Читать книгу Don’t Trust Me: The best psychological thriller debut you will read in 2018 - Joss Stirling - Страница 19

Jessica

Drew tells me he has to go out to deal with a DB from Florida so I decide I’d better go to work too. I minimise the photo of the page in Emma’s diary that I’ve been reading on the laptop and resolve to spend the day reconstructing my cases. I hadn’t realised she’d moved into teaching. Had she been tasked to keep a watchful eye out for student extremists? That’s what I took from the last paragraph. I don’t think I could do that. It must’ve been so awkward. I’m enjoying reading her words, though, puzzling through the hints of people around her, the regrets. I can get back to her later. I have to focus on the now if I’m going to get out of this fix Jacob left me in.

I’d reached some conclusions about the missing girls individually but seeing them like this, I begin to make some new connections. They’ve all vanished in a two-year period with indications that they were headed to London, or at least away from their home town where things had become unbearable. Lillian and Clare had both come out of the care system so had the smallest support network but Ramona and Latifah have families who are presumably still anxious to know what has happened to their daughters. I remember I had suspected that Latifah’s exit had partly been motivated by the desire to avoid an arranged marriage – there had been talk of a cousin coming to meet her last summer. She was an all-A-stars A-Level candidate but missed out on taking her place at Royal Holloway. I’d felt particularly close to her when I saw that she had been down to do Criminology and Psychology. The irony is that Latifah would’ve been one of Michael’s students now if she had taken her place last autumn. I make a mental note to check she hasn’t reapplied this year. I don’t suspect foul play with her; I think she’s just biding her time. I suppose I have to consider that there’s a vague possibility, a notion prompted by Emma’s diary, that she might’ve been radicalised and gone to Syria, but there is no sign of that on her social media or in anything her friends say about her. It would be lazy to leap to such a conclusion just because the press sees every story about a Muslim runaway in terms of terrorism. No, I think Latifah has her head screwed on. She’s OK.

I am more worried right now about the other three. They seem more vulnerable. From some of the things Ramona let slip, her father looks like he might’ve been abusive. I can well imagine her running away, but with little or no qualifications and no money, she is unlikely to have landed on her feet. Same goes for Lillian and Clare. They all seem to have vanished into the crowds of the city.

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

T. S. Eliot is haunting me at the moment. Little fragments pop up in my mind every time I hear an echo of one of his words. I can’t make a hot drink without his Prufrock telling me that he’s measured out his life in coffee spoons. I wonder how many other people suffer from this same cultural commentary as they go about their ordinary business? I suppose there could be worse poets to carry around with you.

Where was I? I tap the pen on the notes I made on Ramona. Margate, February 2014 was the last sighting. I remember visiting the seaside town around then with Michael. It’s an odd place: great beach, tatty seafront, boarded-up shops in a failed high street and then this world-class art gallery on the quayside.

On Margate sands,

I can connect

Nothing with nothing.

Thanks, T. S. How true. We were attending an event at the Tate Contemporary and I’d enjoyed the landscapes by Turner that Michael had abhorred. He’s got this thing about anything impressionistic. He accuses late Turner, Monet, Manet and their followers of chocolate-box painting, softening reality, avoiding sharp edges. He is not interested in the theories of light that they were exploring or their message about art being in the fleeting perception of the artist. His own taste runs more to the blocks and shouting colours of the De Stijl movement and Pop Art. Our house – his house – is decorated with reproductions and the occasional canvas by a contemporary artist who meets his exacting standards. Perhaps my rebellion when I furnish my next home will be to make it a homage to Monet’s water lilies, what Michael calls the apogee of Impressionist wallowing.

Apogee? Who even uses that word in everyday life?

‘I like Impressionism.’ I say it out loud to the humming silence of Drew’s flat. Take that, Michael. You have a partner – soon to be ex-partner – with conventional tastes.

