by Tom Bale
He blamed his lack of boundaries on the fact that his mother had died of cancer when he was seventeen. Gerard had by then been married to his second wife – who Freddie despised – and they had two young daughters. Now Freddie had a chance to make a family of his own.
They had married in secret, with Jen reluctantly agreeing not to tell her own parents. Though diplomatic about it, they approved of Freddie only slightly more than Gerard did of Jen. After a low-key ceremony at a register office in London, the newlyweds escaped to Hawaii for a month, where Freddie burned through the last of his mother’s trust fund and set about gingerly negotiating a peace deal with his father.
An uneasy truce was established, and Gerard had reacted with delight to the arrival of a grandson. By then his second marriage was in meltdown, and it soon became clear that Gerard would be seeing little of his daughters as they grew up. It still puzzled Jen that he had meekly conceded custody of the girls – who nowadays spent more time at boarding school than they did with either of their parents – whereas he seemed enraged by the idea of Freddie losing Charlie.
Then again, she knew Gerard to be highly irrational, as well as spiteful. But he was nothing if not well connected, and there was every chance that news of her arrest had found its way to him via his network of contacts in the worlds of politics, media and the law.
Either that, or she was being paranoid. After all, hadn’t Nick made a similar comment on Monday?
In sleep, all her fears were unleashed: she was a criminal, doomed to suffer a criminal’s fate; she had lost her mind, and more blackouts would follow. But the slippery black vein that snaked through every nightmare was the terror of losing Charlie – losing not just his physical presence but his love, his trust in her.
She woke with a start at some time around four, disorientated because she was in a proper bed rather than on the sofa. Then she felt her temples contract and her throat swell; she only just had time to throw herself off the bed before she vomited.
It made a revolting mess on a carpet already stained by previous tenants, but at least Charlie’s bed had been spared. Jen mopped up the worst of it with an old towel, rinsed her mouth and then forced herself to sip some water before staggering back to bed, where she collapsed and promptly passed out again.
More dreams. She was in Tilgate Forest, somehow as both her fourteen-year-old self and simultaneously her present age, with an adult’s perspective on her childish bid to escape from the world.
She’d grown up in a small town in Surrey, an outdoorsy, tomboyish kid with plenty of friends but no real soulmates, given to solitude and undoubtedly a bit quirky, if not downright weird. How many teenage girls had a poster of Ranulph Fiennes on the wall, alongside George Michael and Take That?
Raised in a loving, prosperous family, Jen was the eldest of three girls, though sometimes she’d felt excluded by her sisters, who were six years younger, and twins. There had been little sign of adolescent rebellion until, in the late summer of 1996, a growing sense of alienation had compelled her to run away from home.
Her destination, Tilgate Forest, was a place she already knew well. She was experienced at camping, having been a Brownie from the age of seven, and then a Girl Guide. She planned her move carefully, taking a tent and enough high-energy foods for three or four days. The weather forecast was favourable, though on the first night the temperature dropped much lower than she’d anticipated, making it impossible to sleep. But what had really turned her adventure into an ordeal was the power of her imagination.
Deep in the forest, where full daylight never reached, the feather-light rustling of dry leaves could be a mere breath of wind or some harmless squirrel, but more likely it was confirmation that she was being stalked. Wrapped in a lightweight sleeping bag, curled up in the hollow of a dead tree trunk, she somehow managed to survive three long nights, convinced that she was about to be attacked by dogs, wolves, bears, rapists – even vampires and zombies.
In all the years since, even during a couple of bad falls while free climbing, even with hypothermia in the mountains of Norway or dysentery in Tanzania, she had never felt as certain that she would die as she had been in Tilgate Forest. Hour after hour she’d wept silent tears, shivering so violently it might have knocked her heart out of rhythm.
But I came through it, didn’t I? Shouldn’t that be the point—
She was trying to explain to somebody who refused to listen when a piledriver started up. Jen opened her eyes and the sound morphed into a thumping on the front door. A familiar voice called her name.
