Bad Apple, page 11
‘Doubt he would’ve been so subtle,’ she says, a haunted look crossing her face. I see so many young victims in her – ones I failed: the teenager terrified of her father’s aggression who ended up sleeping rough on the street because no one did anything; the girl who was being abused but keeping it quiet, her baby also a victim, a case where I missed the signs, and many more like those. If there is a way to somehow undo the resulting damage by ‘saving’ someone else, then I have to try.
And there I was thinking John was the only one who could play saviour.
‘Does he hit you?’ I ask, softly.
‘When we argue sometimes, things get out of control.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s not fine, Tamsin.’
‘Mostly it’s my fault. He’s protecting me.’
I need to tread carefully here. I don’t know the full facts. But waiting to intervene could spell disaster.
‘If a man tells you they’re protecting you by hurting you, then I’d hazard a guess they’re only doing it for their own end goal.’
‘I can’t leave.’
Tears burn my eyes as I watch Tamsin’s spill down her cheeks, and acid burns my stomach as hatred fills it.
‘I had a rough time with my ex, too,’ I say.
I tell Tamsin snippets about my life with John – mainly in the hope that some of it resonates enough and she’ll feel more able to trust me and share what’s going on with Vince, or more to the point, the other person she said she was scared of.
After a few quiet moments, I begin to wonder who could’ve covered the graffiti. Even though John likely knew I was at the pub that evening, had maybe overheard me leaving a message for Charlie, he wouldn’t have had the time to take it upon himself to paint the door then get back to the pub where I saw him with my own eyes. But he could’ve sent someone else to do it.
Mind games. His favourite.
‘Tamsin – have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around the flats at all?’
‘I barely go outside. The other day was the first time in ages.’
‘It was a long shot.’ I’m not going to get to the bottom of the mystery painter anytime soon. ‘I just have this odd feeling my ex is playing games with me.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I’ve got a photo, actually. Hang on.’ I go into the bedroom, approach the wall to unpin John’s photograph. ‘Were you behind it?’ I whisper as I stare into the eyes I once loved. I turn and gasp at a shadow in the doorway. ‘Shit, you gave me a fright,’ I say to Tamsin as she steps inside my room. But she’s looking past me, her eyes scanning the breadth of my wall, her mouth slightly open. ‘Oh.’ I turn around. ‘Yeah, I know how this must seem, but—’
‘Were you spying on me?’ She shoots me a sharp glance that makes me shiver.
‘No. No . . . of course . . . No. I’m not,’ I stammer, unsure of what’s going on. How has she looked at the wall and come to that conclusion? ‘This is my ex-husband, John,’ I say, passing her the photo. For a long moment, Tamsin stares down at it, and my heart is in my mouth, waiting for her to say something like: ‘He raped me.’ She gives it back.
‘As I said, I don’t go out much anymore. Don’t think I’ve met him.’ Then she steps closer to the wall. ‘But I’ve seen him.’
I’m curious, yet dubious when she points to another image – a cut-out from a newspaper article, showing an ex-cop-turned-gun-runner being arrested by Charlie three years ago.
‘Oh? Where?’
‘Here.’ Her lips curl as she jabs a finger at the image of the club next to it. A link I was never sure of, but kept it on my radar.
‘Did you work at Moods?’
Her eyes fill with tears and she nods.
The club has a terrible reputation – but no official reports have ever been made against the owners. Tamsin’s fears may well stem from trauma she experienced there.
‘Did something happen to you?’
‘Not me. Not directly. My friend also worked there.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She committed suicide last year.’
‘Oh, God. That’s awful – I’m sorry.’
‘Someone – a woman – came to the club looking for Fran but her questions seemed to spark a chain reaction – starting with the boss, and because Fran wasn’t around, she spoke with me. I didn’t say anything, but the boss assumed I did.’
‘Say anything about what?’
‘Something bad happened, before Fran – you know – topped herself.’
