4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  Join Me was our invention, mine and Jason’s. It was never about the money. It was about allowing Jason the freedom to feed his addictions yet provide me with a way to stay in control and keep him close. I’m glad it’s over. It was all an illusion. I’ve learnt that love has no controls but is free flowing and sexual fantasies are momentary aberrations of the mind; nothing more. I will sleep peacefully at last as nightmares can no longer torture my soul. My love is calling me.

  Please find his murderer and make sure they take the blame for my demise as well as his.

  Yours,

  Caroline Swinton

  I find a tiny postbox slotted into the seawall at the far end of the beach. I say a silent prayer before I pop the envelope inside, and will my final act to bring justice. I then turn and head back towards the rocks and step out over the craggy outcrops which have become green and slimy from the salt water as it encroaches across their surface.

  I count to ten, slither down over the edge and gently release myself into the swirling ocean. I swim, violently at first, and then more calmly out towards France. We can start our new life in Dieppe and from there make our way to Paris and onwards to the Riviera.

  Cannes is lovely this time of year, off-season, and perhaps we can dander along the coast before taking in the film festival. The red carpet will welcome you, with your film-star looks. I will be your plus one and we will stroll into the bright lights together, hand in hand, having conquered the world.

  I’m coming, I’m on my way.

  44

  Alexis

  Gary has made a start at staging the lock-up as an incident room. The whiteboard is smeared with all manner of scribbled words and symbols, arrows darting back and forth, and he’s cut out head and shoulder lookalikes from magazines which are labelled underneath with the real names of the players and stuck them alongside.

  ‘George Clooney?’ I laugh with a raised eyebrow. ‘More Ted Bundy.’ I finger the various pictures and stop when I come to the one meant to represent Jason. Even Gary has picked up on the victim’s film-star looks. Gary looks embarrassed by his amateurish attempts at mocking up a suspect collage but I high five him, impressed by his improvisations.

  ‘Marilyn Monroe isn’t a bad choice for Caroline,’ I add, amused by the snap showing off her cleavage. He has been astute by homing in on her sexuality. ‘But Susan Harper is nothing like Julianne Moore. The hair maybe, but Susan is much more insipid and insignificant.’ I’m slightly shocked to see Adam’s name labelled under a picture of Matt Damon although I can’t deny his vague likeness to the actor.

  ‘Adam? You don’t see him as a suspect, surely?’ I don’t sound convinced. Gary looks awkward at perhaps having overstepped the mark. A rush of red floods his cheeks.

  ‘Sorry, boss. I’m trying to be as thorough as possible.’ He tries to justify what he thinks I’ve taken as a slight but underneath my rhetorical question, I have my own misgivings. Look at the unsuspecting, go at it from all angles and rule no one out. I can hear my father as if it were yesterday. I now wonder where Adam was on the night in question.

  ‘Roger Harper looks nothing like Bill Nighy! How did you come up with that one?’ I laugh, amused by his summations and relieved to have moved on from my own husband’s possible involvement.

  There’s a picture of an aging Bette Davis pinned at the bottom of the board.

  ‘Who the heck is that meant to be?’ I peer at the grainy black and white cut-out and try to decipher the name attached to it.

  ‘Fannie? Francis? I can’t read your writing,’ I tut in mock irritation at the illegibility.

  ‘Francine, Francine Dubois,’ he says. ‘Sorry. I’m more used to a keyboard than a pen. I thought she might come into the equation somewhere. Remember she was the last woman we saw Jason with; in Highgate. I took some pictures.’ Gary pokes around through a pile of images strewn across his desk and hands me the stills of Jason with his muscled torso pressed into her bare breasts.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ I say, amused but impressed by his efforts. ‘What’s the large random group of people alongside Bette Davis?’

