Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You need to find a way to get as much money as you can from Jerry, as fast as you can, and get it hidden, because it’s gonna get seized.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ A florid rash sprang up on Angie’s neck. She started to scratch at it with pink shellac nails.

  ‘I’m definitely going to the police about Jerry. He’s involved in . . . some very nasty stuff. And I’m getting continual grief.’

  ‘Hang on. Nastier than the cash for questions? Has this got something to do with those ghastly photos Gretchen had ferreted away?’

  Bev nodded and squeezed Angie’s hand. ‘You and your kids need to stay as far away from him as you can. That Gretchen’s bloody lucky she’s still breathing.’

  ‘Those two had a tit-for-tat agreement. I’m sure of it,’ Angie said, shaking Bev off. ‘She was getting cash out of Jerry and spying on me in return. I don’t care what happens to the lying little brat! She’ll have got the first flight back to Austria the moment I was out the door, I’ll bet. Her sort always looks after number one.’

  ‘Well, she’s been playing with fire, because this is the sort of thing someone would kill to keep under wraps. At best, the press are going to be on your backs if this breaks.’

  Angie pushed the trolley back and forth with such alacrity that her daughter began to scream. ‘Shush, Poppy! Mummy’s talking.’ She spoke to the child in a sing-song voice. ‘Look at the dinosaurs, sweetie.’ Lowered her voice to a near hiss for Bev. ‘I’m sorry you’re being pestered by him. I can assure you I didn’t breathe a word about your involvement in the divorce. He never heard it from me where I got all the information on his finances from. And I haven’t yet shown him the footage from your catfishing date. I’m keeping a stash of just-in-case dirt.’

  Bev took several steps towards the dinosaur. Waited for Angie to catch up. ‘Well, the cat’s out of the bag whatever you have or haven’t said, because he’s making my life a waking nightmare. And I’m telling you now, you’re going to have a problem when I go to the police with what I’ve dug up. It may well get Jerry off your back for good, but the paparazzi . . .’

  ‘Oh my gosh, Beverley! What has he got involved in? You need to tell me.’

  ‘Accessory to murder. A teenage prostitute was found dismembered and discarded in a butcher’s bin in London.’

  Coming to a standstill in the middle of the gallery, Angie’s disbelieving voice was audible above the interested chummer chummer of the other visitors. ‘Oh come on! I know he’s a rotter and a bully . . . and even a thief. But that? No way!’

  ‘Yes, way. I’ve seen the evidence. There’s filmed footage of it doing the rounds online in the sort of places normal people don’t visit.’

  ‘Rubbish. A shadow cabinet minister? Murder? That’s so far-fetched, it’s—’

  ‘Is it far-fetched?’ Bev raised an eyebrow. Spoke so quietly that Angie had to lean in to hear her. ‘I’ve seen the film with my own eyes, Angie. Five men in animal masks, just like the stills you stole from Gretchen.’

  ‘Oh, well if they’re wearing masks, it could be anyone! I realise Jerry’s a sexually incontinent pervert . . . but murder?!’

  ‘Gretchen’s photos, Ange!’

  ‘Maybe there’s a trend for men wearing animal masks. The internet’s a very strange place.’ Her tone was unconvincing ; her voice, thin and squeaky. The horror of this revelation was evident in her anguished expression.

  She could deny Jerry’s involvement all she liked, but sometimes, two plus two simply equalled four. ‘In the same flat I’ve been in and fled from,’ Bev said. ‘And how many men do you know with birthmarks the shape of Australia, eh? That’s what the police would call an anomaly. It’s how they identify suspects. Tattoos, disfigurements, scars, birthmarks.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Ninety-nine point nine per cent. Sorry.’

  Angie fell silent for a moment. Swallowed hard several times and then grabbed Bev unexpectedly, her bony fingers closing around her arm like pincers. ‘The police are in his pocket. He’s their golden boy ; Jerry Fitzwilliam, the great white budgetary hope for law enforcement. He fancies himself as a future Justice Minister if Labour gets into power and he’s promised them the earth.’

  Bev could feel the sweat from her client’s hand coming through the fabric of her top. ‘Go easy, Angie.’ She pulled her arm free. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘If you think he’s a thorn in your side now, wait until you’ve tried to frame him for murder.’

