Bad Apple, page 20
‘You do it,’ I say, barely able to stay still. Pins and needles from kneeling are spreading from my feet to my calves as I shift my weight from one leg to the other, while still hovering over Isabel. Her trembling fingers unravel the lace that is wrapped around the leaf-embossed book. She slowly opens it, revealing the deckle-edged pages – it’s a beautifully crafted vintage-style journal. And from what I can see as Isabel does a quick flick through it, there is writing on almost every page.
‘Oh, God,’ Isabel says.
‘What is it?’ My throat constricts with the fear that this is from Fran’s childhood, a Dear Diary affair where she relays in minute-by-minute detail how she fancies the boy next door. Is it jam-packed with teenage angst and hatred for school, her parents? Does it even belong to her? My heart slams against my chest. It’s an antique dressing table. This might belong to someone who died fifty years ago or something.
‘Look . . . ’ Isabel turns to face me, her eyes wet with tears as she holds up the journal. I take it. And I read the first page. Then the next. Then I flick past a few entries and stop at a page where she’s written a bunch of initials, and nicknames.
‘Shit, this could be gold,’ I say as my eyes scan the page. My mind is too jittery to figure out if any are familiar, or stand out. I pass it back. ‘Do you think they could be names of other victims . . . or?’ I hardly dare to hope the details relate to those responsible for helping John cover this all up. Isabel studies it.
‘One of these nicknames—’ she points to the middle of the page ‘—I’m fairly sure rings a bell. Misty.’ She stands up, her brow furrowed as she concentrates on recalling a memory. ‘I swear I’ve spoken to someone of that name.’ She paces, then her eyes widen, and she looks up from the journal. ‘Yes, of course. Moods club.’
My pulse skips. That place is what links Tamsin to this, too. ‘When did you go there?’
‘One of the first places I tried. I’d seen John going in there. Officially, of course, but I just had a feeling.’
‘Young women. Those he felt most comfortable manipulating.’ Hatred oozes from my words. He has so much to answer for.
‘I wish she’d been supported.’ Isabel slumps onto the bed. ‘If I’d reached out to her before. I might’ve been able to stop her.’
‘Don’t do that. There’s only one person to blame for all of this, and that’s the perpetrator. The predator . . . ’ Heat flashes in my cheeks, then a burning sensation fills my gut. ‘The monster. The person whose actions created the hurt. He’s the cause. He’s the manipulator. He’s the one who needs to be punished.’ My breath runs out. The anger never will.
A slight smile plays on Isabel’s lips. ‘Quite the motivational speaker,’ she says.
The room grows dim, and I switch on a light to continue reading.
‘We’d best crack on,’ Isabel says, getting up to look out of the window. ‘I get the feeling we should wrap this up before nightfall.’
‘We’ve got the phone and now this.’ I lift the journal.
‘Yep. But there could be more. And I want to be the one to find it. Not him.’
Chapter 41
NOW
BECKY
After searching for another hour in the dying light of Sunday evening, Isabel and I called it a night. We hadn’t come across anything else that seemed significant. With further reassurances from me that I’d immediately share any findings from Fran’s mobile with her, I took it and the journal, and we went our separate ways. As soon as I got back to my flat, I plugged the phone in to charge on the kitchen worktop and sat down in my armchair to read the journal cover to cover.
And that’s exactly where I wake up – slumped in the chair, stiff from another unrested night. The room is light, and I can hear the thrum of steady traffic. Shit. What time is it? My eyes are bleary, but my mind sharpens quickly. Agatha stares at me from her position on the back of the futon, her twitching whiskers a sign of contempt. Poor cat never gets fed on time. I’m surprised she didn’t jump all over me to jolt me into action.
My stomach lurches. Fran’s mobile.
Eager to see, hesitant to know, I fling myself from the chair, stride to the kitchen and with my hands clenched and my breath held, I peek at the display. Every muscle fibre is taut, the voice in my head pleading for incriminating evidence against John to be contained within this six-inch piece of technology.