  ‘They represent all the users of Join Me. It could be any one of them, don’t you think? Anyone playing away could have a partner at home, jealous enough to kill or perhaps one of the users might be a psychopath. Jealousy seems a likely motive though.’ Gary sits on the edge of his seat and swirls the end of a felt-tipped pen in his mouth. Faint blue streaks of ink have smudged across his chin and I take out a tissue, wet the end and proceed to rub the offending marks.

  ‘Jeez. I feel like your mother.’ I laugh as he blushes again, his acne becoming angry from the attention.

  ‘Thanks,’ he mumbles.

  ‘That last picture, off to the side. Let me guess.’ I look nothing like Meg Ryan but must say am pathetically flattered that Gary has chosen her image as my representation. ‘Thanks for the choice of picture but you can’t seriously think I’m in the frame?’

  ‘No, of course not but the police might. You said to think outside the box,’ he adds in justification for my addition.

  ‘Here, let’s sit down. I’ve something to show you which looks as if it might eliminate one of our suspects.’ I pull my chair alongside and we sit, side by side, like teacher and pupil. The new strip lighting overhead flickers on and off as if it’s about to fuse and the overcast gloom from outside seeps through the narrow window slits of the room. I extract the plain white envelope from my bag.

  ‘This arrived this morning. First class from Brighton. It’s from Caroline Swinton,’ I say. ‘There was a hefty cheque inside which will more than cover our little investigation. I’ll be able to give you your first proper pay packet.’ I wait patiently while he reads through the contents. It takes him a few minutes to digest what has been written before he comments.

  ‘It doesn’t mean she didn’t do it, does it? She wants us to prove otherwise but perhaps she wants to get herself off the hook?’ He hesitates and then asks the obvious. ‘Do you think she’s dead? Committed suicide?’

  The light overhead suddenly implodes and sends lethal shards of glass all around the room. She’s been listening, I think. Perhaps she’s only pretending to have killed herself and has maybe fled the country instead. Despite the quandary, I know, deep down, that Caroline Swinton is dead. Gut instinct. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s correct. Dad is also listening.

  ‘Christ,’ Gary yells as he automatically shields his head with his hands from the downpour of shattered glass. The room is plunged into darkness and I switch on my phone’s torch.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, just missed me though.’ Gary shakes his head from the fallout of glass dust.

  ‘Listen, I’ll go and locate the fuse box if you get the ladders so we can change the bulb. There are a couple of spares over there. What a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  Gary has gone home. After we got the lighting back on, we spent several hours trawling through the evidence, meticulous in our efforts, and before he left, I insisted that he treat himself to a takeaway and a few beers. He sheepishly accepted some cash and asked if I’d like to join him. I’m not sure if he was being respectfully polite to his boss or whether he has no one else in his life to share the simple pleasures with. When it’s all over I’ll treat him to a real night out, spoil him and perhaps find him a girlfriend. That will be my next project.

  I toy with the crime scene possibilities, trying to order my thoughts which are throwing up more questions than answers. Everything is masked in confusion.

  Is Caroline Swinton really dead or did she fake her own suicide to get the police off her trail? Where is she? Perhaps she murdered Jason, as she certainly had the most reason of anyone to be jealous, and has fled the country, perhaps to Brazil or some other far-flung destination to escape justice. I put a line through this theory. She’s dead, I’d bet my life on it.

  Susan Harper is next on my list. I smile at the picture o
f Julianne Moore thinking that Susan completely lacks the actress’ substance and rather comes across as a neurotic, bored and spoiled housewife. Roger has given her everything: money, kids and a gilded lifestyle. Perhaps she was scared that her relationship with Jason was going to come out? Perhaps Roger was somehow about to learn the truth and she was driven, through sheer desperation, to silence her lover. She hasn’t got the nerve. Selfish, spoilt and self-seeking maybe but the label of murderess doesn’t ring true.

  Susan has definitely played away from home though, I’m certain. Her reaction to my mention of Join Me was too knee-jerk, too definite. By trying to deflect the conversation away from the website so quickly, it alerted me to the fact that she knew more than she was letting on and has most probably been using the site. Caroline must have known and that’s why she asked me to follow her. Why did Caroline want her followed? And by me. My mind is going round in circles and the possibilities as to what might have happened are endless.

