HOUSEKEEPER WANTED
I had to stifle a laugh. She lived in a semi! But my mirth was quickly displaced by a surge of excitement.
An hour later, having practised my spiel, and come up with a name, I called the number on the card.
‘I saw your advert in the supermarket.’
‘You did? My, you’re quick off the mark, you must have been following me.’
‘I . . . no, I was in there just now, buying bananas.’
‘Bananas, I see, can’t stand the things personally. The devil’s fruit, bung me up something awful. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself.’
I kept it vague but persuasive, upbeat, like I was the kind of cheery personality you’d welcome into your home.
‘Well, why don’t you come along tomorrow and we can chat. My address is 14 Ruthermore Road.’
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘But I should tell you I don’t have an up-to-date CV. It’s on my to-do list. I can give you references though.’
‘I wouldn’t read it if you did. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me a person’s right or not. I’ll see you at one o’clock then, Anna.’
That night I invented Anna’s backstory. She’d spent several years in Australia, although specific time frames were to be avoided in case I tripped myself up. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend (or would Anna say partner?). Infidelity, if Linda asked. But most importantly she was efficient, organised, focused. When she set her mind to something she saw it through.
I set off the next day a few hours ahead of our meeting in case a stray leaf on the overground line screwed my chances of getting there in time. As it transpired, the journey didn’t last nearly long enough. I arrived too early, took myself to the café and ordered a coffee. It was more than enough time for doubts to take root. I was about to meet her, this monster, hear her speak, enter her house, look her in the eye.
How. Can. You?
My head was hot, burning. It was the cold, still flushing around my system, I told myself. I needed to go home.
Can’t do this.
I stood up, too fast, bumped the table, knocked the coffee over, attempted to soak it up with a few serviettes to no effect. I was out of the café, pushing past a father with a pram when I saw her. A girl. Thin, dark hair, the gait identical to hers. And suddenly the past was erased as if it had never happened. I started to run after her. ‘Bex,’ I shouted. ‘Come back.’ But the girl didn’t turn around.
She wasn’t Bex.
Bex had gone.
And her death was the reason I was here.
‘You must be Anna. Bang on time. Punctuality is a dying art, I fear.’
She extended her hand and it slid into mine. Cold, bony, liver-spotted.
Linda.
I forced my eyes in her direction.
‘Do come in, you’ll perish out there.’
All the words I’d prepared ran away, leaving nothing in my artillery but a smile. I followed her through the hallway, down into the bowels of the house. It was more disorganised than I expected but she made no attempt to apologise for the clutter. Posh people are allowed to have crap everywhere and get labelled eccentric. On an estate, this would have been called a dump.
Bookshelves filled every inch of space through the hall, as if they were the structure that was holding up the house. In the kitchen, copper pans hung from hooks and the worktops were populated by mismatched jars, half-drunk wine bottles with their corks stuffed back in. A pan sat on the hob with what I presumed were leftovers. My nose wrinkled in protest.
She sat me down at the dining room table next to a teetering pile of magazines and letters.
‘Now, Anna, tell me a bit more about yourself.’
I searched for my pre-prepared stories but my mind had jumbled them up and they didn’t make sense any more. Thankfully, she mistook my panic for nerves, quickly adding, ‘Would you listen to me, I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
I didn’t drink tea but the diversion was welcome. It was one question I could answer, ‘Milk, one sugar please.’
She pottered about, taking cups from the sink, rinsing them, giving the milk a cursory sniff before pouring it into my tea. ‘The perils of living alone,’ she said.
I’d been working abroad for a time. Australia, I told her. I sensed my curt answers were harming my prospects. I wouldn’t win any prizes for this act, needed to crank it up a gear. ‘The weather is a shock, let me tell you.’
‘And what brings you back here?’
I hesitated, the emotion threatened to overwhelm me. ‘A relationship that didn’t work out. It was the right thing to do . . . to leave.’
‘Life can be a bugger,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision.’
‘Why have you decided to enlist a housekeeper now?’ I asked, pleased that I was beginning to warm to the role. Enlist was definitely an Anna word.
‘Well, as you can see, I can’t look after the house myself. I’ve let it go. A sensible person would sell it, but it was our family home, my son grew up here. I couldn’t bear to get rid of it. But now I’ve got an extra workload I’ve decided I need to draft in some help.’
‘You’re working?’
‘Of a fashion. I’m writing a book.’
‘I’ve never met an author before.’
‘Well, I’m not one yet.’
‘What is it about?’
She paused, ran a finger round the rim of her mug. ‘Oh . . . it’s about female politicians in the twentieth century.’
It was a blatant lie, given away by the flush of her cheeks. I smiled, made a glib comment that it wasn’t my typical reading material.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you read it. Now . . .’ she said, ‘I suppose this is the point where I ask what you can do. Can you cook?’
My turn to lie. ‘I love cooking.’
‘Are you organised?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And why would you like the job?’
I should have known this answer by rote, but it slipped away. My head grew light while my limbs went heavy as if they were a mismatch. I tried to work out what was wrong, what was knocking me out of kilter. I stared at Linda in search of my answer and she beamed a big smile of encouragement to fill the silence.
