Talking to Strangers, page 27
“Er, I was just leaving you a message. Work is absolutely manic.”
“Then you are definitely going to need some decompression time—and food,” he laughed. “Shall I knock at eight?”
She felt herself nodding and said yes. She deserved this. And her appointment dread slipped down a notch.
Elise was buzzing when she went back into the incident room.
“Right,” she told Caro. “Let’s go and see what Henry Curtis has to say.”
SIXTY-NINE
ANNIE
Thursday, February 27, 2020
Annie almost cried with relief when she saw DI King and another police officer walking up her path. She didn’t know how she had summoned her, but she didn’t care. She was there.
“Thank you for coming,” she said to DI King as she opened the door and ushered them through.
DI King nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but they were already in the kitchen, with Henry sitting there. Annie avoided his eye while DI King introduced herself and DS Brennan to her husband.
“Ah! Hello,” he said, all easy charm, and put out his hand to shake Elise’s as if she were a new client. “Look,” he carried on, smiling his slow smile. “I’m not sure what we can help you with, but please have a seat.”
“I’d like to talk to you about your relationship with Karen Simmons,” DI King replied quietly.
Oh, God! She already knows. Annie clasped her hands together as though in a prayer of gratitude. She didn’t need to break her promise now. Henry couldn’t accuse her of sneaking around behind his back. Like he had. They had come to him.
Henry started coughing, choking on his shock, and Annie risked a glance at him. He looked terrible. His blue shirt was sticking to his chest and darkening under the arms as he burbled about how it had been nothing. And so long ago. Trying to make it disappear.
But when DI King asked, “Where were you on the evening of Valentine’s Day?” his eyes and her heart fluttered.
“At home having a family dinner—wasn’t I, Annie?” She couldn’t speak so he did it for her. “Yes, our son Xander and his girlfriend came down from London to announce their engagement,” he said, eyes wide open now.
“Did they stay overnight?”
“No, I took them into town to catch their trains.”
“What time was that?”
“Er, ten thirty-ish. Emily was catching the last one to London—that was leaving first—then Xander was getting a Brighton train to meet his mates. It was a bit tight so I just dropped them off at the station entrance.”
“What about afterward? Did you come straight home?”
Annie could feel dread clutching at her stomach.
Will he lie? Will I let him?
“Yes, of course,” he said smoothly.
She cleared her throat quietly, and he glanced across at her.
“Can you confirm that?” DI King asked.
“Well—” Annie rasped.
“Oh, that’s right,” he said quickly. “I had a problem with the car.”
“What sort of problem?” DI King said.
“A warning light flashed up. I had to look up what it was online and my phone battery had run out, so I had to wait until it charged with the motor running. I fell asleep. It’d been a long day. And then I had to fiddle with the settings on the car computer. They’re all electronic now.”
He was talking too much. Too many excuses, but DI King clearly wasn’t being distracted by all his noise.
“What time did you get home, Mr. Curtis?” she asked again.
“Midnight? Or just after? I’m not sure now. I just wanted to get to bed.”
“Do you know?” The inspector turned to Annie. “Did you wake up when your husband came in?”
“No,” she said, but he interrupted before she could say anything else.
“I didn’t get into our bed.” He was stumbling over his words to get there first. “Annie had work the next day, so I slept in Xander’s old room.”
“I see. So no one can confirm what time you returned? Did you speak to Karen that night?” DI King asked, and a single droplet of sweat ran down the side of Henry’s face and dripped into his coffee. Annie wondered if Elise King had noticed. Of course she had.
“No. This is ridiculous.” His voice rose. “Why would I speak to her after all this time?”
He looked to Annie for reassurance. But she wouldn’t give it to him. How could she? Now that she didn’t know what sort of man he really was.
“We’ll need to talk to you again, Mr. Curtis,” DI King was saying. “After we’ve carried out further inquiries. We’ll need to examine the clothes you were wearing that night. Have they been washed?”
Annie got up without a word, went into the utility room, and pulled Henry’s flowery shirt and jeans out of the overflowing washing basket—another neglected domestic duty. DS Brennan took them off her and put them in plastic bags while Henry watched, his face blank.
“What about a coat?” the officer added. “Did you put one on to go out?”
“Er, I don’t think so,” Henry said, his face dazed. “We were in a hurry. No—I remember it was cold and I had to put the heater on full.”
“Which is your coat?” DS Brennan said, looking at the rack in the hall.
“This one,” he muttered, and unhooked his waxed jacket for her.
“Thank you. What about this?” And she pulled an overcoat from under one of Annie’s.
He frowned. “I don’t know what that one’s doing in here. I usually keep it in the car for client visits.”
“You’ve got dirt on the cuff,” DS Brennan said, lifting a sleeve. “Do you know how it got there?”
Henry shook his head.
After the police left, Annie and Henry didn’t speak. They went and sat on different floors of the house. He in the sitting room to ring round for a solicitor. She in the bedroom to figure out how the hell she was going to tell Xander and Gavin.
In the end, she snatched up her phone and dialed her eldest son. He’d know it was urgent if she was calling in work hours.
