Bad Apple, page 21
‘It’s not come to it yet, Agatha,’ I say, petting her. My phone pings. It’s a text from Charlie.
Can you call me?
I contemplate his request, but erring on the side of caution, text back a random comment first to check it’s really him. Moments later, the phone vibrates in my hand as a call from an unknown number comes through. I hesitate, dread filling me. This at least shows a number, though, it’s not been blocked by the caller. I accept.
‘Hello?’ I say, tentatively.
‘It’s me, Becks. This is secure, it’s my friend’s,’ Charlie says.
My muscles relax. ‘Hey. Everything okay?’
‘Our contact has been in touch.’ I note his vagueness and assume it’s to avoid leaking sensitive information to those within earshot. ‘They looked me up after you said not to call you. They were in a phone box, so don’t worry . . .’
Charlie tells me the meeting has to be brought forward. Same time and place as before, but tomorrow, then hangs up before I get the chance to ask if he’s in possession of Nina’s list, much less that I’m in possession of a possible lead. I lean back heavily against the worktop, almost as though I’ve been pushed. It’s only been a few days and if Nina can’t wait until Friday, does that mean she’s uncovered new information about John?
Chapter 43
NOW
BECKY
Nina fidgets: her fingers pull at the sugar sachets arranged in the bowl, then drum the table, before going to her hair and tugging at the longer strands near the crown of her head. But all the while her lips are tightly pursed – her facial features all stone-like. I feel the weight of her glare and I sense she’s carrying a heavy burden.
‘Why did you drag me into this?’ she hisses through clamped teeth. I shiver. She’s definitely found something. Controlling my urge to demand to know what, I offer a sympathetic smile and keep my own voice low when I apologise. It seems the right thing to do in this moment. After all, I did seek her out. I did, on three occasions, go to her. It was her choice to help, though. No one forced her into that decision.
‘Has something happened?’ I ask.
Nina scratches her thumbnail with her index nail, the annoying scraping noise cutting through me. I place my hand over hers to stop it. She pulls her hand out from under mine and starts biting the nail instead, her focus faltering and shifting to look outside the café. She’s more anxious than I’ve see her. This must be big.
‘Happened? Yeah. You could say that.’
‘What did you find, Nina?’
Her head shakes from side to side as she mumbles something I don’t catch. Guilt vies for position against the sheer hope that whatever it is means trouble for John and any other corrupt officers he’s got under his spell.
‘It’s . . . I couldn’t. Fuck! I don’t want to believe it. How could I miss it?’
I blink rapidly, drawing in a shuddering breath. ‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ I say. ‘I lived with him; I married him. I thought I knew him. And for five years I trusted him. Loved the man. And unwittingly I gave him an excellent cover. Maybe even alibis.’ Nausea swirls in my stomach, dredging it all up again is like reliving all the hurt and pain. And the guilt. So much guilt. ‘It was going on right under my nose. I married a monster, now I’m afraid you’ve taken up where I left off.’
Nina leans in closer to me, puts her mouth next to my ear. ‘He’s kept things.’
Icy tentacles slither around my body, embracing it tightly as the words sink in. Does she mean trophies? As awful as the thought is, this could be the break needed. I try to contain a surge of elation – showing any excitement right now would be inappropriate – Nina is clearly distraught by what she’s uncovered. As I was when I found the burner phone. I must remember how shocked I was. Despite my earlier warnings she’ll be feeling the same. It’s one thing being told something, or suspecting wrongdoing, but facing that evidence yourself – irrefutable proof you’re living with a serial rapist – is a hard pill to swallow. I count to five, take a breath.
‘What kind of things? Where?’
‘Photos. Of . . . Oh, God.’ She moves away from me slightly, gives a furtive glance around the café, then continues. ‘Some of them, they’re so young. And there was hair.’
My pulse quickens as my mind screams, DNA. But of course, having locks of hair doesn’t tie you to rape. If he’d murdered the women, then maybe. I mentally chastise myself for even thinking that.