My hand hovers above the screen – I envisage swiping my finger up and the home screen coming to life. Deep down, I know it’s unlikely. It’ll be password protected and I’ll have to get Charlie or Hannah to take it to the techies – although quite how that’ll work I don’t know. The fact it was hidden gets my hopes up, though. Fran had wanted someone like me, or Isabel to find it. In which case, she’d possibly made it easier for us.
‘Procrastination is the thief of time.’ I take a breath and touch the screen.
The loud ringing tone momentarily confuses me.
Then I realise it’s my mobile.
‘Jesus!’ I scramble around the kitchen trying to locate mine, then rush into the lounge, finding it perched on a box. ‘Hello,’ I snap, annoyed at the caller’s timing.
‘Get out on the wrong side of the bed?’
‘Not even close,’ I retort to Hannah’s sarcasm.
‘Just a quick request,’ she says. My shoulders dip – anything that’s going to take me away from Fran’s phone isn’t to be welcomed. ‘I forgot to bring Nina’s list of dates and times into work. Can you go and get them from mine and meet me at the front of the CID building at 1 p.m.?’ She goes on to say that she wants me to ‘surreptitiously’ hand them to her and carry on walking. I want to tell her it’s not an episode of Bosch but my mind is already onto the next thought: Didn’t Charlie take it? I don’t recall seeing the list when I was packing up my investigation table. But Hannah wouldn’t be asking now if Charlie was already in possession of it. With my mind in shards when I left, I might have even stuffed it into my rucksack along with everything else. Lack of sleep combined with a ton of worry has messed with my head to such a degree that I can’t one-hundred per cent trust my memory. I obviously wanted Hannah and Charlie to work through the list and highlight any dates where John was working, where and with whom, or if he was off-duty on any or all of the dates, so surely I did leave it there.
As I’m talking, I find my rucksack and rummage through it just to be sure. I wonder if now is a good time to tell her about Isabel. And that we found a mobile belonging to one of John’s victims. The decision is made for me when Hannah delivers a harsh whisper of ‘Got to go,’ presumably having been rumbled being on a private call. I hadn’t had the chance to agree to visit her place and pick up the list, but I guess seeing as it’s not in my rucksack and I’ve asked for so much from Hannah, I need to do as she asked. And, given it’s for the benefit of the investigation, I unplug Fran’s phone from the charger and shove it in my tote bag, grab my coat and keys and head out.
Maybe it’s related to Charlie’s actions the day he swept the place and what he said afterwards, or maybe it’s a sixth sense, but a stab of unease overcomes me as soon as I open the door to Hannah’s and step inside.
Someone’s here.
The noise I’ve made entering will have alerted the occupant to my arrival, and my head tells me to make a swift exit. Not take any chances. My gut, however, is having none of it. I’m not running. If the person here wishes to harm me, I’ll put up a bloody good fight. I’m on high alert as I tread cautiously through the hallway, clutching the tote bag tightly. My hearing is heightened, preparing me to respond to any sudden movement. All the warning signs I get prior to an anxiety episode assault me all at once, but it’s as though my mind and body are working in symbiosis and instead of creating a full-blown attack, I’m emboldened, just like I used to be in dangerous situations prior to finding out about my ex-husband’s crimes.
The sound of coughing stops me in my tracks. It’s coming from the lounge. When it continues, I decide to use it as cover to make my move. I take quick steps and push the already ajar door open enough to see inside. With my eyes wide, I take in all I can. Relief relaxes my posture, but my heart muscle continues to contract strongly and rapidly even though the immediate threat of danger is over.
‘Christ, Danny. You gave me a fright; Hannah didn’t say you would be here.’ I put my hand to my chest, feeling the thudding against my palm begin to lessen.
Danny recovers from his coughing fit and runs his bare forearm along under his nose, leaving a trail of slimy residue.
‘She don’t know I’m ’ere.’
I reach into my pocket and get my mobile.
