Bad Apple, page 13
My mind scrambles to remember the exact timeline of events when I was at the café last. I had looked for Elijah, I wanted to pay for the latte he’d given me. He put the loyalty card on the table alongside my drink.
‘I don’t recall doing that.’ I get up and head to the kitchen, find my purse and pull everything out.
The card isn’t there.
Did I give the card to the other barista before I left?
‘You were a bit . . . preoccupied. Hah – perhaps it wasn’t intended for me.’ Elijah’s awkwardness oozes through the line. Or is this all an act? I rub at my neck, frustration that I don’t trust anyone making my skin itch.
‘I’ve got a lot going on, Elijah. Can we pick this up again another time?’ I spot the bottle of tablets on the worktop. With my mobile on speaker, I shake a pill out and pop it in my mouth.
‘Yeah, if you want.’ Disappointment sounds in his voice, but I hang up without adding anything further. My mind needs to be clear before I talk more to him. Something strange is happening here, and I must get to the bottom of it. Right now, I can’t trust anyone.
With a more settled mindset, and my respiration at a normal rate, I go back to the wall in my bedroom and stand, arms crossed, not daring to even touch the photos adorning my investigation board.
The images make no sense.
They do, however, look alarmingly real.
In the first one, a hand holds a knife to Tamsin’s throat.
In the second, blood trickles out of an open wound at one side of her neck – her attacker’s arm clamping around her, stopping her from moving.
In the third – and I have to close my eyes for a second before fully focusing on it again – there’s a gaping wound stretching across Tamsin’s throat from one side to the other, blood caught in the process of squirting from the artery like a Jackson Pollock abstract painting. The attacker holds Tamsin’s limp, lifeless body up and with their face upturned, they smile menacingly into the camera lens.
Nausea sweeps through me, my stomach twisting violently.
I’ve seen awful images of death before. That’s not new. I’ve even had to look at photos of people known to me, in the throes of their violent deaths.
But never before have I seen images where I know both the victim and the attacker.
Pushing aside my personal feelings for a second, I look deep into the eyes of the person who’s seemingly taken the life of another human. Then I take in the wider aspects of each of the images.
From what I see, there’s no reason to disbelieve what’s occurred in these grossly disturbing photos. There’s just one thing that makes me question their authenticity.
But would anyone else question it?
I swallow, almost choking on the lump in my throat, and step away from the images; keep backing away until I hit against the opposite wall.
Then I stare, unblinking at the attacker with Tamsin in the photos.
Everything about them is recognisable. Real. This person has attacked and murdered Tamsin.
And the person in the photos is me.
Chapter 25
NOW
BECKY
The weekend passed in a stressed blur of worry that I wasn’t safe in my own flat, theorising and researching how the photos of myself with Tamsin could’ve possibly been deepfaked, as well as obsessing over the alarming rate at which artificial intelligence is permeating the everyday. An article about it that I read on social media speculated that soon journalists would no longer be required, authors would be nonexistent as AI could easily replicate similar works and no one would know the difference, that artwork could be imitated . . . the list went on. It was pretty horrifying. My heart sank as I realised the article was also generated by AI.
The only time I left my flat was to sneak up to check on Vince and Tamsin’s in the vain hope of spotting either of them – seeing Tamsin would’ve ensured I could’ve put the photos down to a perverse warning of what was possible. Of course, the worrying fact was, if someone had left the physical photos for me and then Tamsin were to show up safe and well, then I’d have evidence that someone – John – was playing games with me and I could take that to the police. So, for the threat to be taken seriously, the person behind the photos would require Tamsin to go missing for real. My recurrent thought all night was: Is Tamsin’s life in danger? I kept coming back to the same conclusion: surely John wouldn’t go that far? He’s a dangerous man, a risk to women’s safety . . . but, murder? Just to frame me?
Those questions are what brought me here.