I look back at my notes on Ramona. Something else has shaken loose in my mind. I hadn’t noticed or put much store by it before but the one area at school in which she excelled was art. I had found articles online in the local press about her winning a competition when she was fifteen. One of the few photos I have of her is from that time. Dark-haired and daunted, she stands beside a big canvas of the sea and beach at Margate. She had given the holiday scene a disturbingly stormy sky and the faces of the people were pained and haunted, a view of Margate as the Expressionist Emil Nolde might have depicted it. Where would a girl running away from her family, but drawn to art, go in London? If she has avoided the downward spiral of the desperate into prostitution and drugs, what would be her goals, her aspirations? Art college maybe? Or finding jobs as a model? I know from my time as a student that you could earn some useful money as a life model. I’ve never been overly self-conscious – it goes with my impulsiveness – so stripping off to be sketched by a bunch of art students had not been a problem. I found watching them draw me as interesting as I hope they found me as a subject.

I close the notebook on Ramona and get up to make a sandwich for lunch. I’ve never told Michael I did that for money. Somehow I don’t think he’d understand as he is uptight about nudity, always donning a robe to walk from bathroom to bedroom whereas I’m happy to flit around naked. Odd, really, as he’s the one with the great body.

I make a round of sandwiches for Drew and head downstairs to find him. Mrs Payne is on reception. A curvaceous woman with dyed red hair and a fondness for floaty scarves, she reminds me of a fairground fortune-teller. Not that she has the least interest in the occult; she is one of the most resolutely grounded people I know.

‘All right, dear?’ she asks on seeing me.

I wonder what she thinks I’m doing here. How has Drew explained my presence? ‘Yes, thanks. I’ve got some lunch for Drew.’

‘He’s out the back with Ron.’

‘Can I go out there and give it to him?’

‘Of course you can!’ She pats my hand. I can see where Drew gets his natural warmth. ‘You can’t offend anyone there. They’re all tucked up in our refrigerator so you won’t see a thing. I hope the families hurry up and arrange funerals. In the summer we always get pressed for space, oldies keeling over in the heat, families on holiday so funerals delayed, and storage filling up faster than we can move them.’

This insight into the logistics of juggling bodies is fascinating to someone with my kind of mind, so I head to the behind-the-scenes department of the funeral business. I’ve not been in here before but I find a purpose-built area with a concrete floor, complete with cold-storage compartments in a special fridge like I’ve seen in police dramas. Who wakes up one morning and thinks, ‘I know, I’ll go into the business of making corpse refrigerators’? I’d like to meet them, whoever they are.

Drew and his father, Ron, have just finished closing a coffin for the afternoon’s funeral. They have a special mechanised loading platform with the casket on rollers to minimise the lifting. Care of backs is a chief health-and-safety concern for funeral directors, it would seem. I wonder if there is an inspection regime? A government department for the regulation of the dead? There’s one for abattoirs.

Cease and desist, Jessica, this is not the same thing at all! I wish I could tune out my stupid internal monologue sometimes.

‘Hi. I’ve made you some lunch, Drew.’ I hold up the plastic bag of cheese, pickle and salad sandwiches. Is it odd to have food here? I’m not sure of the protocol.

Drew checks his watch. ‘Is there time, Dad?’

‘Of course there is. Take a break. We’ll leave at two.’ Ron winks at me, a small jovial man with a sun-tanned complexion, the result of a couple of weeks in the Bahamas last month.

Drew takes off his overalls and washes his hands. It’s very warm outside in the little courtyard compared to the air-conditioned shed. We sit side by side on a bench, the only free space as the rest is given over to the shiny black hearse already backed up to load from the double doors.

‘How’ve you got on this morning?’ Drew asks, making a start on his lunch.

‘Good, thanks. If I’m going to ask one of the families whether they have a contact for Jacob, I think Latifah’s might be my best bet, or Ramona’s mother.’

‘But you don’t sound keen.’

‘It’ll be a difficult conversation and they have no reason to help me.’

‘Except you’ve tried to help them by investigating what’s happened to their daughters.’

‘I’m not sure I would’ve given them the contact details if I’d got that far. Both girls may have had good reason to run away. I tend to be on their side.’ I close my eyes and tilt my chin so the sun warms my face. A plane rumbles overhead. ‘I ran away once.’

‘Really?’ I can feel him shift to look at me but I don’t open my eyes. ‘Seriously, or when you were little and only got as far as the end of the road?’

‘No, the real deal. I was gone for four months – missed the beginning of the school year. I slept rough – not something I’d recommend.’

‘I want to ask why, but you don’t have to tell me.’

