by Tom Bale
It was a moot point, but she doubted if she’d have taken the same approach if her mother had been present. Their relationship had been prickly since Jen’s early adolescence, when her mum, then a cautious, homely woman who worked part-time for a fashion retailer, had found herself at a loss to understand her eldest daughter’s love of extremes, of wilderness and adventure, and her complete disregard for make-up and clothes and celebrity culture.
That lack of insight went both ways, particularly when the twins finished their A levels and her mum abruptly threw herself into what became an all-encompassing, jet-setting career as a senior buyer for a different retail chain. This was in stark contrast to Jen’s dad. Ian Cornish had joined a telecoms firm at the age of seventeen and worked there for nearly four decades, happily plodding towards the earliest possible retirement. He’d bowed out three years ago, at the age of fifty-five, and was now as deeply content with a life of gardening, badminton and social drinking as Faith was with boardrooms, trade shows and executive lounges.
The set-up meant her parents were often apart, which seemed to suit them both. It certainly suited Jen right now: whereas her mum would have panicked and screeched and invariably said the wrong thing, Dad knew just what to do.
He said nothing. He let her unleash all the pent-up emotion, and only when she’d cried it out did he lead her into his shed to brew up a mug of sweet tea and produce a generous supply of biscuits – ‘Of course I didn’t eat them all!’ – and then lower the volume of the cricket commentary as he waited for her to explain.
‘Monday morning, I was walking to the bus stop. . .’
She told him everything, up to and including the moment last night when she’d seen Sam Dhillon get into a car driven by Alex Wilson. Her father listened carefully, sipping his tea and urging Jen to drink hers.
‘Before I saw the two of them together, I was close to believing that I’d lost my mind,’ she told him. ‘That maybe I had done it, and then blanked it out.’
‘If you had a problem as severe as that, I’m sure it would have manifested itself in other ways, and I daresay Charlie would have alerted me to it.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Jen had stood firm on refusing Charlie’s pleas for a mobile phone, but had recently allowed him to start emailing his grandparents, hoping it would help with his literacy.
‘He sent me a brief message on Wednesday about an unexpected holiday in Crete with his dad.’
She nodded. ‘A super-luxurious villa owned by you-know-who. He was really excited.’
‘Oh? All he said to me was how much he’d miss his mum. He didn’t like the idea of being so far away from you. I told him not to think about the distance, because it’s only a couple of hours on a plane.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘At least he’s safely removed from all this.’
‘Geographically, yes. But I keep coming back to the fact that Charlie is the only thing I have that’s precious – the only thing that someone might want to take from me.’
He looked at her askance. ‘You suspect this is Freddie’s doing?’
‘It’s hard to believe he’d hurt me like this, but his dad. . .’ Jen spread her hands. ‘If it’s not a conspiracy to discredit me, what else could it be?’
‘That’s what it looks like, I agree.’
‘And to be going to all this trouble – renting a house, hotel rooms. . .’
‘It would be quite an undertaking,’ Ian agreed. ‘Though Mr Lynch senior isn’t exactly short of cash.’ His face lit up in response to a brief commotion on the radio. ‘We’ve taken a wicket!’ he exclaimed, then: ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I feel awful to burden you with all this.’
‘It would hurt a lot more if you kept it from me.’
She nodded, soberly, and took a mouthful of tea. ‘Anyway, I called Sam Dhillon last night and arranged to meet him for coffee this morning.’
‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t turn up.’ She described how she’d followed Dhillon to a hotel, and then planned an incursion to unearth some kind of clue as to her enemy’s identity and purpose.
Although he tutted, her dad sounded only mildly cross. ‘I suppose I can’t blame you, in the circumstances, but was it really likely to yield a result?’
‘I just felt I had to do something.’ She took out her phone, and tried to show him the document she’d photographed, but it was hard to make sense of the scribbles, and her dad’s thick fingers weren’t up to the task of moving or expanding the image.
