Bad Apple, page 9
‘Bastard,’ I say, my teeth gritted. I lay Agatha gently on the futon and begin rummaging in the boxes for the info I’d packed away when I moved out of the house. After the report was filed and John found out it was made by me, things took an even worse turn and while he was at work one day, I packed his clothes in two suitcases, left them on the lawn and had the locks changed. I fully expected a rage-filled outburst and him demanding to be let back in, but he stood in the centre of our lawn and laughed. Belly laughed, like it was the biggest joke in the world. Even now, I shudder at the memory. He calmly put the suitcases in the car, called up, ‘See you soon, babe,’ to me as I watched through the bedroom window, and he smiled and waved, leaving as though he was simply going on holiday. Even then he was thinking a step ahead – he was measured, ensuring he came across as the level-headed one of us. God, I’d felt so stupid that yet again I hadn’t seen what he was doing. Later, he’d used how I reacted that day as evidence of my unpredictable, unreasonable behaviour towards him. Once left alone in the marital house, though, I quickly turned the second bedroom into an incident room. Months of dead ends left me deflated. Everything suffered: my physical health, mental health, friendships and work life. They were the darkest days, or so I’d thought.
I shake myself from the memories back to the present and carry on searching the boxes. In the last one, I find the cardboard folder – with the words ‘Operation Lawless’ penned in black marker across the front. My heart gives an anxious flutter, like it contains a trapped butterfly. Once I open this ‘can of worms’ as Marcus liked to refer to that time, there’s no going back for me: obsession will take over again. Of course, the codename isn’t one generated by GMP, the ones they use are random and nothing to do with the case – it’s my own. As is this investigation. Because if not me, then who? I think I’ve got Charlie and Hannah onside, although can’t rely on them too heavily, the last thing I want, or need, is to get them suspended.
With no other option, I tip the contents out and begin to sift through it; order it and then I take it to my bedroom. Using coloured push pins, I stick a photo of John in the centre of the wall. It goes in easily as this was one big room once and is only divided from the kitchen by plywood. The landlord is a cheapskate. Then, one by one, I pin other index cards I made, newspaper cuttings and photos of relevant places, around his. I’m weirdly void of emotion when I look at his image now, especially having glimpsed him earlier in the pub. The dragging, heavy weight of fear I’d feel if I saw him, or a photo of him, has thankfully dissipated. In a way, it’s like I’ve received exposure therapy for a phobia – the things he put me through after I reported him, the many times I was afraid of what he’d do to me, have been compartmentalised, locked away. I may have been left with anxiety, I think, as I pop a tablet in my mouth, but I’m done being scared of him.
The horrifying truth remains, though – John is dangerous. He’s a corrupt cop and a predator – and my overwhelming belief now is that John’s reign of terror is ongoing.
Chapter 15
ISABEL
Isabel’s tears dropped onto the newspaper, each one spreading until it became the size of a ten pence piece and blurred the black print. She’d read similar reactions to headlines in a dozen different papers over and over. Ingested the words strangers had given during supposed interviews. Evaluated, then internalised them. Taking today’s paper in both hands, she tore a strip off, followed by another. Slowly at first, controlled. Then with her heart rate rising, she ripped the paper with increasing force, her breaths hard and fast – her cries coming in hiccupping waves.
What gave them the right to judge these women?
Why were they being blamed for what someone did to them?
Why weren’t the accusatory headlines aimed at the rapist? Where was the outrage at how he’d been prowling the streets, hunting for vulnerable women in the early hours of the morning to target them? Attack them. She thought victim blaming was something that happened years ago, before her time. She refused to even log into any of her social media platforms – comments there would be worse. Unfiltered. Unmonitored. What kind of society still pushed the narrative towards females being the ones who should alter their behaviour and modify their actions.
Why hadn’t he been found, arrested, and thrown in prison?
