Kate took the envelope, immediately zipped it into her bag. ‘It’s not your fault, Adam. You didn’t kill her.’
‘I was going to hand it to her. We’d arranged to meet. She never turned up and I thought she’d lost interest. It wasn’t until I saw you at the conference and you told me she’d been knocked off her bike . . . I was so scared.’ Adam took a moment to compose himself. ‘I wish it could have been different,’ he said. ‘She was amazing.’ He nodded at her bag. ‘Be careful, Kate. They’ll do anything to stop that getting out.’
He gave her a half-smile and then walked back towards the park. After a short while, he left the trees and she lost him.
SIXTY
She clutched her bag on her lap all the way home, holding it tight against her chest where she could feel her heart going thump, thump, thump. The train was packed with commuters and she got a seat in a group of six, the middle of the facing-forward row. Arms jostled, and she felt an elbow in her ribs. She clutched her bag tighter. She glanced up and the man opposite her seemed – what? – intrigued? Curious? She quickly looked away.
Finally, she was off the train. Her bag over her shoulder, she followed the streams of people and they gradually dispersed as they walked further from the station. Then she was alone. She turned into her road and, as usual, approached her house warily.
She stopped. Maybe she’d just made a massive mistake bringing the papers back to her house and she should go to a cafe or something to read them. But then she dismissed the idea – it was not something to read in a public place.
Kate unlocked her front door, slowly pushing it open and listening out for sounds of a disturbance, an intruder. She could see into the shadowy hall, but was met with an empty silence. She slipped inside and did her usual check of the house, holding her bag close the whole time. Her nerves were on edge; the fridge kicking in with its loud hum made her jump. It seemed she was alone and, as far as she could tell, no one had been inside. She sat down at the kitchen table, unzipped her bag and took out the brown A4 envelope. Untucking the flap, she pulled out a handful of papers that were stapled together.
The memo was dated January 2016 and was marked highly confidential. It was written by Roger Harris – the same man whom Kate had spoken to at the conference – and it was addressed to the Director of Marketing.
Naomi,
In response to your query on Crixus and its safety record, and historical test results, I realize the authorities in Spain need assurances so they can license the product but you cannot categorically say that Crixus is not a carcinogen. We have undertaken testing on the product in the 2015 mouse study #2 (mid- and high-dose males and females), spraying the insides of cages and runs over a period of twelve months, which threw up concerning/negative results, with 67 per cent of mice contracting cancers (full test report and results below, including indications of tumours where present). As it is critical that we have our product accepted in the upcoming meeting, I would advise that you avoid any direct claims and frame your statement to imply that there is no reason to believe that Crixus can cause cancers. Dr Andrew Faber from this department is currently reviewing the mice test tumours and will present his evaluation to support exactly this statement – that they are not related to Crixus. (I will have this report available by next week, should it be required, but hopefully it won’t.)
Can talk more at the drinks tonight if it helps,
Roger
Stunned, Kate looked up from the documents. They knew. They bloody knew all along and had done for years. They’d also deliberately covered it up with lies and fake science.
She pulled her cardigan closer, suddenly feeling cold. The families at Ramsbourne had been regularly exposed to this stuff – she’d seen the bottles of Crixus stacked up in the farm’s container. Each and every one of them was at risk and the manufacturing company knew about it. This was it. This was her smoking gun.
Hands shaking, she went to dial Adam’s number. Then stopped. Did she want her records to show she’d been calling him? She stuffed the document back in her bag and hurried to the high street where she knew there was a public phone box, praying it hadn’t been vandalized as had so often happened in the past. To her relief, although covered in graffiti and littered with empty beer cans, it was working. She tried Adam on both the number he’d called her from that morning and the old number she had for him, but there was no answer on either. She didn’t dare leave a message.
Back home, she went through Becky’s things, looking for a diary, an address book, scraps of paper, anything that might give her a clue as to where he lived. She recalled Becky had been to his flat – they’d had a date and she’d waited for a cab there. And then she remembered. Becky had told her he lived in Clapham opposite somewhere. What was it, the Picture Palace? No, the Picturehouse. She found it easily enough on Google.
Kate slept fitfully that night, the papers hidden behind a loose panel at the back of one of the kitchen cupboards. In the morning, she rose early, took the train to Clapham and walked the short distance to the small cinema. She stood with her back to it and looked across the road. In front of her was a line of terraced Victorian house conversions.
Crossing the road, she walked up the path of the first building, but the curtains were still closed in all the windows. She tried to peer through a tiny sliver of a gap but could see nothing. Hurrying up the path to the next, again she couldn’t see in any of the windows but, alongside the bright-red front door, there was a row of buzzers for each of the flats. The top one was for a Mr A. Langley.
She pressed it and waited for Adam to answer.
She pressed again.
And again.
