‘Is this a good time? I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Well, not really. I’ve only just convinced my son to go to sleep, any noise will wake him and he’ll be up half the night. Which actually means I’ll be up half the night.’
She really is not going to give it up easily.
‘It won’t take long and I promise I won’t make any noise.’
With a scant, wispy sigh she steps aside. ‘Down the corridor,’ she says when I stand looking uncomfortable in the vestibule of this, frankly, ginormous Victorian villa flat. I watch her as she steps back and shuts the door. Her shoulder-length hair is teased back into a ponytail/bun that, I guess, is meant to keep her hair out of her face when she is carrying out her chores. She wears a navy denim skirt, a slash-necked, electric-blue top, and striped rainbow leggings. It’s quite the contrast to how she was dressed the other day when she was wearing a grey suit that virtually matched Callie’s one. Her feet are bare and she has a blue and white tea towel over her shoulder.
Pieta Rawlings is small but in no way petite. She has curves under her clothes, an undefined waist, and she walks tall, making her seem taller than her five-foot-five maximum frame.
The corridor is long and wide, with pictures and various pieces of art on display along the white walls.
‘How old is your son?’ I ask as we arrive in the large space of her living room. The view out of the window from behind the television is glorious. I feel jealous all of a sudden; I envy her ability to look out over this part of Hove.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ she replies, skilfully avoiding the question. This is the sort of thing I’ve been trying to coach Callie to do – if you don’t want to answer a question, ask them something in return or answer the question you want them to ask.
‘I, erm, I want to talk to you about The Blindfolder.’
I am facing her full on when I ask this. I want to see her expression, her fright when I bring it up.
Nothing. Not a flicker, not a whimper, not even a barely-too-long blink of the eyes. All she does is fold her arms defensively across her chest. That could be a tell-tale sign, or it could be an act of frustration. ‘What about him?’ she says.
‘Well, you know that Callie has chosen your publication as the people to tell her story.’
‘Yes.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check you out. After this, I’ll be paying your colleague a visit. Just to chat with him. Lay out some ground rules, etc.’
‘That sounds very much like press intimidation,’ she says.
‘Oh, goodness, no!’ I shake my head. I need to start again, get her on side. Clearly I was off-base, obviously she isn’t a victim of The Blindfolder. ‘Despite what she might think or how she acts, Callie is very vulnerable. I have to do all I can to protect her. I’ll admit, I didn’t want her to talk to the press, I still don’t to a certain extent. But you’ve met her, you know that she’s very determined to do this so all I can do is support her and make sure I check out everyone involved.’
‘Right.’
I look around her living room. It’s cosy, for want of a better word. Sofa, chairs, a large white unit with equally-sized squares overflowing with books and board games, DVDs and computer games. There’s a rug covering the parquet floor at the centre and lots of pottery. Lots and lots of pottery. Jugs, cups, mugs, bowls, vases. All of them distinctly handmade. On the glass coffee table in front of me, there is a large fruit bowl, with a sea scene. The top is a chaos of uneven, curled lines that look vaguely like waves. While the inside is painted several shades of sea blue-green, the wavy top is crested with white like the foam, the outside is a sky blue dotted with white clouds. It’s rustic, but pretty in a way.
‘Do you make pottery?’ I ask her, tearing my gaze away from the fruit bowl. It’s one of those odd things that you would aesthetically call ‘ugly’, but actually is intricately, intimately beautiful.
‘Yes,’ she says, surprised that I’ve asked. ‘I, erm, started when I was pregnant. It was calming and I got to use a different part of my brain.’
‘Why did you need calming down when you were pregnant? I always thought it must be the most wonderful experience: the chance to feel in touch with yourself and the universe, the opportunity to be an Earth mother?’
Pieta smirks, not in a nasty way, just incredulous. ‘You’ve obviously never been pregnant,’ she says.
Oh, but it stings. It really does. It always does. Look, I’m not some baby-obsessed woman who spends her time looking to be upset by something that’s not going to happen, but things like that sting. I want to be. I want to be a mother, I want to experience pregnancy. I get hurt when people unintentionally remind me it’s not going to happen. Is there something wrong with that? Is there something I should do to make you feel more comfortable with my hurt?
‘No,’ I mumble. ‘I’ve never been pregnant.’
Pieta softens before my very eyes – my admission has broken down the wall around her; made her see me as human.
She moves into the room, flicking the tea towel off her shoulder as she goes. ‘I had trouble . . . you know . . . with all of that, too. I was told at one point it’d be highly unlikely I would have children. When I was told that, I kind of fantasised about what it’d be like to have a baby. Then I actually got pregnant and it was nothing like I thought it would be – at all. No channelling of Earth motherness was forthcoming. The pottery thing helped. I got to focus on something else and not worry so much about . . . well, all of it.’
Her guard is down, it’s now or never. ‘Well you certainly seem to be prolific when it comes to pottery.’
‘I don’t know if that’s an insult or not, so I’ll take it as not one.’
