Читать книгу A Version of the Truth - B P Walter - Страница 8

I can feel myself getting colder, an ice cube making its way down my neck, across my back, burning its icy stain into my blood.

‘I really don’t want to rush you, but I don’t think we have much time.’ I try to sound kind, rather than impatient, but waiting for Stephen to snap into action is making me tenser by the second.

His eyes are starting to overspill and I reach out to put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Please, Stephen, I need you to show me. Right now. It may not be what you think it is. You may have got the wrong idea.’

He just shakes his head.

‘Is that a ‘no’ as in you won’t explain, or ‘no’ as in you won’t show me, or ‘no’ as in you haven’t got the wrong idea?’ My smooth tone is breaking at the seams, my impatience to discover if the worst is true tearing me apart inside.

‘No, as in I don’t know. I’m not sure. I just know it’s been eating me up for two days now and I need to talk to you about it.’ After a pause, he goes to a bag by his bed and takes the device out of its leather case. I sit down on his desk chair while he perches on the bed and starts tapping away on the tablet, his face bathed in the blue-white glow of the screen.

‘And you don’t think this could be anything to do with his work?’ I say, partly to fill the silence.

‘I don’t know, that’s why I wanted to show you.’

I nod and wait. Overall, James keeps his work to himself, a lot of it bound up in such rigorous confidentiality it’s hard for him sometimes to even vaguely explain what project he’s working on. My mother once joked that he was like a spy – a bit of a James Bond – but I assured her the job of a head analyst and coordinator at a data services company is one full of spreadsheets, desk work and boardroom meetings rather than anything very exciting.

Stephen is offering me the iPad. I take hold of it and glance at the screen, a mass of files in front of me. From the ends of the file names, I can see they’re PDF documents. There’s something in this that comforts me. At the back of my mind, I think there was a part of me that expected to see .mov or .mp4. But these aren’t videos. That’s a good thing, surely? I scan down the list and then turn towards Stephen.

‘And these were in his Dropbox file?’ I ask.

‘In our Dropbox. The family one. The one we use to transfer photos and things and where I used to put my homework back when you wanted to check it over before submission. It’s Dad’s section of it. I clicked on it by mistake.’

This makes me feel ever so slightly better. If James had anything to hide, surely he’d be a little more savvy about protecting it than to upload it all to the family Dropbox account, the place I store family holiday snaps and copies of dull household documents like the TV insurance details?

‘Tap on one of the files listed here.’ His voice sounds strained, as if he’s trying to calm himself.

I look over at him. ‘If you’re really that worried, I can look at these later? We don’t have to do this now.’ As I say this, though, I know there’s no chance of me happily going back downstairs to carry on with the cooking. I need to know what this is about.

‘No, I’m fine,’ he says, and moves to the edge of the bed, crouching forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks like he’s about to take a particularly gruelling exam.

I focus back on the iPad and, as instructed, tap on the first in the list of files. They’re all unnamed, save for a list of seemingly random numbers and the file type. A document appears on the screen and I turn the device to view it in portrait mode.

A company logo is the only thing on the page. Clover Shore Construction is all it says, with a small clover leaf at the end of it. Underneath, in all-caps Times New Roman font, it says: BUSINESS PROPOSAL.

I flick the page with my hand and it changes, this time bringing up what looks like some kind of CV or personal profile, with a photo at the top of the page, followed by a name, date of birth and separate categories filled with bullet points. I look at the photo. It’s of a young woman. She isn’t looking into the camera; her eyes seem vacant, staring off into the distance. There’s something about her expression that I find quietly alarming. It’s as though she’s drunk or stoned and doesn’t quite know she’s having her photo taken. Although it’s a colour photo, her skin is pallid and grey, her dark hair untidy and her face drawn in and gaunt-looking.

‘Who is this?’ I say out loud, though more to myself than to Stephen.

‘Read the information. It’s pretty specific.’

I take a look and see what he means.

Name: Ashley Brooks

Date of Birth: 12 March 1989

Occupation: Officially unemployed, ex-stripper, occasional sex worker

Area: Ilford, East London

Reference: Daffodil

‘I’ve never heard of an Ashley Brooks,’ I say. ‘This is … this is very strange.’

‘It gets more detailed as it goes on,’ Stephen says.

I continue to read.

