Читать книгу Don’t Trust Me: The best psychological thriller debut you will read in 2018 - Joss Stirling - Страница 15

Jessica

Emma is haunting me and I’m trying to read more of the diary on the shattered screen even though I really should wait until I download the photos. I think I would’ve got on with her – apart from the bit about not liking poetry. How could she not? She comes across as sane and righteously angry about her diagnosis. The most perplexing thing from my point of view is that the Michael she describes shows tenderness towards her that I can only envy. I hadn’t realised how Colette came into the house. In my share of cat responsibilities, I’ve fallen into the life Emma ordained for Michael without being aware that it’s been her pulling the strings.

A warning flashes up and I have to put the phone on charge. I am parked for the afternoon in Drew’s flat above the undertaker’s. His parents lived there before they made enough money to move to a house near Windsor so it’s always been a family home rather than a temporary lodging. The wallpaper in the guest bedroom is small flowers on a blue background, an old Laura Ashley print, suggesting a last makeover in the Eighties when Drew’s older sister was little. Blu Tack marks show where posters once hung. He has replaced them with a photograph of a sunrise over the sea and a quote by his favourite nineteenth-century poet, Walt Whitman: ‘To me the sun is a continual miracle, / The fishes that swim – the rocks – the motion of the waves – the ships with men in them, / What stranger miracles are there?’ I mull over the phrase ‘stranger miracles’ for a moment, like sucking on a boiled sweet. My thoughts turn more prosaic. I’m standing in a minor miracle: the luxury of a spare room in London. Able to afford to live without a flatmate, Drew has set up the room as a study with a fold-out sofa. I unpack my bag and join him in the living room. He gives me the password to the wi-fi and leaves me to my searches, explaining he has to be at the crematorium at three.

First, I prowl the flat. Drew knows I do this so I don’t feel guilty. It’s part of my restlessness – I can’t settle until I’ve opened all doors, and peeked into every cupboard. I don’t know what I’m looking for, I just have to do it, like a dog circling before settling down on her bed. I pause in front of his drinks collection, heavy on beer, light on spirits and wine. No, I’ve got to be a good girl. I open the fridge and kitchen cabinets. He needs milk and some more indulgent cereals, as he’s bought the most bargain muesli. I see a trip to Tesco in my future. His visible music collection stops mid-2000s, a dusty rack of CDs. Metallica and Killing Joke feature strongly. There’s a man-sized TV screen. I flick it on to find it tuned to a sports channel – it goes off immediately. His pot plant, a ficus, is a little dry so I water it. A few leaves drift off on my touch. I hide them in the bin. I really should stop interfering.

Neurotic, that’s what Michael calls my behaviour. I prefer nosy. Sounds more normal.

Right, get down to work. I return to my bedroom and type in the most obvious search – Jacob’s name. It doesn’t throw up anything or anyone remotely like him. A film noir about murder, a wine seller in South Africa, a verse in Genesis. That raises the likelihood of it being a pseudonym. So what else do I know about him? I’m not the police, so I can’t demand his phone or bank records. I have to go on the information he’s let slip over the last three months. I make a list, realising I can’t trust any of the surface statements he’s made. I mustn’t think I know him. I have to dig deeper.

1 1. About thirty-five years old, from his cultural reference points.

2 2. Not talkative, brooding, but not unkind. He brought me lozenges one day when I lost my voice. Made his own tea and coffee without expecting me, as the office junior, to wait on him.

3 3. I would’ve said he was good at what he did, methodical in the presentation of his research. From a psychological point of view that clashes with the idea that he had chaotic finances.

4 4. Dark-brown hair thinning at the temples and on top. Work-roughened hands which he explained as due to his hobby (gardening), so does he have a garden or allotment? Frameless glasses. Five nine? Smart casual clothes.

5 5. Grew up or has lived in or around Swindon, as he was familiar with local landmarks I mentioned – the White Horse, the Wyvern Theatre.

And now it gets trickier.

1 6. He was prepared to employ someone with a dubious dismissal-cum-resignation on her CV. That suggests a certain level of desperation or underhandedness (I should’ve asked more questions).

2 7. He has not hesitated to run away and leave me with his mess.

3 8. Unlike all the other lies, he really is an investigator. He had already compiled case files on the missing girls before I joined his one-man firm.

These girls are real. I’ve been investigating them for three months so I’m sure about that – all tragic, kick-you-in-the-gut cases of young lives cut short by sudden disappearance. I’d assumed he’d been employed by the parents or friends when the police searches had turned up nothing. Now I have to rethink.

I jot down in my notebook the names and dates of the girls while I can still remember them. Ramona James. Lillian Bailey. Clare Maxsted. Latifah Masood. I need to get my hands on the files and notebooks as there’s so much more in there. I’ve done ample research on them already, I don’t want to lose that. In the case of Lillian Bailey, I’d thought I was close to a breakthrough before I went on holiday. Just coming out of social services care, the eighteen-year-old had gone missing from Harrogate. I’d dug deep in her social media profile, not updated since she disappeared, and found a reference to a friend in Southwest London. From the profile I generated about her, I feel I’d got to know her. She was the kind of girl who took to strangers and would’ve been blind to the dangers of meeting them in a place where she was vulnerable, overestimating how streetwise she was. She might well have been lured down to London. That’s the darker explanation. The other, more likely scenario I’d come up with was that she seized on a chance to make a new start away from her old friends. She’d fallen out with her boyfriend of six months and spent a lot of time saying how she hated Harrogate and wanted to break free. She was an adult on paper so didn’t have to tell anyone. I handed the possible address over to Jacob to follow up but I’ve no idea if he did or not.

