The woman walked out and left the bedroom door to swing shut behind her. The file said Lauren’s problems were rooted in their broken friendship. Eva understood the woman had paid a high price for what had happened, and she had tried to forgive. But the moment she’d dropped her guard, Lauren had pushed back with a brand new type of poison. Poison for her mind, and her relationship.
She needed Lauren out. She needed this done. Whatever it took.
Eva reached for her mobile phone and seeing a message from Dan waiting on screen she sighed in relief. She dabbed a quick reply text and pressed send.
Miss you. Want all this madness over with. xx
“Me too,” said Dan, reading his text.
“Huh?” said Ronson,
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud,” said Dan, sliding his phone away again.
They drank their hot drinks in silence, Ronson cupping his tea with both hands, Mark inspecting his like it might have provided him with a way out of the awkward situation. But Dan had other plans. He stared at Mark until he had the kid’s attention. Their eyes met over sipped drinks and Mark shook his head, confused about Dan’s intentions. Dan flicked his eyes up to the ceiling, using his gaze to point to the rooms above. Mark frowned again, but this time not in confusion. He diverted his gaze to Ronson and Dan understood Mark’s complaint was about how to get the opportunity to go upstairs while Ronson was with them. Ronson caught the tail end of their glances and Dan looked away, pretending he had been looking at the hideous mime mask on the wall opposite.
“You seem to like that mime mask,” said Ronson.
“It’s, um, pretty eye-catching,” said Dan.
“It’s a souvenir from a previous life,” said Ronson, sniffing.
“Really? You’ve had more than one?” said Dan.
Ronson grinned. “I’ve had a few.”
Dan’s face tightened. He thought of previous location moves, different probation officers, different social workers in other towns.
Ronson carried on, oblivious. “There was the life before my parents died, then there was another time, and now there’s the person you see before you. All quite different, I assure you.”
“Why different?”
“Everyone changes, don’t they?” said Ronson. “Some more than others.”
There was an edge to the man’s words which Dan didn’t like, and now his curiosity had become almost a yearning. Dan was desperate to know, desperate to prove the man was either a devil or, if not a saint, that he was at least innocent of any wrongdoing against the girl. But he wouldn’t get what he wanted from Ronson’s words.. They needed to get upstairs, into the cockpit.
Dan gave Mark another stare. Mark shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, fidgeting under pressure until he could take no more. He scratched his neck and looked at Ronson, his voice going strangely high when he finally spoke. “Mr Ronson, could I use your loo?”
Ronson nodded. “Too much coffee, eh? Yes. It’s upstairs – first door on the left.”
“Thanks,” said Mark. He gave Dan a look in reply, which seemed to say ‘see, I’m going’.
Dan nodded. His task now was to keep Ronson’s mind busy.
“These different lives of yours. Tell me about them.”
“What is there to say, Mr Bradley? The first life. My childhood. I was very well loved and I loved them back, because they mollycoddled me so much.”
“Your parents,” said Dan.
“Yes. I was an only child. I depended on them for everything and never really knew anyone else. Not really. When they died, it was more than a wrench. I thought my whole life was over. But then they left me everything. I felt a duty to go on for them, to keep their spirit going.”
Dan nodded. “Life has to go on. And look at you, you made it. They’d be proud,” Dan lied.
“That was your first life. But you also described other lives…” Dan’s mind worked on various ways to elicit what he was after, but he couldn’t see a way to mine the information he wanted without being blunt. He smiled and said it anyway hoping it might sound like a joke.
“Not a life spent in a prison cell, I hope. You never can tell, you know?”
Ronson looked up with scorn in his eyes. It was the first time Dan had seen such a look from the man.
“No. I’ve never been in a prison cell, nor a police cell. I’ve never been in trouble of that kind.”
Of that kind? Above them the floorboards creaked. Dan spoke with sudden urgency.
“I’m interested. What other kind of trouble is there, apart from trouble with the law?”
