When I reach Church Street, I pass a young mother with a pram. She smiles at me with the tired weary eyes of a first-time mother. I used to walk Tilly round and round the park and wish for sleep to come so that I could escape the heights of awakened anxiety and join her in much-needed slumber. It seems a lifetime ago.
The steady buzz of traffic away from Riverside Close sucks me back into the real world. The turn of events in the cul-de-sac now seems surreal; other worldly. My legs feel leaden and I try to speed them up, spur them into action. All around, people carry on as normal. Don’t they know there has been a murder around the corner? I seem to bear the weight of the incident alone on my shoulders.
I check my mobile every couple of minutes, like a programmed automaton following instructions. It no longer matters what messages might say. There’ll be none from Vince, as I still think of Jason, to quicken my pulse and send adrenaline surging through my body. There are none from the school, so the children are safe. The head teacher would only leave a message though if I didn’t pick up. In an emergency they would call Roger and he would be there to share a crisis. I walk on, head down, looking at the threatening words which light up the screen.
Bitch, whore. I’m still watching you. Lying little tart.
The words no longer frighten me. I’ve had enough. I’m going to give myself up. I feel like a criminal on the run and even though I’ve done nothing legally wrong, it feels like it. Cheating on Roger won’t warrant a prison sentence. I want someone to help me, listen to my story and tell me that I have nothing to worry about. The meetings, the dinners out, the champagne were all innocent diversions. No one need ever find out about the wild rampant sex on silken sheets. My insatiable lust for Vince’s perfect body will forever be my guilty secret and I’ll learn to live with it and keep it deeply buried. I’ll deny any suggestions of wrongdoing and my tears of foolishness when I get home will melt Roger’s forgiving heart. He’ll tell me I’ve been very stupid.
I walk on with a more determined set to my stride and smile at the possibility that Roger might even try to take some blame for my ridiculous behaviour. Perhaps he’ll spoil me and offer to book us a weekend break to Bruges, or Rome, and apologise for his neglect by working such long hours. This is the time of year to visit Venice, or Barcelona perhaps. Destinations pop into my mind, one after the other. The bright midday sun helps to fuel my romantic imaginings.
As I turn the corner of Station Road, my stomach does a nervous flip and for a moment I waver. For a second I consider turning back but know I can’t. The police need my help. They’ll understand if I explain myself properly and they’ll be able to get the vicious texts to stop.
Up ahead I see another woman walking into the station and I notice she is putting her mobile phone back into her pocket. Like me, she’ll have turned it to silent mode in deference to authority. It’s only when I reach the entrance, framed by heavy metal doors, that I recognise her.
‘Hi Susan.’ Alexis Morley holds the door open for me. I know why she’s here and I suspect she knows why I’m here too. It will all soon be over.
‘Hi,’ I reply as we cross the threshold together.
46
Alexis
I sit in the dimly lit interrogation room, a volunteer here of my own accord to offer up information to help police with their enquiries. Yet for some reason I feel anxious as I wait, alone, for the interview to begin. I’m nervous and don’t know why. I got a call from the station earlier in the day, asking me to pop by. It all sounded innocent enough but I feel uneasy. I am going to own up that I was a member of Join Me. Something tells me of the need for honesty.
The room is a square box with a long table in the centre, four red plastic chairs neatly pushed underneath and a notepad with half a dozen pens placed on top. There are no windows in the room which is stuffy and increasingly claustrophobic as the minutes tick by.
The door opens after what seems like an eternity and DI Ferran comes in, carrying a paper coffee cup; the strong rich aroma fills the room. Although he is no longer wearing a raincoat, he still looks dishevelled in a manufactured sort of way. His hair is unkempt, uncombed, and his brown jacket doesn’t match his black slacks. I wonder if he deliberately dresses down to put suspects at their ease or if his personality is such that he isn’t one for timewasting on what he perceives as irrelevant personal grooming.