Standing outside the CID building in Salford gives me a woozy, heady sensation, like I’ve just stepped off a rolling boat. My body sways a little as I lift my head to take in the upper-floor windows. The last time I was in this exact spot, John watched me walk to my car and drive away – leaving my job, career and friends. Knowing he had caused it all. Thinking he’d won. At least he’s no longer here, there’s no fear of accidentally bumping into him.
A sharp pain brings me back to the present. I look down at my palms where my nails have made a row of crescent-shaped imprints. I relax my hands and puff air from my cheeks. I won’t allow him, the thought of him, or the memories of him, to hurt me again. I refuse to give him that power.
‘Well as I live and breathe, it’s The Beckster!’
I swing around and come face to face with Kyle Matthews, who was a cocksure, new DC when I left. He’d been assigned to me for his first case, and he’d been an arse-licker from the off. The Beckster wasn’t a name I’d liked then, it certainly isn’t now.
‘Hey, Kyle. Still here?’ I make sure to sound surprised.
He swings a rucksack over his shoulder, makes a show of turning back towards his car, holding his hand out to press the lock on his key, then smirks at me. Of course I note the new-plate, midnight-blue Audi, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying something. His ego doesn’t require much more rubbing.
‘DS now. Thanks to you,’ he says, with a wink. I grimace, feeling my muscles tense. So, once a cocksure DC now an arrogant DS. How I’d enjoy bringing him down a peg or two.
‘You’re welcome.’ I bite down on my lip to stop any sarcastic comments from emerging. Kyle begins to walk away, towards the entrance, then turns back to me.
‘You comin’ in then, or what?’ He frowns, deep tracks that a tractor would be proud of, forming on his brow. I’m curious as to why this is his question, not ‘why are you here?’
I don’t want to give Kyle any information to go on, so I just shrug and catch up. We walk together in silence until we’re inside the foyer. My stomach fills with butterflies as I take in the sights, sounds, smells of this place. It’s hard to decipher if they’re because I’m nervous about being inside this building again, excited to be back where I felt I belonged, or if it’s because I’m afraid of what I’m going to come up against. No doubt it’s a mix of all of those.
‘All right?’ Kyle’s hand touches my shoulder. ‘Gone awfully pale.’
‘I’m fine. Nice to see you, Kyle.’ I give a forced smile, walk away from him and towards the information desk. My legs tremble as I stand in line. In my head, I rehearse my lines – how I’m here to talk with DCI Thomson, that it’s a personal matter and I need to see him now. I’m sure he’ll agree to me going up to his office, or at the very least, meet me down here. I only need ten minutes of his time.
My eyes flit about as I wait. I know I won’t see John, but it’s as if my brain doesn’t know that I’m safe and is expecting it anyway. I’ve no idea if Charlie and Hannah are here at this moment. If I see either of them, I’ll have to grab them to speak with too. The tangled web of problems I’ve encountered over this past week is getting knottier by the minute and I could do with their help untangling it all. Some sense has to be made of all this.
Look what you’ve started again, Becky. Is this all happening because you couldn’t let it go?
These, and many other accusations already fill my thoughts. Will I be blamed for opening yet another can of worms? Told not to rock the boat again. Didn’t I learn any lessons before? But unless someone is brave enough to get the tin-opener out, things like this will never change. You only have to look at the celebrity culture, TV film etc., to know that people have remained silent for years, while knowing, or at least heavily suspecting, that abuse of power, sexual misconduct, sexual harassment and assault, misogyny has been going on under their noses. Silence is dangerous. In the police, it’s even more so. You hear cases within the Met especially, the behaviour continues because they believe they’re untouchable. Some of the reports of rape – if they’re taken seriously, unlike John’s – have proceeded to criminal cases, but then have been pushed back by a couple of years due to court backlogs. It’s a joke.
I push down the rising anger as I reach the desk. I don’t know the man standing in front of me. He gives an automated smile, together with a lacklustre greeting.