“Mum?” he answered.
“They’re questioning your dad about Karen Simmons,” she said quickly.
All she could hear was Xander breathing. What was he thinking, her quiet boy?
“The police came this morning and took away his clothes,” Annie blurted, unable to bear the suffocating silence.
“I’ll call you back in a minute,” Xander whispered. And was gone. Annie sat and waited, rerunning the detectives’ visit in close-up in her mind. The bead of sweat rolling down Henry’s face. The flicker in Elise King’s eyes. DS Brennan lifting the sleeve of her husband’s best coat. She clutched the duvet to her face like a child’s comforter and inhaled her husband’s sleep smell. And buried her nose farther in. This was the man she’d chosen to spend the rest of her life with. The medical rep with all the chat she’d fallen in love with at the hospital Christmas party. Annie had spent too much of her nurse’s pay on a dress—midnight blue and strapless—that made her feel like a different girl, and he’d danced with her all night. Her dad had loved him, too. He’d finally had another bloke in the house to talk football with. And they’d been so happy, hadn’t they? Even when the children came and life got grown-up and serious, he’d known how to make her laugh. And when Archie died…
She should have been screaming Henry’s innocence. But she didn’t know what to believe anymore. He’d hidden so much from her. Could he be hiding more?
Could he have killed Karen? Was her husband capable of that?
The trill of the phone jerked her back into the room.
“Mum?” Xander said. “Tell me what’s happened. Where is Dad now?”
“Downstairs,” she muttered. “Looking for a solicitor. I have to tell you something, Xander. Your dad had an affair with Karen years ago.”
There was a beat and Xander sighed. “I know,” he murmured. “I’ve always known.”
Annie felt heat shiver up her neck. “But how could you?” she cried. “I didn’t know, and you were a child when it was going on.”
“I suppose Dad thought that, too,” her son muttered. “Thought it was safe to flirt and carry on in front of a kid.”
“Oh, darling, I am so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he said it was our secret. A boys’ secret, to make me feel special.” Xander’s voice caught on the word “special.” “But it gave me a stomachache.”
“Oh, my lovely boy!” Annie broke down. Why hadn’t she known? She should have protected him. She was his mother. But she’d failed him. And Archie.
“I’ll come, Mum. Does Gav know?”
“No, he’s at school.” She tried to control her ragged breath. “Are you going to ring your dad?”
“I don’t think so,” he grunted. “I’ll text you when I’m on the train.”
When she went downstairs, she found Henry sitting with his tablet on his knee, his head tipped back on the sofa cushion, staring at the ceiling.
He lurched upright when Annie came in. “I’ve got a woman in Portsmouth who can take my case on. If there is a case. I’ve told her it is a stupid misunderstanding. All circumstantial. I’m seeing her in an hour to talk it through before the police call me in for an interview.”
“Okay,” Annie said, picking up his empty mug from the little side table she’d found in a charity shop when they were first married. Going through the motions of normal life.
“Will you come with me?” he murmured. Her first test of loyalty.
“Er, no,” she said. “Well, you might be ages, and I think I should be here in case Gav gets home before you, don’t you?”
Henry nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.
“You know this whole thing is nonsense?” he said. “Don’t you, Annie? You know me better than anyone. I couldn’t kill someone—it’s ridiculous.”
But she didn’t know anything anymore.
“Put Gavin’s old puffa jacket on,” she said instead. “It’s cold out.”
SEVENTY
KIKI
Thursday, February 27, 2020
I know the #MeToo support for my date rape column should have buoyed me up a bit, but I feel swamped by it. By the sheer scale of the misery that is pouring into the “Secret Dater” site and Twitter and TikTok accounts. And it’s feeding into my own.
It’s my fault—I’ve been completely open about the vulnerability of being a quietly lonely woman and the power a bit of flattery and attention has to breach your defenses. And it has chimed. God, it has been a full peal for some of the women who’ve contacted me. They’ve been there, too. There are hundreds of them.
I thought finding other survivors like me would make me feel stronger. But I am struggling under the weight of it. This isn’t a self-help group in a church hall, holding hands and nibbling comfort biscuits. It is a roar of pain. A chorus of insistent voices, pecking at me, demanding my attention.
Miles rang earlier this morning. “Hi,” he said, voice tight, as if he could hardly bear to speak. “Look, I’ve totally screwed up,” he muttered. “I’ve had a kicking from on high for not running your piece as a ‘Secret Dater’ column. Any chance I can do that now? Please.”
“Okay,” I said, unable to add his agony to my misery burden.
“You are a total legend.” He signed off.
I sit reading on through the messages, groaning in sympathy. Until Stef G. stops me dead.
I think Rob raped me, too, her message reads.
I swallow hard and type: I am so sorry. Please DM me.
Stef G. isn’t her real name. And she doesn’t want to meet in person. Too exposing. I get that—I did the same, didn’t I? Ducked down behind anonymity. But men and women hiding who they really are may be what is allowing this to happen.