  The thought of blackmail suddenly pops into my mind and I wonder if the police have got access to Jason Swinton’s bank accounts. Why was he so readily seeking out anonymous women for innocent fun when he could have had his pick of beautiful women? Of course. He must have been in it for the money. Perhaps he was blackmailing Susan Harper and goodness knows how many other women. This seems like a distinct possibility. If this was the case then Susan Harper might have had more reason to kill him than simple fear at being found out. However, I draw a line through her name. I can’t see it. I visualise her pristine kitchen, dust-free surfaces and unblemished paintwork, and the mess of blood and gore doesn’t fit with her obsessively spotless and organised lifestyle.

  Roger Harper is bothering me. As I try to order my thoughts, two messages bleep through on my phone. I swallow hard, bracing myself before I check the screen. I toy with leaving it till I get home, dreading what I might see, but go ahead and pick up anyway.

  Join Me is dead. Who’ll be next?

  The first message is followed by one from Adam.

  Hope you’re ok. Going to pick up fish and chips on the way home. I’ll buy enough for two. All the more for me if you don’t fancy it. A x

  Whereas the first message is menacing, the second one almost makes me more uneasy. How dare he think I’ll fall back into our old ways, sharing late-night takeaways while he drones on, with boring self-obsession, about his operating prowess? The x at the end of the text is an arrogant assumption that I’ve forgiven him and am prepared to carry on as if nothing has happened. I delete both messages and get back to my task. Another thirty minutes and I’ll shut up shop.

  Did Roger know that Susan was having an affair or that she was using the website for amusement? If so, perhaps he trawled the profiles himself. I suddenly feel uneasy as I imagine him sending me the threatening texts. Perhaps he saw my face on there, along with Susan’s, and is hiding his anger under a very cool composed façade. Lawyers toy with words, know how to be manipulative without giving the game away. But I don’t know much about the guy other than brief sightings across the close. Perhaps I’ll pop across again one evening when he gets back from work.

  It’s seven o’clock when I finally decide to shut up shop. I wander round and close the small windows, using a set of tiny steps to reach up and secure the bolts. I tidy the desks, straighten out the papers and wonder what I’m missing. The picture of Matt Damon warns me that Adam, like Roger, might have been aware of the website but I’m certain he wouldn’t have known I was using it to look at profiles. There’s nothing I can think of that would lead him to suspect I had any involvement with the victim. As I turn out the lights and prepare to lock up, I realise the only way that he would have been able to track my browsing history was if he had got access to my laptop.

  Outside it is cold and dark. I set off to walk the few blocks to pick up my car. The steady buzz which fills Camden in daylight hours has calmed down and the bars and cafés are slowly filling up with after-work trade. I pause when I reach a small greasy kebab shop where a flashing red neon sign lights up Kamden Kebabs and I glance through the steamed-up window.

  In the corner I spot a lone figure, hunched over a plate and tucking into a large meat platter. The shop is otherwise empty. I watch Gary, unselfconsciously, enjoy his meal for one. I’ll make it up to him. I promise myself, as I wander on, that I’ll join him next time he asks. I owe him.

  45

  Susan

  JOIN ME, THE ONLINE WEBSITE, BECOMES FOCUS OF MURDER ENQUIRY.

  Scott Wilson of the London Echo

  Police investigations into the murder of a North London man are now being concentrated on the Join Me website which attracts Londoners to enrol and enjoy the sights of the capital with other users. Members can invite people with similar interests to join them for days out.

  The dead man, Jason Swinton, had added his own profile to the site and met up with different female users. This has proved a valuable line of enquiry.