‘I don’t mind telling you.’ But I’m not going to tell him the whole story; no one will ever hear that. I’ve buried it deep and am not going to dig it up again. I choose the simple version. ‘Imagine your dad and now imagine his absolute opposite – that’s what I grew up with. My father was an evil bastard, impossible to live with. In our house, we were in terror of him and his moods. He would fume then explode. Nothing my mother and I did was ever right.’ A knot of anger forms in my chest like a fur ball I’ve never been able to cough up. I swallow, trying to force it down as I can’t get it out. ‘Any show of emotion on our part was forbidden, as nothing could divert from his stage-centre performance. We weren’t allowed to be angry or challenge him over anything. His word was law. It was his house, his garden, his wife, and I was his daughter.’ When I think of him, all I remember now is a pair of screwed-up muddy-grey eyes and a flushed face. He’s become a cartoon of himself in my memory. It lessens him, and that helps me no end.

‘Jess, he sounds an appalling man. What happened to him? Tell me he died of testicular cancer.’

Life isn’t fair like that. Nice men get horrible diseases; ones like my father hang on like cockroaches after a nuclear winter. ‘Don’t know, don’t care. He was actually Mum’s second husband. She had a daughter already, my older sister Miriam.’

‘Didn’t I meet her once? Formidable woman.’

‘Yes, that’s Miriam. She should be in charge of the free world, not just a farm. Anyway, her dad was a good bloke called John but he died of a heart attack in his forties. Miriam left home as soon as she could after the second marriage as she didn’t like my father, so she never saw the bastard at his worst. After I ran away, Miriam finally realised how bad things had got and helped Mum leave.’

‘That was brave of her.’

‘Yeah, we got lucky. Miriam had just married Bill – he’s a farmer, great guy – and could offer Mum a home well away from my father. By the time they found me, Dad was history. I was sixteen so my opinion was taken into account in the divorce settlement and I wasn’t forced to see him again.’

‘Rough, though.’

‘It could’ve been much worse. You know those news stories where some guy flips and kills his ex and her kids? Well, I thought that would be us. I was convinced for a long while that he’d come round and murder us all in revenge one day, but he never bothered. Maybe Bill’s farm dogs and rifle scared him off. He’s probably still sitting in his house, moaning about how his wife, his daughter, abandoned him.’

Drew scrunched up the empty bag and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I have to say it, Jess, but don’t you see a similarity between your domineering father and Michael?’

‘Are you saying I’m repeating family history? No, Michael’s not that bad.’ He isn’t, is he? ‘He recognises I have a life separate from his – he positively encourages it. He often says he doesn’t want us to live in each other’s pockets. My father would never have done that.’ My phone pings. A text from Michael. Come home immediately. ‘Speak of the devil. The eagle has landed. I’ve got to go back. Thanks for looking after me.’

Drew leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He smells of cheese and pickle with an undertone of varnish. ‘You know you’re welcome back anytime. I like having you around.’

‘I like being around you.’ It’s true. He makes me feel wanted. I rest my forehead on his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

I arrive back in Clapham to find a police car parked outside our house. Christ, not another tripped alarm? It’s really not my fault this time. I definitely closed the kitchen door and set it correctly. Drew will be able to back me up on the latter, as he would have heard the buzz as I locked the front door.

I use my key to enter and call out a wary ‘Hello?’

‘In here, Jessica,’ replies Michael from the conservatory half of the kitchen which is out of sight of the hallway. I go in and find he is serving tea to the officers, two of them sitting at the scrubbed pine table. They look up expectantly as I enter.

‘What’s going on? Did we have a break-in?’ I drop my bag on the fourth chair.

‘Where’ve you been?’ asks Michael. He’s still in what I think of as his conference uniform: lichen-green linen suit, jacket, and shirt. He cuts a patrician figure with his thick auburn hair and large frame. In the States, he would’ve done well as a newscaster or TV evangelist. Here, we seem to like our newsreaders to have an ordinary vibe and our clergy less polished. A new shoulder bag is hanging from the back of one of the chairs advertising the name and date of the symposium. He has at least five of these freebies, the boringly grown-up version of the T-shirt with the band tour dates.

‘At Drew’s.’ I feel I need to explain a little more for the benefit of the silent police officers. ‘He’s a friend from Feltham. With Michael away, I didn’t want to stay here on my own last night.’ I decide not to add that debt collectors might be after me for rent I did not owe them or that I suffer from sleeplessness caused by fears of intruders: that would lead to too long a story.