“Aside from dealing with the scum next door? The emotional kind,” said Ronson,
Each word sounded worse than the last. A man with a stunted personality like Ronson, a man who had emotional trouble… inevitably, Dan thought of the girl down the street.
The floorboards above creaked again. This time they seemed to come from a different part of the house…
Dan coughed. “Tell me about it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ronson. “But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Ronson’s eyes flared at him. “Because it hurts too bloody much.”
Upstairs, Mark teased the door open. At last, he had found the right room. The spare room was papered in the same tasteless stripe and floral design which must have been there since the house was first built. The room was spartan and empty, except for being dominated by a desk – a functional flatpack pine affair which had been badly put together, probably by Ronson himself. There were two screens on the desk for two entirely different computers, each with its own separate hard drive tower below the keyboard. One of the screens took precedence over the other, higher in position and larger. But both machines were on standby, a small red light glowing on each one. Mark grimaced at the thought of what lay in those silent hard drives. At first he hadn’t believed a word of Dan’s paedophile theory but watching the man’s eyes on the little girl down the street, he had begun to fear the worst. By now it made sense. Ronson even looked and acted like a stereotypical pervert. Just the thought of it made him apprehensive about checking the room, in case he saw something he would never be able to forget. Or in case he ended up tainted by association. They said you couldn’t get over seeing something like that, didn’t they? Mark blew out a long breath and looked at the machines before turning away, ignoring them deliberately. Instead, he looked at the box files beside the computer towers, and at the frugal ornaments dotted around the room. A glass ball with a swirl of colour inside, like a giant marble, sat on the windowsill. A small model of Snoopy wearing a Biggles style pilot’s hat and goggles mocked him from the desk. Another thing to ignore. Mark pressed on, but there was precious little to look at aside from the dreaded machines. Surely Ronson would have them password protected, and the very worst data would be buried deep within the system, difficult to find. But then, some of them wanted to be caught, didn’t they? They knew what they did was wrong and they wanted to be stopped. That was what people said. Mark gulped. Behind the folds of one curtain he noticed a small book, covered in rough artisan-style handmade paper. The kind of thing the posh shops on the Leigh Broadway might have stocked. No doubt it would have been described as handcrafted and certainly artisan. Mark picked up the book and inspected it, feeling the satisfying roughness of the surface beneath his fingers. He flicked open the thick pages, expecting to find doodles, or maybe Ronson’s wishes for his life. Mark had once tried writing positive affirmations, and then he’d tried cosmic ordering in a similar journal. For a time, in Joanne, it seemed his order had been delivered, but now he wasn’t so sure. Mark opened the book pages parting on a photograph of a young girl. A cute little girl leaning by a radiator, pulling a cutesy face at the camera, showing off. The girl wore a little summer dress and her hair was tied in pigtails, and she wore long socks. There was something odd about the way she held herself, with her hand on her hip, something flirty, he decided, about her eyes. Flirty. Even the word seemed inappropriate to use abo
ut a child. It felt wrong. But the girl was young. Mark guessed she could have been no older than six or seven. He grimaced at himself and flicked over the page. He immediately found another image of the same girl, this time in a swimming costume, a full bathing suit, a pink flamingo on the front. The girl was smiling widely and was around the same age as the photo before it. Was it the girl who lived down the street? Mark’s heart beat faster. It was hard to tell with her hair all wet and slick with water. Mark shook his head and flicked on. The very next photograph was an image of Ronson himself holding the girl close. The little man was bare chested, and surprisingly hairy. Even his head seemed hairier, his shoulders too, and he held the girl to his upper body, in nothing but a pair of shorts, pressing her against him. Mark frowned deeply. He looked at other aspects of the image. A small garden in the background, a patio, a brick-built barbeque, a bright blue sky. Not this house, then. So where had it happened?
Ronson leaned towards the lounge door, his eyes angling for the stairwell. Dan looked at him.