It was only seven in the morning – surely, he hadn’t left for work already? Maybe he was in the shower . . .? Desperate, she tried a different doorbell, a Miss T. Evans.
‘Hello?’ answered a female voice.
‘Oh, hi, it’s –’ Kate glanced at the names written against the keypads; the basement flat belonged to Andrea Gibson – ‘Andrea from downstairs. I’ve just locked myself out!’
The buzzer sounded satisfyingly, and Kate walked in. Then from the flat on the ground floor, a young woman suddenly appeared, dressed in short pyjamas, a floral wrap and fluffy slippers. It took a second and then Kate recognized her. It was Adam’s girlfriend . . . what was her name? Trixie.
‘You’re not Andrea,’ said Trixie suspiciously. Then she frowned. ‘Hang on, I remember you. You came to talk to Adam . . . at his office.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for him.’
‘Well, get to the back of the queue,’ said Trixie, distinctly unimpressed. ‘We’d all like to know where he is.’
Alarm bells were faintly sounding in Kate’s ears. ‘We?’ she queried.
‘There was a bloke here earlier this morning from his work. Really early. Six o’clock, he woke me. Wanted to speak to Adam. Knew I shouldn’t have got the flat on the ground floor,’ she grumbled.
‘What did this man want him for?’
‘Apparently something urgent had come up. Adam was needed in to sort it out.’
Kate’s heart started beating faster. ‘Did that not strike you as odd?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That he was needed so early in the morning?’
Trixie pondered. ‘Well, I suppose . . . I don’t know really, he’s always so secretive about what he does. Science research or something. I guess I never really thought about it.’
‘Where did he go, this man?’ asked Kate.
‘Well, he went up to Adam’s flat, tried to wake him.’ Unease was starting to form on Trixie’s face.
Kate raced up the stairs, Trixie following. Kate stopped abruptly at Adam’s door. It was ajar, broken at the lock.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Trixie. Kate gingerly pushed the door open further so she could see inside.
Papers were strewn across the hallway, spil
ling from the doorways of the rooms. She stepped in, catching her breath as she saw into the living room. Furniture had been overturned or destroyed. Cushions lay slashed on the floor, drawers had been brutally tipped empty. Kate slowly walked around the flat. Nervously called Adam’s name as she stepped through the debris of each devastated room, but the place was empty.
‘We need to call the police!’ declared Trixie.
Kate ignored her. ‘What did the man look like?’
‘Eh?’
‘Who came this morning? What did he look like?’
‘Oh. Big, you know, tall. Had a moustache, one of those long ones,’ said Trixie, running her finger and thumb down either side of her mouth.
It was him. The same man I saw outside the courtroom and in the street in Ramsbourne. Kate tried to gather her thoughts. He knew something. If he found Adam – she hoped to God he hadn’t already – she remembered what had happened to Justin. Maybe the man knew Adam had met her. Maybe he knew Adam had given her the document that was burning a hole inside the bag on her shoulder right now.
She suddenly knew she couldn’t go home.
She was way, way out of her depth. Help, she needed help. There was only one person she could think of: Jill. The uber lawyer had already turned her down but now Kate had proof. Proof of what Crixus did to people. Surely Jill would listen? Know what to do? At the back of her mind was a dim recollection of needing to be at Greg’s office for the PR session mid-morning but that would have to wait. She turned to leave.
Trixie had her phone out of her pocket and was about to dial when she cut Kate a quizzical look.
‘You remind me of someone. This girl . . . you look a bit like her . . .’
Kate stopped at the doorway of the flat. ‘Who?’
Trixie frowned, then shook her head. Dismissed it. ‘I can’t remember. No one . . .’
Kate raised herself up to her full five-foot-one height. Stared Trixie down. Her voice was strong, steeped in emotion. ‘Her name is Becky Ellis. And she is not a no one.’
Then she turned away from Trixie’s gawping face and left.
SIXTY-ONE
Friday, 24 February 2017 – the day of the accident
The heavy rain meant it was already dark when Becky packed up her things, turning off her laptop. She sent a brief text to her mum: ‘Leaving now. See you (both!) soon. X’ Then she put her phone and water bottle in her backpack, pulling out her helmet, ready to cycle to the station. The wind blew the rain hard against the office window, an irregular rhythm of cold and wet, and she groaned. She’d be absolutely soaked by the time she got home, would need a shower before she could show her face in front of Tim.
As she pushed her chair under her desk, Piers approached.
‘Not in the mood,’ she said, holding up her hand. She didn’t have time for a run-in with him, she had to get back, didn’t want to be late for her mum.
‘Hey, I come in peace,’ said Piers.
Becky ignored him. Slung her backpack over her shoulder.
‘Seriously. I was going to offer you a lift.’ He held up his car keys, a large shiny BMW badge dangling from them. ‘It’s pouring down. You’re going to get drenched. Let me take you to the station.’
