t know how to spell Lucamore back then, I spelled it lukeamoore (that was how Tess pronounced it, with a ‘k’) so nothing came up.

  Back to staring blankly at a computer screen. And now I was wondering what good it would do me to find whatever Tess had been looking at anyway. If she didn’t know what it was, I surely wouldn’t either. No, I needed to sift through something I would understand.

  His emails.

  That seemed like the sort of place the police might start: what was he doing just before he died? And so I pulled up a browser window and went to Gmail. I still had all Oliver’s passwords as a photograph on my phone, but I didn’t need to check them: I remembered. We have one life to live …

  I entered his email address and then: o-n-e-l-i-f-e-1-1.

  A white screen.

  And then I was in. I glanced down his inbox but there was nothing of use there, so I clicked through to his sent box. What emails had he written in the days just before his death?

  All three were to Justin. The first was about a meeting. The second was a question about a client. And then came the third.

  The subject read: RE: !!!

  I remembered that email he was replying to with serrated clarity. It was from Justin. The one I found when I was copying his files:

  Man, what the fuck are you doing? My sister just sent this through. Nobody cares what you do in your own time, but have a look at your LinkedIn profile! People are starting to figure out where you work and leave cute messages. We can’t afford this kind of attention. Not after those emails. Fix it.

  My heart was hammering in my chest as I clicked on Oliver’s reply, imagining what he might have said. Had he apologised, told him he’d fix it? Had he given some context as to why he would have done that in the first place? Would I finally get an answer? I swallowed hard, focused on the screen, and forced myself to confront my dead husband’s words:

  Justin, it wasn’t me. I didn’t make that profile. But I think we have a problem.

  My vision grew white at the edges as I stared at the screen.

  What did he mean it wasn’t him?

  It was him! I’d spent all night chatt
ing to him on the app so he was clearly lying.

  But why lie?

  I could understand him lying to me, pretending to me that it was all some big mistake, but Justin had been his close friend for almost eight years and wasn’t exactly Mr Morality himself. I knew he’d cheated on his ex multiple times, for instance. Oliver had told me. And the one time I met her before it ended, she’d confided in me that he had a bona fide porn addiction. That they were going to couples’ counselling. So I would have thought he’d have applauded Oliver’s experimentation, Charlie-be-damned. Besides, he and Oliver had each other’s back.

  Was Oliver just lying to everyone now?

  I reached for the little silver USB stick and plugged it into a USB port. Up came the little orange icon. I clicked on it. Open.

  But my stomach was rumbling and I needed food in order to think, so I went over to Josh’s pantry and pulled out a box of yogurt-covered cereal bars. I took two, ripping open the wrapper of one of them as I headed back to my laptop and Pandora’s box.

  I chewed on the cereal bar as I stared at the screen – all the files I’d taken from Oliver’s computer back when I thought infidelity was the crux of my problems. The answer had to be in there somewhere but I didn’t know where to start my search.

  I looked around the room as though the answers were in the yellowing plaster. My face was getting hot from too much concentration and the air in the room was stale. I needed fresh air, so I reached behind me and unlatched the window. The sky was covered in a layer of white-grey cloud now, the sun just a glary cotton ball behind it.

  It was around then my phone started ringing again: Tess. I clenched my jaw as I watched it ring and ring and ring, clicking it onto silent.

  A wave of guilt washed over me: we always answered each other’s calls. That was the deal. But I was doing this for her own good, to keep her out of it. The call went to voicemail and I sat there, staring at the phone screen, until one new voice mail flashed back at me.

  Focus, Charlie, focus.

  I stared back at the screen and started clicking through files – it was a mishmash of client files, spreadsheets, statements, correspondence and other miscellaneous things I didn’t understand. I scanned my memory banks, seeking out danger I hadn’t seen the first time round. And all I could think of was one name.

  Machado.

  He was the client Oliver met with in the hotel on that night I thought he was cheating. I flashed back to the night I saw them together, trying to remember Oliver’s energy, his facial expressions. Oliver hadn’t seemed scared of Machado. But his face had drained of colour whenever he said that name to Justin over the phone. And he had put that meeting into his calendar as ‘private’. His calendar was synced with his work computer so he would have done that so that nobody he worked with knew he was meeting with Machado.

  Why?

  Who was this man? Was he dangerous? He was clearly wealthy and influential. He obviously had enemies – otherwise why have bodyguards? He’d have ‘people’.

  People who could do this kind of thing.

  People who don’t make mistakes. People who wouldn’t leave DNA. The sorts of people who’d already be out of the country. My mind flashed back to that guy in the shop, the one I told you to take note of. That was around the time the taser search appeared in my browser history. And he’d seemed uncomfortable. But surely Machado, or someone like him, would be more careful than sending someone into the shop I could later identify. No. The sort of person Machado would hire would leave no trace. And if there was no trace, I’d definitely get the blame.

  A fresh wave of nausea washed over me.

  I put down my cereal bar and went into the top right hand search bar, typing in ‘Machado’. Enter. I held my breath as I waited for something to come up.

  Nothing.

  That was strange. I knew he existed. I’d seen him.

  But hang on. If it was Machado, or someone like him, why bother framing me?

