‘A precaution. This place has been the target so far but I don’t want to take any risks. I need a photograph.’
Her eyes roved to the gallery she had by her flat door. She grimaced but went over and took one down, in a clip-frame, and gave it to me. I looked briefly at the picture, the young man had dark hair, a longish face, slightly protruding upper jaw, glasses. Nothing remarkable. And I didn’t think I’d seen anyone like that hanging around in the previous days.
I asked her a couple more questions; Benjamin’s surname, Vernay, and his date of birth which she supplied.
‘I’ll meet you at lunchtime. We’ll talk about it then.’ And the rest. I couldn’t think clearly anymore. It was as if she’d got a stick and muddied my mind up.
En route to the B&B I checked to see whether any vehicle followed us but none did. I left her getting her room key. She’d regained her composure and as she spoke with the woman who ran the guest house nothing betrayed the upheaval of the last few hours. I couldn’t help but admire the control she had, the nerve. Though I found it hard to stomach her loyalty to the man who was persecuting her.
Chapter Fourteen
I’d had quite a weekend of it what with running into Minty at the party, Maddie’s refusal to talk and now this truckload of revelations from Lucy Barker. At least the house assessment for the Ecclestones had been fairly straightforward. My report would be a warts and all look at the area. They’d have to weigh up whether the level of petty crime was acceptable given how much they liked the house. As a financial move they couldn’t really lose out.
Maddie had another headache on Monday morning. I wasn’t surprised. She was probably dreading school but I thought it was crucial that she go in and start her new regime. If she could get though the week and gain positive points it would be an achievement to build on and things would hopefully seem that much brighter. Keeping her at home would signal failure at the outset. I told her she had to go to school and that I was sure she’d do really well. We could start on painting the playroom after tea. She looked mildly interested. At school I waited with her in the classroom, not something I’d done since she moved up to Juniors. She let me kiss her when I left. I tried not to let it worry me.
I faxed the Ecclestones their report as agreed and closed their file. Always a satisfying moment. As I prepared for my meeting with Lucy Barker I was still stuck in a tape loop of incredulity. With each fresh incident that came to mind: knocking on her flatmates’ doors, meeting Carly Jowett, interviewing hotel staff, another bout of disbelief washed over me – how could she let me do all that when she’d known, from the word go? Didn’t she feel at all uncomfortable as I went through the motions, doing my best to find the culprit? Had she got some sort of sick thrill out of watching me flail about?
I could have walked away right then. I was tempted. It would have been justified. But I hate to leave things unfinished. After being mucked about I wanted some resolution. And it shouldn’t involve much more of my time and energy – track down Dr Benjamin Vernay and deliver an ultimatum: the harassment stops immediately or the law will be involved. Lucy might resist it but that was my bottom line. Of course she could also send whatever billets doux or letters of support she liked but my terms were non-negotiable. If he so much as made a silent phone call I’d report him even if Lucy wouldn’t. Of course there was the odd kink I hadn’t quite ironed out – Lucy might not tell me if he did resume his nasty tricks – but I didn’t dwell on that.
There was another reason for not wanting to quit: if I didn’t see it through and warn off Vernay and then something happened to Lucy I’d feel responsible. Call it an honourable exit. I’d do my best and then say goodbye with an easy conscience and an immense sense of relief. The theory was fine; the reality was an absolute nightmare.
Hoping that Malcolm, the hotel security manager, would help protect Lucy, I made a copy of Benjamin Vernay’s photo to give him. Lucy was already in reception when I arrived, a bright red manikin in the luminous white of the foyer. Her practised smile became frostier when I asked to see Malcolm. She still didn’t like the idea that darling Benjamin might pose a threat.
Malcolm Whitlow greeted me with something akin to disapproval when he came to the foyer. I didn’t blame him; the last time I’d been there his boss had wanted me chucked out and had then done an about-face. I was troublesome. His amenable attitude and apparent acceptance of my work on our first meeting had evaporated. Malcolm had half a scowl on his face and sighed with ill concealed impatience as I asked for a few minutes of his time.
