Stop at Nothing

by Tammy Cohen

  It was the wrong thing to say. Mum snatched her hand away and I could tell she was growing upset.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ she said, her face pink and mottled.

  ‘No. Okay.’

  Yet it wasn’t okay. She’d seemed so lucid moments ago, but I could see the window of opportunity closing.

  For a while we sat in silence, feeling the sun on our faces. Then I tried again.

  ‘Mum, you know that day. The day Dad died.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about that. You mustn’t talk about that.’

  ‘Someone came to the door, didn’t they? Dad got up to answer it.’

  ‘Yes. Can we talk about something else now?’

  ‘In a minute, Mum. I’m so sorry, but this is important. Did you see who it was?’

  My mother had started rocking gently, forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards.

  ‘Mum. The man at the door. Did you see who it was?’

  Now she stopped suddenly and looked straight, urgently, into my eyes and I was convinced she was about to tell me what I wanted to know. But then:

  ‘No.’

  Hope drained out of me. Stupid, really, to have thought she might be able to help.

  ‘No. Okay, Mum. You didn’t see him. We’ll talk about something else now. Tell me about this friend of yours you’ve met in here.’

  But my mother was still sitting rigidly, a frown on her face. She was clenching and unclenching her hands in agitation, and I realized, with a rush of love that threatened to dissolve me completely, that she was straining to help, to overcome the obstacles of her own crumbling mind.

  ‘I meant no, there was no man,’ she said, her whole body tense with the effort of remembering. ‘The person at the door was a woman.’

  I am on the sofa with Henry. He is snuggled into my side and I have my arm wrapped around him and I can feel how much he has grown over the last few months. The round belly I used to blow raspberries on has completely flattened out, and I can feel his bones through the skin of his narrow shoulders. I remember a time when he could sit against the back cushions with his legs straight out in front of him, but now they dangle off the edge.

  We are watching the DVD of Paddington 2. Again. Or rather, Henry is watching it and I am on my laptop, checking up on you.

  It is a while since I have allowed myself to do this. The grotesque teddy bear at the graveyard left me shaken for days and I was determined to put you out of my mind. But I need to know where you are, what you’re doing. Who you’re with.

  Your Twitter account is mostly retweets of other people. Occasionally, you comment on a book you’ve read or a film you’ve seen. You never say anything contentious. You could be anyone. Going about your life. Ordinary.

  Only I know the truth.

  And ordinary doesn’t come into it.

  Your only update on Instagram is an arty photograph of a lawn sloping down to a lake whose surface glitters in the sunlight and a cluster of thick green trees beyond. I recognize the view from Kenwood House, on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath.

  It’s tough living in the Big Smoke, you have written, with an icon of a winking face. #SummerintheCity #GreenSpace #NoFilter

  Next I turn to Facebook, putting your name into the search box. I only need to type the first letter and it goes straight to you. That’s how often I look. The page loads up.

  The photograph is still there and, even though I’ve looked at it so many times over the last few weeks since I first noticed it, there is still a roaring noise in my head and my mouth feels dry.

  It is clearly a selfie, judging by the angle it is taken from. The camera is being held up above you at arm’s length and you are smiling, showing that gap in your teeth that makes me want to smash a hole through that smile. You are wearing a coral-coloured jumper that I recognize.

  How many lies did you tell me, wearing that jumper? I wonder.

  But, as ever, my attention does not linger on you. Instead, it is drawn to the young woman next to you. A tangle of thick brown hair, split at the ends in that way girls’ hair gets when they can’t bear to get it cut. Pale face, no make-up. The tell-tale bumps of spots on her chin.

  She is smiling, a weak sort of smile, and leaning into your arm, which is around her shoulders.

  Is it my imagination or do her brown eyes seem troubled? Anxious? I peer more closely and now she seems to be looking straight at me. Asking for something.

  Asking for help.

  ‘Mum, you’re hurting me.’

  I realize I am squeezing Henry’s shoulders, and I release my grip, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Silly Mummy.’

  But when I look back at the screen the unknown girl is still looking at me.

  Funny how the world works in such a random way, your post reads. This is E, and I can’t say how we were thrown together, as it’s not my story to tell. But I know we’ll always be an important part of each other’s lives. #SoulSistas #UnbreakableBond

  I close my eyes and remember how you’d bought me a necklace on our friendsiversary, as you called it.

  ‘Creepy,’ was Matt’s verdict.

  ‘Don’t be idiotic,’ I’d told him. ‘Just because you don’t have the gene for sentimentality.’

  I’d worn the necklace a few times, just to make you happy. But the chain was too short and felt constricting.

  The girl in the picture isn’t wearing a necklace, but she has that look of someone who does not feel comfortable. Someone lumbered with an intimacy they have not asked for.

  Whoever this E is, I know you will not let her go.

  Just as you will not let me go.

  42

  Walking to get the train, anxiety was a sharp stone lodged in my shoe. Even installed in my seat, my thoughts still churned.

  I tried to calm myself by looking at the whole thing rationally. There was no proof that whoever had come to the door of my parents’ house had anything to do with my dad’s death. And certainly, it was ludicrous to suggest it might be someone I knew.