Lifestyle details:

 • Ashley is dependent on a variety of legal and illegal substances, including heroin and cocaine. Best knowledge indicates she’s been using since she was eighteen.

 • She’s rarely seen out of her flat. When she is, it’s usually to buy alcohol from the independent off-licence near her council flat in Ilford. She has been seen shouting expletives at random passers-by and crying in public.

 • She doesn’t own a car, nor has she been observed using public transport within the last six months.

 • She lives alone. Occasionally young men are seen delivering packages to her door – believed to be illicit substances. Sometimes they go inside, but usually do the transactions on the doorstep.

Crime:

 • She’s been twice observed having sex in public, once in the car park of the Billington Estate where she lives, and on another occasion was issued with a caution by police after being observed performing oral sex on a young man at a bus stop late at night.

 • She was arrested and charged with possession of a Class B drug in April 2012. She did not serve prison time.

 • She was arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour near her flat in September 2016. She was released without charge.

I look up from the iPad at Stephen. He’s still looking at the floor.

‘How would anyone know all this if it didn’t come from the police or lawyers or somewhere?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. That’s what makes it so strange.’

I look back down at the screen.

Support network:

 • Best knowledge suggests Ms Brooks has not been in contact with her mother or father for many years. Her mother is currently serving time in HMP Bronzefield in Surrey for GBH and the attempted murder of a man she was previously living with. Her daughter has never visited her.

 • It is not believed Ms Brooks has any close friends or acquaintances outside the group of men who deliver her drugs.

 • She does not have a consistent romantic interest or sexual partner.

 • She has no siblings.

Risk:

 • Ms Brooks is considered a low-risk potential investment.

 • Trial runs, completed by our staff, have been highly successful, embarked upon by men posing as tax officials, social services workers and gas-meter inspectors. These have been undertaken using both single and multiple participants. She has reported none of these incidents and her behaviour has not changed other than a potential increase in drug purchases. We believe it is highly unlikely any reports to police would be made after future appointments of this nature.

 • During a trial run, a blood sample was taken. Ms Brooks tested negative for HIV or hepatitis as of August 2019. In spite of this, use of contraception is always strongly advised.

I finish the page and stare back at Stephen. ‘I really don’t know what to say about this,’ I tell him. It’s the truth. I’m completely baffled and appalled. This Ms Brooks seems to have had important information meticulously detailed. Everything gathered together, from her lifestyle and sex life to her criminal record. And all of it points to a very vulnerable, unwell young woman.

‘I don’t know what this is, but I think … I think we best …’

‘Best what?’ asks Stephen, looking up at me, moving his eyes, apparently reluctantly, away from the floor.

‘I don’t know. It just seems so likely this is part of your dad’s work. I know it’s not pretty, but maybe they gather information for the police or some law enforcement agency …’

‘I don’t think he’s allowed to bring it home.’

He’s got me there. But then again, what do I know? Neither of us knows that much about the way James works in his current position at data-gathering company Varvello Analytics. The thing nagging at me, quietly but firmly at the back of my head, is that this is in our personal Dropbox. Not his work account. Not even his own personal account. If they were work documents, surely he would have had to transfer the files and password-protect them?

There’s another thing troubling me. ‘When you said to me that it was something bad … I sort of expected … I don’t know … something involving porn … or maybe … God, this sounds ridiculous … evidence of an affair …’

‘I’m sorry.’

I touch his arm, ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I say, trying to sound comforting. ‘How many of these have you looked at?’

‘All of them.’

‘And they’re all like this? The same sort of thing?’

He nods.

I don’t know what to say to this at first. Then something falls into my head – a strange sensation, almost like déjà vu. That we’ve been here before. ‘You know a few years back, when you had all that stuff on your computer. All those images of naked women that kept opening every time you clicked on something …’

Stephen looks up sharply and cuts me off, ‘That was a virus.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I hold up a hand to offer reassurance, but he looks offended.

‘Are you saying you think this has something to do with me?’

‘No, I’m just trying to make sense of it. And it reminded me of it, that’s all. Could this be the same thing? A virus your dad has downloaded, maybe when he was buying something or downloading music? And he got a load of someone else’s content by mistake?’

Stephen shakes his head, ‘He downloads music from iTunes. I can’t imagine him buying anything from anywhere … well … dodgy. And anyway, why would the files turn up on our family Dropbox, in his folder?’