‘How can I help?’
‘I’m here to see Detective Chief Inspector Thomson. Please tell him it’s Becky—’ I stall, my words sticking. In my rehearsed lines, I hadn’t said my name. I’m not known here as Becky Gooding; the divorce came through after I’d left. Now, the thought of uttering the name ‘Lawson’ causes a blockage. The man raises his eyebrows.
‘Just Becky?’ He appears to be taking some odd pleasure in my discomfort. Maybe I’m overthinking that, though – after all, he doesn’t know why I’m struggling to say it.
‘Becky Lawson,’ I say, quickly, my face flushing.
For an uncomfortable few minutes, I wait for the desired response – fighting back the negative thoughts of Marcus not being here today, or him being in a meeting for the rest of the day. When the man holds a finger up towards me to gain my attention, it’s as though the world has lost its sound, and while his lips move, I don’t hear his words. When was the last time I had a blood pressure check? It’s like I’ve broken the surface of the sea after being in its silent depths, the noises from the building, together with the man’s voice, flood back.
‘Go on up. Apparently you know your way.’
I stare for a moment, wondering if I heard him right. He pushes an arm out, indicating towards the security barrier.
‘Thanks,’ I say. I take the proffered visitor’s lanyard and head into the belly of the beast.
Marcus’s office is a level below the CID which means I’m hopeful I won’t run into old colleagues, but still I fidget as the lift rumbles upwards, praying it doesn’t stop at each floor. The lights flash from one number to the next, my heart in my mouth waiting for it to stop. I check my reflection in the surrounding mirrors, slide my fingers through my shoulder-length hair to neaten it, dig my fingernails into the corner of my eyes to rid the mascara gunk I’d forgotten to remove last night and attempt a smile to see how it feels.
I realise, with a jolt of shame, that I’ve let everything slip. I thought I’d been doing okay; managing – getting up each day, setting goals, seeking new opportunities and looking after myself. The latter has most definitely taken a nose dive. The fresh-faced, young detective that first walked into this building five years ago, no longer exists. I sigh. Is it possible to reclaim some of my former glory? Once this thing with John that’s hanging over me has been taken care of, I’ll be able to get on with my life and actually live it. There’s a ping, followed by the automated voice – Doors opening – and I pull back my shoulders and stand tall.
The smell of coffee and recently cleaned toilets greet me as the lift doors swoosh open and I fight the urge to gag. Funny how certain smells can trigger a physical reaction. The last time I was on this floor was when I was told of the discharge decision. Marcus’s office is at the end of the hall, so I stride with purpose towards it, eyes dead ahead. I’m not even tempted to sneak a look into any of the glass-partitioned larger rooms as I pass them. Best not to catch anyone else’s gaze. The office door is already open when I reach it, and Marcus looks up from his desk, smiles and stands.
‘Well, this was an unexpected diversion from proceedings this morning. Come on in and close the door.’
A part of me immediately relaxes: my shoulders give a little and the tension in my jaw slackens. My lungs release the held air and I manage a smile. Marcus, white-grey since I’ve known him, looks exactly as he had the last time I saw him. It’s weirdly reassuring.
‘I really appreciate you seeing me, sir.’ I hold my hand out.
‘Oh, come now. Let’s drop the formalities.’ He edges out from behind his desk and embraces me. ‘I’m so sorry about being the bearer of unwanted news last week, Becky – I wanted you to hear it from me first, but I know it must’ve sent you spiralling.’ He releases me from his grip and holds me at arm’s length. I can’t speak, emotion suddenly overwhelming me. I don’t want to cry, so I blink rapidly and change the subject.