‘When you say there were photos . . . ’
‘I think he must’ve had a camera on a tripod,’ Nina says. ‘Because they’re of them . . . together.’ Her face contorts. ‘Having sex.’
‘Can you see them clearly. John’s face? Are they tied or—’
‘Stop. Please stop speaking.’ She buries her face in her hands. ‘Don’t ask me that stuff.’
‘I’m sorry, Nina. But if you’ve found trophies he’s kept that show him committing rape, that’s the best evidence yet. But if the images merely look like two people engaged in consensual sexual intercourse . . .’ I sit back so hard the front chair legs lift from the floor, then slam down noisily, resulting in a few looks from other customers darting in my direction. I don’t finish my sentence, the implied ‘we have absolutely nothing’ remains unspoken.
‘There were USB memory sticks with each photo.’
Bingo. ‘Did you photograph them?’
‘No, Sorry. I didn’t have time. He almost caught me. I couldn’t chance him finding me looking through his private stuff. The last bloke I was with didn’t take kindly to that kind of thing either.’ Nina lifts the edge of her top, revealing burn scars. ‘I really thought I’d picked well with John. Was going to be protected.’
‘I’m so sorry, Nina. John senses vulnerability. It’s like he has a magnetic force drawing us to him.’ She looks unconvinced.
‘You don’t strike me as vulnerable.’
‘Maybe not outwardly. Inner trauma doesn’t always seep through. But it’s there all the same, not far beneath the surface.’
Nina puts her hand on mine – solidarity uniting us. ‘I know where they are now, though. His disgusting souvenirs. To think they’re in my house. Where my Millie lives.’ Nina’s eyes widen, she swallows repeatedly, like she’s trying to prevent bile spewing from her mouth. She’s genuinely horrified and the emotions she’s experiencing I’ve been through too. Bar one. I don’t know what it’s like to have a child involved in this awful situation. I don’t want to imagine how it feels to know your daughter is the offspring of a rapist. A part of me wonders if Millie was the result of John’s manipulative tactics. Whether he forced himself onto Nina but she’s blocked it out. My musings will stay as just that – there’s nothing to gain from questioning her about it, and everything for her to lose if I did. Looking at her crestfallen face, she’s already lost so much.
I can’t stop shaking my head in astonishment that John would risk holding on to items that could provide DNA and a clear link between himself and rape victims. Nina gives me a questioning glance, so I share my contempt for the complete arrogance John’s behaviour exhibits.
‘He absolutely believes he’s above reproach,’ I say, my jaw tight. ‘But no one is untouchable.’
‘So, what should I do next?’ Nina asks.
‘Nothing for the moment.’ Now it’s my turn to drum my fingers on the table – a release of the nervous tension I’ve been holding on to. ‘Carry on normally, acting the way you have been. Try not to alert him to a change.’
She snorts. ‘How the hell do I do that?’
‘I’ll talk with my colleagues, let them know there’s potential evidence in your house. Make a plan. In the meantime, keep track as you were doing. If, and I mean if, there’s a chance for you to take photos of some of the images, then do. But you mustn’t put yourself in danger.’
‘I should’ve slipped one of the memory sticks into my pocket.’
‘No. You were absolutely right not to take anything, disturb his treasure chest. He’d notice. Straightaway, he would know it was you.’
Nina’s face is pale and drawn. Her fidgeting starts up again and she looks towards the exit. She wants to escape. Who can blame her?
‘I’m scared,’ she says, looking me directly in the eye. ‘I’m thinking I should take Millie and stay at my parents’ pub for a bit.’
‘You could. But wouldn’t he know where you were straightaway? Although, Millie could have a sleepover with her grandparents, I suppose – that’s not out of the ordinary, is it?’
Nina brightens. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea. Wouldn’t start alarm bells ringing ’cos my mum’s always going on about having Millie overnight, give us some space. Time to have a date night or something.’
