Mrs Bale’s body snapped upright, and her head swivelled towards her husband as if she had misheard him. It seemed she understood the supposed rules of their life, though, and so after a few seconds of gazing at her husband, lips pursed, she folded her hands in her lap and sat back again.
‘Mr Douglas,’ Gregory Bale said, his voice now polite but uncertain, ‘if you’ve got something more to say to us, please carry on. You won’t be interrupted again. Tell us what you’ve discovered.’ He locked eyes with Tom as he spoke, and there was a message there. His eyebrows were lowered, and his gaze intense.
Tom suddenly realised what Mr Bale was trying to tell him. His wife had no idea what they had found out about her daughter’s sexual history. Her husband hadn’t told her. He had left it to Tom.
Tom quashed his irritation, realising how difficult it would have been for this man to convince his wife of the truth, and spoke gently, repeating everything he had said previously to Mr Bale. It was as if it became real to the man for the first time, and tears ran silently down his face. His wife forgot her vow of silence, but Tom could hardly blame her.
‘Do you mean she was raped?’ she asked, the horror of the thought showing in a whitening of the skin over her prominent cheekbones.
‘We don’t know for certain. Often when a girl is raped there are defence wounds, as if she tried to fight the man off. We didn’t see anything like that. And it was fairly clear that it had happened more than once because some of the bruising was old. But even if she didn’t fight him off, she may well have been coerced into having sex with him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bale, but there are some evil, devious people out there who feel no compunction about manipulating those who are less able to defend themselves. They use a combination of flattery, promises and threats, hitting their targets in the most vulnerable spot they can find to get what they want.’
‘Why are you only telling us this now?’ Mrs Bale’s aggression was taking over again, and Tom carefully avoided looking at Jennifer’s father.
‘We wanted to try to understand a little better what might have happened to her, but now we know the direction the investigation is going to take, we needed to bring you up to speed on everything.’
As Mrs Bale prepared to launch into another attack, her husband’s hand shot out and grabbed her forearm. She gave him another fierce glance, but once again was silent.
‘Let the man speak,’ he said.
Tom explained what they had discovered on Jennifer’s computer, and how they feared it might have been used against her. Both her parents stared at him, as if he were speaking an unknown foreign language.
‘You think she did some of this willingly, then?’ Mr Bale asked, for once beating his stunned wife to the question.
Tom leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. ‘We really don’t know. But as I said, on past experience of these kinds of things I would suspect Jennifer was initially flattered by this boy, man – we think a young man is more likely – and thought he considered her to be special. He will have toyed with her so that she wanted him more than he wanted her, blown hot and cold. By then she would probably have done anything not to lose him. Once he had persuaded her to let him take photos of her – saying that he wanted to be able to look at her when he couldn’t be with her, of course – she was out of her depth. Next would come the threats to expose her, to put her photos out on social media.’
‘And Archie?’ Mr Bale asked. ‘Archie said she asked him to go with her. Why would she do that?’
‘I suspect Jennifer wanted Archie to go with her because then the man couldn’t do anything – couldn’t take any photos. She would have told him that she had to look after her little brother.’
Mrs Bale was still staring at Tom. Two deep furrows had settled between her eyes and her lips were slightly parted. When she spoke, her voice was soft, unlike any he had heard from her before. It was the voice of realisation, of acceptance.
‘Jennifer killed herself, didn’t she? She really did. She did it to save us the shame.’
She sat back and closed her eyes and Mr Bale went to kneel in front of her, pulling her forward into his arms.
Tom and Becky had risen silently from their seats and left the Bales to their renewed grief.
*
Tom’s recollections of the conversation with the Bales and of the horror in their eyes were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
Louisa.
He pushed all thoughts of the case to the back of his mind as he walked towards the front door, knowing that if he allowed himself to dwell on the traumatic end to a young girl’s life it would spoil the evening for both of them. It was hard to block out his job, but over the years he had learned that he worked much better if he gave his mind a rest for a while. And he was impossible to be with if he didn’t shut out the horror.
As soon as Louisa was over the threshold, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. After a few moments she pulled back and smiled at him. ‘I thought that was better than Hello,’ she said.
‘Much better,’ Tom agreed, pulling her back towards him.
When they had said hello very thoroughly, Tom led Louisa into the kitchen.
‘Food? Drink?’
‘Ah, here’s the bad news. I’m in theatre tomorrow morning at six, so one glass of wine only, please. But food of any description would be fantastic.’
Tom set about making his simple dinner as they talked about their day, although he kept the details of his case to himself and he suspected Louisa did the same.
The conversation flowed as they ate, each of them eager to know about the other. She talked about her sister in America and her parents, who had retired to the south coast. Tom listened, smiling at anecdotes of her happy but slightly bohemian upbringing. It appeared both of her parents had been actors but had never managed to hit the big time.
‘Do you have any siblings?’ Louisa asked.
‘A brother, Jack.’
‘Tell me about him.’
