Double Deceit

by Julienne Brouwers

  She looked down with a contrite expression.

  I grabbed a tenner from my purse and hurled it on the table. “I’m out of here.”

  I left the restaurant reeling, trying my best not to bump into any of the tables and flung open the door. Once outside in the cold night, it took me a while to locate my bike. I tried to put my key in the lock, but my hands were trembling terribly.

  Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. “Please don’t leave. Not like this, Jennifer.”

  I swung around and saw Lindsey standing there, pulling her cardigan tightly around her. “Why not?” I responded. “If even my friends are impugning my judgment and believe I’ve gone bonkers, then I don’t feel like staying anymore.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act all hysterical. We don’t think you’re loopy at all. You’re going through a difficult time, that’s all. All we want for you is to get back on your feet again.”

  I folded my arms and averted her eyes, feeling an imaginary wall rising up between us. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I will.”

  She took a step in my direction. “I told you before that you and I were seeing eye-to-eye that this was all very suspicious. I advised you to stop searching yourself and go to the police. But you ignored my advice and started contacting that guy.”

  I gave an insouciant shrug. “Yes, I did. So what? I don’t have to answer for what I do or don’t do,” I said, even though I was well aware I’d been lying to her through omission.

  Lindsey looked at me in astonishment. “You went on a date with that Dan and spent the night there,” she exclaimed. “Who knows what could have happened. At the very least, you could have given me a heads up.”

  I bit my lip. Now that she said it like that, it sounded like a very rash and risky action.

  “To be honest, I feel ever so faintly put-out.” She looked away, clearly hurt. “You fooled me, Jennifer. You pretended that the date was with someone else.”

  “What nonsense,” I said, done with her haranguing me. “I don’t owe you an explanation about who I’m seeing.” I knew I was rubbing salt in the wound, but I wasn’t bothered.

  Lindsey didn’t seem to have heard me. “What was that?”

  I repeated what I’d said with renewed efforts, trying my best to articulate clearly, but my lips seemed unwilling to cooperate.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re slurring your words. How much have you been drinking lately?”

  Her question caught me off guard. “Not much,” I answered automatically. But is that really true, a voice in my head asked. “I just didn’t eat that much tonight. The wine probably didn’t go down well.”

  She stared at me with a look that I couldn’t quite grasp. Suddenly it hit me. “Oh my god, you really think I’m delusional, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t. Cut me some slack, will you! I’m just worried that …”

  I interrupted her. “Save your breath. And by the way, what’s it to you? I’ll decide myself how much I drink. I’m not causing any harm by it,” I scoffed. But I thought of Tim, who I’d probably have to entertain with the tablet again tomorrow morning, until the throbbing headache would subside.

  I knew Lindsey didn’t hold with me drinking too much and that I was spoiling for a fight, but I somehow just didn’t care.

  Lindsey crossed her arms. “Hey, there’s no need to talk to me like that.”

  Now I’d made her angry too, which felt good. It seemed I was on a mission to burn some bridges tonight.

  I shrugged and looked down the street to where a tram announced its departure and pulled away from the stop. A group of men who’d just gotten off, loudly sang a song with obscene lyrics – probably another raucous stag party.

  I put my foot on the pedal. “I’m going home.”

  Her face softened. “Please, Jennifer. At least give me a hug,” she said, spreading her arms.

  I answered her conciliatory gesture with a limp arm around her and then disengaged myself from her embrace.

  “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I said.

  I didn’t wait for her answer, but turned on my heel and cycled off.

  25

  Something wet on my face jolted me awake. I wiped away the sticky substance with my hand and rolled over, away from the source. The world was spinning for a brief moment before coming to a halt again. Sunlight trickled through the curtains and moved in dizzy patterns across my face, causing a fierce stab in the back of my head. I closed my eyes and dozed off.

  A hand pulled at my shoulder. “Mummy.”

  I moaned.