‘You mean bad enough that it was the reason she took her life?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was her full name?’
‘Francesca Withers. Before she died, she warned me about . . . ’ Tamsin looks around, as though she’s expecting someone to be behind her.
‘It’s okay. You can trust me, Tamsin.’
She huffs. ‘I don’t trust no one anymore. The whole system’s fucked. They only protect themselves.’
‘Who?’
‘The fucking feds.’
‘You’re saying that Fran warned you about the police? In what way?’
‘She was raped. Then she was threatened. She lost her kid and everything.’
Chapter 19
NOW
BECKY
Armed with what I believe to be new, although as yet anecdotal, information gives me a sense of determination and I’ve decided to go back to Lymworth today. While Tamsin hasn’t supplied solid evidence, she has provided a massive link and enough to enable me to investigate further. I have a name, Francesca Withers, to pass on to Charlie and Hannah. I texted them both as soon as Tamsin snuck back to her flat after dropping the unexpected bombshell that she’d worked at one of the places of interest I’d come across during last year’s Operation Lawless investigation.
I can’t finish my breakfast, and it’s not just because the cereal is stale. I pour the uneaten mush into the food bin and pick up Agatha’s plate, popping it into the sink. A food shop is a necessity; I can’t let myself become too side-tracked today and forget again. I sit in the lounge and pull on my boots, then, for the umpteenth time I check my mobile to see if either Charlie or Hannah has responded to my rather vague text asking them to call me. I hadn’t wanted to chance texting the name in case someone saw it.
No missed calls, no texts.
With too much adrenaline rushing through my veins to sit still, I grab a few items, check that Agatha is safely inside, then leave the flat. As has become habit over the last few days, I look up to Tamsin’s flat before walking away. The external corridor running along the front of the building means it’s impossible to see much, but it makes me feel better somehow. The snatched time I had with her last night was valuable on a number of levels. I must keep in mind that she needs help, too. I don’t know yet who was asking the questions at the club and what part they have to play in all of this. There was also no time to get to the bottom of just who it is that Tamsin fears the most. I get the feeling it’s not the club boss – but maybe one of his heavies?
And while Tamsin didn’t recognise the photo of John – I know he’s involved somehow. The weighted feeling dragging in the pit of my stomach makes me think it was him who raped Tamsin’s colleague.
The drive to Lymworth is fraught – not only due to the stop-start traffic jams going out of Manchester, but with images of the first night I challenged John: his angry and panicked face, the burner phone, the screenshot, and his foot stamping onto the phone and breaking it, all flashing through my mind. Timing wise, it would fit with when Tamsin said Fran took her own life. Was the message on John’s burner sent by her moments before she died as her final act of defiance? I wonder just how many other women John has targeted in this way. If Nina doesn’t already suspect she’s living with a monster, I have to warn her.
Once the traffic breaks, and the dull, concrete landscape changes to green fields, I’m able to relax a little. With the window dropped, I breathe in the cool, fresh air. This is the closest to being home in Cornwall with its rolling hills and green space. It’s just missing the sea and the smell of fish. But it’s not long before the feeling of freedom begins to lessen, and a knot grows in my stomach. I’m going back into the thick of a tightknit village where everyone seems to know each other. Where it’s harder to hide.
That works both ways, though.
I reach for my water bottle, sip some water to lubricate my dry mouth.
I head straight for the Café Shack in the hope Nina is working there today. I park to the side, so my vehicle isn’t visible from the café windows and watch the door, my eyes wide and unblinking, my hands wringing on my lap. Coming here again is a huge risk for me. But not coming here would be an even bigger risk for Nina and any other female John has set his sights on. I need to – have to – do this. I’ve waited long enough and I can’t wait anymore.