  Why not just make it look like an accident?

  Still, maybe he had made it look like an accident.

  I hadn’t spoken to DCI Holland at length yet, there was no way I could know what conclusions the police had drawn. Perhaps I was totally off base and he’d slipped in the shower, perhaps it wasn’t even murder.

  Shit. I should have gone to see DCI Holland.

  I bit down on my lower lip as I imagined her at Charing Cross Police Station, waiting for me, jumping to all sorts of incriminating conclusions. Was I making things worse?

  And so I reached for my phone and pressed play on Tess’s voicemail message.

  ‘Hon, it’s me, what’s going on? Are you okay? The police are trying to find you.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘Look,’ she said slowly, ‘they didn’t tell me exactly what happened, but I know how they operate. And whatever this is, it’s really serious.’

  Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

  My throat grew tight as I hung up the phone. It was only two hours or so after they’d found Oliver’s body. For them to be tracking me down via Natasha-the-neighbour and Tess-the-best-friend with such fervour meant that no, they did not believe it to be an accident. And also: they’d sectioned off our building with do-not-cross police tape and there were far too many forensics people in grey jumpsuits wandering in and out for an accidental slip in the shower. No. They believed it was murder and that I was involved. And they wouldn’t believe that without proper proof.

  That was my hunch, at least.

  And so I just sat there, on Josh’s sofa, my mouth dry and my stomach now a strange mix of cereal bar and nausea, as I tried to figure out what the hell had happened and how I was going to get out of this.

  There was only one other person I could think of who might know something about Machado, or Oliver’s other dealings, someone who might be able to point me in the right direction. But it was the one person I didn’t want to call. Still, I had no choice. I picked up my phone, scrolled through my contacts and called Justin.

  12.36 pm

  ‘Hornsby Private Equity, this is Meredith,’ came a singsong voice from the other end of the line as my pulse beat madly. If he didn’t answer the work number I’d try his cell phone next. But it felt like he was more likely to answer my call if he knew Meredith was aware I was on the other end of the line. He’d have to explain why if he refused.

  I’d met Meredith a few times – once at the office summer party and then a handful of other times when I’d gone into Oliver’s office. It was comforting to hear her voice.

  ‘Hi Meredith, it’s Charlie,’ I said, trying to keep my tone stable. ‘Is Justin available?’

  A silence rang over the line. Shit. The police had already called them. I could tell.

  ‘Charlie,’ Meredith’s voice was crackly now, like she wanted to ask if I was okay but wasn’t sure of the right thing to do in this situation. ‘Sure, I’ll check.’

  The line went dead and I waited for Justin to pick up.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  ‘Charlie?’ Justin’s voice. Finally. ‘Where are you?’

  My ears rang with danger. Were the police there with him?

  ‘Oliver’s dead,’ I said, my voice trembling.

  Beat.

  ‘I know,’ Justin said, his voice dripping sympathy and warmth. ‘The police have already been here. What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I said, my voice coming out five semitones higher than intended. ‘I wasn’t even there. I was at Tess’s place.’

  ‘Well thank god you’re okay. We were all so worried about you. Have you spoken to the police yet?’

  Beat.

  Wait. Why was he being so nice to me?

  ‘Not yet,’ I said, cautious.

  ‘You really need to,’ Justin replied, his voice gentle. Paternal.

  ‘Justin, I had nothing to do with this. And I really think this had something to do with your business stuff,’ I said, and I knew I sounded like the silly, inarticulate woman he’d always thought I was, but I d
idn’t care. I was struggling. ‘I think … I think it might have something to do with that man. Machado. The one you guys spoke about all the time.’

  I could hear Justin breathing on the other side of the phone.

  ‘Who?’ he said.

  ‘Machado,’ I repeated.

  ‘Charlie, I don’t recognise that name. Are you okay? Where are you? I can come and get you.’

  The room swirled around me. What did he mean he didn’t recognise that name? I’d heard Oliver use it on the phone with him many times. For a brief moment I questioned my sanity. But no. I was not crazy. I knew what I’d heard. And I’d seen Machado with my own eyes.

  ‘Yes, you do!’ I said, and there was a level of hostility in my voice I hadn’t expected.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said slowly, ‘you’ve suffered a big shock.’ His voice was oozing a gentleness that threw me off kilter. ‘You need to go to the police and tell them what you know. That’s the only way they’ll find out what happened.’

  And I knew he was probably right. I should go to the police. But I was too scared.

  ‘Look, this is horrible for all of us,’ Justin continued. ‘Oliver was my best friend. If I knew anything I would tell you. The whole thing is baffling. Everyone loved Oliver,’ he said, his voice trailing off. ‘Actually, wait, there is one thing.’ Pause. ‘It’s a bit odd. But I’ve been looking through our things here this morning, through the safe, and I can’t seem to locate some papers. Did Oliver have anything around the house you noticed? Contracts, printouts, that sort of thing?’

  ‘What? Not that I know of.’

  ‘Okay, well please let me know if any papers turn up. They’re really important.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Shit, Meredith is buzzing me, I have to go Charlie. But please speak to the police.’

  ‘Okay.’