With the little energy she had left spent, Isabel collapsed onto the carpeted floor of her parents’ lounge. If they could see her now, they’d assume she’d had a breakdown. And maybe she had. Her insides felt hollow after months of fighting to bring her attacker to justice had proven fruitless. He’d planned it all too carefully, and even if he had, by some miracle, slipped up – well, then he’d use his ‘powerful connections’ to erase any wrongdoing for him. His final words to her before he left her, naked and vulnerable, were that no one that could do anything would. By which he meant that anyone in the position to bring him to justice would be unable or unwilling to attempt it. No one of any benefit would believe her, and only those who were as weak and powerless as her would listen – and they were of no help.
There’s nothing worse than a hysterical bunch of women who all crawl out of the woodwork ages after the fact. They’ve no integrity.
The continued victim blaming she witnessed regularly in the media was proof that if she even tried to tell her story to a journalist, it would backfire. Before all of this, Isabel believed society had made good progress where women’s rights were concerned. Now, it seemed nothing much had changed. The same old narrative was being perpetuated, the same powerful and controlling men continued to get away with poor behaviour. What must the woman in today’s headline be thinking, feeling?
Isabel wept as she traced a finger along the zigzag pattern – the carpet she remembered her mum buying despite her dad announcing it was hideous. ‘You have to hope no one comes here after they’ve had a skinful – it’s vomit-inducing.’ Then he’d laughed as he added, ‘Not that you’d notice puke on that abomination.’
They’d divorced the year after.
The carpet remained.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling while her thoughts scudded like storm clouds. This is what he wanted. What he expected. For her to lie down, play dead. Do nothing.
Isabel Booth was not giving up.
She shot up, her stomach muscles pinching from the sudden movement, and began rummaging in the desk. Her mum always kept a good stock of stationery in there, not willing to join the twenty-first century and use its technology, preferring the art of letter-writing instead. She took a pen and flowery piece of paper and made herself comfortable. For a few moments her mind was blank. Months of pushing the unwanted thoughts away; compartmentalising them, resulted in a fuzzy memory of the events. She relaxed her shoulders, imagined herself sitting in the bar that night after her shift had ended. Recalled the sense of hopelessness after Lola had dumped her. She watched herself order a vodka. Straight, no ice. Then another. The smell of it cloying in her nostrils as a few hours later she ejected the liquid mixed together with the remnants of the cheesy chips from lunch, in the women’s loos.
Then, even later, his face. Kind. Smiling. Close to hers. Offering assistance.
The memories she’d suppressed since last year flooded back. She wrote with ferocity, the words scrawling across the page. A new piece of paper, then another. She stopped only to rub her cramped hand. The last time she’d written this much, rather than typed, was during her A levels. Her laptop was in her bag, but somehow she knew that putting pen to paper was better – it flowed from her mind to her hand like she was being used as a conduit – a medium, automatically writing what the spirit was telling her. Her memory finally freed.
The room darkened, and Isabel flicked the lamp on. Her eyes finally went out of focus as the old grandfather clock struck ten. She slumped back, and with a sense of accomplishment, looked at the pile of paper. He’d say it wasn’t evidence. And on its own, it wasn’t.
But it was a start.
And she’d place a bet that she wasn’t his only victim. She’d find others and together, they’d be stronger.
Chapter 16
NOW
BECKY
I wake up on my stomach, fully clothed and sprawled across the bed on top of the duvet cover, a pin sticking into my face. With a quick tug, it pops out and I rub my cheek. There’s a large spot of blood on the cover, which I swipe at for some reason, even though I know that’s not going to remove it. My neck’s stiff, my head fuzzy as though I’m suffering a hangover. Did I take the anxiety meds too close together? Checking my phone for the time, I realise two things: I must’ve only had around two hours’ sleep – if you can call it that, and I’ve got five missed calls. All from Charlie.
That can’t be good.
Then I remember I called him. Twice, in fact, so he’ll only be trying to return them. I need a shower and a decent coffee before I respond. There’s a lot to discuss.