‘It wasn’t one, truly. It’s really quite impressive how much you’ve done.’
‘Thank you.’ She runs her fingers over the ragged edge of her water-inspired fruit bowl.
‘Can you tell me this, though?’
‘What’s that?’
‘How did you manage to escape?’
Pieta
Friday, 14 June
‘How did you manage to escape?’
My fingers snag on one of the waves of the fruit bowl at her question.
This fruit bowl was one of the first things I made when I took up pottery. The uneven top had caused me anxiety at first. I was someone who liked smooth, clean lines, so the teacher had encouraged me to try to flatten it off, make it the even thing my mind craved. But it didn’t work. Nothing I did worked. So I decided to go with it. Let what was inside out. Inside I was still in shock. I was choppy, wild, constantly undulating, for ever unstill. And at the same time, I was numb. Nothing could get through. I couldn’t think for all the emotions and feelings rollicking around the ice-cold core of my being. I let go and allowed my fingers to embrace the unevenness of the clay, and then to go further, to mould it – allow what was in me to flow into the shaping of the damp, grey clay. And they came out as waves. Distinct, frozen waves. Before the pottery, I used to stand on the beach, watching the water. Sometimes it was so calm, it was almost glacial, unable to do anything but move in the tiniest of increments. Other times, it would rage at the sky, hammer at the beach, it would let loose and show the power it held within its depths.
I was like the sea, I was like the clay, moulded to be all these things.
When I made the fruit bowl, it’d been four months since The Before and The During, and I’d had to quit my job.
I couldn’t go to that part of London without feeling anxious and agitated, terrorised and terrified. I managed a month of my three-month notice period before I had to beg my doctor to sign me off sick.
I couldn’t live in my flat without worrying he would come for me because he’d taken my driving licence, which clearly displayed my name and address. (I’d thought so many times about changing my name, but my work was linked to my name, and since I’d never been tied up in anything controversial, I wouldn’t be able to explain to an
yone why I’d changed it. And I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened so how could I explain a name change without marriage?)
I couldn’t leave my flat without wondering who was watching, who was going to grab me, whether I’d disappear again and this time stay disappeared.
At the end of it all, it boiled down to this: I stayed in London or I stayed sane.
My flat sold quickly, and I had enough to buy another place in Hove. I was moving on. I was leaving all of that behind. That was the understanding I had when I swapped the city for the sea. I was moving forward.
I had left it all behind.
But then, had I?
I took up pottery at around the time I discovered I hadn’t really left it all behind at all; when I had a decision to make because everything felt like it was at critical mass.
‘Pardon?’ I ask the police officer.
‘How did you manage to escape?’ she repeats.
I snatch my fingers away from the bowl, from remembering how I was when my fingers fashioned it. ‘Escape what?’
I turn to face her then, because she’s trying to find out something. I think she suspects, but I can’t give myself away. Not until I’ve decided whether I’m going to come forward as a victim of The Blindfolder and ask for police protection.
‘London,’ she says simply.
Her face has changed and her body has relaxed. Her manner was clipped and efficient when she’d crossed my threshold, she was there to put the frighteners on the journalist who was involved in her investigation, and to maybe question my motives. Then she let slip that she obviously struggled with her fertility, and her whole manner had exuded vulnerability, a side to her I guess that few people saw. Her shoulders had hunched a fraction, her fingers had loosely knitted themselves together and her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes, had looked bereft.
I’d felt sorry for her. I’d understood that pain, that hurt, that feeling of having been robbed, that chasm of a life deferred that was always there. Her agony had reached out to me, and I’d responded. I’d shared with her and wanted to be nice to her.
Now I fucking hate her.
How dare she come here, trying to sneak into places that she didn’t belong. How dare she.
‘I’m a Londoner, you’re a Londoner,’ she says. ‘I’m just wondering how you managed to make that leap to come down here?’
I flick my tea towel back onto my shoulder and move to the other side of the living room. ‘I’m busy, Detective Inspector Foster, was there something else you wanted?’
‘As I said, I’ve been doing some background reading on you and your colleague, Ned Wellst. It’s a real coincidence that you went to school together and then ended up in the same university. And now you’re teamed up to work together on this.’
I should be more disconcerted that she has done so much research on me, but I’m not – it’s exactly what I’d do in her position. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘What does your partner or husband think of that coincidence? Is he OK with you working with someone so handsome from your past?’
Without thinking, I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I don’t have a partner. And even if I did have one, he’d understand it was work.’
‘All work? Nothing else?’
‘Like I said, I don’t understand why you’re asking these questions.’
‘And like I said, I have to check out everything to do with this case.’
‘I don’t see how who I might or might not be sleeping with would have any influence on this case.’
‘Does your son see his father?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Ordinarily, no. But—’
‘But what?’ I ask sternly. I’ve had enough now. Yes, I’ll be checking her out, but I won’t be running my mouth off to her – or anyone – about it. And my son is off limits to everyone. ‘What is it that you think you want to know?’
