Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Peeping out from her hiding place, holding her breath, she spied a dishevelled-looking Bev in torn jeans with circles beneath her eyes that said she hardly ever slept.

  Sliding her Prada sunglasses on, Angie strode out into the expanse of green, keen to appear like a woman who was holding things together, though the itch of hives at the base of her neck said otherwise.

  ‘Ah! There you are,’ she said. She gripped her shoulder bag close to her body ; stole a glance around. ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘Let’s go behind the prayer hall,’ Bev said, dragging her back into the shadows of the dark little building.

  Clearly Angie wasn’t the only one on edge.

  ‘Let’s make this quick,’ Angie said, unable to keep the waver out of her voice. She checked her watch. ‘Jerry and Gretchen think I’m just dropping the kids off at a playdate and taking some dry cleaning to be done. You first.’

  Bev reached into her handbag. Spoke rapidly, checking beyond the wall at regular intervals. ‘I’ve got a USB stick containing details of his bank accounts, passwords, the lot. This is the motherlode, and your solicitor will have a field day. It took me ages to go through everything, but I found an Excel spreadsheet where the silly pillock has listed all his passwords. The spreadsheet itself is password protected, but my business associate worked out what it is.’

  Angie stared at the stick, feeling like it was some kind of magical key to her future as a free woman. ‘And what is it?’

  ‘The date your dog died. Jerry talked about it on Facebook like it was the death of his mother. My business associate put two and two together . . .’

  Angie smiled weakly. ‘He loved that old Staffie. Elsie. He treated Elsie better than he does his own mother!’

  Bev pushed the USB stick into her hand. ‘There are video files on there too. Films and audio from my trips to London to honeytrap him. He was a total pig, I hasten to add. He’s threatened me, so if he works out that I’m not some marketing PR called Cat Thomson and I wind up dead, you’ll know who’s to blame. In fact, he specifically mentioned my basement flat, even though I’d never told him where I live, so I’d say that scenario’s worryingly likely. Anyway, I’ve screenshot all the LinkedIn and Facebook conversations that took place between me and him and saved them into a special file. That, plus the film footage prove he had every intention of being unfaithful to you. You’ve got the lot, including some nasty emails where he orders girls and drugs like pizza to his London flat, which I have an address for. This is as far as I go.’ She squeezed Angie’s hand in a show of solidarity. ‘I’m sorry you’ll have to see all this. It’s worse than anything you anticipated.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid it’s not,’ Angie said, shaking her head dolefully. Wiped a tear away. ‘You’re not the only one with incriminating evidence.’

  Bev looked at her quizzically and Angie took out a stick not unlike the one her PI had just given to her.

  ‘What is it?’ Bev asked.

  ‘Proof . . .’ Angie said, struggling to say the words as tears started to roll onto her cheeks and sorrow threatened to tie her tongue in knots. ‘. . . Screenshots of emails that show Gretchen is in the pay of Jerry to spy on me. But not only that . . . I think she’s blackmailing him, actually.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Bev asked.

  ‘I went through her things while she was at the park with the children and I found a shoebox at the back of the wardrobe. This was inside a shoe.’

  ‘Have you looked at it?’

  Angie nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes. There are some stills on there of . . . sex. The London parties in the flat you mention. Men with girls. Young girls. There’s a photo of Jerry being . . . Oh, it’s horrible, Bev.’ She pulled a sheaf of printouts from her handbag and showed Bev the evidence of five men, naked but for latex animal masks, cavorting with girls. In another photo, her husband was being fellated by a young black girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She couldn’t stifle the wail that emerged. Pressed the stick into Bev’s hands and covered her face with her silk scarf.

  Bev glanced at the printouts, grimacing. Looked ponderously at the stick and held it out. ‘Your solicitor will need this. Don’t give it to me.’

  ‘But I’m frightened, Bev. Take it! I think Jerry’s onto me and I’m scared he’s going to . . . disappear me. I really do. Whether it be having me committed or having someone hurt me. I’m just—’

  ‘Listen, Angie,’ Bev said, grabbing her hand and squeezing. ‘You’ve got to be strong for you and your kids. Get all of this evidence straight to your solicitor. Right now, this minute. And where are your kids?’