‘It’s about Lucy,’ I told him glancing across to the desk where she was dealing with a group of Japanese guests. ‘Is there somewhere more private?’
He humphed and took me along the ground floor corridor to his room.
‘There’s been a break-in at her flat but we know who’s behind it now.’ I proffered the picture. ‘Dr Benjamin Vernay, her old fiancé.’
He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips in a silent whistle and cast me a look of surprise.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘she told everyone he was dead but he was sick.’ He listened to a potted history. ‘It’s not very likely he’ll come here,’ I concluded, ‘he’s only been to the flat when Lucy’s been out and he’s been very careful not to be seen. But just in case …’ I gestured to the picture.
He nodded. He waited till I was on my feet and about to leave before he commented. ‘So she knew all along it was him?’
I gave a rueful sigh. ‘Yep.’
He exhaled. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The downturn of his mouth, upward swoop of his eyebrows and the bald disapproval in his eyes summed up perfectly how bloody daft he thought that was. I didn’t disagree.
Lucy was waiting for me at reception. I thought we’d be having a bite to eat but she told me she’d been ill and couldn’t face anything. ‘I had internal bleeding – after the accident. It flares up with the stress,’ she explained.
He walked away, he left me there.
‘We can walk?’ I offered.
She went to get her coat. I surveyed one of the huge stone sculptures, a wedge of white limestone, the layers visible in the rock like sheets of pastry. I ran my hand along the cold, hard edge. The limestone formed from the shells and skeletons of sea-creatures over millions of years. Forged into the hills of the Peak District south of Manchester and the Yorkshire Dales over the Pennines. I wondered where they had got the piece from. Imagined someone having a job that involved selecting rocks for customers.
Lucy returned buttoned into a long, warm, camel classic. We set off towards the canal.
‘The accident – what happened exactly? You said Benjamin was driving dangerously?’
She glanced at me, looked away.
‘He was angry. We’d been to the theatre with friends, another doctor and his wife. Benjamin thought I’d been making eyes at the man. He was mad at me. I was trying to calm him down but he took a bend too fast, an old country lane, there was a wall … we hit it head on. It took them hours to cut me free.’
‘And Benjamin?’
‘He got out.’
‘You said he just left you there.’
‘He was concussed, confused. This way.’
We took the footbridge, a span of bright white suspension rods and turrets reminiscent of lighthouses at either end, over the Ship Canal towards the Imperial War Museum North. The canal widened to a large basin on our left with marina apartments all along the far waterfront and the Designer Outlet complex at the nearside. To our right the great canal that had brought trade to Salford and Manchester in their industrial heyday flowed east towards the coast some forty miles away. We walked past the theatre ship, ‘Walk The Plank’, with its quirky murals and inventive artefacts, and along the quayside. It was windier there, a breeze riffling the earthen coloured water, stirred the surface into leaf-shaped ribbons that caught the blue of the sky. The light bounced off the metallic cladding of the War Museum. Everywhere bright and shiny, the vista wide, be
neath the arc of the heavens.
‘I’ve explained the situation to Malcolm,’ I said. ‘I think you should stay at the B&B until I’ve traced Benjamin and put everything in writing to him.’
She began to speak but I raised my hand. I wanted to say my piece.
‘And that includes a clear warning: if there’s any further harassment, letters, calls, anything we go straight to the police and tell them everything.’
‘But—’
‘It’s not up for discussion,’ I said firmly.
‘I couldn’t go to the police.’
‘Well, I could.’
‘I was raped, remember?’
Her first term at college, forced to report it, and how the treatment of the police had felt as pitiless as the attack itself. I blanched but stood my ground.
‘I hope that this will be the end of it but if he carries on I’ll report him with or without you.’
She looked at me bleakly. ‘I don’t have any choice.’