‘Don’t. Please don’t tell ’er,’ he pleads with me. He appears even paler than the other night. Grey even – the colour I’ve seen people prior to death.
‘Why not, Danny?’ The tiny hairs on my neck stand up. Something’s not right here. Hannah took him to his appointment – for treatment, that’s what she’d said when she left me here last week. Was he meant to be in hospital?
‘’Cos she’ll worry. May as well give ’er a few more hours, eh?’ He offers a weak smile.
‘Are you . . .’ I struggle to find the right word ‘. . . er . . . okay? I mean, you look pretty sick.’
‘I’ll survive. For now.’
I need to get the list and get going if I’m to meet Hannah outside CID for one o’clock as she instructed. Looking at Danny, though, I’m compelled to stay a little longer.
‘Can I make you a brew? When did you last eat?’
‘Tea would be good thanks. Make it strong.’ He collapses back on the chair, his long, thin arms loosely draped over each side, resembling an orangutan. I go into the kitchen. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I check around the worktops, the table and inside all the drawers for the list that Nina gave me. But there’s no sign. Where the hell is it?
I pour a tea for Danny, squishing the teabag between the back of two spoons to develop the tone to a burnt toffee colour, while contemplating where else I should look.
‘Here you are.’ I hand the mug to Danny, waiting to be sure he has proper hold before letting go. ‘You haven’t seen some A4-sized papers clipped together have you?’ He squints at me through the puff of steam from his tea. Shakes his head. ‘I’ll be back in a min,’ I say, and go upstairs to check the room I stayed in, then Hannah’s. The list isn’t there. I’ve half a mind to go and pat Danny down, in case he has it on his person. But why would he?
He hasn’t shifted from the chair when I return to the lounge and take a seat opposite him, scrutinising his face. His leg bounces. I hadn’t noticed it on any previous meetings, so I don’t think it’s a tic. Maybe it’s related to whatever illness he has. Or I’m making him anxious.
‘Danny, look this is really important. Have you seen any paperwork or picked it up, maybe?’
He avoids my gaze, shuffles in the chair. Then the leg bouncing continues. I’ve seen this kind of physical manifestation during interviews before. When the person is stressed, and usually that stress is because they’re lying. I must remember I’m not interrogating a suspect here, though. This is Hannah’s ill little brother. And if he were to relay my actions to her, I’m pretty sure I’d lose my inside allies because of it.
‘If I ’ad I’d have said when you asked the first time.’
‘What time did you get here?’ I look around, wondering if anything has been disturbed, like someone was searching for something.
‘’Bout ten minutes before you showed up. Got a taxi ’ere if you need to check,’ he says, glaring at me now.
‘Okay, sorry. I’m not . . . I’m just asking.’
‘Once a fed, always a fed. Even if you were thrown out.’ He smirks. ‘How come you got that flat in Pendlebury? Bit of a comedown from your place with John.’
I try to hide my shock at his question – at his knowledge of my living arrangements past and present. He must hear things second-hand from Hannah. My eye twitches.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’ I flash Danny a smile, but ensure it signals that I’m saying no more than that.
‘But, I mean why that block, why that flat?’ The tables being turned and now me being under some form of interrogation flusters me and I want the conversation over. I get up, readying myself to leave.
‘It was obviously meant to be,’ I say. Although I don’t believe it could really have been serendipitous – there are better places. ‘A simple case of right time, right place.’
‘Yeah. Meant to be,’ he says, in a way that’s weighted with a meaning I’m not sure I want to understand. Then it clicks. He just wants to change the subject – stop me from asking him questions.
‘Let’s get back to why I’m here, shall we?’ I say, firmly. ‘I need to find the papers I came here for—’ Danny thrusts his hand up towards me, then shakes his head.
‘You don’t want to keep looking,’ he says in a way that sends a chill down my spine. You don’t want to keep looking . . . I’ve heard that before. The phone call I received that first day I went to Lymworth in search of John. I was in Maccies. The person on the phone echoed a near identical phrase.
