That afternoon I tell Natalie that I’m going into town and that I’ll be meeting up with Gav from the office later, and she doesn’t question it. Now that we’re confined to a claustrophobic hotel room, there’s a tacit understanding that we need more space.
‘Late one, do you think?’ she asks as I kiss her goodbye.
‘Maybe. Gav’s broken up with his latest girlfriend,’ I say. ‘Might want to drown his sorrows, you know, or come up with a game plan for how to get her back …’
‘Tell him to try walking on two legs.’ Natalie’s always been of the opinion that Gav is a bit of a Neanderthal, but this sort of banter has been pretty scarce of late, and I realize that I miss it.
The train to London is delayed on the approach to Victoria and I end up staring out of a grimy window at grotty industrial buildings. Already on edge, when my phone buzzes in my pocket it makes me start. I pull it out and see that another message from SRUK has arrived. Remembering that last conversation with Cali, and the strange note her words sounded – I want to know everything – I’m tempted to delete it without reading, but something makes me open it.
Sorry about last time, the message says. I shouldn’t have asked about your wife.
I hit reply, seeing that the green dot beside her name is already lit. Don’t worry about it. To be honest, I’m just not sure why you’re back in touch at all.
The reply is swift. I’ve been thinking about you, that’s all. Wondering about you. You’re not afraid of me are you, Alex?
As soon as I see the line of text I know that something’s wrong, even if it takes me a few seconds to put my finger on it. It’s not just the oddness of her question. When I realize, it makes my heart pound, though whether with panic or adrenaline I’m not sure.
How do you know my name?
I stare at the screen, waiting. Secretroom is anonymous. That’s the whole point. There’s nothing that could possibly link me to this locked-down profile on an under-the-radar site. At last I see the line of dots start to move, indicating she’s typing a new message.
I’ve known who you are for a while.
How?! Why? I type back. What’s going on here?
Look, don’t worry. I was curious, that’s all. We live close, you know. I’m only a few miles outside Brighton. I heard about what happened. About the fire. I was worried about you.
I exhale, wondering where to start with all this. It’s increasingly starting to sound like this woman is some kind of obsessed stalker, which I could really do without. Well, you can stop worrying, I type back. I can look after myself. I’m sorry, but I find this unsettling, and I don’t want to be in contact anymore.
She fires back quickly. Has something else happened?
I frown, and I’ve replied without quite considering what I actually want to say. A lot of things are happening right now.
A long pause this time. I have no idea if what I am saying is hitting home with Cali, or whether she thinks this is all just part of some weird erotic game. I’m fidgety and restless, gnawing at the side of my thumbnail, and I’m thinking about logging off and blocking her, just drawing a line under it. But then I see that she’s typing a new message.
When it appears, it knocks the breath briefly from my body.
She’s told you, hasn’t she?
I stare at that line of text for a few seconds. I try and think logically and fast to find the perfect reply, but before I can, the green light next to her username greys out. She’s gone.
‘Shit,’ I say aloud, tapping uselessly at the keypad. Come back. But the automatic response just flashes: Cali will receive your message when she is next online.
Those five little words go round in my head all the way on the Tube ride to Camden Town. I still don’t understand what she meant, but it feels significant, and it makes me oddly uneasy. It’s tempting to dwell on it further, but I force myself to put it to the back of my mind. I have other things to concentrate on right now.
I get off the Tube and set out towards Blackout. It’s been over a decade since I’ve been to a place like this. I don’t even know if I’m wearing the right clothes – I’ve played it safe with a grey T-shirt and dark jeans, but for all I know this is the kind of environment where you won’t be let in unless you’re wearing some kind of ridiculous fluorescent trance get-up. I should have checked the dress code. For a moment I entertain the stupid but attractive thought that perhaps I should just turn around and go back to Brighton, but in the next instant, I see the club.
It’s a tall dark building, the word BLACKOUT flashing relentlessly in bright neon lettering. There are a few people filtering through the doors already; mostly studenty types in jeans and leather jackets. It doesn’t seem like a particularly niche crowd, but I still feel out of place. The door is half open, and as I peer past the hulking doorman I think about my wife being inside these walls, a long time ago … A young woman with a different name and a different life. It’s only a trick of the light, but for an instant I think I can see her, moving swiftly and fluidly across the floor, her shoulders bare and her long hair falling down her back, elusive as a ghost.
I linger for a moment; then, making a decision, I stride up to the doorman.
‘Go on in, mate,’ the doorman says in a monotone. He’s a shortish, thickset man in his forties with a shaved head and shoulders twice their natural size, squeezed into an ill-fitting suit.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if he’s in there or not.’
‘Go on in,’ the doorman repeats with exaggerated patience, ‘and then you can find out.’
I glance through the doors again. I could do as he suggests, but now that we’re talking, I think it’s worth pushing my luck; this man looks to be in his early forties at least, and pretty at home here. ‘Look, you might be able to help me. Have you been around here for a while? Know a lot of people in the area? Did you know this place back when it was Kaspar’s?’