And so Tom told her about how Jack had locked himself in his bedroom as a teenager, listening to heavy rock music, tying his long wild black hair back with any old bit of wire left over from building his computer, and how he had started and grown his own business in Internet security. Tom left out some of the less salubrious details of Jack’s early life.
‘Your brother sounds like a cool guy.’
‘He was.’
‘Was?’ Louisa asked as she ate her last mouthful of pasta.
Tom should have thought about this before. He gave Louisa the only answer he could: ‘Jack’s no longer with us.’
Louisa put her fork down with a slight clatter and looked at Tom, an expression of horror on her face.
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had any idea.’
‘You couldn’t have known,’ he answered.
‘Can I ask what happened, or would you rather not talk about it?’
‘It’s well documented on the Internet – Jack was quite well known because of his business. There was an accident in a speedboat. Nobody really knows the details.’
Louisa said no more, but reached over and squeezed his hand, then gathered up the plates. Tom started to rise from his seat.
‘No, you sit there,’ Louisa said. ‘You cooked, I clear up.’
Tom didn’t argue because he knew he would lose. He liked to see her busying herself in his kitchen, and it gave him a minute to think about Jack.
He realised that he was lost in his own thoughts when he felt Louisa’s arms go around his shoulders from behind. He hadn’t even noticed her approaching. She said nothing and held him close for a moment as if she could feel his pain.
‘Why don’t you tell me about the lovely girl I can see in pictures all over your house?’ she asked.
Tom relaxed and felt a smile lighten his face. ‘That’s Lucy. She’s my daughter.’
Now he was on s
afer ground.
51
The atmosphere between Scarlett and her mum had been tense the evening before, although both of them had made an effort to be normal.
Scarlett had been thinking of saying something about the sounds she had heard through the wall and the mystery of the sixth window, even about Lewis. But she was certain her mum wouldn’t approve of her going out for a coffee with him, even if it was to a busy café in the centre of Manchester. Not that she had decided to go. There was something scary about him.
In truth, Scarlett was bored. Her schoolwork would have to be done, but she didn’t want to spend all day and every day on it. What she wanted to do more than anything was get into the apartment next door to confirm her suspicions, but she didn’t know how. Lewis said he had asked Martin for the key, but she was certain that the same request from her would be met with a refusal, so she decided to tell the caretaker she had lost her sunglasses and wondered if she had put them down in there when Lewis showed her round. She doubted he would want to be bothered going with her. At least she hoped not.
She thought it might be better to wait until after ten o’clock. She had no idea what Lewis did for a job, but it had been late afternoon when they had met in the corridor so she hoped he worked mornings and wouldn’t catch her snooping around.
She forced herself to wait, watching the minutes tick by on her mobile. At ten o’clock precisely she bent down to tie her trainers, unable to drive out the thought that she may have to make a run for it to escape from Martin again.
Scarlett made her way along the dreary corridor, took the lift to the lobby and went down the metal stairs of their wing and up the opposite staircase. She could feel her heart thumping, and muttered under her breath, ‘Don’t be such a baby, Scarlett. He can’t eat you.’ She let herself into the south wing and hurried to Martin’s office before she lost her nerve.
The door was open, and she could see Martin sitting at a small desk. He was asleep, his head back against the wall, his mouth open, a thin line of dribble oozing from one corner. Scarlett shuddered. She couldn’t wake him up; she was certain he would be furious with her.
She looked around the small office, which was messier than when she was last in here the day after Cliff was mugged. There were empty crisp packets scrunched up on the desk, the remnants of their contents spilling out onto the surface. A can of Coke lay on its side, a small pool of its contents staining the wood, and a pile of unopened mail had been shoved into the corner.
Scarlett’s eyes were drawn to two panels on the wall, one labelled NORTH and the other SOUTH, with keys hanging from them. She peered closely at the numbers for the south wing.
She closed her eyes and tried to visualise the brass plate on the door to the apartment she so desperately wanted to get into. It wouldn’t come to her. It had to be the highest number on the second floor, though, because it was the furthest apartment from the entrance. That would make it 210S.
She leaned forward slowly, her eyes never leaving Martin’s face, alert to any movement. She gently took the key from the board and backed, step by silent step, out of the room. How she was going to get the key back if Martin had woken up when she returned, she didn’t know. But she would find a way.
Tiptoeing along the corridor far further than was absolutely necessary, Scarlett reached the stairs and ran quickly and quietly up to the second floor. She was about to poke her head around the corner to check if the corridor was clear when she realised that this would make her look even more suspicious to anyone who might be watching.
Despite her fears, she met nobody. Turning the final corner to where there were just three doors – the fire escape, Lewis’s apartment and the door to apartment 210S – all was quiet. She relaxed her shoulders, only now realising how tense she had been. Slipping the key into the lock, she checked there was nobody behind her and with the tips of her fingers pushed the door to the apartment open.
‘Hello?’ she whispered. ‘Hello?’ she said, a little louder.
