Trust Me

by T. M. Logan

  Initially he’d stayed in the cheapest B & Bs, moving on every few days when he felt the press closing in. Staying on the move was supposed to be a temporary thing, but with the house gone, he mostly slept in the BMW if he couldn’t bed down in a derelict building for a day or two. Sometimes it still amazed him how far he’d fallen. How fast. Most of the time he tried not to think about it. He just had to keep moving, keep ahead of them. Stay under the radar.

  He was screwing the petrol cap back on when a small red car pulled up at the next pump along, loud voices and music with a heavy bassline puncturing the early morning silence. Glancing up, he saw four teenagers crammed into the little Nissan, two boys in front and two girls in the back seat, fast food in their laps. Coming off the back of an all-nighter, judging by the pallor of their skin and excitable chatter. The driver, a tall, reedy youth in a black jacket, looked up and saw him, their eyes meeting for a split second before Dominic ducked his head and turned away. He was acutely aware of the plaster covering the ragged stitches on his face, the livid bruising darkening the flesh around it. It drew unwanted attention.

  He locked the car and strode across the forecourt, pulling the collar of his jacket up, keeping his face under the brim of his baseball cap as he slid his credit card into the handheld machine at the counter inside. Cash was a better option – it left no trail – but all his accounts were deeply in the red. There was a beep as the card was declined. He reached for a second card. Declined. He found another in his wallet, feeling his shoulders relax slightly as the payment finally went through. He took the receipt without a word and stalked back towards his car, giving the red Nissan a brief glance as he reached into a pocket for his keys.

  Two of the teenagers had their phones up, pointing at him.

  The driver stood by the car and one of the girls leaned out of the window. Filming. Photographing. Keeping their smartphones on him as he crossed the concrete to his BMW. Dominic felt his jaw tense with a familiar flash of rage, the breath hot in his nostrils. The old tingling in his fists.

  The driver was typing now, thumbs a blur over the screen, lines of concentration creasing the pallid skin of his forehead. Dominic shifted his direction and walked up to him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hold on a second.’

  ‘Give me your phone,’ Dominic said, holding out his hand. ‘Now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  The youth stood his ground. ‘Don’t think so, mate.’

  Dominic thought for a moment about the broad-bladed jungle knife strapped to his forearm in its sheath. Self-protection. It could be in his hand in less than a second, the grooved handle nestling in his palm. The satisfaction of seeing this arsehole’s face if he drew it.

  Not here. Too many cameras.

  Instead he reached out and ripped the phone from the teenager’s hand, turned it around to study the screen. A looping video of him paying at the desk inside the garage, then walking across the forecourt, a clear shot of his face with its angry purple bruising.

  ‘Hey!’ the teenager tried to grab it back, but Dominic held him off easily with one large hand against his bony chest. He scrolled down to look at the caption below the video.

  SPOTTED! #Killer #ChurchGuilty #TheGhost

  It was already posted and live, out there on the internet for the world to see.

  The teenager struggled against his grip. ‘How does it feel?’ he said, his voice high and tight with false bravado.

  ‘How does what feel?’ Dominic said.

  ‘To have killed those women and got away with it.’

  Dominic could feel a flush heating the skin of his face. Those months seared onto his memory, the accusations that had followed him ever since: a household name for all the wrong reasons. Arrested and held for four days straight, questioned over and over again. Returning to a house half-emptied by police forensic officers, besieged by journalists camped on his front lawn. Months on bail as work dried up, months of headlines, evidence mounting day by day, the police a whisker away from charging him but never actually crossing that threshold.

  And now this. Limbo. A grey half-life where the unconvicted guilty live. Only one way out.

  There was no good answer to the kid’s question. Instead, Dominic swung the mobile into the edge of the concrete pillar, shattering the screen, smashing it again and again and again until shards of plastic and metal fell from his hand onto the floor at their feet. Ignoring the teenager’s cries of protest, he grabbed the lapels of his jacket, lifting the younger man onto his tiptoes up against the Nissan.

  ‘Psycho! Let go of me!’

  The other teenaged lad was scrambling out of the passenger side of the Nissan, his hands up in supplication – hey hey hey come on now mate – but Dominic could barely hear the reedy voice. The anger was churning and boiling up at the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.

  ‘You want to know how it feels, do you?’ he growled into the teenager’s face. ‘How it feels when your life turns into a fucking hashtag?’

  ‘You’re a nutter, you’re—’

  Dominic reached up to his own cheek and tore the plaster away, pointing to the mass of black and purple bruising beneath, the ugly, jagged wound crudely stitched.

  ‘That’s how it feels,’ he said, pointing to his cheek. ‘Every. Fucking. Day.’

  He pinned the flinching teenager a moment longer before dropping him back to the asphalt.

  One of the girls in the car began to scream.

  Dominic got into his car and gunned the engine, her cries ringing in his ears as he drove away.