Nick.
She wiped her mouth and found it crusted with saliva – at least she hoped it was only saliva. She managed to cry, hoarsely, ‘Just coming!’ Then sat up, but felt the room shift violently and had to lie down again, staring at the ceiling as she willed the carousel to stop.
Eventually she made it to the door, having pulled on a full-length robe and wrapped a towel around her hair, hiding as much of herself as possible. A glimpse in the mirror made her want to cry, and Nick’s reaction confirmed it.
‘Bloody hell, Jen, you weren’t kidding, were you?’
Confused for a second, she remembered that she was supposed to be off sick. Nick thought she looked like this because of a stomach bug.
‘Was the main door unlocked?’
‘Your neighbour buzzed me in. She asked if I was a cop.’
‘You?’ Jen snorted, inadvertently blowing snot from her nose. She wiped it away with her arm, lost her balance and nearly hit her head on the doorframe. Still drunk.
Nick pushed the door shut and moved towards her. Jen cringed, aware that she probably stank of booze and vomit, but he showed no sign of revulsion as he took her into his arms.
‘I’m worried about you, Jen. That prick Freddie better not be giving you more grief?’
‘No, it’s nothing,’ she mumbled, fighting the temptation to bury her face in his chest.
‘I’m not buying that. Tell me.’
His arms were comfortingly strong, his torso a slab of muscle. He smelt ridiculously good, too. Jen didn’t trust herself to speak. Nick’s hands had started to move, one slipping lower, the other trailing up her spine and along her neck. . .
She pushed herself backwards, out of his grip. ‘I can’t do this. I look disgusting.’
‘Nothing a shower wouldn’t fix.’
‘No. I feel really dreadful. And it’s wrong.’
He sighed. ‘I don’t get what the problem is? We’re both single—’
‘But I’m not, yet. Not officially.’
‘That doesn’t stop him screwing everything in sight.’
‘I know, but anything I do will be used against me, because that’s what they’re like, Freddie and his dad—’
‘You can’t let them control you like this.’ His tone was sour, even petulant. ‘Or is it easier just to blame them if you’re not really interested?’
‘What?’
‘Well, come on. You can’t say you haven’t been sending mixed messages.’
Jen shut her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her forehead: the pain was drilling through her skull. It stung that there was an element of truth in his words. Although she liked Nick, she hadn’t yet decided whether she liked him enough for anything to happen.
They’d come close a couple of times, most recently on a staff night out; at the end of the evening they’d been kissing in the dark corner of a pub when one of their colleagues nearly caught them, reminding Jen of the added complications of a relationship with her boss.
‘Nick, I’m sorry. It was good of you to come round, but I need to get some rest.’
‘I’m not here just to see how you are. You were meant to be at work and didn’t show up.’ He sniffed. ‘And call me a cynic, but I think you look hungover, more than ill.’
She met his gaze, unashamed. ‘If you want the truth, today I am. I got so pissed that I threw up in the night.’
‘But you hardly drink. Who were you with?’
> ‘No one.’ She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at his assumption. ‘I know this is short notice, but can I have a few days off? I’m not in any fit state to work at the moment.’
‘We’re already short-staffed.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. It’s only today and tomorrow, and then I’m off anyway. Please, Nick.’
She could see him weighing up the advantage of having her in his debt. Eventually, with a sigh, he said, ‘I guess I can ask Paula to do some more hours.’
‘Thank you. I’ll stay in touch, and perhaps catch up properly at the weekend?’
He nodded reluctantly, aware that he was being asked to leave. ‘So Charlie’s away – I bet you’ll be glad of the freedom?’
She flinched. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Getting some time to yourself—’
‘It’s not a chore to be with my son. I miss him like crazy when he’s with his dad. I don’t see why everyone keeps going on about freedom. . .’
‘Okay, okay.’ Nick had both hands up to placate her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She winced – raising her voice had sent the headache up a notch – and eyed him suspiciously. ‘Do you know a man called Alex Wilson?’