‘And you staying away has nothing to do with the state of the bedroom, I suppose?’ Michael’s hand slices through the air, a typical gesture of annoyance which means ‘cut the crap’. ‘Don’t give me your usual excuses; I want the truth. I’m not playing nice this time. You’ve gone way too far. I’m pressing charges.’

‘What?’ That’s a kick in the stomach. The police are here for me. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘As if you don’t know!’

‘I don’t!’

One of the policemen stands. ‘Perhaps Miss Bridges would like to accompany me upstairs so she can see what this is about.’

I trail after the constable. It’s odd to see his heavy shoes on our carpet. Michael is usually so insistent that we change out of outdoor shoes before going into the carpeted areas. The policeman leads me to our bedroom at the front and opens the door.

‘Oh my God.’ The room has been trashed – not just turned over by thieves but systematically ruined. The covers are ripped off the bed and the mattress has been slashed on Michael’s side. White stuffing leaks out and you can see the springs. Our carving knife has been left in the material, stabbed where his heart would be if he were in bed. His clothes are out of the wardrobe and drawers, some shirts torn in two. There’s a strong smell of aftershave in the air from the smashed bottle that had stood on his side of the dressing table. His stack of bedside reading – mainly psychology related – have been tugged from their covers and turned into clumps of confetti.

But my side is untouched. Clothes hang limply. Lotion bottles still lined up on the glass top. An iPad and a stout Kingsolver sit waiting for me. My glass of water hasn’t even been spilled.

‘This wasn’t me.’ I don’t dare cross the threshold.

‘Perhaps you’d better come back downstairs with me, Miss, and we can discuss this in the kitchen.’

‘It wasn’t me. Have you swept for fingerprints?’ I follow him. ‘Was the alarm tripped again? Our neighbour would’ve noticed. You must ask her.’

Michael is standing with his back to the oven, arms folded. ‘Well?’

‘You can’t think I’d do that, Michael.’ He obviously does. ‘It wasn’t me, I swear it.’

The policeman who took me upstairs gets out a notebook. The other one, I notice, is stroking Colette surreptitiously under the table.

‘You came back here last night after Miss Huntingdon reported the alarm had gone off, correct?’

‘Yes. At about nine.’

‘You came inside and saw no evidence of a break-in?’

‘No, it all seemed normal.’ Then I realise. ‘I didn’t go upstairs, though. I was in a hurry because I had to get to my old office to fetch some things before they got thrown away.’

‘Were you with anyone?’

‘Yes, with Drew. Andrew Payne, the friend from Feltham. He’s employed in his family funeral business. We came after he’d finished work for the day.’

Michael gives a sceptical snort. For some reason, he’s never believed Drew has a job and refuses to accept any proof I offer. I’ve given up trying and I know Drew, on the rare times they’ve met, believes it a point of honour to present his worst side to Michael, as he is so ready to think badly of him.

‘Did he come in with you?’

‘No, he stayed on his moped outside. That’s another reason why I didn’t go upstairs. I didn’t want to keep him waiting.’

‘So when were you last in the front bedroom?’

‘Yesterday morning, about midday, when I grabbed a few things to stay away overnight.’

‘And how did you leave the room?’

I’m tempted to blurt out ‘by the door’ but this isn’t the moment for inappropriate quips. ‘Mainly tidy.’

‘Mainly?’

‘Michael had left some laundry on the floor. I wasn’t in the mood to pick it up.’ I shoot Michael a glance but his expression is granite.

The policeman leans forward. ‘What mood were you in?’

‘I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time for moods.’

‘Why a hurry?’

‘Because I didn’t want to stay here alone and wanted to go to Drew’s. Look, officer, I know it looks bad up there but I didn’t do that. Someone else got into the house. There must be signs of how they did it?’

‘There’s not been a break-in,’ snaps Michael. ‘Believe me, that’s the first thing I checked.’

‘And can you tell us what you took from the bedroom when you left yesterday?’ continues the constable.

‘Not much. Change of clothes. Wash bag. Night stuff. Oh, and I borrowed some money from Michael’s wallet as I didn’t have any cash. I’ll pay you back, Michael.’

‘I don’t care about the fucking money, Jessica. I just want to know why you did it. Why take Emma’s picture, the diary and wedding ring?’