  36

  I call in sick again at work. There is a twinge of guilt as I dial the number, but I’ve been ground down by Tara’s insistence that I take at least one more day off. The ache in my neck has subsided and the cuts above my eye and in my right foot are healing OK, but when I tell my boss what happened yesterday she tells me to take as long as I need, her voice full of concern. So instead of getting the Tube to Bond Street, I help Tara get the boys ready for nursery and school, helping them dress and filling bowls with cereal. Lucas and Charlie currently have two days a week at nursery as Tara tries to pick up some freelance feature writing. Her plan is that when the youngest is three and the other two are in primary school, she’ll go back to journalism part-time.

  In a tearful moment a few months ago, she drunkenly confessed to me that sometimes – most recently when the boys were in a state of near-constant warfare and she was zombified with exhaustion– she’s felt a fierce flash of hatred for her husband Dave when he walks out of the door for work in the morning. When he waltzes off down the drive to his car and escapes, was how she described it. She told me how jealous she felt, how she loved her boys more than life itself but still sometimes yearned to be back at work.

  ‘To be out there, on deadline, just myself and the story to worry about,’ she’d said to me as we tucked into a second bottle of Friday evening wine. ‘Even the worst possible assignment. Even a midnight deathknock on the dodgiest council estate in England. Sometimes I’d kill for that.’

  She had immediately apologised to me, but I waved it away. She was just being honest. And I understood – I would kill for what she had, too.

  With the boys dropped off at nursery and school we find ourselves back at her house, in her kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, low autumn sun slanting through the windows. The house is strangely quiet without her boys and it feels unnatural, almost unreal, without their constant noise and chatter, the burble of the TV, their high voices raised in play or protest.

  After Gilbourne left last night I had googled Leon Markovitz and found a link to his podcast series, Inside the Killing Mind, reading the accompanying text with a rising sense of unease: We delve deeper into the psychopathic brain than you’ve ever been before. Remember, you’re never more than a stone’s throw away from a psychopath. Scrolling through dozens of episodes over the past few years, each one focusing on a diffe
rent UK murder with a particular interest in psychopaths, serial killers, spree killers and gangland murderers. Fred and Rose West. Michael Ryan, who shot sixteen people in a single afternoon in Hungerford. Dr Harold Shipman, the UK’s most prolific serial killer. Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. Angus Sinclair, the World’s End murderer. Robert Black. John Christie. And on, and on, and on.

  ‘So how are you doing, Ellen?’ Tara takes two mugs from the cupboard and spoons in instant coffee. ‘And don’t just say “OK” because I’m not letting you get away with that.’

  ‘I’m all right, I suppose.’

  ‘How are you really?’

  ‘Well.’ I blow out a heavy breath. ‘I’ve had better weeks, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Come here.’ She pulls me into a hug and I’m enveloped in the smell of her almond shampoo and the musky perfume she always wears, even on a school-run day. I feel my defences start to falter and suddenly I’m on the verge of tears. I try to wipe them away before she can see but it’s too late.

  Tara gives my back a gentle rub. ‘I’m worried about you, Ellen.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Tell me what I can do to help.’

  The kettle clicks off and she releases me to make the drinks, stirring milk into both mugs and handing me one. I follow her into the conservatory and she asks me for a full update on my conversation with Gilbourne.

  ‘I can’t, Tara. He said the details were confidential because it’s a live investigation. I’m not allowed to tell anyone else.’

  ‘Yeah but this is me, Ellen. I’m not a random person in the street.’

  ‘I promised him.’

  ‘So why did he tell you this stuff?’

  ‘He said he was worried about me after what happened yesterday,’ I shrug. ‘Thought I would be safer if I knew some of the details.’

  ‘Seems like it’s a bit above and beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He drives out here in an evening, gives you confidential info and swears you to secrecy like it could get him in trouble if anyone finds out. D’you think he would have done that for just anybody?’

  ‘Probably? I don’t know. I think he’s actually a nice guy, despite first impressions.’

  ‘He’s got a soft spot for you.’

  I frown. ‘He’s just doing his job.’ I sip my coffee for a moment. ‘Is this your idea of trying to cheer me up?’

  ‘And he’s quite good-looking in a been-round-the-block-a-few-times kind of way. You can tell he’s a bit of a player.’

  I shake my head at her, but I’m smiling. ‘Do you really want to help?’ I say.

  ‘Of course.’ She puts her coffee down on the table. ‘Anything.’

  ‘You did a stint on the Daily Mail, right? Before the boys came along?’

  ‘Longest three years of my life,’ she says with a grin. ‘Toughest newsroom in the country.’

  She had put her English degree to use after leaving the navy. From newspaper journalism she had shifted into magazines and was currently on a career break as a staff writer for Jane’s Defence Weekly, with a specialism in the naval sector.

  ‘Are you still in touch with anyone you worked with at the Daily Mail?’

  ‘Some of the other specialists, yes. Education, health, the social affairs bod. Not so much with the general news guys.’

  ‘How about the crime desk?’

  ‘There wasn’t really a desk, more like two blokes with a couple of phones each. But I’m still vaguely in touch with one of them, yes.’

  ‘Do you think you could ask him a favour?’

  I explain to her what I’ve found out about Kathryn Clifton, the way the locals in Great Missenden referred to her sister and the look Gilbourne gave me when I mentioned her. How he closed the subject down.

