I Know You

by Louise Mullins

  When I enter the Criminal Investigation Department in Croesyceiliog on Turnpike Road, I head straight for the incident room and find Detective Chief Inspector Evans seated at his desk facing the window overlooking the quiet car park with a view of the desolate fir tree-lined road beyond, reminding me bitterly of home. Without a word he turns at the sound of my butt hitting the chair and hands me the file.

  ‘The paperwork’s a bit sparse, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a recent investigation.’

  I flip through the incident report, a paper copy of the victim’s statement and glance up at the boss. ‘We have nothing to go on.’

  ‘That’s why I called you in to drive down to Newport and find something.’

  *

  Due to the nature of the crime I’m concerned for Sinead’s safety, so my first port of call as always is to visit the victim.

  Her house is a privately owned property a couple of streets off Chepstow Road leading to a council estate. She opens the door warily, trying hard to impress upon me her upbeat character. It doesn’t wash with me. She looks like she hasn’t slept properly in days, and her kitchen is a mess. I follow her into the living room where I note a pile of ironing dumped on a chair, the television on low for background noise, and wait until she’s chosen where to sit before deciding where to plonk my butt.

  We make introductions, but I can tell she’s got something on her mind. Her words are short and staccato.

  I learn that her husband is at work, the children in school. It’s almost pick-up time, and she’s already fretting over having to drive the six miles and back to collect them. A journey that should be just two but which her detour adds an extra four miles onto. Though she admits to having just returned from a drive to The Lookout ‘for a bit of fresh air’.

  ‘We have a good description of the male driver and my superior has assured me an immediate stop and search has been allocated to the vehicle that hit yours. The witness driving the ex-BT van gave us the first three digits of the number plate and a good idea of the make and model etc. so I’m positive we will find the individual responsible and we will be charging him on suspicion of dangerous driving with intent to harm.’

  She nods quickly, her nervous disposition too obvious to ignore.

  ‘When you spoke to the uniformed officers who drove you home you were clear you had no idea who might have intended to hurt you. Is that still the case?’

  She’s agitated now, pressing her lips together, eyes darting around the room.

  ‘You called PC Coleman two hours ago to report something unsavoury had been dropped through the door?’

  ‘Dog shit.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do that?’

  ‘It’s obviously the same individual responsible for hitting my car.’

  ‘Could you explain to me what gives you that idea?’ I wait a moment for a response. She fusses with the silver cushion behind her. Home Bargains. I’ve got the same ones back home in teal.

  ‘I had an affair.’ She blurts it out as though admitting it for the first time to herself. Needing to hear the words aloud.

  ‘I caught him following me a few times. I couldn’t tell the uniformed police when they brought me home after the incident because my husband was here, and the children.’

  ‘Your husband doesn’t know?’ She shakes her head.

  ‘What makes you think he might want to harm you, deposit dog faeces through the letterbox?’

  ‘I don’t. Not really. He never gave me a reason to think he was that kind of person: jealous, possessive, or vindictive. But what if someone found out about us?’

  ‘You think your husband?’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I was thinking of Gareth’s girlfriend.’

  ‘He was in a relationship too, at the time?’

  ‘Yes. No. Well, sort of. It was complicated. They have a daughter together. They’d already broken up when we met, but I suspected… oh, I don’t know for sure. That’s the point, isn’t it? Screwing around behind my husband’s back, I suppose I expected no less from Gareth.’

  ‘You think they got back together while you were both still in a relationship?’

  ‘No. I thought they might still be, you know, for old times’ sake. But a couple of months after we sort of broke up, he met someone else. And that happened quickly. Maybe too quickly.’

  It won’t be difficult to find out if they’re still together or learn of her name.

  ‘When did your relationship with Gareth end?’

  ‘Two and a half years ago.’

  ‘Have you had any actual or attempted contact with him since then?’

  ‘No.’ A slight head shake and a wince. She must still be in pain. The bridge of her nose and forehead are various shades of yellow and green. I imagine she looked far worse a few days ago.

  ‘How are things between you and your husband?’

  ‘Fine. Good. He’s not acting different or anything.’

  ‘Have you had any problems with anyone at work recently, family feuds, friendships turned sour, an argument with your neighbours?’

  ‘All of the above.’ She retracts then, adds, ‘We haven’t fallen out with anyone specifically. We don’t have enemies as such. But I did have words with my boss some weeks back. I asked him for a pay rise, and he declined officiously. I don’t get on with my mother-in-law, but we’ve never actually argued. But again, that’s hardly reason to suspect them of wanting to employ someone to kill me, is it? Because that’s what this man wants. I saw it in his eyes.’

  I glance down at my notes on the screen of my phone, and say, ‘You said in your statement that you didn’t recognise the man or the car he was driving. Is that correct?’

  She nods along with her words, convincing me she has no idea who the man is. ‘I’ve… I don’t know him. But I have seen him before.’

  ‘Sinead, would you like to make a new statement and tell me everything you can remember so that I can help you?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t want Aeron to find out what me and Gareth did.’

  ‘The affair?’