  ‘Accessory to murder. And I don’t need to frame anybody, thanks. He did do it! The camera doesn’t lie.’

  ‘They’ll cover for him, Bev. You’ll end up arrested on trumped-up charges yourself and they’ll throw away the key. Be very, very careful.’

  Climbing out of the taxi, Bev took in the Stretford vista – the busy main road into town, the old brick-built police station. The car park was rammed. This was a place that saw plenty of action. The only station for miles with a counter that was open to the public.

  Wincing from the sheer effort of walking, she climbed the stairs to the reception area. Inside, the seating was bolted to the floor. Crime prevention and grassing hotline posters had been dotted around liberally on the walls. Bev imagined she smelled desperation and defiance on the air, still lingering after the drunks and those gunning for a bust-up had been flung in the cells of a Friday or Saturday night. This was where the victims and relatives waited, side by side. The yin and yang of the UK’s most violent city.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ she muttered. Pausing by the heavy door to the counter. Wondering if she should just leave before she said things that could not be unsaid about a democratically elected MP of one of the most powerful nations on earth. You’re nuts. Call another Uber before it’s too late, her internal voice of reason advised. But the need to put back together the shards of her shattered world sliced through any apprehension. ‘Come on, Bev. Do the right thing. Not just for you. Be the mother your girl can be proud of.’

  She pressed the bell and waited, peering beyond the bullet proof glass. A powerfully built policewoman emerged from the area closed to the public and buzzed her through. No going back.

  ‘I’ve come to report . . . I’ve come to give evidence of . . .’ she stuttered.

  Bev couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s officer number on the epaulettes of her shirt or the sheer size of her shoulders.

  ‘Go on, love.’ She scrutinised the cast on Bev’s arm, positioned across her body in a sling. Narrowed her eyes at the cuts and bruising to her face. ‘We’re here to help.’

  Bev reached into her handbag and withdrew the small Jiffy bag that contained several USB sticks. ‘This is one for CID. It’s evidence of a murder that was in the papers a while ago. He was involved. You can see it in the footage. And there’s evidence of fraud and trolling. I’m a private investigator, see? I’m being stalk—’

  ‘Hang on, madam,’ the policewoman said, raising a hand. ‘Who are we talking about here? Is it a man known to you?’

  Swallowing hard, Bev inhaled deeply, willing the tears to stay firmly behind her eyes. She was a professional, possibly committing career suicide. But a pro and a woman with a functioning moral compass, nonetheless. Even if her statement might ultimately lead to her never getting Hope back, she couldn’t knowingly let a thief, a rapist and an accessory to murder walk free. ‘Jerry Fitzwilliam. The shadow cabinet Minister for Science.’

  The policewoman straightened up, regarding Bev and the Jiffy bag as though they were both other-worldly exhibits from Area 51, incomprehensible to the average sane human. She paused briefly, seeming to consider what to do with dastardly revelations of national importance, that bore no relation to the usual Stretfordian reports of pockets being picked or nuisance neighbours cobbing rubbish onto the streets. Then, she almost snatched the package from Bev. Speaking rapidly, it was clear she too was flustered. ‘I’ll need this, if you don’t mind. Oh, and
I’ll have to take some details. Name. Address. Date of birth.’

  After Bev had reluctantly revealed her identity, knowing there was now no way back, the policewoman pressed the buzzer to release the door. ‘Just go and take a seat, please, madam. We’ll be with you in a minute.’

  CHAPTER 38

  Bev

  ‘Tell us how you got hold of this information,’ Curtis said, tapping his finger by the evidence bag that now contained the USB sticks.

  The confrontational way in which he pushed the baggie towards her bristled with aggression ; testosterone seeming to evaporate off his sweaty forehead in waves like those fuel mirages that surrounded the petrol nozzle whenever Bev filled up her car. On the couple of occasions she’d gone to this arse-carbuncle with a tale of shocking domestic violence, child abuse and some class A criminal activity well worth reporting to the cops, he and his pal, Owen had delighted in ridiculing her. They’d made it pretty clear that they considered private investigators to be low-rent facsimiles of the real enforcers of the law. Today was no exception to that rule. ‘Assuming it actually is what it appears to be.’

