The Life Sentence, page 22
‘OK, so let’s double-check all the timings. Shout if what you’ve written down is any different to this, OK?’ Nathan says, and I nod.
‘Shoot,’ I say.
‘Right, so you’ll spend Saturday evening with Jack as planned. When he goes back to bed on Sunday morning, you’ll wait until midday, when you can be pretty sure both he and Rhona are asleep, and then you’ll take Jack’s keys and whizz around the house and collect everything. The emails from the freezer and the DVDs from the attic.’
‘If they’re all still there,’ I say. I’d hoped to have a chance to check ahead of Saturday, but I was too nervous in the end. Taking Jack’s keys again would be too risky, and I’ve done enough sneaking around that house to last me a lifetime.
‘They will be. I’m quite sure we’d know about it by now if he knew you’d found them. OK, so, Felicity will be waiting outside, parked a discreet distance up the road, from eleven-thirty, and as soon as you have the stuff you get the hell out of the house and you both take the whole lot to the police. You tell them Jack has raped you…’
I look down at the floor, trying not to react. This is the story we’ve decided on to persuade the police to act quickly and arrest Jack on Sunday. Our great fear is that he’ll wake and realise his stuff is missing and try to run. We’re deliberately planning our raid to happen in daylight, instead of under cover of darkness, for this very reason, but even so, we can’t rely on Jack’s phobia entirely. And, after all, it’s not a complete lie, is it, to say he raped me? He forced me to have sex when I didn’t want to, and although I lay there and let it happen, was it really fully consensual?
I don’t know. I can’t go there in my head, and even though I despise Jack now, I can’t decide if saying this to the police is right or fair. And yet, was any of what Jack did to Rose or Amber right or fair? No, it wasn’t.
So fuck you, Jack Shannon.
‘You say he’s raped you more than once,’ Nathan is saying. ‘And you tell them you think he’s making plans to do a runner that day and they need to get round there fast. If you ask to speak to a female officer, I’m hoping that’ll help. He’s got friends at the Met, we know that. But he doesn’t know everyone, and they can’t ignore an accusation of rape. Once he’s in custody, hopefully the evidence we’re bringing them will be enough to keep him there.’
‘And if he wakes up and catches me in the act and destroys the stuff then?’
It’s my greatest fear right now. I had nightmares last night, his heavy hand on my shoulder, our precious evidence being wrenched from my grasp.
‘He won’t. And if the worst does come to the worst, you’ve taken a few photos, haven’t you? That might help a bit. And we have Yiannis now, remember. Our secret weapon.’
‘If we’re right about him. And if he’ll talk,’ I say.
Our plan is that once the evidence has been safely handed over to the police, I’m going to message Yiannis and ask if we can meet urgently. Felicity and I will then go and see him and come clean. We’ll tell him the truth about who we are and what we’ve been doing. We’ll tell him I recorded my last conversation with him, and beg him to tell the police what he knows about Jack. Yes, it will implicate him too, and we can’t guarantee he won’t be prosecuted, but I’m hoping that if we find a sympathetic police officer, and tell them we have a witness who can divulge exactly what Jack did, and how, they just might be able to give Yiannis some assurances. Nathan, however, seems to be taking a rather harder line on this one.
‘If he won’t talk, we’ll dob him in anyway,’ he says. ‘Your recording might be enough for them to at least bring him in for questioning. You seem to have a soft spot for him, Heather. But think about what he did. Without his help, Jack probably couldn’t have done half of what he did to Rose and Amber. He’s just as guilty. So seriously, don’t be too sympathetic.’
‘I know, I know.’ I sigh. ‘OK, I’ll worry about that on Sunday. I’ve got to get everything out of the house before we even think about talking to Yiannis. What about Rhona?’
Nathan picks up his glass and swallows the last of his wine.
‘What about her?’ he says.
‘The fact that she’s probably another accomplice, obviously,’ I say.
What, this, again? I think. Come on, Nathan…
‘Let’s worry about that afterwards, too,’ Nathan says. ‘Getting Jack into custody is the most important thing. We can worry about her and Yiannis once that’s done.’