“Mark always takes a long time in the toilet. Honestly, I think he might have a secret OCD or something. Something about washing his hands. I haven’t had the heart to talk to him about it. Not yet. He’s very sensitive.”
Ronson looked at him, a hint of doubt showing in his small, near-sighted eyes. “Upstairs is off limits, you know. Everyone has a right to some secrets in life, don’t they? Some secrets, and a little personal space.”
“Of course they do,” said Dan, his throat tightening by degrees.
“I’m glad you agree, Mr Bradley?” said Ronson.
There was a sound of a slap and a scuff on the floorboards upstairs. Ronson launched himself to his feet and rubbed a hand across his chin. He looked at Dan once before his eyes tracked through the door to the stairs.
Mark flicked to the rear pages, feeling queasy at the intimacy he saw in the images of Ronson and the girl. There were no photographs elsewhere in the house. The house was soulless, empty, fake. As Mark’s mind began to run amok, he thought of the girl across the street. She was of a similar age to the girl in the snaps, maybe a little older. Like her, she was brown haired, pale faced, innocent and smiley. Mark flicked to the last page of the pasted-in photos and the final image shocked him. The photograph girl was dressed in white, angelic looking, her long hair flowing down straight to her shoulders. She gave the camera a haunting look, her eyes looking right at him from the page. Now Mark felt sure he was looking at the girl across the street. What if it was her?
Mark’s eyes tracked to the two machines and the photograph album spilled from his hands. It fluttered before landing with a smack on the laminated wooden floor. Mark gritted his teeth knitting his eyes shut, before snatching up the album, and setting it back on the windowsill behind the fold of the curtain. He listened for sounds below and heard nothing. With a furrowed brow he moved to the first computer tower and reached for the on-button, then he heard the footsteps on the stairs, firm and hard, climbing quickly. Mark froze. There was no time to escape without being seen. He looked around. He thought of hiding and laid a hand on the door handle but changed his mind at the last second. It was a futile idea. He had no choice but to face the music and talk his way out of it. After all, it was Ronson who had the explaining to do. Mark stepped out onto the landing as the little man reached the last few steps, with Dan following close behind. Mark looked at Ronson with questions in his eyes. Ronson glared back.
“What were you doing in there?” said Ronson. The man was flustered and upset.
“I, uh, I saw your computers and I just couldn’t help myself. Nice piece of kit, actually. But I wondered why you had two of them.”
Ronson’s eyes stayed sharp.
“Because I need to read incoming market data while I plot my buys. I need to decide whether the buy is worth making, with up-to-the-second information. The big screen is always updating while I work.”
The man’s tone was hard and angry. Mark nodded.
“You shouldn’t have gone in there,” said Ronson. “Did you switch those machines on?”
“No, of course not,” said Mark firmly, glaring back at the man with equal vehemence.
Ronson nodded, turning for the stairs. “Good. Then come back downstairs now. I don’t like people up here, and I especially don’t like it when—”
“I couldn’t help seeing that little book in there,” said Mark.
Ronson stopped and turned back, looking him full in the face.
The little man looked almost confused. But Mark was only half talking to Ronson – his words were equally aimed at Dan.
“That fancy little book you keep on the windowsill. The one with all the pictures of the little girl.”
“You looked at that?” said Ronson. His face turned pink, then deep red. Mark couldn’t tell whether the man was furious or deeply ashamed.
“Pretty little thing, she is,” said Mark. “Pretty and innocent looking, like a little angel. Amazing thing is she looks just like the girl across the street. I never realised you knew her so well.”
Mark let his words hang in the air. Dan’s face hardened. He stepped forward to stand alongside their client, ready to respond to whatever happened next.
“You… you shouldn’t have done that,” said Ronson. “That album is none of your business. None of your business at all.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude, but… it did strike me as interesting that you know her so well. Seeing as you never mentioned it.”