‘Okay, good. Try not to worry. You’re able to contact Charlie again if you’re at all concerned?’
‘Yeah – I thought it best to go through him, like you suggested.’
‘Definitely better not using mine. I don’t trust he’s not somehow listening in to my calls. And remember, use a landline, not your mobile.’
Nina nods and gets up. ‘I’m sorry. For not believing you straightaway, I’m such a fool for being taken in by his lies.’
‘You’re not a fool, Nina. It’ll take you a while to forgive yourself, but you will.’
After she’s gone, I sit awhile, stirring the dregs of my coffee with the long, silver teaspoon. She’s escaped this café, me and the conversation from hell, but gone right back to him. I have to pray I can help her escape him, too.
Chapter 44
NOW
BECKY
After leaving the Trafford Centre, I pop into the supermarket to grab some essentials. I don’t want too much as my weary muscles won’t cope with lumping more than two carrier bags from the car to home. Pleased with my minimal items – I can stretch this stuff to make at least five meals – I dump the bags in the boot and get behind the wheel. Spots of rain begin to appear on the windscreen. I hadn’t even noticed the building clouds. I snort. This could easily be a metaphor for my life.
As I set off, tutting at my squeaking wipers, I try to imagine my life without the drama. Without the secret meetings, the covert – or, more accurately in my case, overt – surveillance, and the thrill of the chase. When this is all over, what will I do with my life? Will a job in psychological services really satisfy me? Or am I enjoying the resumption of playing detective too much for that to be a realistic goal?
The rain has passed by the time I reach the garage. Thank heavens for small mercies because in my eagerness to leave to meet Nina, I didn’t grab my jacket. I zigzag along the puddle-ridden pavements, walking as briskly as I can with a bulging carrier bag in each hand. The block looms ahead – the upper part and side even darker now it’s been coated with rain. A flutter of apprehension in my stomach causes me to slow. Every time I spend time out of the flat, I expect to return to something . . . different. Graffiti, a smashed window, a break-in, or something else my ex-husband has deemed is warranted and instructed whoever he has watching me to carry out. From the things Marcus confided, I’m convinced John will have eyes and ears everywhere.
Before letting myself back into the flat, I put the shopping down, check the exterior for any signs that someone’s paid me a visit while I’ve been with Nina. The lock is intact, no obvious forced entry there or at the window. The back courtyard is only accessible from inside, there is no rear access – well, I guess if someone was really desperate they could maybe lower themselves down to it from a higher level. I allow this sudden realisation to unnerve me, then try to brush it off. It is worth noting, though, and I should at least check for its likelihood and take responsible measures to reduce the possibility or, at the very least, put in some kind of alert system if such a play was attempted.
With my boldness returning, I plunge the key in the lock and turn it. I push the door open and take my shopping inside. After a minute or so scanning each room and finding nothing out of place, nor anything ‘extra’, I feel the tension in my tummy ease. Maybe John thinks he’s done enough to scare me off and so doesn’t want to waste his time stalking me, threatening me with calls and breaking in. Is he done with me because he thinks I’m done with him?
The ringing comes so closely after my thought, I’m afraid I’ve manifested it – that John’s calling me to tell me not to be so stupid. Of course he isn’t done with me. He’s got all the time in the world to ensure my life is brought down. Ruined. I shake my head to snap myself out of my doomsday thoughts and check the display. It’s a local number I vaguely recognise.
‘Rebecca . . . ’
My heart plummets hearing the male voice speaking my full name. This can’t be another warning call, surely?
‘Ms Gooding? Just a quick call in relation to your recent application.’
My short, sharp laugh isn’t exactly appropriate, but the relief means I can’t hold it back. I’ve yet to hear someone call me by my maiden name, I like the sound of it again. ‘Yes, sorry. It’s Becky Gooding. How can I help?’