‘But what if she does a runner when the police arrive to pick up Jack?’ I say. I feel myself getting angry again. ‘She’s not afraid to go outside in daylight. If she is involved, she’ll be out of there and we’ll never find her again. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one. I know her and you don’t, OK? And I’m afraid I don’t care what you think. I’m telling the police she’s been in on everything he’s done, and that they need to arrest her too. If she’s innocent, she’ll have nothing to worry about, will she?’
‘But… well… Oh, OK, you’re right.’ Nathan wipes a hand over his face. ‘Sorry. Of course you’re right. Yes, do that. It makes sense. Sorry, Heather. I’m just a bit obsessed with Jack, for obvious reasons. But you do what you think’s best.’
He looks and sounds remorseful and, feeling somewhat mollified, I reply: ‘OK. I will.’
‘Good. So, that’s it then? We’re happy?’
He gives me a tentative smile.
‘Happy isn’t quite the right word but yes, the plan sounds fine. If it works,’ I say.
The room is warm, but suddenly I feel a chill. There’s so much riding on this. It’s been less than three weeks since that first date with Jack at The Bridge Arms, but it’s been the longest three weeks of my life. All the lies, the deceit, and the worst anxiety I think I’ve ever experienced. And now the success of this entire venture hangs on my shoulders, just three days from now. If I screw up, if Jack’s moved or destroyed the evidence, if he or Rhona catch me trying to take it out of the house…
There are so many ifs, so many things that could go wrong.
‘It will work,’ Nathan says firmly, leaning forwards towards his laptop camera so his face appears almost comically oversized on the screen.
‘You’ve got this, Heather. And you’re going to finish it in style, OK? Don’t doubt it for a second.’
‘Ha! Well, that’s nice of you. Let’s hope so, eh?’
We end the call a minute or so later, agreeing that Nathan will update Felicity, and we’ll liaise on Saturday evening before I arrive at Jack’s, just to confirm everything’s still good to go for Sunday. Alone again, I move to the sofa, turning the TV on and trying to breathe slowly and deeply. I need to stay calm – I have to – but I can’t stop terror gripping me every time I think about the weekend. And even though Nathan backed down over Rhona, finally, I still can’t shake this feeling that something isn’t right there.
And yet, I have to trust him, don’t I? I have to trust both of them. It’s too late to pull out now…
I pick up my wine glass and take a long drink, the alcohol warming my throat. But I can’t turn off my thoughts, and the questions keep multiplying and bouncing around my head.
Will it really be worth it? Will Amber be freed? Will Rose’s death be avenged? Will Jack get what he deserves, at last? And what if the answer’s no? What if all of this has been a massive waste of time? What then?
I have a sense of foreboding I can’t shake off, a feeling of impending doom. Is it just the weight of responsibility that lies so heavily on my shoulders? Or is it a warning, from deep in my subconscious?
All I know is that I’ve never been so scared in my life.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Heather
‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’
There are squeals of laughter from around the table as Milly grimaces, glugs down the contents of her glass, then slams it down.
‘Urgh!’ she says, shuddering.
It’s Friday, and we’re on a work night out; Milly and Kwee like to host one a few times a year. This time, we’re having Mexican in a lively restaurant with a Mariachi band that’s been playing for the past hour. The tequila’s just appeared and I can tell things are about to get messy. I wasn’t going to come tonight because my fears about the weekend have taken such a hold of me that I had to excuse myself from till duty today at one point, with the excuse that I felt light-headed and needed some air. I told Jack I was going out with the team tonight though, and later, when I weighed up the options, I decided that an evening of food, wine, and company was a vastly better choice than sitting on my own at home and fretting. And so here I am, with Kwee and Milly, plus Hannah, Gavin, and Abdul, our three part-timers, and Gregory, who cleans the shop so beautifully every morning before we open.
‘Come on, Heather! Your turn. Truth or drink!’