  ‘You know full well I’m a PI,’ she said, wishing that waver in her voice would abate. Wondering if she ought to call her solicitor in a bid to break free of the net of cheap polyester suiting, stale coffee-breathed suspicion and labyrinthine bureaucracy that she seemed to be caught in. ‘I was hired by Fitzwilliam’s wife, Angie to put together some information—’

  ‘But catfishing an MP and hacking into his bank account goes a bit above and beyond the call of a PI’s duty, don’t you think, Beverley?’ The timbre of Owen’s saccharine-sweet voice grated on her ears. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven. A graduate fast-tracker, perhaps, with everything to prove in a man’s world. ‘That kind of activity is against the law. You must realise that. If every Tom, Dick and Harry started—’

  ‘Angela Fitzgerald came to me after he’d tried to throttle her,’ Bev explained. ‘Covered in bruises, she was. I know a desperate woman in mortal danger when I see one and that danger’s only escalated since he knows that she’s realised what a morally bankrupt fuck-stump he is.’

  ‘Did you personally hack Mr Fitzgerald’s bank accounts, Beverley?’ Curtis asked. ‘Or did you pay someone?’

  Wishing she could just get the hell out of that claustrophobic interview room, Bev closed her eyes. Stand up for yourself, woman. Don’t let them push fault onto you. They’re playing the same shitty trick Rob always did. Switch the tables back on them. ‘Never mind how I get my information. Right? On those USB sticks, you’ll find hard evidence of a public servant squirrelling away millions of undeclared cash that he got from companies he’s pushing to give government contracts to. OK? You’ll find screenshots of the filth that’s been appearing online about me since I took this case on. Defamatory stuff, inviting randoms to visit me at home, rape me and beat me up. You want illegal activity? I’m giving you this. And the biggest coup for you guys, is that this stick . . .’ She pointed to the baggie placed by Owen’s hands. ‘Has Tatjana Lebedev’s final moments on it.’ Saw the ambition in the woman’s eyes. ‘Don’t you fancy being the detective who solved the murder of the dismembered Russian girl in the butcher’s bin? Those southern softies in the Met are going to be twisting their melons if a Manc brings home the bacon on a big case like that, and it turns out to be a bent politician and his mates behind it. Underage Russian prostitute. Trafficked, at that. Drugs. Murder. Eh? An email trail that proves Jerry Fitzgerald organised it all, like he was planning some lads’ night in with a few tinnies and the match.’

  Curtis produced some printouts, fanning them out on the battered table’s surface and sliding them within her reach. ‘You’ve got mental health problems, haven’t you, Beverley? A judge deemed you unfit to parent your daughter.’

  Bev’s insides twisted into tight knots she would never untie. She pressed her lips together, breathing heavily through flared nostrils. ‘I’m addicted to origami. That doesn’t make me a liar.’

  ‘And you’ve been in a car crash recently.’ He gestured towards the cast on her arm. ‘My colleagues are investigating you for dangerous driving.’

  Standing, leaning as far into the detective as she could, Bev mustered every last shred of molten anger that welled within her. She jab-jabbed her good index finger towards him. ‘Listen, pal. Check your CCTV footage for Princess Road. The HGV at the side of me wandered into my lane.’ She turned to Owen. ‘And I’ve got a copy of all this shit. Maybe you’d prefer me to go to the press with it. Because if I do that, and it goes national, suddenly, this is all prejudicial evidence and you can’t admit it in court. No medals for you, chuck. Is that what you want?’

  Returning to the house, Bev circumnavigated her inquisitive landlords by skirting down the side access. There, the wheelie bins stood to attention in a line. Desperate to slip into her flat via her patio doors, where she’d be able to debrief Doc, she noticed that her bag of paper recycling, that she’d put out only days earlier, lay behind the bin for bottles and tin cans. It had been slashed open. The rain-sodden contents were strewn across the paving, like soggy stuffing spilling from a bust sofa that had been fly-tipped and left at the mercy of the elements for too long.

  ‘Of course he’s been through my rubbish,’ she said, trying to scrape the disintegrating documentation back into the bin.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Above her, Sophie was calling. ‘Just the girl! Can I have a word?’