  ‘They’re at a friend’s. They’re safe.’

  ‘Get them and leave immediately. Go to your parents. Another relative. Someone trusted and on your side. Go to a hotel. It doesn’t matter, but don’t arse around packing. Just get out. OK? Today. You have to take that sleaze-bag down!’ She released Angie’s hand at last. Her eyes were ablaze with fervour. ‘And make damn sure you pay me what I’m owed as soon as you get your money, else me and you are going to fall out. Right?’

  Angie nodded, pocketing both USBs. Handing the print-outs to Bev. ‘You’ve got copies of everything?’

  Bev nodded, taking the sheaves of paper. ‘Yep. I’ve texted you my bank details so you can transfer my fee. I need it asap I’ve got a lot riding on that money. OK?’

  Pulling an envelope from her bag, Angie treated her to a half-smile, slightly put out that Bev seemed to care so much about the money. ‘There’s £500 in there to tide you over. I sold a handbag,’ she lied, remembering how she’d taken a wad of cash from a Jiffy bag full of money that had been resting underneath the shoes in Gretchen’s shoebox. Feeling strangely guilty that she’d stolen from her own nanny, though it had almost certainly been extorted from Jerry. ‘Can’t I give you the rest in person? Take you for lunch. It’s the least I can do.’

  Checking around the corner of the hall that nobody was lurking, her PI shrank further into the shadows, pulling Angie with her. ‘I’m not sure where I’m going to be. I’ve had a falling-out with Tim and Sophie. And things are . . . weird.’ She took a deep breath, seeming preoccupied by something other than getting paid. ‘Look. Jerry’s dangerous and there’s one last missing piece of the jigsaw that I’m going to look into.’

  The florid smattering of hives on Angie’s neck itched to the point of stinging.

  ‘But whatever you do,’ Bev continued, ‘don’t turn to Sophie for help. Tim’s hostile. Him and Jerry are thick as thieves. I know Tim and I know men like him. He’ll take Jerry’s side over anything you or Sophie say and he’ll betray your confidence. Believe me. Get out of the house and don’t look for help from Sophie and Tim. You won’t be safe.’

  Angie swallowed hard. ‘Is this it, then?’

  ‘It is for me.’ Bev checked the time on her watch. ‘I’ll be in touch. Good luck.’

  Angie was already back in her car, speeding away from the cemetery when she remembered she’d meant to tell Bev that she’d spotted none other than Rob and her psychiatrist in Tim’s company at Carluccio’s. Damn. She hit the steering wheel, annoyed with herself. But by the time she reached home, the thought had been buried by her own immediate concerns. She had to somehow get packed without arousing suspicion. It was time to make her great escape.

  CHAPTER 28

  Bev

  Sitting on her saggy sofa in the basement flat, Bev cradled her cup of coffee and opened her laptop. Brought up Rightmove’s home page, inputting her search details. Although Tim had given Bev her marching orders, Sophie had negotiated a small stay of execution – she had a week to get out. She needed a flat within a couple of miles of WA15, ideally. Two bedrooms.

  Scrolling through several pages of overpriced dumps, she lost interest some twenty minutes in and returned to a previous Google search that had become an itch she desperately needed to scratch.

  Tatjana. Russian prostitute. London.

  Last time, she had managed to t
rawl through ten pages of bilge before giving up. This time, she persisted. Changed ‘London’ to ‘Ealing, West London’, remembering that she now knew the location of Jerry Fitzwilliam’s secret London bolthole. Fifteen pages in, she came across a news story from the Evening Standard, dated 25 July the previous year. It caught her attention precisely because it was a world away from the porn sites and other trivia that the search had dredged up. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she read the headline.

  Murder probe after human remains found in Ealing butcher’s bin.

  The thunderous beat of Bev’s heart was almost too much of a distraction to allow her to read the article.

  ‘Focus, Goddammit!’

  Dismembered human body parts were found yesterday at 6.25 a.m. in a wheelie bin behind an Ealing-based family butcher’s shop. The Metropolitan Police have opened a murder enquiry, appealing to members of the public to come forward with any sightings of suspicious activity in the area over the past three days.