Gavin elbows me in the ribs. We’re playing a silly game, taking turns to ask slightly risqué questions and knocking back a shot as the punishment for those who decline to answer. Milly’s tequila was her penalty for snorting with laughter but saying nothing when Hannah asked, ‘Have you ever faked an orgasm?’
‘Well, not with me, I should bloody hope!’ Kwee said indignantly, and Milly pecked her on the cheek reassuringly then picked up her glass.
‘Go on, then. Truth,’ I say, reluctantly.
‘Right! I’ve got one,’ says Gregory. ‘Have you ever made a sex tape?’
‘Ooooooh!’
There’s a chorus of approval from around the table, and I’m about to reply with a resolute NO! when I hesitate. I’ve never willingly made a sex tape, but now there’s Jack’s gym and his living room. I’m probably on a sex tape now, aren’t I? Almost certainly more than one. I might already sit alongside the others in that box in the attic. Can I remove them, if I find some with my name on them on Sunday, before I take them to the police? The thought of anyone watching them…
Suddenly, I feel mortified and my cheeks start to burn.
‘OH! Now this is interesting!’
Across the table, Hannah beams with delight, and the others are all smiling too, a couple of them sniggering.
‘Heather, you dark horse,’ says Kwee. She’s looking at me strangely, and I feel a shiver run up my back. Is she being odd about Jack, again? She looks at Milly and the two of them exchange glances with expressions I can’t quite define.
There’s something they’re not telling me. I’m sure there is. But what?
Then I give myself a mental slap.
What’s wrong with me? I’m turning into someone who doesn’t trust anyone. This is Kwee and Milly, my friends. And this is only a stupid game. I don’t have to tell the truth, but I really, really can’t be bothered to make up an excuse for my hesitation or to try to explain.
Sod it.
I pick up the nearest shot glass and down the spicy contents, to a cacophony of whoops and hoots from my colleagues.
‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it?’ says Kwee, and I feel again that she’s eyeing me curiously as I smack the glass back down onto the table and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
‘Good on ya, girl,’ says Milly quickly.
I give her a wink, but inside I feel shrivelled and ashamed. How is it easier to lie to my friends and imply I’ve been a willing participant in a sex video than to tell them the truth? And yet the truth sounds so far-fetched that I can’t imagine who would believe it.
‘Oh yes, my boyfriend, who’s a complete freak, who never goes out in daylight, and who has hidden cameras all over his house, bullied me into having sex in front of them. He has a whole stash of sex tapes in his attic. Oh, and he probably drove one woman to her death and sent another one to prison for a completely staged crime too… And yes, I’m still seeing him…’
Ridiculous. Insane. This whole thing is fucking insane. No wonder I’m going completely off my rocker, and starting to imagine suspicious behaviour in even my closest friends.
I don’t stay much longer after that. I’m working tomorrow anyway, so I have a good excuse, and just after eleven, I plead tiredness and say my goodbyes.
Back home, I strip off my clothes, give my face a cursory wash, and slap on a bit of moisturiser, then fall into bed without even brushing my teeth. I crave the oblivion of sleep, but my brain is whirring with a mixture of dread about what’s ahead and relief that, whatever happens, the end is in sight. After nearly an hour of lying on my back, staring rigidly into the darkness, I give up. I sit up in bed and switch the TV on, flicking through the channels until I reach Sky News. I haven’t read or watched any current affairs in days, I realise, and so I lie back on my pillows as the 1am bulletin starts, wondering what tales of death and destruction are about to unfold on the screen. Is a good news story too much to ask for?
‘BONG!
Horror crash on M6 – five people die in motorway pile-up.
BONG!
Police release photofit of woman found murdered in Chiswick alleyway – can you identify her?
BONG!’
There’s another story, something about a by-election, but I’m frozen, my mouth open.
What was that? That story about a murdered woman? The one with the photo that flashed up briefly on the screen? That looked like… But, no, it can’t be…
Hand shaking, I reach for the remote control and hit rewind, then pause the screen as the picture reappears. It’s a woman with blonde hair and high cheekbones.