Up until this point the doorman has been regarding me coolly and with minimal interest, but when I say Kaspar’s name he folds his arms and I see something change in his posture, as if he’s standing to attention. I register the power this name has, even after all this time, and a quick shudder passes down the length of my spine.
‘Who’s asking?’ he says.
‘I’m not looking for any trouble,’ I say. ‘I’m just trying to look after my family.’ The man is wearing a thick gold wedding band, and I let my gaze drop to it for an instant before looking him full in the face again. ‘This guy I’m looking for, he’s quite—’ I’m going to say short, but I stop myself. ‘He’s about your height, I think. Blond, cropped hair. Muscular. He’s got an unusual sort of face, kind of … doughy. You know? He was a friend of Kaspar’s. Do you know who I’m talking about?’
His face gives nothing away. He regards me steadily for a few seconds, but seems to reach some kind of internal decision, and I see the shutters go up. ‘Can’t help you.’
This feels like a closed circle, but I can’t help pressing the point; something tells me that he’s recognized my description. ‘Please. Trust me, it’s important.’
The doorman regards me thoughtfully, then turns his attention to a few more gathering punters briefly, ushering them through into the dark mouth of the bar. He nods at his young associate by the cloakroom, beckoning him forward. ‘Cover me for five minutes.’ Without checking to see if I’m following, he strides off down the road. I do follow, albeit cautiously. I have no idea where he’s taking me, but to my surprise we come to a halt outside an all-night supermarket. He stands in front of the fluorescent frontage, arms folded, looking at me impassively.
‘What …’ I begin, and then my gaze strays to the left of where he’s standing and I see the ATM. ‘OK. I see. How much?’
‘Two hundred.’ There’s a challenge in his tone and I suspect he’s expecting negotiation. I think about it, but in the end I decide it’s pointless. I may as well show him how important this information is to me.
<
br /> Under his watchful eye, I take out my card and withdraw the cash. I hold the wedge of notes tightly in my hand. ‘Well?’
The man puts out his hand in silence. The tension between us stretches. For a moment, that ever-present instinct kicks in; if this turned nasty, could I win? I’m taller, but he’s broader, and there’s a dull glint in his eye, that kind of brute primal stupidity that can be dangerous. Slowly, I uncurl my fingers and pass him the notes.
‘Dominic Westwood,’ he says flatly. ‘You’ll find him in one of the pubs down Gordon Street. Who told you this?’
Wrong-footed, I don’t immediately catch what he means. ‘What?’
‘Who told you this?’ he repeats, this time with more menace.
Finally I get it. ‘Not you.’
‘Is the right answer, rich boy.’ Without a backward glance, the doorman turns and walks off, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking with a rolling gait that speaks of cocky satisfaction.
Gordon Street turns out to be long and winding, crammed full of pubs and bars, and I curse myself for not trying to get a bit more information for my money. I don’t even know exactly what this man looks like. It’s already starting to feel like a wild goose chase, but nonetheless I make a start. I quickly develop a system: work my way clockwise around the room, keeping my eyes open for any man who even vaguely fits the description – of whom there are surprisingly few – then stay close by until I either satisfy myself that he doesn’t match it closely enough or hear him called by name, and then move on.
I’ve already combed through six or seven pubs this way before I really start thinking about what I’m doing. I’d planned to be upfront with this man – Dominic – lay my cards on the table and see how he responded. But I’m having second thoughts about the wisdom of this strategy; perhaps it would be better to engage him in conversation somehow, find out a bit more about him and where he lives or works now, so that I can simply take the information back to the police and ask them to investigate him. The more I think about it, the more sensible this seems.
The eighth pub on the street is the King and Coaches, a down-at-heel, black-fronted building with a peeling gold sign, which is half empty. A few groups of men sit huddled around pints in the dim lamplight, several of them scowling across at the door with brief, animal suspicion as I push it open. The change in atmosphere is palpable; most of the bars I’ve been in so far have been packed with amiably drunk revellers, but this doesn’t feel like the kind of place you come to celebrate. There’s an odd, hushed quality to the stale air, and I feel the hairs rise on my arms in prickly discomfort. This is the place. I’ve never been one for premonitions, but I know it at once, and when I see the man sitting alone at the bar, his back turned to me, his face bounced back at me from the mirror on the far wall, I feel no surprise.
He’s about my age, maybe early forties, with thickset shoulders under a khaki bomber jacket, and his hair is cropped close to his skull, so fair that it looks almost white. He’s nursing a pint, but not drinking, his hands clamped around the glass as he stares into space. I see what Jade meant now about his features; he’s not ugly, but there’s something rough and slightly unfinished about his face, as if it’s been inexpertly sculpted. I stand silently for a moment, fighting the rush of anger. Breathing deeply, I force myself to step forward calmly. I’ll order a drink at the bar and stand next to him, then start a conversation – ask if he’s got the football scores maybe, then take it from there.
But I don’t get the chance. As I approach the bar, he glances up idly and his eyes meet mine. The change in his expression is instant – defensiveness and shock, and something else besides, something strangely like fear. Abruptly, he pushes his stool back and stands up, abandoning his pint and walking fast towards the exit, head down.