  Still, I couldn’t stop my brain whirring.

  Stephens worked as a painter and decorator and part-time DJ. Why on earth hadn’t I questioned before whether he was likely to possess the technical know-how he’d need to remotely install spyware on my computer and so infiltrate every aspect of my life? I’d seen the way he expressed himself online, the language he used, the spelling. Could he really have composed those emails, masquerading convincingly as a middle-aged mother and journalist?

  Wouldn’t it be more likely to be a woman, someone who’d got close enough to me to observe my life and my relationships, someone who was well versed in technology, perhaps even someone who worked in IT?

  Someone like Frances.

  I got out my phone and googled ‘spyware’. I read about how it was indeed possible to install a spying program on someone else’s computer through a link contained in an email, as Frances explained had happened to me when I clicked on that file I was sent through my website. That would give someone access to my computer.

  Spyware could also be installed on a phone, I read. But this would have to be done manually.

  Instantly, I had a flashback to the morning Frances had come round to check my computer.

  ‘I’ll need your phone,’ she’d said, standing in the doorway.

  And I’d handed it over.

  Arriving at Paddington, I exited on to the main road and walked until I spotted a little shop selling reconditioned computers and phones.

  I went in and bought the cheapest pay-as-you-go phone they had in stock plus twenty pounds of credit.

  ‘Lots of people get these, as a second phone,’ observed the man behind the counter, putting it in a bag with a knowing look. I realized as I got out on to the street that he must have thought I wanted to use it to conduct an affair.

  ‘Kath, what was the name of the guy you spoke to at Frances’s work?’

  Even o
ver the sound of the traffic, I could hear my voice sounded urgent and high-pitched.

  ‘Dean something or other. I’ll look it up. What’s up, Tess? Why are you ringing on a different number? And why do you sound so weird?’

  ‘I’m on my way back from seeing Mum. Kath, the person who came to the door just before Dad died was a woman.’

  I don’t know what I expected then – that Kath would immediately jump ahead as I had done to the worst possible conclusion? Instead, there was a pause and then:

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what if it was Frances?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Tess. Get a fucking grip. I mean, I know Frances has done some odd things, but it’s a huge leap from social misfit to murderer.’

  ‘But think about it. Frances works with computers. She knows all about that kind of stuff. She was the only one with the opportunity to put a spying program on my phone.’

  Kath paused again, considering.

  ‘Even if you’re right and she has some weird obsession with you that makes her want to know everything about you, there’s still no reason for her to target your parents, is there?’

  I had to admit she was right. Now I was thinking more clearly, I could see how wild the connections were that my mind was making. It was the lack of sleep, I supposed, blurring the edges of my brain and allowing my thoughts to spiral unchecked.

  ‘No, I guess not,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I’d still like to talk to this Dean bloke, though. Frances has become so involved in our lives, and I realize I know so little about her.’

  Dean Baverstock didn’t sound happy about being contacted to discuss Frances Gates.

  ‘I’m at work. Look, what I told your colleague was completely confidential. I could get into real trouble for this.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Kath isn’t my colleague. She’s my friend. And she’s worried about me.’

  I quickly outlined my acquaintance with Frances. How close she’d become to Em.

  ‘My daughter’s only sixteen years old. I just want to know who she is letting into her life.’

  ‘I don’t take kindly to being lied to, Mrs Hopwood.’ Dean had lowered his voice, and now there was a drop in background noise, as if he’d been in an open-plan office but had now taken his phone somewhere quieter. ‘However, if I were you, I’d be giving some serious thought to ending that relationship.’

  Standing outside an estate agent’s window, I leaned on the glass, staring at the ridiculously priced houses in the display without seeing them.

  ‘What exactly did she do to get sacked from Hepworths?’

  Dean made a noise as if he were sucking air in between his teeth.

  ‘Not sacked. Not officially, anyway. We had a restructuring and her position was surplus to requirements.’

  ‘But really …’

  ‘Really, the bosses wanted her out. Well, they knew the rest of us would walk if she didn’t go.’

  I rubbed my forehead with my hand, as if trying to manually shift the blockage that was stopping me from thinking properly. I just couldn’t reconcile the Frances I knew, the one with the gap in her teeth and the shiny hair, with the social pariah he was describing.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what she actually did.’

  Dean sighed.

  ‘Look, it’s not easy to put a finger on, all right. And it was something that happened over time so that none of us really noticed at first. We all liked her to start with. She seemed so eager to help.’

  ‘So what changed?’

  I was growing impatient to get off the phone. Worry was twisting itself around my bones and I wanted to get back to my house and to my daughters.

  ‘We got a new CEO, a woman who, let’s just say, is pretty exacting. Things started to go wrong. We’re a relatively small company, and though we’d had the odd disaster over the two years I’d been there, there was nothing like this. Every other week it seemed there was a new crisis – the systems crashing and wiping out all our data, or a breach of security, or all the prices being a digit out so we traded for half a day at well below what the shares were worth. And each time, Frances would quietly and efficiently step in and save the day.’