‘I … no … it doesn’t make sense. I just don’t understand how …’

I stop talking. Both Stephen and I have heard it. Someone is coming up the stairs. And there’s only one other person in the house. We look at each other, as if we’re two children about to be caught doing something we shouldn’t. I stay very still and hear the sound of my husband going into our shared bedroom, then the noise of a drawer opening and closing. He must just be looking for something or changing his sweater. The noise of him coming back out onto the landing causes Stephen’s eyes to widen in alarm, but I shake my head. It’s okay. The sound of his feet is growing distant and, after a few seconds, the creak of the stairs signals his retreat back down to the hallway.

I let out a breath I only now realise I’ve been holding the whole time, and turn back to the screen. Do I carry on after our close shave? Or give him back his iPad, tell myself it’s going to be fine and just talk to James later, ask him to explain, get everything out in the open? After nearly a minute of us sitting in silence, Stephen hunched over, watching me, I go back to the iPad and click on the second file.

It’s almost identical in layout to the first, except the photo is of a different woman – a young black girl. She’s smiling, holding a drink up to the camera. I cast my eye down her details.

Name: Carly Gale

Date of Birth: 1 April 1991

Occupation: Sex worker, former shop assistant, now officially unemployed

Area: Clapham, South-West London

Reference: Daisy

Another sex worker, I think, a chill moving down the back of my neck. I read through the rest of her details. She used to be employed in a clothes shop in Central London but after making an allegation of sexual assault against her manager left her job and hasn’t been employed since. She, too, has no support network to speak of. The phrase ‘trial run’ once again catches my eye. What does this refer to? Was this some kind of brothel agency? Was my husband seeing prostitutes?

 • No attempts to contact police have been made since the second trial run in February 2019. Ms Gale tested negative for HIV and hepatitis as of this second trial run. Participants are still strongly advised to use protection.

These aren’t prostitutes. This information is telling a far more sinister story. One I can’t get my head around right now, especially not with my teenage son watching me. The screen blurs suddenly and I think something’s gone wrong with the iPad, then realise it’s my eyes. Without me realising, they’ve filled with tears that now begin to stream down my face.

‘Mum?’ Stephen says.

‘I’m all right.’ I quickly brush them away. Then I hear the doorbell.

‘Julianne?’

Stephen’s face drains of colour as soon as he hears his father’s voice. I instantly hit the lock button on the iPad, like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Fuck, I think to myself.

‘Julianne?’ I can tell he’s at the door to the kitchen, probably confused as to where I’ve got to. ‘Where are you?’ he calls up the stairs now.

‘We need to go back downstairs.’ I go to hand him back the iPad, then a thought strikes me.

‘Hang on just one minute.’ Without thinking too much about what I’m doing, I open the tablet again, navigate back to the folder of files and take a screenshot, capturing the full file path information.

‘What are you doing?’ Stephen asks.

‘Don’t worry about it now.’ I rush what I’m doing, clicking the home button and locating the Facebook Messenger tab on the menu screen, finding myself on the list of Stephen’s chats. I send the screenshot to myself.

‘We’ll talk about all of this later. We will. Just … just try not to think about it … There’ll be an explanation.’ I’m talking fast, trying to stifle the panic I can feel building within me. I give him back the tablet as I make for the door.

‘Okay,’ he says.

‘Julianne?’ James’s voice is louder this time. ‘Sorry, Diane, I’ll find out where she’s got to.’

In spite of my panic, there’s a familiar feeling of irritation bristling within me. Can’t he deal with his mother-in-law on his own for five minutes? Why do I always have to play the host?

‘I’m coming!’ I shout back, trying to sound normal. Walking the short distance across the landing and down the stairs feels like I’m doing the last leg of a double marathon. I keep thinking I’m going to stumble and fall, but I hold on tight to the handrail and press on, determined. Determined not to believe the worst. Determined to shake the horrible feeling that something, finally, is threatening to shake the foundations of what we’ve built together. Determined to remain convinced he’ll explain everything, clearly and calmly, and all of this will go away. He’ll tell me the documents are something he accidentally got sent. Or important documents from his work that somehow ended up in the wrong folder. He’ll tell me how sorry he is that I had to worry about all this, especially at Christmas, and that I should put it all out of my mind and forget about it. I think of the relief I will feel when I hear those words.