  ‘Kathryn’s boyfriend, Max too – his reaction when I asked about Kathryn’s sister. He was . . . weird. I thought he was going to really kick off, take a swing at me. But then he just shut the door. I googled the sister, all kinds of different combinations, but nothing came up that seemed relevant. Which seems weird because surely whatever happened would appear on a news site, a webpage somewhere?’

  ‘Could be a married name?’

  ‘Perhaps. I was thinking there might have been one of those EU privacy removal things to scrub her name from the Google results?’

  Tara wrinkles her nose.

  ‘Maybe, but they don’t make that easy. Takes time and effort.’

  Dizzy appears from under the side table, moving slowly and sniffing the air, likely checking the coast is clear of small boys for the time being. He jumps up beside me on the sofa and I scratch him behind his ears, his deep purr starting up on cue.

  ‘Well then, I thought there might be some kind of legal restriction on reporting? An injunction or something?’

  ‘There would need to be a sound legal reason for an injunction, a plaintiff with a lot of money and the high-powered lawyers that will buy you. Like those premiership footballers who got super-injunctions when they were sleeping with each other’s wives, so you can’t name names or even report the fact that there is an injunction. Victims of certain crimes get anonymity too. But I can message my guy at the Daily Mail and see if it rings any bells.’

  ‘Thanks, Tara.’

  ‘He’ll want to know why I’m asking.’

  ‘I’m sure you can spin him a line that’s plausible. Just don’t mention me.’

  ‘It might set some hares running. He might start doing some digging of his own.’

  ‘As long as he keeps us in the loop, that’s OK by me.’

  She picks up her phone, selects a few options and begins typing a message. I stroke Dizzy’s head while she types. My cat has established himself on a soft grey blanket at the end of the sofa, his big paws kneading the material while he purrs contentedly. He seems to have settled in OK and I’m amazed how well he tolerates being pursued and grabbed by Tara’s boys, none of whom has discovered how sharp his claws are yet. He’s even making use of the long-neglected cat flap left behind by the house’s previous owners.

  My own mobile buzzes with a text. An unrecognised number. I unlock it and read the words, the breath catching in my throat.

  Mia is still in danger

  Tara leans over and looks at my screen.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Before I can reply, the phone buzzes again as a second message appears below the first.

  And so are you

  37

  There is a shiver of cold fear at the back of my neck as I type a reply.

  What danger? Who is this?

  I press send and try to think of who the message could be from, who knows enough about Mia and what’s happened this week. Not Gilbourne, I had his number stored in my phone. Holt would show as unrecognised, but why not just call me? Perhaps it was Kathryn getting back in contact – if somehow she’d got my number? I will my brain to make a connection that’s just out of reach, just beyond the edge of my vision.

  My phone buzzes again.

  She needs your help

  I put a hand over my mouth. My heart’s thudding painfully in my chest, all the fear of Tuesday rushing back. I knew the danger wasn’t over, I felt it in the marrow of my bones. I type another reply.

  Who are you?

  Tara puts a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right, Ellen? You’re shaking.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ I say. ‘Something’s wrong. It’s really wrong.’ I press the number and select the call option, putting the mobile on speaker so that Tara can hear too. It connects and rings four times before going to an automated female voicemail, the robotic voice tinny and loud in the silence of the conservatory. I hang up, dial again. Voicemail again. This time I leave my name and ask that my call is returned as soon as possible.

  Tara gives me a look.

  ‘Doesn’t want to talk, I guess.’

  A minute passes, then another, as we bo
th wait for another text to arrive. Nothing. I stare again at the string of messages, stand up and pace up and down the tiled floor.

  Tara says, ‘Did you give Kathryn your number?’

  ‘We didn’t have the chance to exchange numbers.’

  Another couple of endless minutes pass, and I sit down rigidly on the sofa, a drumbeat of fear in my chest. Mia is still in danger. I picture her little face, her soft round cheeks, big blue eyes, tufts of silky blonde hair. People still want to hurt her. How could anyone want to do that to such a sweet, innocent child? My mind flashes to last night, the conversation with Gilbourne, the pictures of two desperate men laid side by side. Which of them wants to hurt her? Maybe both?

  ‘I’ve scared her off by ringing the number,’ I say to myself, shaking my head. ‘Shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid.’

  The phone buzzes twice in my hand and I flinch with shock.

  I can explain everything

  But she doesn’t have much time left

  ‘What does that even mean?’ I stare at the words, pushing down the panic rising in my throat. ‘That she doesn’t have much time?’

  I send another text, my hands shaking.

  Call me on this number. Please tell me. I can help

  This time there is no delay to the replies.

  No

  Has to be face to face

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Tara says. ‘The mantra of stalkers and weirdos worldwide. I’m calling the number.’

  She leans over to see my mobile and begins to tap the digits into her own phone.

  ‘Wait,’ I say quickly. ‘A call from another number might spook her again.’

  She stops, her thumb poised over the green ‘call’ icon.

  ‘We don’t even know if it is her. Could be anyone. Who have you been giving your number out to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Something clicks in my brain. ‘Hold on, remember I said I went for a drive yesterday, trying to find where Kathryn lived?’