This is the second time I’m blindsided. ‘What?’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Her picture, a diary and the little blue box with her wedding ring are the only things I’ve noticed that are missing. I didn’t think to count the cash, but I suppose I should add that to the list.’

‘But I didn’t… I mean, why would I do that?’ I hadn’t taken anything else and forgotten, had I? I remember looking at the picture, the rings and the notebook but I’m sure I put them back. I took photos rather than remove the diary. Oh God, that’s going to look really suspicious if they ask to see what’s in my phone’s photo app.

The policeman clears his throat. ‘Miss, Dr Harrison said before you arrived that you have a history of mental illness, that you’re on medication.’

‘Hardly. I suffer from ADHD which is, as I expect you are aware, a mild condition that about five per cent of the population have and can be controlled with treatment. It’s not a personality disorder of the magnitude to do that.’ I jerk my chin towards the stairs.

‘He said you had spent time in a clinic to straighten yourself out after an episode of delusions about a pupil at your last school where you were employed.’

God, it is all circling back to haunt me. ‘I had a breakdown due to stress. I’m better now.’

The policeman lowers his voice, getting all pally with me. ‘Look, Miss, if you do have those items on you, things will go much more easily if you produce them now. Otherwise Dr Harrison has said he wants to press charges.’

‘But I didn’t do it – I don’t have them. How can I produce something I don’t have? Look, here’s everything I have on me.’ I take my bag and tip it upside down. Two mugs fall out, one smashes, followed by my notebooks, and then miscellaneous rubbish that accumulates in the bottom of my handbag. I throw out my arms. ‘You can search me. See, I really don’t have them.’

Michael has the gall to look inside the bag I’ve emptied. ‘You’ve probably stashed them at your friend’s – or thrown them away.’ His voice breaks a little on that last suggestion. ‘I know things have been bad between us, Jessica, but I never thought you’d be so cruel as to stoop to taking that picture. You know how much it means to me.’

‘Yes, I do – clearly it means far more to you than I do, because you’re not even trying to imagine that I might be innocent.’

He throws my bag down. ‘Who else could’ve got in here?’

‘I don’t bloody well know. Isn’t it their job to find that out?’ I gesture to the two policemen who are watching our little meltdown. ‘Whoever it is certainly has a grudge against you, if the state of our bedroom is anything to go by. You need to ask yourself who hates you that much?’

Michael turns away, dismissing me. ‘See, officer, she’s admitting it indirectly. Her doctor will tell you that much of Jessica’s paranoia is directed against me. She makes things up, like this ridiculous job she was supposed to have had. As for her case notes, you’ll never be able to work out what’s real and what’s fantasy from her words. No, I’ve had enough of it. After what you said to me on holiday, Jessica, this is the final straw. I want you out of here tonight. I want to press charges.’

The policemen exchange looks. ‘But really, sir, there is no evidence,’ says my constable. ‘I can see how you might conclude she is responsible, but there’s nothing we can hold her on. If we found the missing things on her, that would be different.’

‘She stabbed the bloody mattress with a carving knife! That’s not the action of a sane woman! Then I want her sectioned. I’m ringing her doctor.’

‘Sir, calm down, please,’ says the cat-loving officer.

I sit down, feeling so weary. Drew’s right. Michael is like my father after all. It’s his feelings, his life that matters here, not mine. ‘He’s not my doctor, Michael. He’s my psychiatrist, my therapist, but he’s really more your friend, isn’t he? I’m not going back to see Charles. He’s not impartial. He listens to you rather than me. I only got out from under his thumb because I started to say the things I know you wanted me to, but I’m done with that.’

‘See what I’m dealing with?’ says Michael, appealing to the officers in that awful man-to-man thing he does. ‘She’s even projecting her paranoid fantasies onto the expert who’s done so much to stabilise her.’

The constable closes his notebook. ‘We’ll send a team round to dust for prints. Please don’t move anything in that room until they’ve given you the all clear. We’ll also take your prints for elimination purposes.’

‘Take my prints!’ Michael looks ready for another round of explosions.

‘They won’t be kept – it’s just a formality.’

‘But they’ll be in some database somewhere. It’s an infringement of my civil rights.’

The policeman’s mood has swung from sympathy to annoyance. ‘We can’t do our job without collecting evidence. Are you saying you don’t want this investigated?’