  “Mummy,” it sounded louder this time. “Wake up. Tim get up.”

  I rolled over and held my son in my arms, my eyes still shut. His familiar, lovely scent softened the thumping in my head. I gently stroked his beautiful soft little curls. It came back to me how he’d been crying during the night and didn’t want to go back to his cot anymore, so he ended up in the bed with me.

  Tim had enough of the hugging sooner than I did and wanted to go downstairs. With a lot of moans and groans I managed to drag myself out of bed. After the head-to-head with Lindsey last night I’d felt worked up when I got home and taken a nightcap, but now I regretted it.

  As I stood up, I felt a wave of nausea washing over me. Gently and slowly, I shuffled to the bathroom where the cold floor under my feet provided some relief. I opened the medicine cabinet and took the last two paracetamol tablets from the box. I made a mental note to pick up some more today. I cupped my hand, filled it with water and knocked back the pills.

  I heard Tim on the landing fumble at the stair safety gate. “Mummy, c’mon.” I’d promised myself not to ever let him bear the brunt of any sadness on my part, but today I was flunking big time.

  “I’ll be right there, baby,” I yelled back as I slid my arms into my dressing gown, which was gathering a number of smudgy stains. I bent down to pick up Tim’s slippers, walked to the landing and slid them onto his feet, while he protested. “Your feet will get cold, dear,” I said wearily, noticing they’d become too small for him.

  I unlocked the safety gate, trundled down the stairs in front of him and reminded him to hold the bannister properly as he shuffled down step by step. In the living room on the coffee table stood the remnants of my night cap – a glass of Baileys spreading a sickeningly sweet smell throughout the room. I was glad that I’d blocked off the first two consulting hours at the practice, but the notion of talking to patients later on didn’t exactly fill me with enthusiasm.

  Tim tugged at the belt of my robe. “Tim wants a bottle.” Obviously, he was getting too old for that, but I replied it was fine and suggested he play with his toy cars while I headed to the kitchen.

  I opened the fridge and noticed there was only half a pack of milk left. When Oliver was still with us, he always took care of the weekly groceries and we never fell short. Since his death, I hadn’t succeeded in getting into a new routine and consequently I’d regularly stumble upon a half-empty refrigerator. To my shame, I’d developed the habit of serving Tim ready-made baby food, something he’d long grown out of. But at least he’d be eating something, I told myself.

  I made myself a cup of coffee and put a bottle of milk in the microwave for Tim. With my hands wrapped around the hot mug, my eyes gazed out through the patio doors into the garden, which was looking untended and glum. Now that spring had started, it was time to rid the flagged stones of the green algae that emerged without fail every winter and plant some pansies and marigolds here and there, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it – I unfortunately hadn’t inherited my mother’s green fingers.

  Despite neglecting some of the household duties, the last few weeks I’d finally been feeling a bit better. Even though the date with Dan had ended in disaster and it was obviously out of the question to make amends, it had sparked a flicker of hope for a brighter future. But after the falling out with my friends last night, a feeling of loneliness left a heavy mark on me.

  I screwed the cap ont
o the bottle, trudged back to the living room and handed it to Tim. He eagerly took it with both hands and started drinking. I pulled him onto my lap, wrapped my arms tightly around his warm little body, and closed my eyes for a moment.

  After he’d finished his milk I noticed the coffee had done its job and I started to feel better. We’d played together for a while and had breakfast, then I put Tim in front of the television, took a short cold shower, and decided to sit in the garden with a cup of tea.

  My thoughts returned to last night – I’d never imagined my friends giving up on me. Their reaction, however, made me doubt myself again. Were they right – was I seeing things that weren’t there? Lindsey had suggested going to the police, but I’d already tried that and it was clear that I couldn’t expect any assistance on that side. Perhaps it was wise after all to just leave it be, I couldn’t get Oliver back and it was taking its toll on me. I took a sip of my tea, tilted my face towards the sun, and closed my eyes.