  The gruesome discovery was made by butcher, Ryan Sands, who was disposing of unsold offal, just prior to the weekly rubbish collection. He said, ‘I saw some black bin liners that I knew weren’t mine, and thought the neighbours had been sticking their rubbish in my bins again. I ripped them open to make sure, especially since it smelled really bad, but not what you’d expect from out-of-date meat. That’s when I spotted an arm.’ Mr Sands said he was very distressed by the find.

  Detective Chief Inspector Barry Greene said, ‘Our enquiries have established that the victim is a young female, aged between thirteen and fifteen, who had been strangled, dismembered and then dumped. A dangerous individual or group of individuals is at large, possibly in West London in the Ealing locale. A post-mortem revealed that the victim had been killed elsewhere. Somebody somewhere will perhaps be trying to hide or dispose of clothing that is covered in blood. We would urge anyone who has seen anything suspicious or who has any information that they think might be relevant to this investigation to come forward.

  Bev pressed her fingertips against her lips as she pictured the scenario of some poor teenage girl being choked to death and then disposed of in the most heartless manner imaginable. A butcher’s bin. In pieces, discarded with the other tainted meat. Could this be the Tatjana mentioned in Jerry Fitzwilliam’s emails? Surely not. There was no mention of the dead girl’s name in the article, so why had it come up in the search results? Was it a metadata thing? Tags, perhaps. She scanned her screen to see if she could find a connection, but her concentration broke up like a bad Wi-Fi connection.

  The sound of Sophie and Tim arguing in the hall was drifting down the stone steps, through her flimsy front door to the basement. Ordinarily, she’d be eavesdropping to see what the contretemps was about, so rare was it that the two argued . . . at least, within earshot. But right now, her unsupportive friend and idiot landlord were the last things on her mind.

  She walked into her bedroom, closing the door on the raised voices. She’d already restored her origami models to their proper positions, shuddering whilst doing so – trying her damnedest to blot out the thought that a stranger had been rooting through her things with the deliberate intention of playing with her mind. Missing her last couple of therapy sessions only served to heighten her paranoia. She’d checked that all the windows were shut and locked ; that nobody was lurking in cupboards or cubbyholes that were large enough to conceal an intruder. The patio doors had been barred shut with an old lacrosse stick she’d liberated from Sophie’s garage. The curtains were firmly drawn. Rightmove could wait until the morning. But before stressful, fitful sleep claimed her, she wanted to see if there was more about the girl in the Ealing butcher’s bin.

  Crawling into her unmade bed, Bev started to look at the stories that were listed in her laptop’s sidebar, adjacent to the Evening Standard’s report of body parts in black bin bags. They had a shared location in common : Ealing. One was a story about pro-life campaigners being banned from an abortion clinic. Another was about a suspect package scare at Ealing Broadway. But the final feature seemed linked to the case that had piqued her interest.

  Girl in butcher’s bin identified.

  ‘Bingo,’ Bev said softly, clicking on the link. ‘Come on. Put me out of my misery.’

  The photograph of a slightly built girl with pale skin and dark, straight hair loaded onto the screen. Wearing an earnest expression, her bone structure was recognisably Eastern European with high cheekbones and a straight nose. But her deep-set eyes gave her a Mediterranean look. There was no happiness in that small haunted face.

  The fine hairs stood to attention on Bev’s arms as she read . . .

  The Metropolitan Police has finally released the identity of the dismembered girl found in the butcher’s bin in Ealing. Dental records show that the victim’s name was Tatjana Lebedev, a fifteen-year-old who had been living in temporary accommodation locally. Although she had been trafficked to the UK two years ago and was supposed to be under the protection of social services whilst seeking asylum, Miss Lebedev had not been resident at her registered address for seven months.

  In the course of a thorough search by police, Miss Lebedev’s clothes and purse were discovered in another bin belonging to a neighbouring business – Café Soleil – in the same back alley that also serviced Mr Sands’ family butcher’s, where the victim’s remains were found. Her purse contained receipts from a supermarket and hairdresser’s in Moscow and also a stolen Oyster card.