She was a disappointment, that was it! I wanted her to be a monster. I wanted her to make my skin crawl. But she was just a woman like any I walked past in the street, sat next to on the bus or the Tube; nothing out of the ordinary.
‘I’m desperate,’ I said. Didn’t rehearse that word. To my disgust I started to cry.
‘Please don’t upset yourself, dear.’ Her hand brushed my shoulder to soothe me. Tears stole my energy and rage. My eyes raked over her, hoping to snag on something to reignite my fire.
‘What do you say we have a trial period? Three weeks? If your cooking doesn’t kill me and you can instil some order into this place and we seem to rub along together, then the job is yours.’
The heat. Too much now. Around my neck, melting my bones. I had to go while I could still stand.
‘You’ll think about it, won’t you?’ she said.
I told her, yes. I would think about nothing else.
I was coming down with something. A bug, a virus, flu. It swept through me. I couldn’t hold my head up. Couldn’t stop crying, not even on the train home. Passengers gave me a wide berth in case I was contagious. Nobody wanted what I had. I didn’t want it either. Never asked for it, did I?
I made it back to my flat. Lost days to sleep. When I came to, I found a voicemail from DS Huxtable. I’d seen him a few times since our first meeting, in parks and cafés, me furnishing him with the scraps of information I’d gleaned from email exchanges with Linda
. This time he suggested a location out of town. Surrey, next week. He was working down that way and it would make life easier for him.
There were two more messages, both from Linda, pushing me for an answer.
Did I want the job?
Did I?
Eight Months Before
Jay Huxtable
Jay Huxtable wouldn’t go so far as to say he likes Charlie, but she’s not as objectionable as he’d expected. It would be easier if she was. They’ve met a few times and spoken over the phone for updates, and as far as he can tell she is in full possession of her marbles. If he didn’t know the people involved, he’d say her story sounds believable. Maybe it’s about perception. Charlie perceived she was abused and therefore she had been. Curtis, on the other hand, read the situation differently. Whoa! This is way too deep for nine o’clock on a Thursday morning. He hasn’t even had a cup of tea or an egg McMuffin yet.
Unfortunately, John has been keeping tabs on Charlie and has spotted her lurking outside Linda’s house. ‘Has she no sense of boundaries?’ John asked when he imparted the information. ‘She’s a liability, that’s what she is,’ John said, stringing out the syllables like liability was five words not one. ‘She’ll have tae go.’
Jay’s eyes rolled over him, searched for clues in the lines of his face. They were too deep, formed over years of casual cruelty. He could have asked him outright where it was exactly that Charlie had to go, but he decided against it. John liked to play with him and he didn’t fancy being his toy.
Jay is seeing Charlie today. Normally he’d look forward to these meetings. Charlie’s ‘information’ is so piss poor it’s laughable, but her ignorance is sweet. He finds her . . . endearing. Now that’s not a word he’d often use.
Today, however, is different. He’s dreading it. Watching the clock. If only he could stop time. They’re meeting out in the wilds of Surrey. John’s suggestion. That’s enough to make him worry. That and the fact John will be following in his car, ‘to keep you company, so tae speak’. There’s a purpose about the day that scares him. The air is light and quick with momentum and he is caught in its jet stream. He looks up to the clock. The second hand races around. Another minute passes. Jay doesn’t know how to stop it.
‘Christ,’ Charlie says. ‘What’s wrong with Regent’s Park?’
It’s not quite the middle of nowhere but the edge of it. Off a B road, by a stream. Picturesque, on another day maybe. He can’t appreciate the scenery. Just sees the two of them standing in the fog of their own breath, and beyond them . . .
Charlie stamps her feet against the hard frost. ‘You’ve chosen a place without a café on a freezing cold day. I’ve only just got over the flu. Have I done something wrong?’
Has she done something wrong? She has done something wrong or else John wouldn’t be two hundred metres away, his car disguised by the bushes. Or maybe she hasn’t. Maybe Charlie never did anything, but they’re going to make her pay all the same.
‘Are you all right? You look like you’re crying.’
‘It’s the cold,’ he says.
They sit in his car, just like John suggested. Charlie talks and Jay tries to grab the words but they run away from him. He stares out of the window, listening for footsteps. His heart is so heavy it is dragging him down. He worries he might be pulled down to the ground, buried alive.
‘Have you heard a word I’ve said?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Go on then, what did I say?’
He holds his hands up. ‘You win.’
‘I’ve got a new job,’ she says.
‘I see.’ But he doesn’t see. Doesn’t see the point in her telling him. She won’t start the job. She won’t get promoted. She’ll never make it there.
‘You mean congratulations.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Don’t you want to ask me about it?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’m going to be a housekeeper.’
‘I thought you liked working in a hotel.’
‘This job is more interesting. Ask me who it’s for.’
‘An oligarch in Belgravia?’
‘No, Clapham actually.’
‘Right.’
‘Ruthermore Road. It just sort of happened.’
Finally, it hits him. No wonder she’s looking so pleased with herself.