‘Bloody touch screens,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s go home and print a copy on good old-fashioned paper.’
29
He’d walked to the allotment, so he drove back with Jen. A petrolhead himself, he pointedly refrained from commenting on the luxury of her ex-husband’s car. Jen thought they both needed a break from discussing her troubles, so she asked about her sisters, guilty that she hadn’t been in touch with either of them for several weeks.
‘Marcie’s fine, not that she ever tells us much.’ A grunt. ‘You girls all have a secretive streak.’
‘Independent,’ Jen corrected him. ‘What about Kat?’
‘Mm. Between you and me, I don’t think she and Julia will be together much longer.’
‘That’s a shame. They seemed so perfect for each other.’
‘I think so, too. Though I suspect your mum is still trying to convince herself that dating women is just a phase, to be passed over in favour of finding a man and having babies galore. . .’
‘I dunno why that’s so important to her.’ Jen snorted. ‘Especially after the mess I made of it.’
‘Well, it did give us – and you – a beloved little boy.’
‘Oh God, yes. But you know what I mean – life’s not a fairy tale. Surely she’s worked that out by now?’
‘No, because for your mother, it is.’ He wore a big grin, and Jen was already groaning in anticipation of the punchline: ‘After all, she’s married to me.’
The house was a detached redbrick villa close to the local tennis club. It had never been Jen’s home because her parents, at her mum’s insistence, seemed to move house more often than most people change their cars. As well as being larger than the last one, this property had a generous garden at the rear, which called into question the need for an allotment.
‘Old habits, I suppose,’ Ian said. ‘Allotments have always been my sanctuary, which as the only man living among four women, felt quite important to me. Nowadays I don’t really need that, any more than Faith needs all these bedrooms and bathrooms, and yet here we are.’
He suggested they sit in the back garden, but Jen got no further than the kitchen, where she discovered a new addition to the family: a tiny black kitten, who was being haughtily ignored by Wisty, their six-year-old short-haired tabby.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t she? We got her last week, from one of the neighbours.’
‘Is Wisty all right with that?’
‘I think he’s a bit scornful, watching Sprite clamber all over us. What Wisty knows is that the food will be there every day, regardless of how little you ingratiate yourself.’
Jen knelt down and offered her forefinger, the kitten leaping up to paw at it before frantically chasing her tail.
Her dad said, ‘We thought we’d keep it as a surprise for Charlie, until the next time he visits. Is that all right?’
‘Of course. He’ll adore her.’ And pester for a pet himself, Jen thought.
Her attention was caught by a sheet of newspaper beneath the litter tray. She fished it out and saw a familiar savage grin. ‘You don’t buy this, do you?’
‘That evil shit-rag? God, no. But they always have a copy at the pub, so I make a habit of removing Gerard’s column from the Thursday edition and using it for the cats to piss on. All it’s good for, if you ask me.’
Jen’s phone was already hooked up to the Wi-Fi, and after a minor tussle with technology they managed to send the photos to print. Ian poured two glasses of his favourite
organic lemonade, added plenty of ice, and they sat at the rustic picnic bench on the lawn, shaded by an old willow that was the centrepiece of the garden.
Ian examined the printout and agreed with her assessment of its content. ‘From a website. SilverSquare. Have you looked them up?’
‘They’re product designers based in London, a small set-up, I think, but successful – that’s the impression they’re trying to give, at least.’ Anticipating his next question, she said, ‘There are quite a few staff profiles, but they don’t include Wilson or Dhillon.’
‘Or this chap, Dean?’
‘No. So either they’re lower level staff, or they’re connected to the company in some other way.’
‘Or not connected at all. These doodles are the sort of thing you do while you’re on the phone, in between jotting down notes. Maybe this is just a piece of scrap paper he picked up from somewhere.’
‘True.’ Glumly, Jen said, ‘So it’s one step forward, two steps back.’