It happens so quickly that it takes a few seconds for me to catch up. I swing round, staring after him. He’s clearly recognized me, and of course I should have realized this was a possibility; he’s bound to have seen me, if he’s been hanging around watching Natalie and Jade. But somehow his reaction still doesn’t seem quite right; everything I know tells me that this man is capable of acting brutally and without compunction, but I can’t match that to the brittle edge of fear in his eyes, the speed with which he’s retreating.
‘Dominic!’ I call, elbowing my way after him. He’s already pushed his way out of the entrance, pushing the heavy door back with such force that it almost slams into my face. I catch up with him on the street, but he’s looking straight ahead, his face set, as if he’s trying to pretend I’m not there. ‘Dominic,’ I say again, and am rewarded by the slight twitch of his expression, the panic that I know his name.
‘Fuck off,’ he says out of the side of his mouth, almost under his breath.
‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ I ask. ‘I’m Jade’s father. The girl you put in hospital.’
He shoots me a look, feigning incomprehension. ‘I’ve done nothing.’ He’s powering down the road, his eyes flicking from side to side looking for an escape route.
I reach out and grab the sleeve of his jacket, but he shakes me off instantly and carries on walking. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. I know who you are, and I know what you’re doing. So you’d better fucking watch your back.’ Dimly, I’m aware I’ve deviated from my script. There’s nothing subtle or investigative about this, but the fury has taken over, blazing redly through me and leaving no space for anything else.
‘Leave me out of it,’ he says. He’s lengthening his stride and I have to quicken my pace to keep up with him, my breath coming in hard, short gulps. ‘I’ve done nothing,’ he repeats. ‘I’m out. I’m out.’ He bites out the words one by one.
‘Out of what?’ I challenge. ‘So you admit there’s something to be out of. What would Kas think, if he could hear you now?’
He looks me full in the face for an instant then, his brow furrowed deeply in a frown, the colour burning hectically on his cheekbones. He shakes his head in silence, and then without warning he’s broken into a full run, lashing out with one arm as he does so to knock me to the side and slam me against the wall. It’s a swift jab that only winds me for a few seconds, but it’s enough; by the time I’ve recovered and started to run after him, he’s flagged down a cab that’s rounding the corner of the street and dived into the back, slamming the door after him as it speeds off.
The train journey back to Brighton does nothing to calm my nerves. I can’t stop going over the few seconds I spent in Dominic’s presence, cursing myself for being unable to keep calm. I’m overtaken by the same sense of intense frustration that I felt after my meeting with Kaspar – no matter what I do, I can’t seem to get any closer to these people or understand why they’ve decided to threaten my family, after all these years. From what Natalie’s told me, they weren’t happy with the way she spoke out against Kaspar at the trial, but why have they bided their time for so long? Can it simply be that they’ve waited until they think she’s happy and settled before they strike? My thoughts circle each other uselessly, doing nothing to stem my frustration. I’m tired of being kept at arm’s length. I need someone who’s on my side.
As soon as the thought pops into my head, I remember Cali. Those last few words she wrote to me, before she disappeared. She’s told you, hasn’t she? Is it possible that she could have meant Natalie, and that she knows something about my wife’s past? It’s clear that this woman isn’t quite the stranger I thought she was – she knows my name, knows about the fire. She’s repeatedly asked if I’m OK, said that she’s worried about me. I need to get in touch with her again and get some straight answers.
As soon as I’m off the train at Brighton I walk to a pub near the seafront, order a drink and tuck myself into a quiet table in the corner. I use my mobile to log on to secretroom, but for the first time Cali isn’t online. It seems significant, even though logically I know there’s no reason why she should be there waiting time after time. I refresh the page repeatedly, jabbin
g compulsively at the screen, but her username stays obstinately grey and absent. It seems I’ve scared her off. And yet I said so little – so little that it only reinforces my belief that she already knows more about me, and my family, than she has ever let on before.
It’s almost half an hour before the icon leaps to life, shining out greenly from the screen. She’s there. Instantly, I type a message. Don’t go.
A beat, and she replies. I’ve only just arrived.
I’ve been intending to ask her what she meant last time before she logged off, but all at once it hits me that just because I want her to be on my side, it doesn’t mean it’s true. I have no idea what her agenda is here. So instead I decide to take a different tack.
I spoke to someone recently, I type. Someone you might know, or might have known once.
The reply comes back immediately. Who?
I hesitate, not wanting to be too explicit. After a few moments, I type: KK.
She doesn’t reply. I half expect her to exit the conversation at once, but she’s still there, just silent, in stasis. I try and picture this woman, wherever she is, staring at her own screen. I try to imagine the expression on her face.
When it seems she isn’t going to say anything, I try again. Do you know who I mean?
This time the pause is shorter. Yes.
Look, I can’t get anywhere with these people, I type. You obviously know something about me and my family. I just want to understand what’s happening. I don’t want any trouble.
Yes, she replies. I can imagine. But sometimes trouble just finds you.
The Second Wife Page 23