‘Would you like a coffee, Mrs Morley?’ He sits without waiting for an answer, which he assumes will be negative. He’s guessed right and that I’ll be anxious to get on with matters.
I have the fleeting notion that I might intentionally have been left alone in the room for so long. It’s a well-known tactic to make suspects feel uneasy, give them time to sweat. I breathe deeply and try to relax, and remind myself that I’ve done nothing wrong and have nothing to hide.
‘I hope you don’t mind if our conversation is taped. It makes life much easier for the investigating team if interviews are recorded.’ Ferran looks at me, awaiting affirmation, while his right hand hovers over the machine, preparing to click it on. It doesn’t feel like a casual chat. He seems to know that I might have relevant information that will be important in the case. I wonder how much he already knows. The door swings open and a young female, whom Ferran introduces as WPC Taylor, joins us and sits down opposite me and alongside the SIO, the senior investigating officer.
‘Can you begin by telling us how you knew the deceased, Mr Jason Swinton, please, Mrs Morley?’ The recording machine has been kick-started into life and I tell them what I know. I don’t tell the whole story though as I’m leaving out the fact that Gary and I are carrying out our own investigation into what happened. It’s likely that we would be warned away from this course of action. Private investigators are not the police force’s favourite people. I fidget, twisting my finger through the ends of my hair as the questions come thick and fast.
‘You say you met Mr Swinton, who was using the alias of Eddie, through Join Me. Let me get this straight…’ Ferran pauses as if considering the possible implications. ‘You only met up with him after his wife had engaged you to follow him as she suspected him of cheating. Didn’t you think this was a bit coincidental? You say you only met him twice, is that correct?’
‘Yes. It was only after the first meeting that I realised it was the same guy Caroline wanted me to follow. She seemed to know he was cheating. I’m certain she knew about his affairs and she probably also knew I’d been in contact with her husband before she engaged my services.’
‘Did your own husband, Mr Morley, know you were using online websites?’
I stare at the cop, provoked by the sudden deviation from his interest in the Swintons.
‘No, of course not. We’re going through a divorce and I only checked out Join Me after problems we’d been having reached a head.’ It’s none of his business whether Adam knew or not. I can’t see the relevance.
There’s a small fan overhead which clicks every time it does a revolution. It creates an ominous presence in the silence. Ferran waits for me to continue. I don’t.
‘So Mr Morley still has no idea you met the deceased online?’
It’s all a bit confusing. I don’t want Adam to know about any links I had to Jason, through Caroline or the website. It’s none of his business. If it comes out later, it will probably be easier when he has already moved out and accepted that our marriage is over. I know at the moment he wouldn’t take finding out what I’d been up to particularly well. He might be trying to lure me back with over exaggerated displays of remorse, but it’s not easy to forget how quickly his moods can swing towards violence.
I extract Caroline’s letter as my coup d’état and hand it across. Ferran pauses the tape.
‘What’s this?’ I have his attention. Adam is relegated to the background.
‘A letter from Caroline Swinton. It was sent from Brighton. I think it might help you to trace her whereabouts,’ I say, proud to be one step ahead of the game. The fan clicks again. A sm
all bluebottle is buzzing in competition and the female police officer tries to swot it away with a folder. I realise I’m too closely linked to the deceased and his wife to be given an easy ride. The cogs in Ferran’s brain are working overtime as he scrutinises the letter’s contents, turning it over and over and back again. He checks out the postmark on the envelope and hands the evidence to his colleague.
‘Thank you. We’ll hold on to this for now, if that’s okay. One last thing. Can you let me have your mobile phone number please?’ It’s a simple request. I assume it’s so that he can try to trace the source of the sinister messages. I’ve saved all the threat messages which he has already logged, dates and times carefully noted.
‘Am I the only one getting threats?’ It’s an innocent question. I assume the murderer has targeted other users, having somehow obtained their private numbers. Perhaps it’s a hacker, a hate nerd who has managed to break into members’ details.