  But if there had been some form of foul play, did I not owe it to Oliver to get to the bottom of things? The thought that something or someone had ended his life with impunity and turned mine upside down was unacceptable. I opened my eyes and leaped up. No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible for me to let the matter rest.

  I rushed inside, where Tim was still watching television, to get the copies of the Van Santen file, that Sandra and I had made that night at Mason & McGant. I sat down on the couch and flipped through the pages until I reached the page where Oliver had made notes in his all too familiar sloppy handwriting. It presented an overview of the different types of evidence, as Oliver had once clarified to me, grouped by four different cases. The name Van Santen was nowhere to be found … Out of the blue I had a hunch that this might not have been a real person after all. Could Oliver perhaps have adopted it as a code name, to avoid attracting the attention of his colleagues or partners?

  It dawned on me that something must have been out of the ordinary regarding the evidence of those four cases. Something that had caught Oliver’s attention in such a compelling way that he created a file for it as some sort of cover up, like a shroud of mist covering his crusade. Sandra had said there was more information in the pages she’d taken home, with regards to the different types of evidence, even mentioning names of people and companies. I suddenly remembered that she’d promised to put the documents on a shared drive shortly before her death, but I couldn’t recall whether I had in fact ever received an email from her about it.

  Tim suddenly started to cry loudly, which made me jump. He seemed to have fallen from the couch. “Oh, pumpkin,” I said after picking him up, and gave him a gentle kiss on his forehead, where a small bump had become visible. “Did you have a fall? It’s all right, baby,” I soothed.

  While he was still sobbing, I placed him back firmly on the couch and turned on another film for him. He was apt to get tired of watching television after half an hour, so I had to hurry up.

  I logged into my laptop, opened my mailbox and searched for the name Sandra – there were no results. Perhaps the e-mail had been sent from the server where the shared drive was placed, so I searched all messages received in the week when I’d last talked to her on the phone, but nothing popped up.

  I bit my nails and pondered about it. Perhaps her promise had slipped her mind? Or maybe she simply hadn’t got around to scanning the papers and sending them to me before she died.

  Feeling somewhat dejected, I glanced across all my email folders lined up on the left side of the screen, and realised with a jolt of hope, that I hadn’t yet checked my junk mail folder. I clicked on the icon and instantly my eyes fell upon a message from WeShare.

  “Sandra is inviting you to view her files.”

  I opened the message and clicked on the link. I was redirected to a secure website that, to my bitter disappointment, asked for a login and password. Would Sandra have forgotten to share it with me?

  I returned to my mailbox and to my relief found a second message from WeShare containing the login and password. After copy pasting them into the right tabs and hitting enter, I got access to a folder with three documents, each one appeared to consist of twenty-five scanned pages of the Van Santen File. “Yes!” I exclaimed.

  I glanced at Tim – he was still watching television. I laboriously scrolled through all the pages until I came across the chapter that Sandra had pointed out. There were two consecutive pages titled: ‘forensic evidence and phone records’. I also saw the same four clients receiving legal counsel from Mason & McGant, which I’d come across in my set of papers. But then I stumbled upon something that set my heart racing. Extortionate sums of money had been scrawled next to each of the four cases – we were dealing with six-figure numbers here. To my bewilderment, arrows had been drawn, running from the four cases to the DFI, with the words ‘paid to DFI’. The DFI was a government agency that supposedly acted as an independent party to carry out forensic analyses for criminal lawsuits brought by the government – why would they have been paid by Mason & McGant?

  I knew instinctively that I’d chanced upon something important. These documents reeked of potential forgery and bribery.

  I glanced at my phone. It wouldn’t be long before my first patient of the day would be waiting for me. I now had actual clues on paper that should provide sufficient grounds for the police to reopen the investigation into Oliver’s death, and that notion filled me with hope. If I had an opening at work today, I’d call Detective Armstrong immediately.