‘Not necessarily. This could well be a piece of the puzzle, but we won’t know until we get a hint of the overall picture.’
She pointed to the handwritten scribbles. ‘I’m assuming some of these are initials, but what do you make of “DD”? And don’t say bra size.’
He smirked. ‘Putting it next to that date, I’m thinking due diligence. It’s a process you go through before buying a business, to be sure you know exactly what you’re getting.’
‘Like a survey on a house?’
‘A bit like that. So perhaps this is saying the due diligence is starting on the twenty-fourth of September, or has to be completed by then.’ He leaned forward, chewing his lip. ‘And in that context, “KMI” could mean key man insurance – a policy that companies take out as protection against losing their vital personnel. The question of key staff will figure highly in the due diligence procedure, because the new owners will want to know just how much its success depends on the knowledge or talents of its main people, and whether they’re going or staying.’
Jen digested this information. ‘All very fascinating, but nothing here seems to relate to what’s happening to me.’
‘Not really, no.’ Sighing, he crossed his arms. ‘I will say this. Please think carefully about digging any further into what these men are doing, because the minute you become a threat to them. . .’
He left the rest of the warning unspoken, perhaps because he knew Jen was unlikely to heed it. Then he said, ‘Have you considered making enquiries with the artist?’
‘What? No. How would I?’
‘Search online? Browse a few galleries in Brighton? The work sounds quite distinctive – and valuable – so I think we can assume that Wilson or his cronies didn’t make it. If it came from a genuine artist, that person might at least be able to tell you how they got involved.’
She nodded, encouraged by his suggestion. ‘It’s better than doing nothing.’
‘And safer than going after the men directly.’ He gestured at the ceiling. ‘You know, you’re welcome to stay here for a few days. There’s plenty of room.’
‘Thanks. But it would feel too much like running away.’
He snorted. ‘Exactly what I thought you’d say.’
‘Sorry. I don’t want you worrying yourself sick.’
‘Oh, I won’t,’ he said breezily. ‘I’ve not worried seriously about you since Tilgate Forest.’
‘Really?’ It came out in an odd tone, and she realised she was trying not to sound hurt.
He scrambled to explain: ‘Not while you were missing, that was a living hell—’
‘Dad, I know. Please don’t.’
‘But when you were found, none the worse for wear and still brilliantly defiant about your reasons for running off, I just knew you were one of life’s survivors, someone who’d find a way to deal with whatever was thrown at you.’ He touched his fist against her arm, like a sporting salute. ‘I hope I can claim some of the credit for that – as well as some of the blame.’
‘Why blame?’
He looked at her, confused. ‘Some girls at school had been picking on you. Because you were a tomboy, basically. They were calling you a lesbian – which I’ve always thought is ironic, given that Kat at the same age could have put Barbie to shame for hair and make-up. The power of stereotypes, I suppose.’
‘And that’s why I ran away?’ Jen was stunned. ‘I thought it was. . . Well, me and Mum. We were always at each other’s throats.’
‘That was after you ran away. Until then, you were pretty much the apple of her eye. Afterwards, she didn’t really know how to be a mother to you. She thought she’d failed, and I’m not sure she’s ever got over that.’
‘Oh, Dad. . .’
‘My biggest fear was that you’d done away with yourself. When the news came through that you were safe, it was the single most joyous moment of my life. More than your birth, or when your sisters came into the world. More than becoming a granddad.’ He gazed into her eyes. ‘It never once occurred to me to be angry, I promise you. It never has, and it never will.’
Tears had blurred his vision. With a mumbled apology, he gathered her in his arms. Jen rested her head on his shoulder, glorying in the safe, familiar smell of him, and was taken back to the moment of her discovery. She was found by a group of local volunteers who’d been combing the woods around Crawley throughout the hours of daylight. The wretchedness she felt now was only a shadow of what she’d experienced at the time; made worse by the kindness and sensitivity she’d been shown.
