Bad Apple, page 18
Chapter 37
NOW
BECKY
‘It’s so kind of you to visit, Becky,’ Barbara says as she leads me through the house to the back and out to the conservatory. It’s familiar to me – it’s where her and Marcus would set up the large table and seat their guests when Barbara insisted on entertaining. I recall the last one I was invited to was almost three years ago now – an autumnal-themed dinner party which Marcus referred to as ‘a light supper’.
‘Oh, not at all. I saw Marcus the other day and he mentioned you were—’
‘He likely exaggerated,’ Barbara cuts in, and I stop speaking to look at her. Her skin tone has a dark-yellow-almost-orange tinge to it, her eyes are sunken and circled with dark patches and her cheeks, once plump, are hollowed, the bones jutting out at sharp angles. I offer what I hope is a warm smile, realising she knows he didn’t, but that she doesn’t care to dwell on it. She takes the lid off a biscuit tin and gives it a little shake in my direction. ‘Do have a digestive, won’t you? If Marcus had told me you were coming, I’d have made a tart, or muffins at least.’
‘A biscuit is perfect, thank you.’ I reach into the tin. ‘Marcus playing golf today?’ I didn’t see any sign of him when I arrived, but his car was on the drive.
‘He went off early this morning, but he’ll be back shortly. Now, tell me, Becky love – how are things going for you? Marcus tells me you’ve got a new job lined up.’
The conversation hovers around safe topics for a while, with me enthusiastically speaking about my application and how grateful I am to Marcus for offering a reference. She seems a little puzzled by this, but doesn’t verbalise it and I try to pretend I didn’t notice her frown. Marcus not mentioning it to his wife isn’t cause for alarm, I reassure myself, why would he mention a reference to her?
‘Ah, here he is now,’ Barbara says, pushing up from the wicker chair. I hear mumbled words coming from the kitchen, then Marcus strides into the conservatory.
‘Lovely to see you, Becky.’ He’s dressed in casual cord trousers and a polo shirt. Not sure it’s golf attire, but maybe people don’t wear plus fours, chequered V-necks and long socks after all. I stand to greet him and he embraces me the way he usually does. It feels fatherly, and as far as I can remember, it was after a heart-to-heart here one evening with him and Barbara where I spoke of my parents’ fate, that this moment of affection began. Of course, he’s never done it while in a work environment as that would be deemed inappropriate, and it’s not something I’ve ever felt awkward about or wished he wouldn’t do. There’s something comforting about it, and if I’m honest, Marcus is the closest person to a father I have – it’s also the reason I found it so hard when I was dismissed, I was so hurt that he didn’t save me. It was like a knife to the heart that John was chosen over me.
He likely didn’t have the power I imagined him to have in order to keep me after the allegations were made – then not substantiated. When he said, ‘my hands are tied’, I took that to mean he was only one cog in the rather large wheel. But what he said on Monday indicated a change in his thinking, or he’d been given food for thought. Whatever it was I’m sure I’d been correct in my sense that he was hinting for me to come here to see Barbara so that he could also tell me something.
‘Barbara’s been treating me to biscuits,’ I say, looking around Marcus to see where she is.
‘She’s gone for a lie-down,’ he says, his voice heavy with sadness. With Barbara’s avoidance and the palpable pain coming off Marcus in waves, I suspect her cancer is terminal. I squeeze his arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, surprised to feel tears prick at my eyes.
‘I see she’s made enough tea for an army. Let’s have another, eh?’ he says.
Stoic as ever. I wonder if my dad would have been like this in the circumstances.
Once the cups are filled again, Marcus sits back and peruses me, his drink perched on his knee. ‘It’s not been an easy time for you, I know,’ he says, his eyes boring into mine. ‘I’m truly sorry you weren’t backed up. You should’ve been.’ The hairs along my forearms stand up. I thought there might be some preamble, some small talk, but it seems we’re going right in. A good thing, given the situation I’m in. I don’t respond, keen for him to keep talking. ‘You know there are always people to answer to in this job, however high up you think you are; you’ll always be someone’s puppet.’