Time slows – almost seeming to stop entirely as I wait, my breathing shallow. Two customers exit, causing my heartbeat to skip before returning to the tachycardic rhythm it’s been in since pulling up here. Just as I think maybe she’s not working today, the door swings open and Nina appears, a hand dipping into her pinny pocket and bringing out a packet. She leans against the side of the shack, as she did the first time I saw her, and poised with a cigarette in hand, looks across and catches my gaze. The colour drains from her face and she pushes off from the wall. Shit. She’s going to bolt back inside.
I leap from the car, calling her name, then run towards her.
‘Nina! Can you wait, please?’
She stops, her back facing me, and I note the way her head drops. She’s in two minds. She wants to avoid me, yet at the same time I sense she’s desperate to know what I’m going to say, too. I’ve got one chance to get this right.
‘Thanks,’ I say as I reach her. ‘I’m aware this must be a bit awkward for you.’
Nina turns slowly. ‘I haven’t got time for your nonsense.’
The difference between our first meeting here and this one – her attitude towards me, the way she’s glaring at me – is stark, and confirms my suspicions that not only does she know who I am, but that John’s fed her the narrative he wants her to believe, and that means she’s unlikely to take any of what I have to say in, let alone consider it.
‘Shall we start again,’ I say, smiling. ‘I’m Becky.’ I hold out my hand to shake hers. Nina takes a step away.
‘Yeah. I know who you are now. Why are you here again?’
‘To put my side across. I imagine what you’ve been told isn’t entirely built on facts.’ I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to respond. Her chest heaves with a huge intake of air, then she crosses her arms and looks off in the distance. I keep going, afraid to stop in case she loses interest. ‘I’m unsure what you know, about his past – our past – but I’d really like to be able to chat with you about it. He doesn’t have to find out we’ve spoken. I could arrange to meet you somewhere neutral.’
Nina’s breath judders, then she snaps her attention back on me. Eyes blazing, she shoves her face close to mine. I unavoidably blink, half expecting her to head-butt me.
‘John said you were a conniving bitch,’ she says, her voice low. Something in me breaks. Of course I knew he’d have manipulated Nina in the time he’s been with her. How he will have spun his story like an intricate spider’s web so that he came out looking like the victim: the fly caught by the black widow’s trap. To Nina, I’m the one who’s in the wrong, probably falsely accused him of something and made his life hell.
I wish she could see right now how far from the truth any of that is. One meeting like this with her isn’t even going to scratch the surface. It’ll take far more to undo what lies John’s fed her.
‘Yeah, I get what you must think of me. You’ve only heard John’s version, though—’
‘And that’s all I need. It took a lot for John to open up about what you did, how you belittled him, made him feel worthless.’
My mind freefalls for a second. ‘Nina, no – that’s not . . . Christ, I wasn’t the one—’
‘Do me a favour. He’s told me all about your obsession and toxic vendetta. Look, I understand you must be angry at him for leaving you, but don’t waste your time trying to split us up. We’re rock solid.’ She turns to go back inside the café.
My heart’s beating out of my chest as I follow, battling the urge to grab her arm, pull her back to face me so I can scream at her that it’s all rubbish – and that he didn’t leave me, I threw him out. But all the old feelings of helplessness crowd in, the awful sense of despair and panic consuming me, squeezing the air from my lungs. If I’m not careful, I’ll play right into John’s hands and come across like the ‘mad, mental, psycho ex’ he’s told her about. My hope that she’d at least listen to my side, even if only out of curiosity, is dashed. Acid rises into my mouth; I swallow it down along with my anger with John, and take a steadying breath. ‘What exactly did he tell you, Nina?’ I ask, slowly.
She turns sharply, her face set. ‘I’m not talking to my boyfriend’s stalker. You ruined his life. Now do one.’ She pushes me so hard I stumble backwards but manage to keep on my feet. I watch, dumbstruck, as she strides away and goes into the café, not once looking back.