Feeling more alive following the shower, I dress and head out – I’ll grab a coffee at the place I met Charlie in the other morning. Hovering outside my flat, I listen for noises from Vince and Tamsin’s. I dare not show my face there since taking Agatha last night . . . and leaving Tamsin. It’s on my to-do list, though, because I can’t just leave things as they currently stand. I’ll never forgive myself if harm comes to her when I know how bad things are. Even if she is claiming it’s not Vince she’s afraid of. In fact, that makes the situation worse, really because what the hell else is happening in her life if he’s not the one she’s scared of? I tilt my head up to check if I can see anything along the balcony. No movement. Trying not to think anything negative, I jam my hands in my coat pockets and walk away.
The real coffee aroma immediately calms me when I walk into Hamley’s café and join the queue. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Yeah, I know, hang on, Charlie, I think. I’m surprised to experience a rush of endorphins as I spot Elijah coming to the counter and taking over from the female barista. I feel my cheeks stiffen with smiling – it seems a while since I had that sensation. My hand unconsciously moves to the pinprick hole in my face and I touch it. Suddenly self-conscious, I flick my hair out from behind my ear so that it partially covers that side. I almost give myself an eye roll in response. What am I doing? The guy’s at least ten years younger than me, and that’s being conservative.
‘Hey, you,’ Elijah says as I reach the till.
‘All right?’ I fuss about trying to find the loyalty card, painfully aware he’s staring at me. The last time I was here I left after having an anxiety attack – is that why he’s looking at me this way? ‘Caramel latte, please,’ I say, handing over my card for him to stamp.
‘Sure.’ He takes it and starts to make my drink. Another customer comes in and stands next to me, much closer than is comfortable. Don’t people have boundaries anymore? I really thought after the pandemic, when two metres was the stated distance we should keep from one another, that when in queues people would naturally keep a decent gap forever more, even after restrictions ended. Seems that isn’t the case. I shoot a disgruntled look at them, and make a deal of stepping further away.
They get the message.
I hear a cough and look back at Elijah’s smiling face. ‘Sorry, having an issue with the caramel, if you take a seat, I’ll bring it to you in a sec.’
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Really? Don’t worry, then, I’ll have—’
‘No, no. It’s fine. The customer gets what the customer orders,’ he says, then shifts his attention to the person next to me.
I choose the same table Charlie and I were sitting at two days ago and get comfortable. I may as well use this time to call him. But before I can, my mobile begins vibrating again and I hit accept.
‘Finally!’ he says immediately.
‘Oh, hi, Charlie. Sorry for not picking up before – it’s been a mad night.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ he says, his tone abrupt. He isn’t being his usual sarcastic, funny self, I realise. He sounds completely serious.
‘Why would that be your first thought? It’s only been a few—’
‘Because, Becks, in your voicemail you thanked me for feeding the cat and painting your bloody door!’
‘Yeeah, and I meant it – I’m really grateful.’ My sleep-deprived brain is slow to figure out what Charlie’s problem is here.
‘Only, I didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what?’ I gulp down the dread as the implication of his statement sinks in, but it’s as though I need full clarification before I allow myself to panic.
‘I didn’t pick up your message until really late, was too knackered to do it. It wasn’t me, Becks. So who was in your flat?’
All saliva evaporates from my mouth; my throat tightens – no words can make it through.
‘Here you go.’ A large latte lands in front of me and I look up into Elijah’s eyes, trying to say thank you. The garbled noise that comes out instead causes his eyes to widen. ‘Oh, God. Are you okay?’ He pulls out the chair beside me and sits, legs wide as he lowers himself to my level. ‘Take a breath in through your nose,’ he says, calmly. ‘And blow it out slowly.’ Even though I want the ground to open up and am embarrassed beyond belief, I do the breathing until I regain composure. Thankfully, it was a mild attack. This time. Elijah smiles, but jumps up, excusing himself as he has to get back to customers. I reach into my pocket for my anxiety meds.
Then I remember I’ve left Charlie hanging and I quickly pick up the phone.