‘Name doesn’t mean anything. Who is he?’
‘Forget it.’
‘Jen, if someone’s giving you hassle, I wanna be here for you.’ He looked ready to embrace her again.
‘It’s fine.’ She gave a conciliatory smile, and ushered him out of the flat, aware that her behaviour must seem truly alarming.
Nick wasn’t her enemy. What was she thinking?
20
After showering and brushing her teeth, Jen felt human once again. Maybe not well enough to scrub the carpet, but ready to risk a mug of sweet tea and some toast.
She decided that it was bound to fuel her paranoia, the fear that Freddie had whisked their son away and might not bring him back. The knowledge that Gerard had acquired a property in Greece was another reason to be afraid.
So what next? The question, only half-serious, floated in her mind as she picked up her phone. She had a brief message from Freddie, assuring her that Charlie had slept well and sent his love; he promised to let her know when they landed in Crete. There were also a couple of texts from Anna: Were they still on for tonight?
In one sense she was gratified: she’d been worrying that her friend might cool towards her as a result of her arrest. As well as the childcare, Anna had been a great source of moral support over the past year or so, and Jen couldn’t afford to lose her friendship – even if, right now, she couldn’t imagine anything worse than a night on the town.
Back to that question: what next? She had no proof, that was the trouble. No proof that anyone was acting maliciously against her. No proof of her own innocence.
She had to get some evidence, one way or the other, but how?
The answer was obvious, really.
Confront Alex Wilson.
She phoned Anna, and heard the hubbub of children in the background. ‘I hope you’re not gonna cancel on me,’ Anna warned, with a laugh. ‘I’m craving some grown-up company.’
‘No, I can make it. I might not be up to drinking, though.’
‘You have to. I’m the sober one – your wingman.’
‘I won’t be needing a wingman.’
‘Don’t be negative. You’re too gorgeous to be on your own, and it’s my mission to find you the perfect partner for life – or, failing that, a decent shag.’
Laughing, Jen could only agree that Anna would collect her at seven thirty.
‘And dress up, girl. Any glimpse of sportswear and I’ll put you over my knee.’
‘We’re not going anywhere posh?’
‘Up to you. But it’s got to be lively. With a decent menu.’
Hoping she might have regained an appetite by then, Jen drank some more water and took a couple of ibuprofen. Then she cleaned the carpet, struggling against waves of nausea at the sour smell of regurgitated vodka.
She left the windows wide open while she showered again, but made sure they were shut and locked before leaving the flat. Couldn’t be too careful.
The air felt slightly cooler, making it a warm and very pleasant English summer’s day. She wondered about the temperature in Crete, and whether Freddie could be trusted to remember the importance of a hat for Charlie, and regular applications of sun cream.
It was now mid morning. At a nearby block of flats, a team of three men were putting up a scaffold. As Jen passed, one of them whistled, and another barked at him: ‘Keep your bloody eyes on the job!’
She continued down the hill, towards the point where she would, in effect, be breaking the law. There were no cars parked outside number 14, and no activity near the house, but Jen’s heart was beating hard.
She knew she mustn’t appear furtive, so she lifted her chin and walked briskly over the dried-out grass, rapped confidently on the front door and heard the sound echo through the house. No one there. She peered closely at the door, but the tape she’d used for the note didn’t seem to have left any mark.
After half a minute she rang the doorbell, without much hope, then glanced over her shoulder. And sighed.
Russell Pearce was hurrying towards her, dressed in what looked like the same outfit he’d worn on Tuesday – jogging shorts and a rugby shirt – but with the addition of long white socks and brown crocs. He raised a hand in greeting, and said, ‘He’s gone.’
‘What?’
‘The guy who lived there. He left yesterday.’
‘You mean he’s moved out?’
‘Yep. He must have been renting it furnished, because there wasn’t a van or anything.’