She extends her hand to him. ‘I’m Anna, by the way. I start working for Linda next week.’
He’s out of the car before he knows what he’s doing. Calling John. ‘Just wait, don’t do a thing.’
‘I have my orders.’
‘I’m going to speak to Curtis now.’
‘You have five minutes,’ the Scot says.
For once Curtis answers the phone. It’s a sign. A fucking sign.
‘She’s got a job with Linda . . . much more use to us there, inside her house than . . .’ he trails off, knows not to say too much over the phone.
The silence spreads out, gobbles up his time. Five minutes, that’s all he has before John moves in.
‘Curtis?’
‘I’m thinking . . . give me a chance . . . OK. On this occasion, I think you are right. I’ll call John now.’
He waits, can’t be too sure. An engine fires up, wheels grind along the gravel track until the sound fades.
He has gone.
Jay runs back to Charlie, a buoyancy fills his body, he could be flying. The sun cracks through the clouds, pours a milky haze on to the windscreen.
He sits down, gathers his breath, turns to her and his face breaks out into a smile.
‘So tell me about yourself, Anna.’
Thursday, 4.38 p.m.
Detective Inspector Victoria Rutter
Jennifer Patcham greets DI Rutter with the enthusiasm of an estate agent eyeing a prospective buyer. The smile is so genuine Victoria feels a pang of guilt as she slides her warrant card across the desk and imparts the real reason for her visit.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk discreetly?’ she asks.
Thankfully the office is quiet and Jennifer guides Victoria into a small kitchen at the back.
‘Is it Trey? The childminder was collecting him today. Tell me he’s OK.’ Victoria is alarmed to see the tears bubbling in her eyes.
Trey is Jennifer’s five-year-old son and Victoria does her best to assure her that his welfare is not why she is here.
‘I understand you met Linda Moscow some months ago.’
At the mention of Linda’s name, Jennifer winces. ‘We only met the once,’ she says, using the tips of her fingers to drive away her tears.
‘Can I ask why. Didn’t she want to speak to you again?’
Jennifer’s gaze swims around the room as if the answer might be hidden behind the fridge, through the window, amongst the box files.
‘It is important you tell me. I understand Linda Moscow was working on a book that would expose historical sex abuse and you agreed to share your experiences. I need to know if it was a personal choice not to continue, or if any pressure was applied to help you reach your decision.’
More tears, hysterical this time, as if they’ve been building up for months and Victoria Rutter’s question has burst the skin, prompted them to come flooding out.
‘I thought that was why you were here,’ she says, her hand covering her mouth as she relives the trauma of the day when a man took her son, the day she feared she might never see her boy again.
Back at the station, Victoria mulls over what Jennifer told her, not just about her son, but also her years in care and the horror of what she was subjected to. Believe no one, trust no one, challenge everything, these are the starting points in any investigation, but why, Victoria asks herself, would Jennifer and the legion of other wo
men with almost identical stories feel the need to lie? The suggestion that they are suffering from some kind of collective fever does not hold water.
Jonathan Clancy’s theory is appearing less fantastical by the hour.
She needs food, her body is running on empty. Too many strands to pull together, like handling spaghetti. The salad her husband Doug made her, lovingly, as per instructions, is sitting in a Tupperware container on the table. It’s not calling out to her. She’s on the 5:2 diet and today is a restricted day which means a few slices of cucumber, a handful of olives, shredded carrot and some sorry lettuce leaves. Sod it! She can’t think straight on salad. She’ll save the starvation for tomorrow.
DS Clyde intercepts her as she’s heading for the canteen. ‘Chewing gum,’ he says.
‘No thanks, I’m after a sausage sandwich.’
‘I’m talking about the chewing gum found on the bottom of Gabriel Miller’s boots. We’ve just got the results from the lab.’
‘Yes?’ Her hunger gives way to a surge of excitement.
‘The profile matches a man with a colourful criminal record. The bins are emptied on a Friday, which would place him around Gabriel Miller’s house between then and Sunday.’
She turns, walks away from the canteen. Never does get her hands on that sausage sandwich.
March–October 2014
Charlie
‘If you want your cover to work, you’ve got to do this properly,’ Jay said. ‘No shortcuts.’ He advised stepping away from my own life and creating a new, temporary one that belonged to Anna. The thing was, I didn’t have much of a life in London to step away from in the first place, and the idea that Anna not Charlie would go to work for Linda appealed. I figured the distinction would make it easier to stomach.
Jay found me a flat in an anonymous block in Putney close to the river. My old place still had ten months left to run on the lease. I wrote to Marjorie saying I was going away for a while and that sadly I wouldn’t be able to look after her cat. Jay said he’d post the letter through her door when he went back to collect my things. I had requested a few items of clothing, and a box with the possessions that had survived my years in care. It wasn’t much: a photograph of me and Mum, a dress she used to wear, and a book, part one of The Wonderland Trilogy. We read it together every night for six months before she died. On the inside she’d written, To my gorgeous Charlotte, may your life be a fairy tale.
An Act of Silence Page 22