With little of the energy I had first thing remaining, I slouch back to my car. He’s done a good job on her. Is she me, five years ago? Had someone come to me in similar circumstances when I first met John – would I have also responded in that way? I have to admit I probably would have. I was deep under his spell within weeks of meeting him. Was flattered by his compliments and near-constant texts and calls. Felt as though I was the only person for him when he declared I was his soul mate and that he needed me in his life. Felt warm and safe when he told me he loved me and wanted to marry me during our second official date. As far as I was concerned, I knew him better than anyone else; believed he was kind, caring, loyal – all the traits you dream of in a partner. How could you possibly think badly of someone so normal? I shudder now, thinking about it. How it was only after finding the phone that I acknowledged our relationship hadn’t been a healthy one. When I finally recognised all of those traits as a sign of love bombing – a form of manipulation and emotional abuse.
‘Damn him!’ I slam my hands on the steering wheel as a wave of anger ripples through me. I allow it to ebb away, but a lingering sense of despair crouches in my stomach. It’s going to take a lot more work if I’m to convince Nina of John’s guilt. I have to find out who Fran was, because if she was the woman who sent that screenshot to John’s burner, that would be the biggest link to date. And if she had the foresight to send it, maybe she had other evidence about her abuser too. The thought she couldn’t gain justice and felt her only way out was suicide is horrific. If I can do it for her, then something good will have come from her death.
If there’s one victim of John’s who has evidence, maybe there are more. My insides give a sudden jitter. With what Nina just said, I can be sure that John will do everything he can to stop me from finding any proof.
Chapter 20
ISABEL
Isabel was stone-still; only her eyes moved while she observed the car pull into the supermarket car park and slowly manoeuvre into the bay next to her red Fiat. She’d arranged to meet in a public place for a few reasons – one being safety. Over the past year she’d learned the hard way that her attacker had a number of people who were only too keen to extinguish any allegations of wrongdoing before any such reports could make their way to the police, or, as was increasingly the case – before the media got hold of information and ran an exposé piece.
Isabel waited, hardly daring to breathe, as the woman – a new contact she hoped would lend her story to the growing list of victims who’d fallen foul of the serving detective’s cold, manipulative and controlling behaviour – killed the engine. Isabel’s skin prickled with anticipation. She had to be sure this one, who’d she’d only spoken with over the phone, was genuine and not another corrupt officer, before breaking cover. From the corner of her eye she saw movement – a waving of an arm – and she turned her head. The woman, young-looking, petite with light-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail from what Isabel could make out, also had the kind of haunted look about her that she recognised. The mask of abuse.
The last woman she’d tried to speak with had later been targeted and the result had been catastrophic. Isabel couldn’t let that happen again – it was a fine line, a balancing trick, to make sure she gained the attention of real victims of rape and sexual assault at the hands of John Lawson and not those put up to answering her online post who were ultimately attempting to cover it all up.
Chapter 21
NOW
BECKY
Although I wasn’t expecting a miracle, I had hoped for a better reception from Nina. Coming here again with nothing to show was a mistake. My muscles, rigid with tension moments ago, loosen and my entire body slumps forwards. My head bangs against the steering wheel and I groan as a throbbing ache begins pounding my forehead. What a waste of time. All I’ve achieved is a stress headache.
Marcus said, during one of the many one-to-one chats he had with me after I reported John, that I took everyone’s pain on board – via a process of osmosis or some such waffle. I dismissed his analogy, but now I think about it, he could be right. Maybe I’ve always done it. The crunch of gravel beside me goes almost unnoticed as snippets of childhood memories flit through my mind – like the times I cried for hours over injured birds; as a teenager when I sat up all night with friends who’d been dumped by their boyfriends, spending days afterwards feeling so sad I couldn’t eat – a rush of long-forgotten memories now playing out like a montage of my life so far, akin to those I’ve seen played at funerals. Although, in those, it’s the happy times on display. I have taken on others’ grief, pain and discomfort as though they’re mine to carry.