  My other phone started vibrating in the pocket of my bag, signalling a call coming through, and I willed it to stop so I could concentrate on what Dean Baverstock was saying.

  ‘One time, two of the client managers were called out to separate meetings with prospective new clients in different cities hours away – meetings that turned out not to exist. And while they were gone the CEO came in with various specially invited guests expecting a presentation from one of the absent managers on a new multimillion-pound merger of two key accounts. Apparently, the whole thing had been set up by email and, though the manager swore blind he had never made any such arrangement, it later turned out to be right there on his digital calendar. Anyhow, guess who stepped up to the plate to give the presentation in his place?’

  ‘And you think Frances engineered all this – to impress the new boss?’ In my bag, my phone beeped an alert, but I hardly registered it.

  ‘Nothing was ever proven but …’

  I heard the sound of a man saying something in the background and then Dean’s voice, muffled as if he had his hand over the phone. When he spoke again, it was in a completely new tone. Brisk and detached.

  ‘Right. Well. I hope that’s been useful. Please get in touch if you have any further queries.’

  I still had loads of questions, but I knew I was being dismissed. I also knew Dean Baverstock had stuck his neck out by telling me this much, so I thanked him and said goodbye.

  The Tube home was busy. A man sat in the seat next to me with his legs spread wide apart, oblivious to how I was having to squeeze my own legs to the side to avoid clashing with his.

  My mind was tying itself in knots trying to make sense of everything.

  What I knew for sure was that Frances had been lying about her job. But that wasn’t a crime. Plenty of people would be embarrassed about being made redundant, especially if there’d been bad feeling before they left.

  Other than that, everything else was pure speculation. Yes, it was true Frances had the credentials and the opportunity to put spyware on my computer and phone and to intercept my messages, but there was no proof that’s what she’d done. And true, Mum had said a woman came to the door just before the shadow appeared in the hallway and before Dad injected himself with a lethal dose of insulin. But as I knew only too well, my mother’s recollections were far from reliable. And even if the visitor had been a woman and had, like a scene from a bad horror movie, sneaked into the kitchen while my dad’s back was turned to tamper with his medication, what evidence was there to link her to Frances? I’d been happy to make that leap when I thought it was Stephens, an ex-con, tracking my every move, out for revenge. But this was Frances we were talking about, with her cashmere jumpers and her ill mother.

  And yet there was a persistent pinching on the raw ends of my nerves, as if something bad was coming.

  Hurrying home from the Tube, I took out my usual phone to call Em, but when I clicked the home button I saw she’d been trying to get hold of me.

  I remembered then that there had been an incoming call while I was on the phone to Dean Baverstock, but when I tried to get back to Em it went straight to voicemail.

  Trying to quell my growing uneasiness, I rang Rosie, but she sounded distracted.

  ‘I’m just waiting for a call from the head of the criminology department at uni,’ she said. ‘Fingers crossed I’ll be able to go straight into year two in the autumn.’

  ‘I’m so pleased.’

  ‘Are you okay, Mum? You sound tense.’

  For a moment I considered telling her about my new fears. It would be such a relief to talk to someone about it all, but I knew she was in a hurry and I didn’t want to burden her.

  ‘I’m fine, darling. I’ve just been to see Grandma, that’s all, which is always a bit unsettling.’

  Aft
er I’d said goodbye to Rosie I tried Em again, sighing when she didn’t pick up. This time I left a message, even though I knew she rarely listened to her voicemails.

  ‘Hello, sweetie. Can you call me when you get a chance?’

  I found myself walking more quickly, needing to be home, hoping that I’d find Emma there, curled up on the end of the sofa, watching the telly while absently twirling a hank of hair around her finger in that way she did, her phone on silent. But when I turned the corner into our road I noticed there was someone standing in our front garden.

  The blood in my veins turned to ice as I drew closer and recognized the distinctive orange silk scarf around her neck.

  43

  Claudia Epstein had the look of someone who slept with the lights on. Her grey eyes were set deep into dark shadows and darted around on constant alert and, even when seated at one of my kitchen chairs, she held herself very upright, every muscle seemingly tensed, as if poised for flight.

  She had refused a cup of tea, though she grudgingly accepted a glass of water. Even that was toyed with rather than drunk.

  ‘I asked my mum to pick my son up after school for me,’ she said. ‘It’s the first time I haven’t gone in myself and I’m worried how he’ll cope.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Kids are so resilient.’

  It’s the kind of thing parents say to each other. But even as I was saying it I realized it wasn’t true. Children might bounce back up faster than the rest of us, but their scars are just as deep. And being young, those scars last longer.

  I glanced at my phone, willing Em to come home.

  I’d known as soon as she introduced herself outside on the doorstep that Claudia was the one Frances had mentioned from time to time, although her age took me by surprise. I’d expected her to be younger, like Frances. ‘You’re the friend who moved away. She talks about you often,’ I’d said.

  ‘Friend?’ Claudia had repeated, looking at me as if I’d slapped her.

  ‘You’ve been following me,’ I told her now in my kitchen. Accusatory.