My heart rate picks up, a genuine fear that he’s about to confess he himself is involved in a large-scale cover-up or something equally horrifying. Despite the second cup of tea, my mouth is dry, my tongue like cloth. I stare at him, adrenaline spiking so much I can’t stay still, my knees bobbing, thumbs twiddling.
‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ he says.
My left eye twitches furiously. I don’t trust myself to speak now, but at the same time I feel I may burst if I don’t.
‘What do you mean?’ My voice is little, weak.
‘It’s worse than even you thought. You believed John to be abusing his power, well, I’m afraid it’s rather bigger than him, Becky.’
I knew it. Charlie knows it, too. It’s no wonder he was avoiding contact with me, and I suspect it’s why Hannah’s been reluctant to tell me too much. God, have I put Charlie and Hannah in danger?
I look directly into Marcus’s eyes. ‘How much bigger are we talking?’
‘Let’s just say, John Lawson isn’t the only bad apple.’
Chapter 38
NOW
ISABEL
It was coming together. Wasn’t it? Isabel remained in the car long after her new contact left. She sat still, growing colder by the minute, her skin erupting with goose bumps which she idly rubbed. Did she dare to hope this time? Yes, she’d gained new information, gathered more names. It was certainly an interesting development, albeit such a tragic one. Isabel had tried to speak with Francesca Withers before but failed. With a question mark by her name and a note to try again in another month, Isabel moved to the next, assuming she’d get another opportunity.
It was Francesca’s mother who then contacted Isabel through Gransnet online chat forum, and it set her heart racing, thinking about the prospect of getting Francesca on board. As she read the message, though, the light of hope flickered and extinguished.
‘My Fran took her own life,’ the mother said.
The wish that it was entirely unrelated to John Lawson crashed too, when she went on to explain the circumstances. Social services had stepped in and removed Fran’s son, placing him into emergency foster care due to her alcohol abuse and, it appeared, subsequent drug use. Fran’s mother was devastated she couldn’t take him on herself – failing health meant she wasn’t suitable. Oakley had been adopted.
She’d lost everything.
She was determined any assistance she could give to help Isabel gain evidence against the man who drove her daughter to suicide, was the least she could do.
Chapter 39
NOW
BECKY
The light filters through the beige curtains and I close my eyes again, not overly eager to join the day. A leaden feeling settled in my stomach after seeing Marcus yesterday and has remained there since. Along with the deep, soul-sucking sadness – which feels very much like the way my depression began after losing Mum and Dad – my limbs are too heavy to move.
A soft knocking on the bedroom door is followed by a creak of it being opened a crack and Hannah’s voice, quiet and enquiring. ‘You awake?’
My eyes stay shut. It’s even too much energy to make my mouth work.
‘I’ll bring you a coffee.’ The door closes again.
When I returned here after the meeting, I relayed some of what Marcus told me. It was met, quite understandably, by shock. While we’d already been discussing how John had seemingly been protected by some people inside the force, hearing it from such a trusted and high-up source was undeniably worrying and Hannah took it as badly as expected, but also insisted those involved would be brought to justice. Every last one of them.
As I sink into my pillow, bone-weary from it all, I only wish I shared her optimism. One step forward, two back. That’s how it feels right now where John is concerned. And I can’t seem to stop the negative thoughts now I know that whatever went on, and is likely still going on, will go unchallenged, and unpunished.
‘Charlie and I had a chat,’ Hannah says. I open one eye as she places a mug on the bedside table. ‘There’s been no report of a missing person, or anything else untoward regarding a Tamsin . . . that’s good, isn’t it?’ Her tone is bright and cheerful, and I know she’s trying to jolly me up. ‘Come on, Becky, mate.’ My body shifts slightly as a pillow is pulled from beneath me. ‘Are you sure she’s not lying low in the flat? Or, maybe she just left him and went to a refuge?’ Becky pulls at me, while trying to place the pillows against the headboard. I open my eyes fully – they feel gritty as I blink away the lingering fatigue. Hannah is fully dressed, but her face, inches from mine as she encourages me to sit up, is bare of make-up and displays the same creases of concern I imagine mine does. I wonder how much of that is due to Danny. She wasn’t forthcoming with information when I asked how he was doing, and a shadow passed over her face when I mentioned cancer. She’s always been so strong, holding everything together for her family – and her work colleagues. My gut twists. I’m adding more to her list of worries and it’s really not fair. I allow her to position me upright, arms to the sides above the duvet – just how she might a doll at a tea party – then she hands me the mug.