So what was Jacob’s motive in setting up the business in the first place? There doesn’t seem an angle on it where he benefits, or am I just not imaginative enough? Is the interest in missing girls genuine? If so, then he might be carrying on the same work somewhere without the overheads of an office. He obviously got his business plan catastrophically wrong.

I tap the notepad with the end of my pen. It’s a habit that drives Michael mad.

Then why add fraud to financial incompetence? Is this a pattern that Jacob repeats: hire someone so desperate for a job that they don’t ask questions, then run off and leave them carrying the can? Are there others like me out there? I can’t see the point but maybe I’m just not good at penetrating into the darker sides of human nature? I should be, what with the whole profiling thing, but I’d not liked the criminology part of my course, sticking instead with social and developmental psychology, the wider focus. Investigating my own motives for taking that path, I think I’d wanted to understand where my own dysfunctional family life came from, where it fitted, but it’s never a good idea to do a university degree to get personal enlightenment. I understand the runaway girls, though. I can ace that part of my professional life if I’m given the opportunity. I thought Jacob was that chance but that now seems just wishful thinking on top of something much more malign.

Searches on Jacobs in the Swindon area are leading nowhere – too many and it might not even be his real name. I’m stupid even to try. I have to concentrate on the concrete clues I have. There was an office with case files, physical evidence of his existence in fingerprints and coffee mugs. The cleaner – Rita – where had she come from and how had he recruited her? And why go to the extra expense, if he wasn’t planning to stick around? The girls. Why these particular cases?

I need to find the documents. I have to discover if Jacob moved everything out or if our stuff was just binned after the landlord took back control of the office. Only a week has passed. Jacob must’ve know he was in trouble before I left for my holiday because surely the landlord would have sent the usual warnings and final demand before taking the drastic step of repossessing the premises? Had Jacob been waiting for me to fly off to Minorca before hightailing it away from Soho, knowing Mr Khan was going to throw him out? Let’s assume that was the case – he left quickly and maybe didn’t take much. Counting back, if the super-fast makeover started last Monday, I might still be able to find something. What day was rubbish collection? It’s possible the stuff I need is sitting in the wheelie bin in the yard behind the office. Looks like I’m going back to Dean Street.

Drew is not keen on my plan of rooting around in the bins behind the office. He’s changed out of his suit into black trousers and a T-shirt, accessorised with a tea towel tucked into his waistband as he gets started on the stir-fry.

‘Isn’t that trespassing? What if you’re caught?’

‘The bins should be out front by now for collection. Who’s going to care about a few bins on the public highway? Anyway, I can just say I’m looking for my personal stuff, dumped by mistake in my absence when the office was cleared. That’s sort of true – I had made my own notes. Do you always wear black?’

He looks down at himself as if he hasn’t even noticed. ‘No…well, maybe, yes?’

I smile. ‘You do.’ I bite into an apple. ‘It’s your camouflage. You feel comfortable being the brooding guy in the bar, belonging to the tribe of slightly Goth slash late punk. What do you feel about wearing, say, a blue flowered shirt?’

He shudders histrionically. ‘Are you trying to mess with my head, Jess?’

‘It’s the anthropological psychologist in me. I can’t help seeing people in terms of their social groups.’

‘What are you then?’

‘God knows – pale, stale and female?’

Drew chuckles, thinking I’m joking, but I do feel like that last slice of bread in the cellophane that’s too thick for the toaster. The one that lurks until it grows mould then gets put in the food bin. Being around Michael last week has done that to me.

I nibble around the core until only a size-zero catwalk model of a piece remains. ‘Another question is what’s happened to the computer equipment? It wasn’t top of the range but I doubt that’s in the bins.’

He slides some red peppers into the wok. ‘Look on eBay.’

‘I’d prefer not to fish in that ocean of possibilities. The memory will be wiped by now if it’s being sold on.’

‘Those police dramas always claim you can’t remove all traces.’

‘Possibly, but I’m hardly a computer geek. Like most of the population, I can use the things, not understand them.’ It crosses my mind that Jacob Wrath has done a Wrexit on me, leaving me to tidy up in the way unreliable men expect of responsibly-minded female politicians.

My phone buzzes. I’ve blocked the calls from Khan’s lawyer and decided not to worry too much about triangulation – I mean, there’s no obvious link between me and an undertaker’s, so why come knocking on the door? With any luck, if they trace me here, they’ll assume I’m dead. I glance down to see who’s ringing. It’s Michael. So now he wants to talk to me.

‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ asks Drew.