‘Your boyfriend did a good job,’ he says.
I take a few sips of the latte to lubricate my larynx before swallowing a tablet and responding with a, ‘Ha. Ha.’ Then I look down to see that Elijah has left my loyalty card on the table. Stamped twice. ‘Oh,’ I say, turning around to catch Elijah’s attention.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Charlie asks in my ear.
‘I haven’t paid for my drink.’
‘Freebies now, eh?’
Elijah slips behind the counter and out of my eyeline; I’ll pay in a second. I focus back in on my conversation.
‘It’s nothing like that, Charlie.’
‘Yeah . . . okay. Anyway, not to set you back into a panic, but speaking of your mystery knight in shining armour, could it be your new barista friend?’
‘Well, he’s never been to my place if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘I’m not judging, Becks.’
‘I don’t care what you think anyway. I’m just saying it wouldn’t have been him. Are you sure you didn’t ask Hannah to do it? I’ll message her and check.’
‘Don’t waste your time. As I said, I didn’t even get your voicemail until late, didn’t get the chance to pass the buck. And anyway, Hannah was working a case last night – on what ended up being a homicide, actually. It couldn’t have been her. Are you sure the cat had been fed? You’re not jumping to the wrong conclusion?’
Charlie’s questions throw me, and I mentally backtrack – I got home, saw the new paint job on the front door, went in and called for Agatha. She didn’t come to me. I went into the kitchen, saw the empty plate, then checked the cupboard.
‘Yes,’ I say, having replayed my entrance into the flat. ‘A tin of tuna was missing . . . as was Agatha!’
‘Could you have miscounted the tins you had? Were any windows open that Agatha could’ve escaped from? Was she even in the flat when you left? She might’ve bolted out the door when you did?’
My mind scrambles and I begin to doubt myself as he bombards me with questions. So, this is how it feels to be interrogated – and it’s not even face to face. I drink some more of my latte, noting the tremble of my hand. This is also the type of thing John used to do. Confuse me by talking at me, not allowing me a word in edgeways, telling me I was wrong, that I must be mistaken. Like the time I couldn’t find my phone and feared it’d been stolen. I’d looked for over an hour before he handed it to me, with what I thought at the time was concern plastered on his face. ‘Found it in the fridge, babe. Are you OK? You’ve been very stressed lately,’ he’d said. I’d been almost certain I did not put my mobile in the fridge, but the doubt had been planted. I disregarded the nagging suspicion that John had purposely hidden it. As I disregarded a number of other, more worrying things. I’ve become more attuned to gaslighting. Although, right now, I know that’s not what Charlie’s doing – he’s merely attempting to work through the facts and his questions are all perfectly reasonable. Maybe he’s right.
Did I know how many tins there were? Had I inadvertently let Agatha escape when I left early yesterday morning? I screw my eyes up, take a deep breath before changing the subject.
‘I met John’s new girlfriend.’ I get the words out quickly, before I bottle it.
‘What do you mean you met her?’
I can envisage Charlie’s stunned face. ‘It wasn’t intentional,’ I say, defensively. ‘I stopped at a roadside café on the outskirts of Lymworth and she happened to be working there.’
‘Jeeesus – what were you doing there? I thought you were at some interview thing?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you. I needed to see where John lived. Wanted a glimpse of her. I didn’t realise it was Nina to start with.’
‘First name basis.’ I hear the exasperation in his voice.
‘But then I saw her walking towards John’s address, with the kid.’
‘So, that’s where you stayed the night? Without telling anyone where you were? Not only that, but you decided to feed me some bullshit about an assessment centre somewhere totally different?’
‘Yeah, sorry. I wanted to keep it low-key—’
‘Don’t ever lie to me again, Becks. Understand? Especially not when you’re asking for my help. That’s not on.’
‘I know. Again, sorry. But, I called you last night, so you know I didn’t stay in the end. I was asked to leave.’ There’s an intake of breath on the end of the line as Charlie takes this in.