‘Get this in you. Might perk you up a bit.’
She’s mothering me. And the thought is comforting, but disconcerting. This isn’t her job.
‘I’ll go back to the flat today,’ I say, my voice hoarse. ‘Get out of your hair.’
‘No, Becky.’ She shakes her head and sits down on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s too dangerous for you to be there.’
I shrug, then take a sip of coffee. The hot liquid burns my lips, but it tastes good.
‘No more so than here,’ I say. ‘If John wants to get at me, Hannah, he will know exactly where, or who, to target, won’t he? Even Charlie seemed a bit on edge on Friday.’
Hannah’s eyebrows draw together. ‘Charlie did?’
‘Yep. I think it was because he’d uncovered the redacted files and stuff – and then finding out I was seeing Nina, that she’d given us that list, didn’t help his unease. I understand I’m causing some . . . anxiety . . . among the CID lot.’ I try to laugh, but have a coughing fit instead. Hannah jumps up and slaps me on the back as if I’m choking on food. I wave my hand to let her know I’m fine.
‘You might be right about John knowing where to look for you, but at least I’m here some of the time. That flat . . . well – Christ, Becky, it’s not like you’ve made friends there is it!’
‘Well, there is Agatha.’
‘That bloody cat? Please.’
‘Seriously though. I’ve had five days away and you said yourself after you went there, the flat was secure, with no signs of anyone having been inside. Trust me, I appreciate your hospitality – and your food – but you’ve got enough on your plate with Danny. You’ll need this room for him.’
‘If he comes home,’ she says. My heart aches for her. Although she still hasn’t said as much, I fear the prognosis isn’t good. I want to be a friend to her, support her with this. Yet all I’m managing to do is rope her into something that could jeopardise her job. Her life. What kind of friend does that make me?
It’s another hour before I pull myself from the slump and I take my last shower at Hannah’s. With some space, and a different environment for several nights, to contemplate the situation and what I should do about it, I’ve concluded I will not be forced from my own place. I refuse to be bullied anymore. John is a very dangerous individual, that is a fact, but ultimately, he’s also a coward. Using others to do his bidding, threatening women, manipulating people, and abusing his position – and all the while he wholeheartedly believes he can get away with all of this behaviour. It makes me sick to my stomach. He makes me sick. This establishment does too. It all sucks.
We’re in the twenty-first century, it shouldn’t be the case that women don’t know if it’s safe to trust the police. A few years ago, in the wake of an attack on a female in London by an off-duty officer, it was suggested that if a woman was stopped by a lone officer they should simply challenge their legitimacy, or if they didn’t trust them, to run to a nearby house, or yell for help, or flag down the nearest bus. It was advice that had been embarrassing back then, even before I knew what I do now. As a female CID officer I cringed; as a woman, I was gobsmacked, outraged that ‘tips’ to handle being stopped by police were being given. Not reassurances that serving police would be thoroughly vetted, pulled up on inappropriate language, treatment of female victims and the like. Why wasn’t ‘how to stop male violence’ high on the agenda?
It’s the rising anger these thoughts create that snaps me into action and with my heart pounding, I begin stuffing my clothes into my rucksack.
‘These yours?’ Hannah comes into the bedroom, holding out a small brown bottle. My face burns as I take it from her.
‘Yeah. Started them again, a precaution, you know? It’s been a tough two weeks,’ I say, not quite catching her eye. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed. Hannah had been aware of my medication use following the first round with John, but not that long ago I’d told her I was managing without them.
‘I’m glad you’re being sensible,’ she says with a smile.