  Bev looked up to see her friend dangling out of the window to the guest bedroom at the side. The tone was jolly, but Sophie’s face was inscrutable, bordering on clearly pissed off. Not good.

  Unable to make the case that her need to repair to her sickbed was a matter of urgency, Bev found herself being corralled into the kitchen to discuss, ‘The Twitter Thing’. She was summoned not to the island in the middle of the room, where wine was normally drunk and convivial conversations were had, whilst Sophie pottered about, arranging pre-washed salad leaves on her favourite Cath Kidston crockery. Instead, she was bidden to sit at the dining table in a straight-backed chair, with Sophie at the head. She felt like she’d been summoned to the boardroom by the boss of BelNutrive all over again. Damp rings quickly bloomed beneath her armpits, making the fabric of her T-shirt unpleasantly wet and cold.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Sophie asked, wearing a smile that was more of a grimace.

  ‘Not really,’ Bev said. ‘I’m still—’

  ‘Good. We need to talk.’ Sophie was screwing a piece of kitchen roll in her hand. She sipped a smoothie while Bev was left with no drink at all.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Bev said, chuckling nervously. Wondering how her morning could possibly get more stressful. ‘You’ve already given me the order of the boot once this week, so it can’t be that.’

  Sophie examined her beautifully manicured hands and touched the discreet diamond cross that hung around her neck as if she sought the guidance of Jesus. Ever-forgiving, cheek-turning Holy Jo was still waiting to inherit the earth – didn’t even realise that she already had.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ she said. ‘The revolting Twitter account.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ Bev said. ‘How could you think—?’

  But her friend wasn’t listening. She merely closed her beautifully made-up eyes and held her hand aloft. ‘I knew your . . . problems were escalating. And the crash was an awful thing to happen to you. But when Tim showed me that outrageous . . .’ Focused on Bev, now with a hard, blue-eyed stare. ‘Well, I couldn’t believe you’d be so reckless. Posting nude pictures of yourself. Inviting dirty men into our home to abuse you.’

  ‘OK. Enough!’ Bev shouted, rising from the uncomfortable seat. Clutching at the cast on her arm, she fantasised fleetingly about swinging it into Sophie’s judgemental face. But scratch beneath the defensive layer of bluff, and Bev acknowledged that her friend’s disapproval bit deep. ‘I didn’t post any of that stuff and need I remind you that I’m a mother? I resent you believing that I woul
d—’

  ‘What?’ Tim’s voice, now. ‘Bring strange men to the house for sex? The house where our children live.’

  Bev turned to the doorway to see him standing there, arms folded like a man-mountain of stone. There was nothing but disgust etched on that flinty face with its broken nose and cauliflower ear. The jaunty pastel colours of his polo rugby top were at odds with the ominous dark cloud that seemed to hang above him like a brewing storm.

  ‘Listen, pal,’ Bev said, marching up to him and pushing him in his over-developed pectoral muscle. ‘I’ve just about had enough of you, doling out judgement. Who the hell do you think you are? You charge me an exorbitant rent to live in your basement flat – a mildewed stinking pit that you can’t even be arsed to maintain properly.’

  ‘Well, actually it’s a long time since you paid—’

  ‘Need I remind you that I’ve got my own front door with my own lock, and that I can bring whoever I want home? And if you must know, if I have guests, I make them come in through the patio doors, so they don’t have to walk through your precious family home.’ She was standing on her tiptoes now, shouting up at him. Feeling nothing but festering resentment power her every word. ‘What I do in the privacy of my own place, as a consenting adult, is absolutely fuck all to do with you. Just because you’re not getting any, Timbo, don’t take your jealousy out on me.’

  She tried to push past him but his shovel-like hand closed around her shoulder.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said, trying to wriggle free. Wishing Doc were there to witness this affront. ‘Sophie! Are you going to let him manhandle an injured woman like this? Say something, will you?’

  But her friend was looking at a flower arrangement on the island with studied disinterest, plucking the pollen-laden anthers from the stamens on some white oriental lilies.

  ‘Sophie nagged me into letting you stay until you’ve got a place,’ Tim said. ‘But I’ve changed my mind. You’ve got forty eight hours to get out. You’re a malign influence on my family.’