‘Just curious about whether your child sees his father.’
DI Foster is staring at a picture of Kobi that is standing on the long, low windowsill in the bay window. She is staring at it and staring at it, as though she sees something familiar about him. I move to that part of the room, stand in front of the display of pictures so she can’t see him any more. I don’t want her here, asking questions, looking at my son like he has anything to do with her.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Miss Rawlings, I know Callie has chosen you as the person she wants to speak to, but that’s on the understanding that the police approve of you; that you pass the most basic checks. I’ll be questioning your colleague in much the same way. This really is nothing personal. I just don’t want to have any shocks.
‘So, can I ask you again if your son sees his father? I don’t want him to come storming in at any point causing problems. If he’s on the scene, I’d like his name so I can do a check on him too. The same with Mr Wellst’s partner.’
She has me. I need to do this, for more reasons than one. I need to do this so I can keep my job. Beyond that, more importantly than that, though, is the need to speak to Callie. I need to hear her story, see if there are any clues in what she says so I can start to work out who he is. Because I’m coming to the conclusion that I need to find him before he tries to kill me.
I have to speak to Callie and this woman is telling me if I don’t cooperate with her, that won’t happen.
‘No, his father is not on the scene,’ I say tartly. ‘We never really got together properly and I didn’t find out I was pregnant until I moved down here. I didn’t tell him. There didn’t seem to be any point in prolonging the misery.’
‘Is that Jason Breechner?’
My face must contract because all my internal organs do. I haven’t heard that name in so long. And it all feels connected. Like the coils you put on your basic shape to build up a clay pot. You place it on top and then blend it in, smooth it down to try to fuse it together until you can barely see where the join is. Jason was like that. I’d never really felt anything for him, but he was fused into that part of the story of my life; into the very edge of the end of The Before. ‘You really have been checking up on every aspect of my life,’ I state.
‘Like I said, it’s important for me to know as much as possible.’
‘How did you even know about Jason?’
‘It was on the missing person’s report your mother filed. That time you disappeared for a weekend? The officers went to talk to him, just before you turned up again.’
‘I’m sure he was as helpful to them as a chocolate teapot,’ I mumble. That report. I should have known it would come back to haunt me eventually.
‘Well, I wasn’t there so I can’t tell you that. But something interesting that I can tell you: did you know that Ned Wellst knows Jason Breechner?’
The raging that is inside me slows . . . slows . . . stops. The swirling that is around me slows . . . slows . . . stops. ‘What are you talking about?’ I can barely get the words out of my mouth.
DI Foster raises her eyebrows in satisfaction now that she has me. She has found the thing that I have no protection against. ‘I don’t like coincidences, Miss Rawlings. I don’t think they happen as often as people seem to believe. So when I saw that Ned had taken the photographs for Jason Breechner’s brochure for his warehouse rental business, I became suspicious.’
I glance down at my hands, and they are shaking. ‘Are you serious?’ I ask.
‘Very.’
I move to drop into the seat furthest from the door because my legs can’t promise to keep me upright. My back starts to throb. I can feel the skin contract, pulling like it did when I found out Callie was number 26.
What if it was Jason? What if he set the whole thing up to punish me for not loving him? He got me out of the club by constantly calling me to talk. He could have been waiting around the corner on his phone, trying to get me into a position to be snatched.
What if it was Ned – a sick extension to how he use
d to treat me? What if he’s here now to finish what he started all those years ago? What if he’s here now to kill Callie, to kill me, take Kobi?
What if it was Ned and Jason? They could have both been there, both done that.
I need to speak to Callie. As soon as possible. Then I can decide.
‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that,’ I say to the policewoman. My words, they’re falling flat again.
‘I’m sure there is,’ she replies. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to shed more light on it, in any case.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘We’re hoping the media appeal and your article will bring more of the victims of this man forward. We need to find them so we can offer them protection. And they may not even realise that they know something that will help us catch him.
‘The more survivors we can find, the better it will be for everyone, not least the other women he’s going to do it to. Hopefully, once his victims realise how dangerous he is, how he is coming after them, they will come forward and ask for protection from him. We can do that – we can protect them.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Do you mind showing yourself out, Detective? I have a few things to do.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Of course. If you can think of anything you want to talk about or tell me, do give me a call. Otherwise, I’ll see you next week when you begin to interview Callie?’
‘Yes, yes. See you,’ I manage before the world descends into the chaos of my sizzling, burning skin and my haunting screams.
Jody
Friday, 14 June
All right, all right, don’t hate me.
I didn’t enjoy doing that, especially not to someone who seems quite nice, but it was necessary. She was good, better than I expected after the way she reacted the other day in the hotel with the interview. I seriously thought she wasn’t going to give it up, that I’d got it wrong about her. So I had to push it, had to see if I was right about her. And I was. She is absolutely someone who has had an encounter with The Blindfolder.
Tell Me Your Secret Page 16