‘No. To be frank I don’t think a letter from you asking Benjamin to get help is going to make any difference but the clear threat of legal action might. You’re entitled to protection,’ I reminded her.
She shook her head, tight-lipped at my folly.
‘One false step and we apply for an injunction.’
‘We’re getting married,’ she cried.
‘Really,’ I said hotly, ‘when? Does Benjamin know? You haven’t seen him for months, he slashes your bed and sends you razor blades and dog-shit.’
‘I won’t desert him, I won’t.’ She became agitated, her fists tight little balls waving about as she spoke.
‘That’s up to you,’ I said, ‘but the only way I’m prepared to deal with the guy is to read him the Riot Act. I’m not pussy-footing about. Once that’s done and you feel ready to go home I’ll get Brian to beef up your security. Your alarm needs sorting out, maybe even a new one.’
‘I know. How will you trace him?’
‘It shouldn’t be that hard if he’s still in the medical profession, Vernay’s not a common name.’
A tug of wind made me shiver. I was hungry as well as cold.
‘Head back?’
‘How long will it take – to find him?’
‘A day or two I hope.’
We walked back heading into the wind. It was cold enough to make my eyes water. Lucy wiped at hers with a tissue.
‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘I know about Ian Hoyle.’
She frowned at me, sniffed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Lucy, please,’ I spoke sharply. ‘Can’t you just tell the truth? According to Ian he wasn’t chasing you – it was the other way around.’
‘No.’ She stopped walking and pulled at my arm. Her eyes were wide and steely. ‘I would never …’ She broke off as a couple approached us and smiled a little uncertainly. We must have looked like we were in the middle of a row. She turned back to me. ‘I told you, there’s no one else for me. How could you …’ She was really riled, shaking and her nostrils flaring.
I took a slight step to the side just in case she lost it and tried to push me into the canal.
‘I told you what happened, Ian was all mixed up, his wife, the baby …’
‘I don’t believe you.’ I’d had enough of her games. ‘I’ve talked to him. You never even went to see him on Wednesday but you spun me some line about him feeling sorry for you. More lies. Now I know why you were so sure it couldn’t be Ian because you knew it was Benjamin all along. How can I trust you? You’ve been lying from day one.’
I waited for her response.
She looked at me, her face paled and she swayed. She put a hand to her stomach.
‘Lucy?’
‘Sorry,’ she blurted out, she bent double and began to retch. Nothing came out. After a moment she stopped, straightened, her eyes and nose running.
‘I’d like to go back.’
She looked awful. But how convenient, too – a neat sidestep to avoid dealing with my accusations. Like Maddie’s sudden tummy aches writ large.
There was an e-mail waiting from my journalist friend Harry; about the hate mail. Someone could do me a breakdown of the lettering and likely sources for six hundred pounds. Hollow laugh. No need now though, with Benjamin in the frame. But there was something else Harry could help me with. There are various ways to trace people, I use them myself: phone directories, the electoral roll, but they take time and they rely on someone being settled for a while. I wanted to find Dr Benjamin Vernay fast. One source of information growing by the minute is the electronic data kept on us all and updated every time we use a credit card. Ring up to renew your car insurance or order something mail order and they can access your details at the click of a mouse. The records are confidential, supposedly. It’s murky territory and not something I’m experienced at. I asked Harry to do the deed for me.
‘If you need to pay anyone a fee …’
‘A favour,’ he said. ‘But you owe me.’
‘Done.’
‘Could be a day or two.’
I drafted a letter to the doctor, stating in no uncertain terms that a restraining order would be sought if Dr Benjamin Vernay came within spitting distance of Lucy Barker, her residence or place of work. Not my exact words. Unsolicited mail, phone-calls, e-mails, text messages and all other forms of communication of a threatening or abusive nature were also off-limits.
To pump it up a bit I added that incriminating evidence would be passed to the police if the above conditions were broken. I faxed a copy of the letter to a solicitor I know and asked her if there was anything I should change.