  ‘Yes.’ This time she moves her head from side-to- side ever so slightly. Convicting herself as a liar in the process.

  The affair wasn’t the only thing Sinead and Gareth were keeping secret.

  ‘Has anything like this happened to you before?’

  I notice she doesn’t appear shocked to have found herself in this position. As though she’s experienced a similar problem in the past.

  She ignores my comment as though regretting inviting me here now that my questions are becoming more focused, more intimate. And they’re about to get a whole lot more uncomfortable.

  Forty minutes later I have a new directive. The original still stands, but her recent statement gives me something firmer to base my investigation on. Her theory that the car incident and the dog poop are related is gaining traction.

  ‘Your husband owns a rival business.’ She frowns.

  ‘The man you had an affair with, Gareth, is an architectural engineer. Your husband is a builder.’

  ‘I also work for an estate agent, but my husband isn’t likely going to have me killed for it.’

  ‘I’m just trying to build a picture, Sinead. The more pieces we have, the sooner the puzzle can be put together.’

  ‘You think Aeron started working for Gareth and discovered our affair.’

  ‘Do potential investors employ your husband as a sub-contractor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do they approach him with a job, or does he seek their employment?’

  ‘I see where you’re going with this and I have thought long and hard about it, but I don’t believe Gareth gave my husband work to get close to me or with the intention of disclosing our affair. I doubt he even knows who Aeron is. We didn’t visit each other’s houses. Besides, during our fling I went by my maiden name on informal paperwork etc.’

  ‘For the record, what was it?’
r />   ‘It’s not relevant.’

  It’ll be easy enough to find out.

  ‘Okay.’ I dart her a curious look, but she’s already stood, heading for the door, to see me out.

  As I’m leaving, I notice a tall man with long permed hair prancing almost, across the gravel lane towards a Renault that looks like it’s never seen a good day.

  Sinead leans in close, her words like a warning bell that refuses to recede as I make my way down the drive, eyes on the scratched rear bumper of the vehicle belonging to a man who she tells me is named Tulip Davies. ‘He’s a weirdo.’

  I turn towards her at the gate, and she adds, ‘He regularly inspects the grass for landing signs.’

  ‘As in UFOs?’

  She nods. ‘He rarely speaks to anyone unless it’s to complain about the positioning of their bin. Came over here once threatening to phone the council because the barking was keeping him up all night long. We don’t have a dog and,’ she tilts her head to the right to the unlit house on the corner, ‘theirs doesn’t make a sound.’

  I leave Sinead’s home and approach Mr Davies’. I should come back tomorrow to speak to him. I should have a gander at Sinead’s maiden name, see if anything untoward is flagged on the system: a previous conviction, a historical complaint she’s forgotten making. I should dig deeper into her husband Aeron’s business in case he’s previously reported harassment from an unhappy employer, a disgruntled worker, or a nightmare customer, but I don’t. I’m too intrigued to discover why Tulip has packed his boot out. He places a thick rope and a petrol cannister beside two others that rest above a rolled-up tarpaulin nestled against a stack of bin liners, and what looks like a week’s supply of water bottles and cereal bars which have been tossed on top of each other. The items in the boot are crammed together so tightly they obscure his view through the rear window.

  ‘Mr Davies?’

  ‘Uh, yes.’

  ‘Have you got time for a quick chat?’

  ‘I… uh.’

  ‘It’s about an incident that occurred Tuesday evening. Your neighbour.’ I point towards the house, and he immediately turns away.

  He slams the boot lid down and says, ‘I’ve got to be somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll only take a couple of minutes of your time.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He hurries into the car, banging the door shut behind him, turns the engine, and starts reversing before fastening his seatbelt.

  As I make my way towards my own vehicle, I catch Sinead in my peripheral vision, peeking through a gap between the blinds of the living room window, giving Tulip a dog stare.

  HONOUR

  Croydon, London

  I begin the day in a brain fog that disperses slowly as the hours pass. It’s one of the symptoms of the sleeping tablets I’ve been taking each night. On the occasions I’ve decided to try going to bed unaided by pharmaceuticals, I’ve traipsed the house cleaning until dawn and wired myself on coffee, which I hate, to get through the day. This morning it takes me hours to fully wake up from the zombifying effect of Zopiclone. One of my regulars sits in the chair of the salon as I snip away at her fringe and tells me her woes. Her husband is fixated on gardenias, adding more and more pots of the budding flowers to their decking every day and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to reach her washing line. Her son is visiting from New Zealand with the wife she’s yet to meet. And her pug is suffering from anxiety. I couldn’t care less and zone out of the conversation making all the right noises and nodding in agreement at how troublesome the parking is becoming due to the extension of the building works on the new estate, a private firm erecting monstrosities with dubious looking cladding. I’m forced violently back to the discussion though I’m practically non-verbal when she begins explaining how much she sympathises with my predicament. ‘I understand your loss, Honour. Ketchup was all I had. Now he’s gone. I feel bereft.’

  Her poodle, named after her favourite sauce. ‘You’ve got the pug.’

  ‘It’s not the same though, is it? He’s not my first baby.’

  I snap the scissors and almost slice off her ear.