Just as before the apartment felt empty, the air stale – unused. There was nobody there, she was sure, and she turned to silently close the door behind her. Walking as if on eggshells she first checked the bedroom, then the bathroom, noting the single window in each as she went. The rooms were just as empty as they had been the last time she was here.
Finally she tiptoed to the door to the sitting room. It was closed, but she was sure that they had left it ajar. She swallowed. Maybe she should just go. What if there was someone there? She took a steadying breath and pressed down on the handle. She heard a click. Pushing the door open slowly, she waited to hear a shout of anger from inside.
There wasn’t a sound.
Without stepping into the room, she poked her head around the doorjamb, half expecting to see a young girl sitting cross-legged on the floor. There was nobody.
She inched one step at a time into the room, and looked to the left into the kitchen and dining area.
Nothing. Nobody.
She relaxed. She was safe.
Scarlett checked the windows. There were three in this room, just as she had remembered. One in the bathroom and one in the bedroom. She had been right. There were only five windows in this apartment, but from the outside there were six.
She pulled up the picture on her phone again. The bathroom window had different glass, but between that and their own apartment there were definitely four windows, not the three that she was looking at.
There had to be another room beyond the one she was standing in. She looked at the wall. All that was there was an empty bookcase, built into a slight alcove in the wall.
Conscious of the squeak of her trainers on the bare wooden floor and the echoing emptiness around her, she walked across the room towards the bookcase, realising how vulnerable she was if anyone were to find her in here.
What would Martin do if he caught her? Nobody knew where she was. She glanced quickly over her shoulder again, but she had closed the door. Martin couldn’t get in – she had his key. She let out a breath that she hadn’t known she was holding.
She reached out to the bookcase, thinking of the stories she had read as a child and how secret doors were activated. She felt around the edges, just beyond the white-painted wooden frame. The fingers of her left hand found what felt like a catch, and she tried to see what it was, but even with her head flattened against the wall, it was impossible to check how the mechanism might work. She tried pulling the shelves towards her but they wouldn’t move. She tried again, this time using the fingers of her left hand to ease the catch up while pulling on the shelf at the same time. A click that seemed to reverberate, loud as a gunshot, around the room told her all she needed to know. She had found the room.
She pulled gently on the bookcase, not sure if the whole thing was going to come crashing to the ground. It moved noiselessly towards her. It was a door.
She eased it forward carefully, suddenly scared of what – or who – she might find on the other side, and took a step back to allow it to open completely.
She could see nothing. Some heavy fabric was blocking the way. Scarlett hesitantly extended her right hand and felt the soft material of a curtain move under her fingers.
Thinking that any minute she would hear a shout from whoever was living on this side of the wall, she called out softly, ‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’
There was no reply. The room beyond felt dead, but there was a faint smell, a smell that Scarlett recognised, but she couldn’t remember where from.
‘I’m not going to harm you. I’m here to help.’
No response broke the silence. Perhaps there was nobody in there now, but how could they come and go without ever being seen?
Scarlett pushed more firmly against the curtain, lifting the heavy fabric a few inches off the ground. But it still wasn’t allowing her through. She groped her way across the material until she could feel an edge and slowly, gently, pulled the curtain from left to right. Light from the missing sixth wi
ndow began to creep around the side. She listened intently for any sign of life, but there was nothing.
Inch by inch the room was revealed, and Scarlett gasped at the sight before her.
52
‘Natalie, it’s Ed. I need to talk to you.’ Natalie hadn’t needed to be told who it was as she answered her desk phone. She had known who was speaking from the first syllable, and she felt a familiar quiver of pleasure at the deep intonations of his voice. But instead of this making her warm to him, it had the opposite effect, anger at herself and her traitorous heart forcing her to be abrupt.
‘I suppose you’ve phoned me here because you knew I wouldn’t answer if you called my mobile.’
There was a pause as if Ed was trying to assess how to treat her caustic remark.
‘You’re right, of course. I’d like to say there was no attempt to fool you, but I’d be lying. And I don’t lie to you, Natalie, whatever you might think.’
She hadn’t really known what to think for the past week or more, but right now she couldn’t let the last vestiges of their brief but intense passion for each other cloud her judgement.
Bernie had always said that people never failed to amaze him with the depths they could sink to, and he was staggered that those around them often claimed to know nothing about their crimes. She remembered when he had worked on the local sex trafficking scandal just after he became a detective and had discovered that some of the men involved were married with children.
‘Their wives said they had no idea.’ The wonder in his voice that this had been even remotely possible was as clear to Natalie as if it had been yesterday. What did anyone really know about those closest to them? She had been wrong about Ed and she had to face it.
‘What do you need to talk to me about? No doubt you want to know if I’m going to report you.’ Natalie felt hot tears at the back of her eyes. She hated talking to him like this, but she couldn’t let him get close to her, crawl under her skin. She pinched the bridge of her nose where it prickled, and forced any trace of emotion from her voice. ‘Is that why you’re calling?’
The Sixth Window Page 21