‘I doubt you will be.’ Ferran is evasive. Perhaps no one else has come forward yet. However, something makes me sit up when the cop throws out a curveball. I freeze. The fly is on its back, WPC Taylor staring smugly at her handiwork.
‘For God’s sake, get rid of that bloody thing,’ Ferran snaps while the officer proceeds to wrap the dead insect in a tissue and throw it in the bin. For a second, her composure fails as she reddens, embarrassed by the remonstration.
I am uneasy at what is about to come. It’s going to be something I don’t like but I can’t put my finger on it. I write down my mobile phone number on a proffered piece of paper and watch while the DI compares it with another number extracted from his file.
‘Mrs Morley. This number you have given us is the same number that was used to send a text message to the deceased on the day of his murder. He received a text asking him to meet up in Riverside Close, in the vacant house where his body was found. It was sent from this number. We got the information from his mobile phone found at the scene.’ The fan clicks through several revolutions while I try to digest the facts. What does he mean? What message?
‘In a text sent to Mr Swinton, the words Join Me were used as an enticement and the sender signed off with a capital A. I wonder if the A was for Alexis?’
47
Alexis
My thoughts swirl round in my head as I run back to the house. I can’t make sense of what’s happening. I skirt the refuse bins set out on the pavement for collection. There is a stench of rotting rubbish in the air. I turn first into Church Street and then on up to Riverside Close. I check my watch. Two o’clock. I pause at the front gate, frantically trying to get my phone out of my back pocket, my fingers damp with sweat and catch it just in time before it slithers to the ground.
I leave a voicemail when Gary doesn’t pick up.
Gary, it’s me, Alexis. I have to see you urgently. Can you make the lock-up about seven? I need your help. Please.
Once inside, I dash upstairs, rip off my damp clothes and jump into the shower. I stand under the boiling water and let it stream over my tense body. Who had access to my phone? It must have been someone who knew about my interest in Join Me. Adam possibly, but he didn’t know about Join Me, or did he? How would he have found out? I try to remember when he might have had a chance to pick up my phone, or browse my laptop when I wasn’t around.
As I reach for the towel, my stomach knots. It looks increasingly probable that I’m being put in the frame for something I didn’t do. I sit on the bed and tug a brush through my wet hair, and suddenly wonder if Caroline might not be dead after all. Perhaps she managed to lure Jason to the house herself and in a jealous rage finished him off and is trying to put one of his lady companions in the frame. It’s all too ridiculous. I’ve definitely watched too many cop movies. How would she have got hold of my phone or used my number to lure him to the house? I can’t think of any other options. I pull a T-shirt over my head. I need to calm down; my mind’s all over the place. A text beeps through on my phone. It’s from Adam.
Hi. Olive is much better today and is asking to see you. Perhaps you can pop in. Am in theatre till about five. X
My pulse races as I hurry downstairs. At first I can’t find my car keys as they’re not in the bowl by the front door. I’m not sure what time Adam left this morning and why would he have taken my keys? I poke around blindly in my clutch bag and find them at the bottom. I need to calm down.
I realise as I walk through the front doors into the main reception area of the hospital that I haven’t eaten since eight o’clock this morning and my head is spinning through worry and lack of sustenance. There’s a small café on the ground floor and I decide to have a quick coffee and biscuit before I go and find Olive who’s recuperating on the third floor. I need to stay alert.
I notice the woman before she notices me. She’s sitting in the corner with a newspaper spread out on the table. At first I can’t work out who she is, although her face is familiar. Her hair is scraped back severely into a knot at the nape of her neck and under the light blue uniform it’s difficult not to be drawn to the large bust which appears to be sitting on the table. Then it clicks. Debbie. Adam’s dirty secret. As I pay for my coffee, she gets up. Perhaps she’s seen me and wants to get away, save us both the embarrassment. Instead she walks towards me, momentarily blocking my way.