Snuffling, she said, ‘You moved house because of that.’
‘I daresay we would have anyway. You know what your mum’s like.’
Not really, Jen thought. And this wasn’t a good time to be reminded of the fallibility of memory.
Her father dug out a huge and slightly off-white handkerchief, blew his nose and said, ‘Right, that’s enough of the sloppy emotional stuff. How are you doing, money-wise?’
‘You always ask me, and I always—’
‘Fight me, I know.’ He pressed a roll of notes into her hand – a hundred pounds – and spoke over her protests. ‘Expenses money. Now take it.’
‘But I’m thirty-four. I shouldn’t still need handouts from my parents.’
‘It’s not a handout, it’s a gift. Do you really think you won’t want to help Charlie just because he’s grown up? Believe me, you’ll always do as much as you can for your children.’
He walked her out to the car, having first scooped an overly inquisitive kitten off the floor. She curled around his hand, paws scratching at his arm. ‘Not a word to Charlie about Sprite, if you don’t mind.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Oh, and I might have said I don’t worry, but that’s not strictly accurate. This neighbour you mentioned, Russell Pearce? Be very careful there. I do not like the sound of that man.’
‘I’ll be on my guard.’
‘And if you change your mind and want refuge, or if you need me to lend a hand, one phone call and I’m there.’
‘I know. Thanks, Dad.’ But I won’t, she added silently.
And she drove away, wrestling with a question that had often troubled her over the years. Did it make her strong, that she nearly always rejected offers of help? Or did it make her weak?
30
She drove home in a funk, stunned by the idea that she’d completely misremembered the defining event of her adolescence. And as a result, she would have to reappraise her entire relationship with her mother.
But she soon returned to brooding about the present. Sam Dhillon hadn’t got in touch, which suggested that he already knew why she hadn’t turned up. Had Dean reported seeing her at the hotel? If so, the gang would know that Jen was on to them – and as her dad had pointed out, that could have serious repercussions.
In Brighton, she was cutting through the busy streets around Ditchling Road when the car behind her took a left turn, revealing that the vehicle behind that was a black BMW. Despite the clear s
tretch of road that had opened up, it made no move to get closer.
Then another car pulled out in front of it, and Jen made it through a set of traffic lights but the BMW didn’t. Her heart was racing just the same.
Was it them?
She thought she saw it again on Lewes Road, but couldn’t be certain. Reaching home, she locked the Audi and ran to the building. Once in the lobby, she turned back and waited, peering through the front door.
A motorcycle roared past, then a delivery van. . . and then a black BMW. The driver was a middle-aged woman, possibly the same one who’d collected Alex Wilson on Monday morning, but once again Jen couldn’t say for sure.
Which was no doubt their intention. Gliding past like this, following her at a distance, it was the perfect way to make her feel unsettled, scared, without giving her anything she could take to the police.
Or perhaps it was a completely innocent vehicle that had sent her imagination into overdrive?
Once in the flat, with the door locked and bolted, there was a temptation to pour what remained of the vodka. But booze hadn’t helped her on Wednesday night, and it wouldn’t help her now. She had coffee instead, and sent Freddie a text, asking if she could see Charlie on Skype this evening.
There was a message from Anna, wanting to know she was safe. Jen assured her that everything was fine, then browsed online for the artwork, as her dad had suggested. That drew a blank, so she looked up SilverSquare and found a number of news articles, most of them focusing on the company’s rapid growth and potential for future success. According to one broadsheet commentator, there was a strong probability of a takeover by a much larger rival, which would provide a lucrative payday for the founder and MD, a former soldier called Jonathan Oldroyd.
She checked the initials scribbled on the paper, and saw that PK could be Paul Keegan, who was the creative director. And there was a BC: the finance director, Barry Collins. The other initials didn’t correspond to anyone listed on the website, and since they were kept separate on the page, she wondered if they related to associates of Sam Dhillon. DG: could that be Dean?