I leave Hannah’s, retrieve my car, drive to Pendlebury and park in my garage. Speed-walking with my rucksack banging against my back, I march towards the block of hell. Each step reinforces my resolution that I’m not letting the bastard win. Utilising this momentum, when I reach the building I go straight to the steps to get to the second level, and without any hesitation head to Vince and Tamsin’s flat. My knuckles rap on the wood, the sound echoing across the walkway. My breaths are ragged, but my shoulders are back, head held high as I wait to face Vince – and I’m hoping by some miracle that Tamsin will be there, too. Maybe she’ll have been wondering where I’ve been.
After a few minutes of me banging, I hear someone hollering. But the voice is above me, coming from the third floor.
‘Isn’t it fuckin’ obvious they ain’t in?’
I take a few steps towards the balcony, hang over so I can look up. ‘Have you seen either of them?’ I shout back.
‘You feds?’
‘No. I live in this block. They have something of mine.’
‘Well good luck to ya. That arsewipe ain’t likely gonna give it back.’
‘Have you seen the woman?’ I know I’m on borrowed time with the upstairs neighbour; I’m surprised I’ve kept them in conversation this long. ‘She’s called Tamsin.’
There’s no response. I haven’t heard the slamming of a door, though, so assume they’re still there. I’m tempted to rush up to the next level, but it’s unlikely I’ll reach the flat before they disappear back inside, and I doubt they’ll answer to my knocking.
‘The arsewipe was giving it some the other night,’ I say, going along with their appraisal of Vince, ‘maybe she’s left him.’
‘Nah. They left together, didn’t they.’ The voice tells me – it’s not a question.
My heart leaps and I have to quickly pull myself back in from overhanging the balcony as the blood leaves my head. They left together? That’s either really good news, or really bad, and for the moment, I can’t decide which.
‘Oh, really?’ I call. Then, pushing my luck, I ask if they know which way they went, whether they were with other people and if they had any bags with them. After telling me in no uncertain terms what I should do with my questions, the upstairs neighbour divulges that the pair of them got into a dark car – into the rear seats – and it sped off like it was a getaway car. My luck runs out when I attempt to pin them down on the day and time of this occurrence. I swear I actually feel the concrete beneath my feet shift with the force of the person’s door banging.
Where are they? Have they both been taken – or is Vince the one who’s holding her somewhere on someone else’s instructions? I’d love to believe the refuge theory Hannah came up with, I really would, but if she knew the full story, she likely wouldn’t believe that either. I fight the urge to read too much into the third-floor flat person’s retelling of events because without knowing all the details, my mind is currently presenting it as evidence that Tamsin is alive and well. I sweep the hair from my face where it’s become plastered against my forehead with beads of sweat. What a tangled mess this is. And it’s five days before I’m due to see Nina again. I’m not sure I can wait that long to find out if she’s uncovered anything more that could shine a light on what’s happening.
When I reach my own flat, breathing fast from exertion, I give it the once-over before attempting to go inside. Hannah was right. Everything looks as it did when I left on Monday evening – and so, with my lower lip partially clamped between my teeth, I stick the key in the lock, and pray it’s the same story inside. The mat is clogged with mail, mostly junk, and I have to force the door over the pile. How the hell does this much accumulate in a matter of a few days? I drop my rucksack, gather it all up and begin to rifle through it. Takeaway menus, funeral plan leaflets, and then I stop, my breath catching as I get to a cream envelope with just ‘Rebecca Lawson’ written on it. Someone knew to deliver it here, but chose not to post it. The writing is neat; rightly, or wrongly, I’m presuming it was penned by a female.
After a few seconds of pondering, I slip my thumb underneath the flap and tear at it. A furball knocks against my shins, and I take a moment to make a fuss of Agatha. A warm sensation builds inside me just having her here to greet me. She purrs loudly, like a tank. And while I appreciate she would probably exhibit the same behaviour with anyone if she thought they were here to feed her, I lap up this attention before resuming the task in hand. With my focus back on the envelope, I pull the folded letter from it – the same neat writing adorns a single piece of pretty, patterned notepaper – and begin to read it out to Agatha.