After a brief intro, I’m informed they’ve yet to receive the reference they need to move forward. I grit my teeth, silently cursing myself. Over two weeks have passed and my enthusiasm for the role has been taken over by current events. Created by the same person that got me into the mess I’m in. With a sickly sweet, measured voice, I apologise for the non-receival of the glowing recommendation from Detective Chief Inspector Marcus Thomson, citing an issue with communications as being the hold-up. He seems to buy it, and with my assurance that I’ll get the reference to him by next Monday at the latest, he hangs up. I mustn’t allow this investigation into John to ruin the next chapter in my life, too. Without this job, I’ll be on the street within four months – the meagre savings left from my parents’ wills and my small share of the sale from mine and John’s house are running critically low and there’s no other backup plan.
While putting the shopping away, my mind conjures up a best-case scenario that the items Nina found, together with the information I hope is contained within Fran’s phone combined with the journal, will make the evidence against John so compelling that he’s locked up for life.
Fran’s phone. It must’ve finished downloading by now.
I slam the cupboard door closed and rush to the computer, silently begging the universe to deliver the goods. I pick the mobile up, but nothing seems to be different. The connection lead is attached but the computer doesn’t spring into life when I jiggle the mouse. Then I note the absence of the usual humming it makes, and there’s no green light blinking away.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ I fall to my knees, crawling under the desk. ‘No!’ I yell, grasping the detached power lead. How has that happened? A gentle nudge to my arm, followed by the appearance of Agatha joining me in the small space, provides the answer. She reaches a paw up, dapping at the other cables, tugging them with her claws. ‘You little monkey.’ I back out from under the desk, coaxing Agatha away too. Then I reconnect the power and start it up again. The heavy weight of disappointment when it becomes clear the power disruption occurred as the download reached just forty per cent, quickly intensifies and my thoughts spiral. Why isn’t anything panning out? Is everything and everyone against me? I’d better let Isabel know there’s a delay, I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten about the phone when I was the one who’d suggested holding onto it.
My body aches: tension in my back, shoulders and neck all knotted up, making me wince as I climb into bed and attempt to get into a comfortable position. To anyone witnessing this, I’d look as though I were in my nineties, not thirties. Probably as well I’m single. I sit up with a sigh, whack the centre of the pillow with the edge of my hand and cradle my head in it, then turn to look at the expanse of space next to me. It’s not a conscious decision to be alone. I can’t deny company would be nice.
After fantasising about Elijah and then concluding that: one, he really is a bit young for me and two, that due to my failure to contact him after my abruptness more than a week ago, I imagine the ship has already sailed – my mind strays to Operation Lawless, and today’s meeting with Nina.
It’s all dangerous. Really dangerous. But if it comes to fruition, what Nina mentioned seeing would make the best kind of evidence. Huge. With any luck, she’ll be the one to help secure us the ultimate catch.
The darkness closes in, but my eyes remain stubbornly open. I fight with my duvet, pulling it up over my shoulders, then pushing it down again when I become as hot as a crab boiling in a pot. An hour passes with sleep still evading me and with a sense of nakedness, I grab the duvet again and cocoon myself in it. After a few minutes of frustration and my eyes burning with exhaustion, I kick it off me and the bed entirely. Insomnia sucks.
Reaching an arm to my bedside drawer, I fumble around to find my tablets. One might be enough to settle my thoughts. After I take it, I turn onto my stomach, punch the pillow into a different shape to support my neck in this new position and close my eyes. Maybe my mind just isn’t ready to shut down, so I allow the questions, worries and hopes surrounding the ongoing situation to swirl around uninhibited.
The noises are faint at first, almost passing me by as my thoughts are focused on Fran and Nina. Then they slowly filter into my consciousness and my eyes fly open. They’re coming from upstairs. Proper thuds, not the building creaking or outside sounds. Footsteps? It’s the first noise I’ve heard from up there since they disappeared. It’s been eleven days since I came back to find Tamsin and Vince gone. I reach an arm across to grab my mobile from the bedside table. The backlight glares brightly and I squint to check the time. Almost midnight.