‘How is Barbara doing?’ Before I left last year, she’d been undergoing tests and Marcus was struggling to manage but keeping a brave face on things. That stiff-upper-lip British thing the older generation is known so well for. I’d been touched when he opened up to me during a team get-together at his house. Barbara’s idea, of course. She liked to know who her husband was spending all his hours with and, additionally, enjoyed putting on a spread and getting to know the team. He took me aside, out of others’ earshot, and was the first to ask how I was. At that point, rumours were running amok – how my marriage was failing, and that I was about to put in a report making an allegation against my own husband. When I wasn’t forthcoming with information, not wishing to share too much with the boss, he shared the news that they’d found cancer. He was clearly devastated and I said I’d do anything I could to help.
‘She’s holding on,’ Marcus says now, giving a firm nod of the head. ‘A true fighter.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. Please will you send my love?’
‘Of course, of course.’ He turns and sits back behind his desk. Points to the chair opposite. ‘You remind me of her in that way.’
I’m taken aback by his sudden admission but can’t help smiling. Not sure how to react, I simply nod. Marcus ponders me further, his eyes glinting.
‘You have something you want to share with me?’
My pulse bangs in my neck, his direct approach unexpected. ‘Um . . . not exactly,’ I confess. ‘There have been some strange developments recently, though, and I think John is behind them. And I’ve found out some new information that I’m hoping will lead to hard evidence.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘So, as I thought. You’re not letting this go.’ I’m pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t respond. ‘Without another official report, my hands are somewhat tied—’
‘Oh, I’m not expecting you to open an investigation or anything. Not yet.’
His eyebrows draw together, he steeples his hands on his desk and leans forwards. ‘What are you here for then?’
‘I wanted your help on a related matter.’
His jaw tenses and I feel a shift in atmosphere. ‘I have a suspicion I’m not going to like this.’
‘I don’t like it myself,’ I say, giving a nervous laugh. ‘I’ve been out of the loop for a bit, obviously . . . I was wondering, what do you know about deepfake, or AI images, voices and the like? Have there been many recent cases where it’s been an issue? Do the tech team have the ability to differentiate between real and fake photos, for instance?’
Marcus looks alarmed – not sure if it’s the rate at which I’m firing questions at him, or the nature of them. I take a breath and wait for his response.
‘If you’re asking about this, I’ll presume it’s pertinent to the information you believe you have regarding John.’
‘Yes. Although, currently, it’s something I’m having a personal issue with. Linked to John, I’m sure, but nevertheless, it’s me who’s directly affected by it. Without giving all the details . . . ’
‘Sure, sure. I can’t let you go walking around the offices asking questions, you understand and there’s nothing I can tell you about ongoing cases . . .You’re a civvy now.’
As if I needed to be reminded of that.
‘I know, it’s awkward and I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t desperate.’ I flinch. That’s the last word I should’ve used. It’ll remind Marcus of the state I got in before. ‘Feeling alone in all this has put a huge pressure on me. But I’m of sound mind – I can assure you of that.’
‘You are still in contact with some of the old team, yes?’
A worrying thought snags inside my mind. He’s testing me. Does he want me to unwittingly name-drop, so he can suss out who from the inside is helping me and then haul them over the coals? Or is he trying to catch me in a lie?
‘A few people still speak to me, yes. Albeit reluctantly.’ I attempt a light-hearted tone in the hope he doesn’t ask who. He probably already knows. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out it would be the two people I was closest to when I was detective.
‘Well, then.’ He stands again, and I follow suit. Well then? He’s brushing me off now, walking to the door and opening it for me to leave. He’s said all he’s going to. I’ve gained nothing. I hesitate at the door, my eyes imploring his. There’s kindness in them and my disappointment ebbs as another thought shoots into my mind. When he mentioned me still being in contact with some of the team, was he giving his roundabout permission to seek their help under the radar?
‘Thanks for seeing me today,’ I say. ‘I really do appreciate it.’
‘It’s fine. Do drop in to see Barbara, won’t you? Maybe over the next weekend when we’ll both be in? She’d love a bit of company.’
And, through the mixed signals he’s giving off, I think I understand. ‘Of course.’
