‘Who’s it from? I’m missing something here,’ Gary asks as he unloads his backpack onto the desk. His black T-shirt has The Grateful Dead emblazoned across the front in fluorescent orange and I grimace at the words.
‘Great T-shirt,’ I say. ‘Very fitting.’ He looks embarrassed and pulls a chair over beside me, settling in to hear the whole story.
I begin by showing him the home page of the Join Me website, with its teasing façade, which offers innocent sightseeing opportunities around London for its residents. Although I told him, albeit in a casual throwaway manner when Caroline engaged our PI services, that I had also been enticed to join the surfers on the site, I now feel foolish and naïve. I was easily sucked in by the offers of meeting like-minded people to enjoy London’s gems, especially when I was bored and alone after Adam had gone. The £50 enrolment fee seemed value for money.
‘There’s a connection between the website and the murder, I’m certain. It’s all too coincidental otherwise. This guy Jason has been posing on the website under some phoney aliases and if he’s sucked in Susan Harper and me, then God knows how many other idiots he’s been seeing. I wonder what sort of places he’s been offering to take them.’ If Gary senses my humiliation and stupidity, he doesn’t show it. I like him for his sense of respect but perhaps it’s his gratitude at the chance I’ve given him that stops him making sarcastic or belittling comments. I feel ridiculous enough as it is.
‘What do you think?’ I wait as Gary slowly reads through the blurb on the screen. It’s not the first time he has looked at the site, but this time he concentrates hard, poking at the detail.
‘I hear what you say but I can’t find this Jason Swinton anywhere. His profile seems to have disappeared. Even if he’s using an alias, or a bunch of aliases, I can’t find a photo of anyone remotely resembling him. Someone must have deleted it, possibly after he was murdered. Any ideas?’ Gary turns the question in my direction. ‘I doubt it would have been his wife, as I can’t imagine he would have shared intimate details of his online dates with her.’ Gary continues to click over the keys, scrolling through the pages.
‘Try Susan Harper. She was on there. I’m sure that’s how she met Jason in the first place.’ I watch, willing her face to appear.
‘No. Nothing. Have you deleted your own profile?’
‘Yes. The first thing I did.’ I speak with a light-heartedness I’m not feeling. ‘The police will soon make their own assumptions and start piecing together the facts.’
I want to get things straight in my head and try to work out what’s going on. Somehow I’m involved but I’m not yet ready to tell the police about the threatening texts or my inroads into the online network, despite its apparent harmlessness. My father taught me that the police suspect everyone and they dig especially deeply in murder cases by delving into the seediest corners.
My dad never gave up on a case until he got answers, trawling through evidence into the small hours, pinning up faces and names along every inch of wall, slowly and methodically joining the dots. When he was working on really high-profile cases, Mum and I never saw him. He darted in and out of our lives, mumbling vague words of greeting or farewell as he carried on with his mission. ‘We need a whiteboard, Gary,’ I announce. ‘We need to find out what’s going on before the police jump to any wrong conclusions. Can you get one and make a start on the evidence? I know how the police operate and we need to keep one step ahead of them. I can’t take any chances of being put in the frame for homicide, however unlikely it might sound.’
‘Aye aye, boss.’ He salutes with his right hand in my direction. ‘I’m onto it.’
As I hand him some cash, I pick up my keys and tell him I’ve someone I need to talk to while he sorts out the shopping list.
‘Susan Harper is involved. Caroline knew she had been seeing Jason. I think I’ll pay her a visit and try to find out some more. I suspect she needs someone to talk to.’
Adam is mooching around the house when I get back from the lock-up. He seems to be using the events to his advantage although perhaps this is unfair. The house is spic and span and the smell of fresh polish hits my nostrils as soon as I open the front door. I turn and glance across the road at the crime scene where a huddle of police officers and reporters still mooch around. The blue tape has been extended round the perimeter of the house and the circle of the cul-de-sac has been closed off except to residents. I feel an icy coldness in my bones.
‘Hi. I’m off to work,’ he says when he sees me, lifting his briefcase and throwing a coat over his arm. I detect a distinct whiff of aftershave biting through the polish and wonder if the former is also for my benefit as I know the latter certainly is.
He doesn’t ask where I’ve been. He sees that I’m in jogging clothes so will assume I’ve been round the woods early, to clear my head. This was my intention. He doesn’t know about the lock-up and I won’t be telling him. It’s my haven until the divorce comes through.
Adam thinks I’ve been overly shocked by the murder and also by Olive’s condition and seems intent on making the most of my trauma to feather his own nest. Little things have ostentatiously been added to his daily routine, small stuff to showcase his attempts to make amends and to get things back to where they were several months ago; before he started the affair with Debbie and before he knocked the shit out of me. He’s started making me tea in the morning, adding toast and marmalade with freshly cut grapefruit and also empties the bins knowing that this has been a bone of contention since we got together. It all makes me uneasy as I need to move on and get the divorce sewn up.
‘Thanks for tidying the house,’ I say. ‘I’m grateful.’
He bends over and kisses me on the cheek, ignoring the bracing of my body in response.