Not long, I thought, and I’d be rid of Lucy Barker and glad to see the back of her. By her own warped logic I’d done what she set out to get me to do – establish who was after her. If anything else happened it would be the police. My services do not include taking on jealous and demented knife-wielding boyfriends. I’ve a thing about knives as it is – they cut, they hurt, people die.
The school run. I still felt awkward in the playground but Katy’s mum, Fiona, greeted me as normal and it seemed that word hadn’t got round that Maddie had been bullying.
‘Headache gone?’
‘No, but I sent her in anyway. She’s a bit unsettled at the moment. There’s been some trouble between her and another girl.’ I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t bring myself to label Maddie as a bully. I still felt so ashamed and appalled by it all.
‘Katy wants her to come to tea.’
‘Great.’ One of my fears had been about Maddie getting isolated, losing her friends as a result of the bullying. Invitations to tea were reassuring.
‘Tomorrow – I’ll pick her up from school?’
Tom came out then and shoved a pile of drawings and his lunch box at me ‘Can I go to Adam’s house one day?’
He dragged me over to his friend and within minutes I’d fixed it so both Tom and Maddie would be out the following tea time.
When Maddie’s class came out Miss Dent gave me a quick nod. All was well and Maddie seemed quite bright as we walked home; telling me about an experiment they’d done to see which materials were waterproof.
Ray cooked tea and I set to work in the playroom, tacking dustsheets over the door, covering the skirting board and fixing big polythene sheets across the bay so the windows wouldn’t get splattered turquoise.
Maddie and Tom donned old clothes. Ray steered clear. He’s not averse to painting but he has a fastidious side so the prospect of gobs of emulsion flying about as the kids got stuck in was anathema to him. I used a tall stepladder to start on the ceiling while Maddie and Tom had a roller and a tray and a wall each. At the end of an hour I’d done a complete coat on the ceiling with fetching highlights on my hair, Tom had managed to tread in his tray and track paint everywhere and Maddie had done a two foot strip the length of her wall then given up because her arms ached. The turquoise was certainly a strong colour; it seemed to glow.
I called to Ray to run
a bath while I cleared up. After the kids had been cleaned I got in the bath and rolled little curds of paint off my face and arms. Dry and dressed and with a sense of satisfaction we sat down to home-made potato wedges and sweetcorn, they had fried chicken and I had spinach and cream cheese sauce. References to snot and mould were made by the kids but my appetite was unaffected.
Later on, settled in the lounge, the kids asleep, I told Ray about plans for the following day.
‘And how did Maddie get on?’
‘Good.’
He stretched. Yawned. ‘I went into TXL,’ he said referring to his new computing job at the IT company, ‘to talk about my hours.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve agreed to a three day week – long days but I can handle that. But they want me to do a month full-time first so they can train me alongside the rest of the intake.’
‘Right, I can work round that. When do you start?’
‘Week after next.’
‘What about holidays?’
‘Six weeks plus bank holidays. The summer will be tricky. There’s always my mum.’
I shot him a look. ‘For a morning here and there maybe.’ Nana Tello, while protesting her adoration of ‘il bambino’ Tom, actually found the whole babysitting business quite hard work. Plus she had a lively social life and hated to miss out on seeing her friends. There was no way she’d do more than the odd emergency stretch.
‘Let’s think about it,’ I said. ‘The kids are off for what? Two weeks at Easter and Christmas,’ I counted on my fingers, ‘six in summer, three half terms. That’s thirteen weeks. A quarter of the year! How do we all cope?’
‘You’d end up doing the lion’s share especially in the holidays. I’ll be getting a decent salary though – enough to pay …’
‘Oh, no,’ I groaned, ‘that would feel really weird.’
‘But if you can’t take a job on because you’ve only two days at half-term or whatever …’
‘No. Let’s just see how it works out.’
He shrugged – if you think so.
‘What’s it like? Very swanky? Full of breathtaking views of our fair city, real coffee machines, innovative art-works, quirky people being brilliant?’
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