‘Alexis? I thought it was you. I’m Debbie. I work with Adam. Do you have a minute?’
Why does she want to talk to me? To pour her heart out, cry over spilt milk, apologise. At the moment she’s the last person I want to see. She doesn’t seem particularly at ease and I suspect an insincere apology might be on the cards.
I follow, somewhat reluctantly, back to the corner but I am interested to hear what she might say; how she’ll explain things. She folds the newspaper and sets it on a vacant chair.
‘I’ve wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry about what happened with me and Adam. It wasn’t serious,’ she begins. I conjure up Gary’s black and white photos of this woman and my husband at the upstairs window, bodies entwined, wet lips stuck together. I let her carry on. ‘Adam can be very persuasive,’ she says, looking down at the table as she speaks and adds more quietly, ‘threatening actually. Doctors seem pretty powerful and sometimes the nurses get sucked into things that in other circumstances they wouldn’t ever consider.’ She’s going to try to pass the buck, blame it all on Adam. I sip my coffee through the small hole in the plastic cap, watching Debbie carefully, my lips drawn tight.
‘Promotions were on the cards for junior nurses when Adam first approached me and I fell for his offers of help in fast tracking a pay rise. I was pretty naïve.’ I suspect she is telling the truth here as I’ve no doubt Adam flaunts his position of authority among the more junior sycophants. It sounds like him. However, I’m not convinced of her naivety until she continues. ‘When I told him I was married and that I regretted what I’d done with him after the Christmas party, he became threatening. I told him I was happily married and it had been a big mistake.’ At this point she pulls up a long blue sleeve and shows me dark angry welts across her forearm. I can make out a small but livid scar near the wrist. ‘He warned me by saying if I showed anyone, he’d tell them that I’d been self-harming because he wasn’t interested in my advances.’ Under the dim wall lighting, I notice a tear filter from her eye. Self-consciously she rubs it away, as if ashamed of the weakness.
‘Listen, Debbie. Don’t cry on my account. It’s water under the bridge,’ I say with a barely concealed sigh, resisting the urge to pat her comfortingly on the arm. There’s only so far I’m prepared to go.
‘I try to avoid him at all costs and have requested a transfer out of London.’
I stand up, drain the contents of the paper cup, scrunch it up and throw it in the bin.
‘Good luck with that,’ I say and move smartly away.
For now I’ve much more pressing concerns. I need to see Olive and then get hold of Gary to help me work out what’s going on. Together we need to come up with t
he best way to deal with the complex turn of events. I have to clear my name.
I mount the stairs, two at a time, checking the ward names on the walls as I go up. The bizarre notion that Adam might be capable of murder is starting to freak me out. If Debbie spurned his advances and at the same time he found out I might have been cheating on him, he may well have been capable of anything; pushed to unknown limits. But murder seems far-fetched. He’s arrogant and controlling but surely not homicidal.
I reach Oasis Ward and peer through the window at the small row of beds, whose occupants are hidden under a camouflage of blue and white bedding. Bleeping monitors are hooked up to a couple of the patients and bright overhead fluorescent tubes flood the room with a bland impersonal light. As I push open the door, I notice there is no one other than the patients inside the ward. A couple of nurses hover outside by the desk, busy with the drugs trolley.
‘Olive?’ I’m not sure if it is Olive. I walk over towards the last bed nearest to the window and I have to get up close before I’m certain. She’s so small and frail-looking but sharp beady little eyes alight on me immediately.
‘Alexis. You’ve come. Thank goodness,’ she croaks, as she struggles to get upright. I bend over, kiss her gently on the forehead, and pack the pillows tightly behind her for support. ‘I need to talk to you. Are you okay? You don’t look so good. What’s up?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer as she’s desperate to tell me something.
‘It seems ages since I came in here and I must talk to you, show you something.’ She wheezes with the effort of speaking and her eyes dart from side to side.
4 Riverside Close Page 23