‘A pleasure.’ He turns to leave. ‘By the way, that policeman was poking around this morning, DI Ferran. He’s checking out alibis of everyone living in the close the night of the murder. I’ve no idea who the poor dead guy was but you might know him. He was Caroline Swinton’s husband. I think you mentioned you’d met her at the Harpers’?’
Adam closes the door gently behind him, the stench of aftershave trailing in his wake. I reach for the chain and pull it across, securing the bolts top and bottom.
Fifteen minutes later a text pings through on my phone.
Tart, whore. How many times did you fuck him? One too many, I think.
42
Susan
Roger sits alongside the detective. His long legs are crossed and he looks composed, relaxed. I’m on the other side of the room, a non-participating spectator. This is Roger’s moment. I need to listen, to hear what’s being said. There’s been no mention of Join Me and details haven’t yet been made public with regard to the victim’s name or background.
‘We need to ascertain where all the residents were on the night in question,’ the foggy throated detective begins. I feel like I’m watching some TV drama; this sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. Roger doesn’t look to me for help in confirming his responses. He’s not looking for an alibi. This is as well as I have no idea what time he got home. I sit and stare self-consciously at the floor. I feel bizarrely responsible for putting my husband in this position although I don’t really know why other than I have the weirdest feeling that something about my trysts with Jason are going to come back to haunt me, sooner rather than later. Our marriage might be hanging by a thread if the truth comes out.
‘I got home around eleven. I was working late. Susan was in bed when I got in.’ He glances over. I don’t remember. The sleeping pills had done their trick and I don’t even remember him leaving in the morning.
‘Is there anyone who can confirm your movements?’ The detective carries on taking notes and I wonder if he’s compiling a shopping list. He can’t suspect Roger and would have nothing to write of any importance where he’s concerned. Cereal, bread, bacon and eggs will be his staple essentials; probably a bottle or two of malt whiskey as well.
‘Yes, my secretary and I were working together and we shared a nightcap before I left.’ This catches my attention. He hadn’t said but then perhaps I hadn’t asked. ‘We often have to stay late. Legal cases involve mountains of paperwork.’ This time Roger looks at me more directly. I straighten up in my seat and try to concentrate on the conversation.
‘We’ll need her details please: name and contact number. It’s a formality.’ Ferran bends over to make more notes; bananas, apples and milk are being added to the list. Roger won’t provide him with many clues. I watch my husband bend down and scratch his calf muscle, a strange place for a sudden itch. He looks uneasy but then he doesn’t like to be the centre of attention. He’ll be finding this whole exercise very unsettling.
‘Yes of course.’
The detective stands up and rubs his back, grimacing as he straightens. He snaps closed his notebook, slips it into his pocket, and glances at me with a definite hint of sympathy. I move across to join Roger and wonder what Ferran has gleaned from the interview that I haven’t. Does he feel sorry for me or does he suspect Roger?
I need some air. My mind is in overdrive. As we reach the front door, the bell goes. I can see the outline of Alexis Morley from across the road through the side glass panel. Before I have time to disappear upstairs with one of my threatening migraines, Roger opens the door and invites our neighbour across the threshold. He’s relieved by the intrusion as I sense one of his shutdown moods when further conversation will be impossible. He has an uncanny ability to brush problems aside until a later date when he might have a better ability to deal with them.
‘Hi. Come in,’ I say but Alexis stays on the doorstep.
‘Do you fancy a coffee? Thought you might like to get out of the house. Adam’s gone back to work and I could do with the company.’ Before I reply, Roger announces that he’s off to his mother’s to check on the children. He tells me he won’t go back to work today but wants to take over some toys and games as he thinks it best they stay where they are for the time being.
‘Yes. Why not,’ I say to Alexis. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
Strange, but I’ve never been in the Morleys’ house before. It is the mirror image of our own in construction but it lacks character, personality. The décor is bland, unfinished, and it has an unlived in feel.
‘Sorry,’ my hostess apologises. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’ She doesn’t say why and I don’t like to ask. The walls are bare, no paintings or photographs break up the insipid magnolia. There’s a glaring absence of something; permanency I suspect.
‘At least you don’t have Lego strewn across the floor and broken toys under your feet,’ I quip, but instantly regret my tactlessness. The absence of kids might not be by choice. She leads me into a similarly unfinished kitchen and I notice a couple of unpacked boxes by the utility door.
‘Still settling in,’ she says. I suspect the rumours of a split in marital harmony might not be far off the mark. I sit down at the small breakfast bar and mentally compare its unaltered dimensions to our large granite work surface.
I wait for her to start up the conversation. She’s not easy company but perhaps it’s because we don’t have much in common. When she throws down her opening gambit, I sense a hidden agenda.
‘Did you know the victim?’ she asks. Alexis is dressed casually in bright jogging clothes, and as she leans back against the cupboards and cradles her mug with both hands, I realise I’m about to be interrogated.
‘Who?’ I play for time.
‘It was Caroline Swinton’s husband. Jason. I can’t believe it.’ Alexis grimaces with a look of disbelief and waits for my response.