Mystified, Jen shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Always was a bit odd, if you ask me. Some days I’d see him go out in the morning with one of those boxes, only to return after twenty minutes and take the box back inside.’
He shrugged at the absurdity, but Jen was still trying to process his previous revelation. ‘How do you know he moved out?’
‘Oh, he had these bin bags with duvets and pillows. . .’ He faltered, then said, ‘I’ve been taking a closer interest, in light of what happened to you.’
Jen turned to stare at the door. ‘Was his girlfriend with him?’
‘I wasn’t aware that he had one.’
Conscious of his ravenous gaze, she crossed her arms and shivered. ‘The police said he used his girlfriend’s keys because his had gone missing the day before the break-in.’
A grunt from Pearce. ‘To be honest, I thought he might be gay. The only regular visitor I saw was a young Pak— uh, Asian bloke. The type that really love themselves, you know? Flash suits and perfect hair, and this fuck-off silver watch you could see from a mile away.’ He sniffed, disparagingly, and sidled a little closer.
Jen said, ‘I suppose it’s irrelevant, now he’s moved out.’ She started to turn away, only for him to paw at her shoulder.
‘Hold on. What about my offer?’
‘It’s very kind, but I can’t ask you to lie.’
‘I’m not. I wouldn’t be.’ He dropped his gaze. ‘I didn’t want to admit it before, in case it made me look a bit. . . dodgy. The thing is, I did see you on Monday.’ He gestured at the lawn. ‘You bent over, like you were picking something up.’
‘Honestly?’ Despite his manner, she felt a rush of optimism – but it lasted only a second. ‘Haven’t you already spoken to the police?’
‘I’ll say I’ve just realised the significance. I doubt if the officer even filed a report.’ He took out his phone and asked for her number. ‘Let me text you my full name and address, and please feel free to pass it on to the cops, or your solicitors, or whoever. Anything to help.’
Against her better judgment, Jen gave him her number and Pearce sent her a text to confirm he’d got it right. He grinned as her phone bleeped, and murmured, ‘Gotcha.’
‘I think
I’d better talk it over with my solicitor,’ she warned.
‘Good idea.’ He walked alongside her, clearly not wanting her to go. ‘So, er, what does your husband make of all this?’
Too weary to lie, she said, ‘We’re separated.’ And then could have lip-synced his corny response: ‘Really? He must be mad.’
She gave a disdainful shrug. ‘Thanks. I’ll see what my solicitor says.’
21
‘How certain are you that he’s telling the truth?’
‘Not a hundred per cent, to be honest.’
Allenby was doodling something on a pad; he didn’t look up as he asked, ‘I mean, are there any possible ulterior motives? Something the prosecution could embarrass us with?’
‘Oh, I’m pretty sure he’d offer to say anything if I agreed to sleep with him.’
That caught his attention. ‘I assume that’s not a likely—’
Jen recoiled so violently that her chair shifted on its casters. Allenby dropped the pen and said, ‘I’ll take that as an emphatic no.’
She was back in the Middle Street building. In contrast to Yvonne Cartwright, Allenby kept his office in an immaculate state, all his files and folders shut away in glass-fronted cabinets. There were several photo frames on his desk, but positioned in such a way that Jen couldn’t see what they contained. On a narrow shelf behind him there was a line of small objects that she thought might be Pokémon sliders, a toy craze she vaguely remembered from fifteen or twenty years ago.
‘I’m not comfortable that Pearce told the police he didn’t see anything, and yet now he’s claiming he did. He’d be mincemeat in the witness box.’ Allenby intertwined his fingers and pressed them against his chin. ‘Let’s keep him in reserve if we get truly desperate.’
‘Are we likely to?’ Jen shot back, and when no answer was forthcoming, she sat forward. ‘Don’t you think we should be looking at Alex Wilson, and why he’s suddenly moved out?’
‘I’m not sure how relevant that is.’
‘Isn’t it a coincidence – only two days after claiming I’d burgled the place?’