It’s Felicity.
It’s Felicity, but it can’t be Felicity. Because this is, apparently, a photo of a dead woman.
My heart is beating so fast I feel breathless, my fingers trembling so much now that I can barely work the remote. I fast forward, back to the live news show, but they’re talking about the lead story of the motorway crash.
What’s going on? I really start to panic now, and at the same time I wonder if I’m dreaming. Maybe I did fall asleep after all, because this can’t be real. I don’t feel like I’m asleep though – I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body and I can feel my phone in my hand as, panting, I open the London News website. There it is, on the front page with the same photo.
Felicity.
It’s her. It is. But how?
Police have issued an image of the woman found dead in an alleyway in Chiswick, West London, on Wednesday evening. The woman, who officers say appears to be in her early thirties, had been beaten and strangled before being dumped in a wheelie bin. She was wearing a pink coat with a white jumper and dark blue jeans, but there were no personal belongings or identification on the body, which was discovered when the resident of the flat above Bearside Alley went to add some refuse to the bin ahead of the usual Thursday morning collection. Police say they believe the body had been there for at least two to three days before it was discovered, and are asking anyone who recognises the woman to contact them on…
The words blur in front of my eyes. This is a photo of Felicity. The age is right, and Bearside Alley? That’s near Spinelli’s, the wine bar Felicity and I last had a drink in together. The bar we were supposed to meet in on Sunday evening, the night she didn’t show up. And…
‘… She was wearing a pink coat with a white jumper and dark blue jeans…’
I think I’m going to throw up. A pink coat. Felicity was wearing a pink coat the last time we met. I remember it clearly. It fits. Everything fits, but it doesn’t make sense. I read back through the news article again.
‘… The woman found dead in an alleyway in Chiswick, West London, on Wednesday evening…’
‘… Police say they believe the body had been there for at least two to three days before it was discovered…’
Found on Wednesday. Dead for two to three days. So that means this woman was killed on Sunday or Monday. And therefore, how can she be Felicity? OK, so I haven’t actually spoken to her, but we’ve been chatting all week, haven’t we? All those messages about being frightened she was being followed, the sickness bug at the lab, working late shifts, making plans for the big showdown this weekend. And Nathan’s been talking to her too. He’d know if something was wrong. Felicity is alive; she has to be. And yet…
I scroll back to the photo, and Felicity stares back at me.
Her hair, her eyes, her face.
Felicity is dead, according to this.
Which means I’ve been messaging a dead woman.
And she’s been messaging back.
THIRTY-NINE
Heather
‘It’s her. Heather, it’s her. How? It can’t be…’
Nathan sounds, unsurprisingly, completely shellshocked. It’s after 2am in Spain, and I had to call him three times before he finally answered. Now he’s seen the online news articles too, and my heart is breaking for him. This is his sister.
‘Nathan, I’m so sorry. I just can’t get my head round it. You told me you spoke to her, didn’t you? Did you actually speak to her or was it just texts and WhatsApps? Because look at the dates—’
‘No, no, I just said I’d got hold of her. I haven’t… I can’t think… No, I haven’t actually spoken to her since last weekend. Since Saturday maybe? It’s just been messages… How? How can she be dead?’
‘I don’t know.’
I’m feeling properly sick now. The Mexican food and tequila of earlier are swirling in my stomach and threatening to make a violent reappearance.
‘I don’t understand. How did we not know? I mean, I assume there was a news report about it on Thursday, but I didn’t see it. I probably wouldn’t even have seen it tonight if it wasn’t for my bloody insomnia. I’m so sorry, Nathan.’
‘I haven’t seen any news for days,’ he says. His voice sounds thick with tears now. ‘Too busy, too distracted, you know… Oh Jesus. Poor Fliss. But who’s been messaging us from her phone, then? What the hell? And why would someone kill her? What has she ever done to anyone? And to put her in a wheelie bin! To throw her away like… rubbish. In a stinking bin! I swear to God, if Jack Shannon is behind this, I’ll kill him myself…’