  Jocelyn Oakley, a subscriber to Join Me, whose online alias was Jos 040, has come forward and is now helping police with their investigation. Mrs Oakley, recently separated from her husband, claims that she met Mr Swinton on half a dozen occasions at various venues in Central London. It transpires that she lent him two thousand pounds to help towards a business venture that he was investing in. Asked about the nature of her relationship with the deceased, Mrs Oakley declined to comment. Their individual profiles showed a shared interest in fine wines and gourmet dining.

  Police believe that Mr Swinton may have met up with several ladies through the website and would ask anyone who met him in this way to come forward in an attempt to eliminate them from their enquiries. The police are stressing that all Join Me users will be interviewed in due course and anonymity can no longer be guaranteed for the site’s users. Website members are urged to contact their local police station or to call the confidential hotline number below.

  Meanwhile Caroline Swinton, the deceased’s wife, has disappeared and police would appeal for information concerning her whereabouts. It is believed that she was the mastermind behind the website and it is unclear at this time whether she knew that her husband had been using it for his own pleasure.

  Roger has lifted the paper out of the bin and asked why I threw it out. I’m trying to act as normal as possible but Roger’s attitude makes me increasingly uncomfortable. He’s taking longer than usual leaving the house and from my vantage point at the kitchen sink, I’m aware of him behind me silently reading the article which is plastered across the front page of the local newspaper.

  ‘It’s a joke that police expect people to come forward and own up to cheating.’ There’s sarcastic amusement in his tone. He doesn’t look up but carries on scrutinising the printed detail. ‘Who’s going to own up to playing away from home?’ His laugh is loud, over the top.

  I watch him sip his coffee and butter his toast with measured tardiness.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’ Why is he asking my opinion?

  ‘It’s not a dating website,’ I say, scrubbing hard at the sink. ‘It’s a way for people to make new friends and go sightseeing.’

  He snorts, making a phoney theatrical splutter with his coffee.

  ‘Don’t be so naïve.’ He stands up, wipes his mouth with a serviette and pushes the stool neatly back under the breakfast bar. ‘The website’s wording is clever, I’ll give you that. It’s managed to suck in plenty of bored idiots and offered them a ready-made cheating platform.’ He pulls his suit jacket on, straightens his sleeves, gently tugging them down at the cuffs, and comes across to kiss me goodbye. It’s an automatic gesture but today it feels particularly false, manufactured for effect. He takes his time, waits for my response, willing a reaction. I don’t know why. I carry on scrubbing.

  ‘I can’t think of anyone I know who would be stupid enough to pay money to make friends.’ He’s a lawyer, clever with words, discerning and professional. I think he knows. If not, why do I feel so cheap and pathetic?

  I f
ell for the clever wording. I pretended that it was all a bit of innocent fun. I was conned into handing over obscene amounts of money for the pleasure of seeing one particular member again and again. Roger could have told me in advance, if I had asked, that meeting people online, no matter for what seemingly innocent reason, would almost certainly go horribly wrong. I smell his cologne, faint and subtle, as he brushes his lips against my skin. I have the most horrendous urge to own up, tell him everything and beg his forgiveness. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that it was all a big mistake. However, his next words jolt me back to reality.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’d do if you did anything so ridiculous. I wouldn’t know where to lay the blame if you’d met up with this guy Swinton.’ Roger makes a wringing movement with his hands, a silent strangling action and his eyes are wide open. ‘Would I kill him or would I kill you? That’s a difficult one.’ He’s amused by the question.

  His behaviour is slightly manic, off-kilter, for someone so calm and measured.

  I watch as he picks up his briefcase and leaves the house.

  The sun is bright overhead and a pleasant heat hits me as I step outside. There is still a steady buzz of muted activity coming from the vacant house. A police officer shoos away a stray dog persistent in its efforts to gain access. The officer turns when I appear.

  ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he says. I nod brief acknowledgement and scurry on. I cross the close and walk away from the cul-de-sac on the opposite side of the street. There’s no one else about and as I pass the incident board with its boldly printed notice, black on yellow, I shiver. The board signifies a death. Stuck to the board is a notice requesting people who may have any relevant information to come forward.