‘Why would you say that, Danny?’
‘Bad things happen to them that know too much.’
The urge to get out speeds up my exit. Has John got to Danny? How the hell do I tell Hannah I suspect her brother of being behind some of the threats. He looks like he’s at death’s door – from the way Hannah was talking the other night, I get the feeling he’s not long for this world.
Dying people don’t need to be afraid of the consequences. Unless they’re religious, of course. That makes Danny a perfect candidate to do some of John’s bidding. When I’m back in my car, I text Hannah to let her know I have nothing to hand over, asking if she’s sure she didn’t already give it to Charlie. Because if she didn’t and none of us has it, then who does? I push that awful thought away, and instead I find myself battling my conscience as to whether I should tell her Danny is home. I type out another text, then delete it. I drag a hand through my hair, irritated by my own indecision. She’ll find out herself shortly; I guess there’s no reason to say anything right this minute. Had she not asked me to pop in, neither of us would be any the wiser. Plus, Danny asked me not to tell her, so maybe I shouldn’t interfere. As I begin the drive back to my flat, Danny’s question: why that block, why that flat – plays on my mind.
Is John behind every move I make? When I think, believe, I’m the one making decisions and taking control of my life, is he there, behind the scenes like a ghostly puppeteer pulling my strings so I only do what he wants, or needs me to? My pulse thuds in my ears. Maybe Danny knows more than he should. And he’s probably right with his assumption . . . Bad things do happen to those who know too much. Especially those around John Lawson.
Chapter 42
NOW
BECKY
When I arrive back at my flat, the majority of the journey having been completed on autopilot, I get Fran’s mobile from my tote bag and sit with it on my lap, gearing myself up to swipe the homepage properly this time. Isabel will be waiting for the update I promised her. I’m surprised she hasn’t already been badgering me for it given it’s almost twenty-four hours ago we found it. She has more patience than me, that’s for sure.
With a few quick gulps of air, I do it – my fingertip slides upwards, and a clicking noise follows. I look with eyes wide at the home screen. ‘Yes!’ I mentally thank Fran for not having it password protected, then a shadow looms over my moment of elation when it’s clear the photo is of her and her son, Oakley. What a waste. Poor kid growing up without his birth mother. My throat tightens seeing the young mum and son together, smiling and seemingly carefree. I can’t dwell. I start scrolling until I find messenger and WhatsApp.
The messages, texts and screenshots are from the original source this time, not on a burner phone I only had access to for a short time. But, my elation is brief, a surge of disappointment quickly replacing it as I scroll, noting the use of initials or what appear to be nicknames for all her listed contacts. I’d forgotten only JL had been visible on the screenshot message I found on John’s secret phone. Not one here states John, or better, John Lawson. And of course, I doubt he’ll have ever used a mobile or landline that could be traced back to him anyway, so without his original I can’t match these up. I attach Fran’s phone to my computer and begin downloading the entire content anyway – there’s a fair bit here to go through and something might yield a result if the tech guys can take a proper look.
I try to be positive, telling myself this is progress, allowing myself a small victory punch to the air. It’s great evidence. Something physical at last. But realistically, only if it’s accompanied by something stronger. The reality is, having messages like this, with limited ability to actually prove it’s John sending them – means there aren’t enough defining details, and a good solicitor would be able to brush them off. Still, it’s the best so far and my spirits are lifted. I tap the mobile and smile. Fran tried really hard to get him. And now, even if John were to destroy this phone, there’ll be copies of everything it contains on my hard drive. Once it’s transferred, I’ll see if I can match up any of the names and initials to those she wrote down in her journal.
To pass the time while it downloads, I raid the fridge for anything remotely passable as a snack. Agatha shared some of my food when she first came into my possession and now, looking at the content with my lip curled, I come to the conclusion she’ll have to return the favour and share some of hers with me. I give a snorting laugh at the thought and slam it closed. Agatha pads in and shoots me a concerned look.