I really want to punish Michael for failing me last week and last night but I don’t have the self-control that would take. I pick it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Jessica, it’s me. Lizzy’s rung – she couldn’t get hold of you. Our alarm is going off. Where are you?’ Each sentence is served like tennis balls from a too-fast opponent. I manage to get my racquet to the last one.

‘At Drew’s.’ Had I been right about someone watching the house? There was the noise last night, and now Khan’s men had to be added to the mix.

‘Then you’d better get back home and sort it out. You must’ve left the door to the kitchen open again. You know Colette sets off the alarm if she goes out of her designated zone.’

I can’t return serves at 147 miles per hour. I decide to have the conversation I would like to be having with him, the equivalent of gentle Sunday afternoon lawn tennis – long rallies where each plays so the other can reach the ball. We might’ve had that conversation five years ago. ‘Please, don’t worry about me. Fortunately I was out so I’m not having to face the burglars alone. Yes, yes, I’m fine – apart from finding out my job was bogus and my boss is a crook. How’s your conference?’

Michael sighs. ‘OK, I see what mood you’re in.’

‘I’m glad it’s going well with lots of admiring Frau doctors, police experts and grad students to polish your ego. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow so you can ask about my day.’

‘Jesus, Jessica, this is petty, even from you. You need to act like an adult for once.’

‘That’s so kind of you. Yes, Drew’s fine. He says “hi”, by the way.’

Drew grimaces, holding the chopping knife over a carrot like a Tudor executioner. I imagine it as Michael’s… well, not his head.

‘I’ll ask Lizzy to go in and switch it off.’

Concern for our blameless neighbour sweeps me. ‘Michael, tell Lizzy not to go alone. It might be an actual break-in – not the cat. Things are happening that you don’t know.’

‘I never know with you. Always it has to be a drama, never a simple mistake of forgetting to shut the bloody door.’

God, he’s turning into an irate Michael Caine. If I’m beginning to find his rants amusing, does that mean I’m getting over his rejection? Consciously decoupling, isn’t that the phrase? ‘It’s probably my fault, usually is, but I can’t get there for at least an hour. Tell her to be careful, OK? I’ll go over as soon as we’ve finished dinner.’

‘I don’t know if I can trust you.’

‘No, you don’t, do you?’ I end the call.

Drew raises his brows.

‘Michael. The alarm’s going off at our house – his house.’

‘How bad has it got – you and him?’ He sweeps the carrot matchsticks into the pan.

‘Are you going to add any meat to that?’

‘I’ll add grilled halloumi at the end. I’ve gone vegetarian. Trust me: it’ll be great.’

My spirits sink – no chocolate and now no meat. ‘Our basic problem is that he doesn’t like me anymore. The things I do – well, you know me…?’

Drew nods.

‘I can’t help them sometimes. It’s part of my condition. He used to find them amusing but now he’s embarrassed. He’d prefer me just to go but I haven’t got the money to rent somewhere, so…’ I catch a glimpse of Drew’s expression. ‘I’m not asking to stay here more than a night, don’t worry.’

‘I wasn’t worried about that.’

‘You should be. I’d drive you crazy if you had to live with me. I drive everyone crazy after a time. Michael’s up for a sainthood, having survived five years.’

‘Jess, really, it’s not a problem how long you stay. I’m worried that you are in an unhealthy relationship which is destroying your belief in your own self-worth.’ Drew is into self-help books. There’s a whole shelf of them in his living room.

I laugh. As far as self-worth goes, I’ve always been an atheist.

‘Why are you with him again?’

‘I don’t know really. It made sense at the beginning. We met at his college. He was supportive when I did teacher training.’ I curled a carrot peeling around my ring finger. ‘He found it unthreatening. He was just beginning to really take off in his career as the media’s go-to psychologist on socially deviant behaviour, and my job was always going to be second fiddle. He liked that. What he didn’t like was the development where I needed more from him than he was prepared to give. He only wanted a witty and amusing girlfriend, not a partner, and certainly not a partner with problems.’

Drew is silent while he tosses the vegetables. I can imagine what he’s thinking. She sees it so clearly, so why is she so feeble as to stay? I don’t want to admit it to him but, apart from new friend Drew, I don’t really have anyone of my own. My relationship with Michael cut me off from my old friendship groups as I moved in his circle rather than keeping mine. The colleagues I made at Eastfields – well, they went with the job. I am disgusted by myself. I’ve lost all confidence in my ability to make decisions, and that’s with good reason, as the ones I’ve made tend to be impulsive and end up as disasters. Michael had got accomplished at sweeping in to rectify them for me. He was the one who persuaded me to resign from Eastfields before I was dismissed – that was sound advice in retrospect, though it felt like I was surrendering. He sorted out the counselling when I had my breakdown. I’m not convinced I’d survive on my own.

‘I’ve always thought he was a bit of a prick,’ announces Drew, plating up the stir-fry and adding the grilled cheese on top.

‘Funny, he thinks the same about you.’ I laugh. ‘Though he would give it a posh term.’

‘I’m pleased he classes me as one of his social deviants. Might get that put on a T-shirt.’

‘A black T-shirt?’

‘Obviously.’