“You have photographs of that girl? The Mellot girl?” said Dan, looking at Ronson.
The man was still pink-faced. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose and swallowed before he spoke. His voice was quiet. “No I don’t. But they really do look alike, don’t they? I always thought so. I’m glad you think the same.”
Ronson walked past Mark, forcing his way into the computer room. Dan quickly followed, making sure nothing could be hidden or destroyed without Ronson being caught in the act. As soon as he was in the room, Ronson turned to face them, holding onto the door.
“Seeing as you’ve already broken my trust and invaded my privacy, why don’t you come in and finish the job?” he said. Dan frowned.
“What do you mean?” said Dan.
“Well, come on, young man, in you come.”
Mark hesitated, his mind still flashing with the horror stories waiting to be discovered on the machines. But he couldn’t decline, and Dan was with him. He walked into the room, and Ronson pushed the door to, shutting them in, side by side. The room felt suddenly cramped and claustrophobic as Mark looked around. In closing the door Ronson had revealed a small framed photograph hanging on the narrow strip of wall behind the door. The image showed a small, stocky man standing beside a young girl, a far smaller version of the one he’d seen in the little white book. The girl was podgier, with a rounder, infantile head. This little girl stood between Ronson and a surprisingly pretty woman with shiny dark hair. The woman and the child looked alike. The woman in the picture was in her thirties, with a sharp chin and friendly brown eyes.
“I miss her like nothing else in the world,” said Ronson. I haven’t seen my Victoria for three years. And even then Margot wouldn’t let me see her more often than once a week. She said I was a selfish person, and a malign influence in their lives. What she really meant is that she wanted to be with new man, and to remove me from Vicky’s life altogether. She loved me once, Margot. But I’ve been deleted you see. I suspect she doesn’t even tell Victoria a thing about me now… She’s probably unaware that I even exist.”
“That girl is your daughter?” asked Dan.
“Yes. My Vicky,” he said.
“But what about mediation. The courts,” said Dan. “Surely you could get access?”
“No. I’ve tried all that, believe me. The courts demolished my case. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I have a few disadvantages in life. People get certain preconceptions once they meet me, which Margot played on to the full. She used
to love me, quirks and all, until she didn’t anymore. And then she became cruel, but apparently I’m the selfish one. The courts, the mediation services, all of them turned their backs on me. I miss her terribly, not Margot, but Victoria. She’s the only one I love now. She might not see me until she grows up. She might never see me. I’ve deleted Margot like she’s deleted me, but I’ll never, ever forget my little girl.”
“You’ve got money,” said Dan looking around. “Didn’t that help you at all?”
“I gave Margot plenty so she could get the settlement she wanted. But it didn’t matter a jot when it came to access. The court didn’t take it into account. And Margot’s new man has more than I do. I’ve come to terms with it, but it hurts like nothing else in this world.”
Dan and Mark exchanged a look a look.
“We noticed you paid a lot of attention to the girl across the street.”
Ronson shrugged. “I came to you because of her as much as me. She’s in danger, Mr Bradley. Not from me, if that’s what you were thinking. Never from me. She reminds me so much of my little girl, it hurts to look. But at least I can imagine what she might be like, what she might be doing when I see her. But those sickos next door. I swear to you, what do they mean by talking to her. I know she’s been in their house. It sickens me to think what could happen to her. You don’t even know what goes on in there, but you believe them over me. You’ve got no idea!”
Dan ran a hand across his face.
“Actually, Mr Ronson, we’ve looked at your neighbours, and we have a very good idea of what they do. The version they tell people like me, who knock at their door. And the real version of events.”
“They were bound to lie to you,” said Ronson. “They lied to me at the start. Now they openly mock me. They intimidate me. They tell me to leave if I don’t like it.”
“Do you want to know what they do in there?” said Dan.
“Is it as bad as I think it is?” said Ronson.
Play With Fire Page 18