‘Yes, I heard.’ I sip my coffee and swill the bitter taste slowly round my mouth, scared to swallow in case it won’t settle. She tries to put me at ease by offering some plain biscuits which she lifts out of a tin and sets on a plate. Perhaps she senses my struggle with the coffee.
‘Did you ever meet him?’ She’s watching me. Does she suspect? I need to get out of here. I don’t need this.
‘Yes, they came to dinner once. He seemed nice. Did you?’ It’s something to ask in return, a way to engage in conversation until I can finish my drink and go home. Her reply is the last thing I expect.
‘Yes.’ Alexis sets down her mug and takes a stool alongside me. ‘I need to tell someone and I know this will sound ridiculous, but I met him through an online website.’
I’m not quite sure what she means. Who is she talking about?
‘Really?’ I sound surprised and open my eyes wide. ‘Shit. Sorry, I’m a bit clumsy. It’s my nerves.’ I apologise as coffee dribbles from my mug. ‘It’s all been very unsettling.’ I hear my voice rise a few decibels and I begin to shake.
Alexis must notice but she carries on, perhaps too polite to comment.
‘Join Me. Did you see the flyers? It’s an online website where people link up with other members to sightsee around London. It isn’t a dating site, or it’s not meant to be.’ She hesitates and then continues. ‘I fell for it. It offers a chance to meet people with similar interests. Jason Swinton was on there, posing as someone called Eddie and I met up with him a couple of times for a drink.’ She takes a sip of coffee. ‘Adam and I weren’t getting along and it was something to do after I broke my leg. I was going crazy in the house on my own.’
She waits for me to respond. She knows something. I don’t feel too well. The panic attack is building and my breathing is becoming increasingly laboured. I’m sweating but perhaps it’s the heat in the kitchen.
‘Yes. I saw the flyers and had a quick look but that was all,’ I manage. Something tells me not to deny all knowledge.
‘I don’t know whether to tell the police. I’m scared they might jump to conclusions and as his name as the murdered victim hasn’t become public knowledge yet, I don’t want to be too hasty. What do you think?’
She’s toying with me. She knows about Jason and me. I look at her athletic little body, toned and slender with her crisp neat hair and faintly tanned complexion. Her bright snugly fitting peach top outlines the girlish curves and the little scar over her left eye has started to twitch. I hate her. She’s made things worse. Vince would never have wanted anything from her. I was his secret woman, his longed-for passion outside a loveless marriage. I’m certain. I stand up.
‘Sorry, Alexis, but I don’t feel too well. Do you mind if I go home? It’s all too upsetting.’ I set the mug down and drag my stool back. ‘I wouldn’t bother saying anything if I were you. I doubt if the website has anything to do with his murder. For all we know, Caroline might have killed him.’ My laugh is high-pitched, hysterical, but Alexis doesn’t react. She’s controlled and I don’t trust her. She’s goading, teasing me, and I’m desperate to get away.
As I step out into the close, I turn and ask a question that has been niggling away. It’s been lurking somewhere in the recesses of my mind for some time.
‘Who runs the website? Do you know?’
43
Caroline
BRUTAL MURDER IN NORTH LONDON LINKED TO AN ONLINE SOCIAL NETWORK
Scott Wilson of the London Echo
Jason Swinton, a local man from Highgate, aged 32, was found brutally murdered in an empty house on Riverside Close NW6. He was savagely attacked and it is understood that broken glass shards were used to disfigure his face and features.
His wife, Caroline Swinton, is the owner and founder of the London-based website called Join Me. The website offers its users a chance to link up with like-minded professional people to share tasteful exciting experiences around the capital. The site, with over 1000 members, is currently shut down pending police investigations. Detectives are looking into possible links between the murder and the website.
The skies are azure blue and the seagulls cruise overhead, limousines of the skies. I watch them swoop and soar through the air. Children are playing on the beach, their squeals and shouts batting back and forth over the distant steady rumble of the sea. I ca
n feel your hand, warm and wet in mine, the sand grains rubbing gently between our fingers.
We walk slowly, a young couple in love, hand in hand, along the seashore with our trouser legs turned up in age-old beach-fashioned style. We dip our toes in and out of the water and shriek as the icy coldness invades our warm bodies, before I streak away, careering towards the headland willing you to follow, catch me and never let me go.
I crumple the newspaper up and throw it in one of the litter bins that line my route. I have quite some way to walk to reach my destination and to escape from prying eyes. I have one last thing to do before my final journey so tiptoe with caution over the increasingly rocky landscape to an isolated boulder which juts out from the surrounding platform. The flat top is warm to the touch and I take off my cardigan, spread it across the surface before sitting down and beginning to write.
Dear Alexis
I’m enclosing a cheque for one last job I would like you to do for me. I no longer need your help in locating my husband as I’ve found him. We’ll be together shortly. You’ll see I’ve included a more than generous amount in good faith because I want you to make sure that his murderer is brought to justice.
The police will try to put me in the frame and will pick through our lives like vultures over a carcass. They won’t believe that I could never have murdered Jason. They will suspect me of being a jealous wife and lover and won’t understand that I could never have hurt him. He was my love, my life, my reason for being. I won’t stay around to watch them destroy what we had.
4 Riverside Close Page 21