  Detective Chief Inspector Barry Greene said, ‘We are certain that somebody knew Tatjana’s whereabouts on the day leading up to and the night before her brutal murder. We are hopeful that a member of the public will be able to identify who Tatjana was with at the estimated time of her death – 1 a.m. Anybody with potentially useful information, however insignificant the details may seem, should come forward to their local police station as soon as possible or call the witness hotline.

  Blinking back panicked tears, in a shaky hand, Bev wrote the reported date and rough time of Tatjana’s murder in her notebook. She then took a USB stick from the zipped pocket inside her handbag onto which she’d copied all of Jerry Fitzwilliam’s files, plugged it into her laptop and brought up his email files. After some searching she happened upon the email to Stan where Jerry had mentioned Tatjana.

  You’re not answering my calls. What did they do with Tatjana? What happened to the film?

  Jerry had sent that missive to the dealer-cum-pimp only five days after Tatjana Lebedev’s death.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Why did this have to happen? Why the hell did I keep looking? Why can’t I just let things lie? You’re a bloody idiot, Bev Saunders.’

  She snatched up a brass frame from her bedside cabinet that held two photos, side by side – one each of the man and the girl she loved more than anything. She held the frame tightly against her chest so that the corners dug into her left breast.

  ‘Hope has left the building and is never coming back,’ she said, softly.

  As if losing the people that made life worth living wasn’t enough ; as if losing her career and all her worldly goods in an acrimonious divorce wasn’t enough, she was deep in the trenches of psychological warfare with an unseen enemy. And now, she’d potentially stumbled upon an unsolved murder where the high-profile and powerful man, who was almost certainly harassing her, was somehow involved. Judging by his surprisingly revelatory emails to Stan, the pimp, he evidently thought himself untouchable, too.

  She aggressively wiped away a fat tear that escaped her right eye. Pull it together, woman. I bet this is just one massive coincidence. Your work for Angie is over. Forget what you’ve just read. Move on. You’re no cop. You’re a bob-a-job sleuth who takes pictures of cheating husbands. That’s it. Finito. Sort your own life out.

  And yet . . . Bev laid out on her stale duvet cover the printed stills of Jerry and his masked cronies, engaged in gang bangs with suspiciously young-looking working girls. The shadow Science Minister was quite
the exhibitionist in front of a lens. Could there be filmed evidence somewhere of Tatjana Lebedev’s murder, assuming she and the Tatjana mentioned in Jerry’s email were one and the same person? How could they not be? Girls were trafficked to the UK from Eastern Europe mainly to work in the sex trade. The Tatjana in Jerry’s email to ‘Stan’ had clearly been a prostitute, and Bev now had the sexually explicit photos that Gretchen, the blackmailing nanny, had been sitting on to insinuate the likely link. She could go to the police and let them do the rest. But then, she’d face being given a hard time by those two arse-clown detectives, Curtis and Owen. Ever since she’d cornered an unfaithful plasterer in a Travelodge on the M6, resulting in a fracas with the plasterer, a cleaner and the guy on reception, Curtis and Owen had it in for her as an interfering vigilante amateur. Perhaps they’d arrest Fitzwilliam but then drop the case due to insufficient evidence. Then, when Fitzwilliam discovered who had grassed on him, Bev and Angie would attract even more unwanted attention. Was it unfeasible that she too would end her days in the bottom of a wheelie bin, her severed limbs entwined with Angie’s?

  If she retreated now, the whole thing might go away. But that wasn’t necessarily the moral thing to do. Retreat or advance?

  ‘Doc.’

  Scrambling to the end of the bed, taking her phone out of her cardigan pocket, she brought up the number of Doc’s folks’ landline. He’d asked Bev not to contact him using their number, but all bets were off in an emergency like this. At this time of night, he’d either be gaming, masturbating or fiddling with Lego in his attic, she reasoned. But what about his parents? Didn’t people of their age go to bed at 9 p.m. with a cup of something warm and milky? Murder is more important than an early night, Bev decided. Come on, Saunders. One last stab at getting to the bottom of this. If it’s a dead end, you hand what you’ve got over to the cops and head for the hills.