Stef rings me with her number withheld. She’s a divorced mother of two with a stressful job who just wanted to have some nights out.
“I wanted to be me occasionally,” she says. “Not someone’s mum or boss.”
“I totally get that,” I reply. “But why do you think it was Rob?”
“Your description. And the texts he sent afterward.”
“Did he drug you?”
“Yes.” Stef gulps. “The last time. And sent me a photo of us. I couldn’t go to the police. Why would they believe me? I’d been on four dates with him. He was charming and he made me laugh—well, you know that.” There’s a beat of silence. “I’m so ashamed I’ve let him get away with it,” Stef says softly, “but I couldn’t face the humiliation.”
“Do not blame yourself.” I enunciate each word deliberately. “Why do we do that? Tell ourselves that it’s our fault for wearing the wrong clothes, smiling too much, giving unintended signals?”
“I know you’re right—it’s what I tell my daughters, for God’s sake—but when it happens to you…” Stef murmurs.
“Okay, so let’s hunt him down. Where did you go on your dates? Perhaps you found out more about him than I did.”
“Bars in and around Hove—never the same place twice. Actually, the third one was at a pub a bit farther down the coast. He said he had a dodgy tire. Anyway, I drove over to meet him in Ebbing.”
Ebbing?
“Can you remember the name of the pub?” I say, heart in mouth.
“Er, the Lobster something, I think—on the seafront, anyway.”
Barry Sherman’s bar. Of course.
“Go on,” I urge her.
“We sat at the outside tables in the dark, under the heaters. He didn’t want to go indoors. He wanted to go for a drive, really. But I didn’t want to. I told myself that I didn’t know him well enough to drive off with him.”
“No. I wish I’d been that smart.” I choke on the memory, then make myself push on. “Did you get any more information about him? Job? Marriage? Anything?”
“No. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? But he didn’t talk about himself. It was all about me. And I fell for it. But I decided to call it a day that last time—we were in Hove, and he was putting on the pressure to have sex, but it wasn’t what I was looking for. That’s when he drugged me.”
There is silence on both ends of the line. Both of us struggling to contain our emotions.
“I am so sorry,” we both say at the same time.
“We have got to stop him,” I urge. “Or there’ll be other women like us.”
“There already are,” Stef whispers. “Two women have contacted me through another forum. He was using a different name when he attacked them, but it’s him.”
* * *
—
“I’ve spoken to another victim of my rapist,” I say when I call Elise. And stumble to a halt. My rapist. I hate that it sounds as if he is part of me.
“Who is she?” Elise says, cutting to the chase. She’s not about to indulge in small talk after what I’ve screwed up with the murder investigation. But she can’t ignore me. I’m a victim of crime, and we are nose to the trail together.
“No full name, but she was taken to the Lobster by Rob.”
“He’s definitely one of the brotherhood, then, isn’t he? With Messrs Sherman and Clayton,” Elise says, and her voice seems to echo. She sounds like she’s in a public building. I can hear people’s names being called. “But which one is he?” she muses to herself.
“Elise,” I interrupt. “Look, I’ve heard about at least three other women raped by ‘Rob’—through my latest column.”
“Christ! Have you spoken to them, too?”
“Not yet. I’m sending you a transcript of my conversation with Stef,” I say. “Can we talk when you’ve read it? And then you can push Sherman on his association with sexual predators—and their connection to Karen. It is all getting very close to him. He may give you names.”
“Ah!” Elise says softly. “You haven’t heard. We’ve released him. Barry Sherman has an alibi from two people.”
“No way!” I yelp.
“Afraid so. Our inquiries continue.”
I hear “Elise King to Room Eight” being called.
“Are you at the hospital?” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Sorry, got to go.”
I might have to wait hours if she’s having tests and sitting in a waiting room. My energy slips down several notches, but I hoist it back up. I don’t need to wait, I tell myself.
I PM Stef online. “Have you heard anything from the other survivors? Will they talk to me? I just need one piece of solid information to start the process. I don’t even know what car he drives.”
“Oh, I do,” Stef writes back. “It’s a Toyota Yaris. I used to have one. And it’s in a photo I took of a sunset in Hove. I didn’t know it was his car until he drove off.”
She sends the picture over. The number plate is obscured by other vehicles, but there is a sticker in the back window. My clammy fingers slip and stick to my screen as I enlarge the photo. Paddle boarders do it standing up. And the name of a shop. Breaking Waves.
The surge of emotion makes my chin tremble, but I push back against it. “I’m coming for you, you bastard,” I hiss.
* * *
—
Breaking Waves is closed for lunch when I get there. But I sit in my car and wait until a tanned woman with her hair in bleached locs saunters up.
“Hi,” I call as the woman unlocks the door.
“Hi—come on in,” she calls back. “I’ll just get the lights on. Feel free to have a look around.”
I push through a rack of board shorts until the shop spotlights illuminate an alcove papered with photos of people surfing, drinking, and partying.
“Ah!” The woman laughs. “You’ve found our wall of shame. Don’t look too closely—there are some real shockers in there. So, what are you after?”