  “Tim, baby,” I said in a high voice. “We’re going to day-care. Mummy has to go to work.”

  Half an hour later I’d reached the practice and parked my bike close to the entrance. “Good morning,” I trilled to Simone, who was on the phone and raised her hand in acknowledgement as I walked towards my consulting room. The first thing I felt when I swung open the door was the unexpected gust of wind that punched me in the face. I instinctively knew something was terribly wrong.

  My hand flew up to my mouth which had dropped open in shock. I didn’t know where to look – the room was scattered with what seemed like a million tiny pieces of shattered glass. The white blinds in the window frame were fluttering before an enormous, gaping hole where the windowpane should have been, the rays of sunlight dazzling off the broken shards of glass.

  Stupefied, I cautiously edged closer towards the window, but froze when I felt the glass crack underneath my shoes.

  “Hans,” I shrieked. “Hans!” My voice sounded eerily loud, like I was hearing it ricochet back through an amplifier.

  Hans must have heard the distress in my voice, because despite the fact that he had a patient in his consulting room, he dashed out within seconds. “What’s the matter?”

  “Someone …” I began, but the words died on my lips – I merely indicated the room with my hand, which felt heavy and incapacitated.

  Hans swore out loud, which was unusual for him, as he assessed the appalling scene. “What the hell happened in here?”

  My eyes fell on a foreign object lying underneath my desk. I stepped as cautiously and lightly as I could between the fragments of broken glass and stooped down to pick up a grey pavement tile. My gaze moved to Hans. “They must have used this.”

  It wasn’t until I held the tile up to Hans I noticed a note had been affixed with duct tape to the bottom of it.

  “Are you really listening?” I muttered and swallowed the acidic taste that had suddenly washed into my mouth.

  “Sorry, of course I am,” Hans responded, not realising that I wasn’t talking to him, but rather reading the message from the perpetrator. “You said someone used that tile to break the window,” Hans added.

  I shook my head. “No, look!” I exclaimed, my voice sounding shaky. I turned the heavy object with the message attached to it towards Hans. He read aloud the colourful letters in the decorative font, which looked identical to the threat I’d received at home not long ago. “Are you really listening?”

  We g
azed at each other for a moment, lost for words. I was the first to look away and took in my impaired consulting room. It was one broken, chaotic mess, which sadly formed a striking metaphor for what my life resembled at the moment.

  “I’m calling the police,” Hans stated grimly and dashed out of the room.

  I was still nailed to the spot, with the pavement tile in my hands, when I suddenly felt Simone touch my shoulders. “Why don’t you come to my room – I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said softly.

  I just nodded and turned around. I conscientiously laid the tile back on the floor – it had been foolish of me to pick it up. I might have compromised the only piece of evidence there was.

  Not too long after, I was sitting at our lunch table, staring ahead of me and absent-mindedly dipping a tea bag into the mug with hot water that Simone had brought me.

  Hans swung open the door and barged into the room – a breath of cold, fresh air wafted over my face and I shivered. “Nothing seems to have been taken from your room. You didn’t have any personal items in there, such as a phone or purse, did you?”

  I shook my head. “I’d only just started my day at the practice, I’d planned the first few hours off for today,” I answered in a small voice, although my colleagues had undoubtedly been aware of my absence this morning. I suddenly noticed that my tea had become way too strong and jerked the bag out of the water.

  My face probably reflected how I was feeling, since Hans walked over to me and laid his warm, big hand on my shoulder. “Try not to worry, Jennifer.”

  I looked up and smiled reassuringly at him, but inside I felt jittery and full of dread – someone was targeting me.

  Simone entered the room. “I’ve rescheduled all of your patients due in the next hour for later in the week and explained to them the circumstances.”

  “Thank you, Simone,” I said and lifted my mug to take a swig of the tea, but my hands were trembling so terribly that it spilled over the edge onto the table, forming a small puddle.

  Simone looked at me with concern and then grabbed a cloth to wipe it up.