  ‘No, it’s very different.’ You’re talking about a stupid dog. My son was born of my blood and flesh.

  It’s lunchtime when I leave my trainee to hold the fort and drive past the job centre where I intend to ‘bump into’ Carmen. I find a space to park in the pay and display that costs £3.40 for two hours and walk round to the entrance.

  A gaggle of teenage boys wearing hoods who look like they should be in school hang around the bottom of the wheelchair access ramp. They’re huddled over as though swapping merchandise and speaking in low whispers, attracting the attention of two special constables who cross the road and ask them their names. Normally I’d interpret their focus on five black youths as racially biased, but today I can see, as one of the teenagers backs against the wall and drops something between his fingers onto the pavement and kicks it into the drain, they are up to no good and deserve a closer inspection. Maybe if the old bill were nearby when Steven was injured, they could have intervened and saved his life.

  I wait for seven minutes, clock watching on my mobile phone, but Carmen doesn’t appear. Perhaps she isn’t working today. I start walking back to the car, consider buying a corned beef pasty in Greggs, turn to glance over my shoulder, and almost miss registering her. My eyes fix onto a boy wearing a familiar DSquared baseball cap, my breath hitching in my throat, breaths exhaled in a ragged state of exhilaration and torment. It’s not Steven.

  Behind the kid I spot Carmen and two other women exiting the job centre. I follow her, not too quick. I don’t want the police to think I’m about to attack her and prevent me from speaking to her. She must sense me watching her movements because she turns as she nears the crossing and blinks as though trying to wipe the sight of me away before turning back round, directing her attention on the busy road in front of her.

  I march onward, reach out, and touch her arm. She responds with a flick of her hair, dyed blonde with low lights at the ends.

  ‘Carmen. Can we talk?’

  ‘No. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  Her colleagues turn on me, one folds her arms, the other raises her eyebrows.

  ‘It’s about Steven. Jerome said—’

  Her face changes in an instant. ‘Your son was mixed up with some serious people. Whatever he was doing has nothing to do with Natalie or Jerome. I brought my kids up good.’

  ‘He said they’re in a gang.’

  She tuts and spins round. The lights change, the green man appears, and she saunters onward, leaving me stood on the edge of the pavement.

  I watch her form hit a crowd and leg it across the road after her, slowing the moment I reach the other side.

  I duck in the doorway of a shop when she spins round in search of me, smiling, thinking I’ve gone. Unnoticed, I soldier on as she gathers pace. She stops abruptly, several metres ahead, allows a woman with a double buggy to vacate a bistro, and enters hurriedly through the door she holds open. The woman mumbles something and shakes her head as Carmen’s colleagues barge past and I smile at her, thanking her when she allows me through. She reciprocates, and I feel the connection, the warmth of another human being displaying kindness towards a stranger. I blink back tears of gratitude and head inside.

  Carmen is staring at the door as I enter, the women with her glaring at me and framing her like bodyguards. She holds out her hand, her palm displaying the backs of several gold rings. A thick chunky bangle slips from her wrist, down her arm and hits another at her elbow. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just to talk.’

  She inhales and widens her eyes, inviting me to speak.

  ‘Can we go somewhere quiet?’

  She crosses her arms and flares her nostrils like an angry mare. ‘Nuh-uh. I’ve got twenty minutes before I’m expected back at work. If you’ve got something to say you can do it her.’ Her tone is threatening. She glances up at the CCTV camera facing the doorway, daring me
to verbally attack her with the lens aimed at me.

  I walk towards her. Keeping my voice calm and authoritative, I tell her what Jerome insinuated regarding Steven’s death, the potential involvement of another gang. The fact Natalie busted up Jerome’s phone in anger that night. That Jerome was supposed to be meeting Steven outside the chicken shop and didn’t show up. She doesn’t flinch, her features impassive. But when I move on to the fact I strongly suspect Natalie of witnessing my son being stabbed while she waited for her boyfriend Leighton, her interview with the police resulting in her arrest and a subsequent charge of obstruction the day before reported in the newspaper I read this morning, she scowls and cuts me short. ‘She’s done nothing wrong. Neither has Jerome.’

  ‘I’m not saying they have. But Jerome said he—’

  ‘I don’t care what you say my son told you. I’m his mother. I know him. He’s a good kid. As is Natalie. And so are their mates.’

  Except Steven, I imagine she wants to say and wonder what’s stopping her.

  ‘Why have you been avoiding me since Steven’s death?’

  ‘What can I do or say, huh? Your son has been taken from you. I have my own kids to look after.’

  ‘You have zero sympathy.’

  She shrugs and something inside me loosens and unfurls and I lunge for her. In front of her colleagues, the cashier, the customers, and the camera, I tear at her throat until the thin gold chain wrapped round her neck snaps and comes away in my hand.

  ‘Give that back to me, you mad bitch!’ She reaches out to grab the necklace, but I snap it away from her outstretched hand and she trips over my foot, almost landing hard on the shiny floor but stopping herself by pushing over a shelving unit half-filled with exquisitely decorated boxes of loose tea, clinging to the edge of it with slender fingers.