‘Are you having a laugh?’
He looked bemused. ‘Nope.’
Becky snapped. ‘You do whatever you can to find out about my story, stalk me, in fact, and then you grass me up to Terence, telling him I’ve been bunking off work.’
‘Ah, so that’s what this hostility is all about.’
Exasperated, Becky flashed him a look and started to walk off.
‘OK, guilty of first charge but definitely not the second. That wasn’t me.’ He put a hand on her arm. ‘Promise,’ he said, smiling at her.
She glared at him.
‘For what it’s worth, I told . . . the individual . . . to leave it be. I admired you ducking out of here. Stories are not going to come to us, are they?’
‘Who?’ she said suspiciously, not entirely believing him.
He said nothing, just kept smiling.
‘Who was it?’
He dropped his hand. ‘I’m not a grass.’
She rolled her eyes, amazed she’d almost fallen for it, and was about to walk off again when—
‘Come on, let me drive you. Peace offering. First of many. Let’s just say, I like you. That’s why I’ve been winding you up.’
‘Seriously. That’s your idea of flirting?’
‘Didn’t work?’ He smiled again, and Becky saw again how handsome he was. ‘OK, sorry. I know – as you have rightly pointed out – I’ve been a dick.’
She looked at him. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say his apology was genuine.
‘Go on, let me drive you. It would be nice to chat in the car. In fact, I was hoping . . . I’d love for the chance to take you out properly. Nice restaurant.’
‘You’re forgetting something. I’m not the one who fancies you.’
‘Ah, that. I’ve had a word with Darcy. Made it clear. Tactfully!’ he added quickly at the look on Becky’s face.
She said nothing, and he seemed to falter – but surely that wasn’t possible, thought Becky. This was arrogant, cool Piers.
‘Please? Becky?’
Becky! He’d called her Becky. She had to pick her chin up off the floor.
He held out a crooked arm. ‘So, will you?’
She almost went then, almost thought, sod it, the rain’s terrible. I could do with a lift.
‘I’ve got my bike.’
‘It’ll fit in the back. I’ve got an estate,’ he explained, ‘for the dogs.’ And she realized she knew nothing about him.
‘Dogs?’
‘Two. A working cocker and a lab.’
This seemed so out of character, her jaw fell open again. Did obnoxious people have dogs?
Becky hesitated. They were standing outside Terence’s office and she remembered the conversation from earlier. How Piers had landed her in it.
‘Nah, you’re all right,’ she said.
His face crumpled into such a look of disappointment she was taken aback.
‘Oh,’ he said.
She was embarrassed then, awkward. Then realized she was going to be late if she didn’t get a move on.
‘Another time, maybe,’ she mumbled and headed for the lift that took her down to the garage. As she pressed the button, she shook her head, bewildered. What had happened back there? The lift reached the basement and she stepped out and saw Darcy getting into her car. Becky smiled and was just lifting a hand in goodbye when Darcy blanked her. Becky stared as Darcy drove away. What was all that about? Come to think of it, Darcy had kept her distance all afternoon. It suddenly hit her. It was Darcy who’d grassed her up. Darcy, who fancied Piers. Becky paused, in half a mind to go back upstairs and accept Piers’s offer of a lift. But time was ticking. If she wasn’t careful, she’d miss her train. Be late for the meet with Tim.
Becky quickly unlocked her bike and cycled out of the garage, the rain pelting her eyes immediately. She turned into Gray’s Inn Road, not noticing a motorcyclist with a black visor pull in behind her. The rain was relentless, and the cars sped past, soaking her further. Becky turned off the main road as soon as she could, taking her usual route down the side streets.
It was better once she was away from the traffic and she relaxed a little. She was looking forward to the evening, meeting the man who had put a smile on her mum’s face. It would be nice to forget about work for a few hours and just hang out at home. She’d grab a bottle of wine from the shop once she’d got off the train. Maybe something really nice to go with the fillet steak. Something special.
At a junction, she stopped to let a lorry pass. Then she turned left, following in its path. She kept her distance, knowing the spray from such a large vehicle would be severe. Becky didn’t see the motorbike turn down another street and disappear into the night.
As she headed for the next junction, a gust of wind blew
rain into her face. The same gust turned a woman’s umbrella inside out and she glanced over as the woman on the pavement struggled to right it. Becky needed to go left at the junction and she stopped patiently behind the lorry, who had his indicator on, also turning left. She saw him check his mirrors, saw him acknowledge her with a friendly wave, and she lifted her arm, likewise.
Becky waited for the truck to turn, but he didn’t move. She peered up through the rain and saw he was beckoning to her, indicating for her to go first. She double-checked this was the message he was giving. There was plenty of room to cycle down the side of the truck – he was one of the few drivers who actually left the obligatory 1.5 metres from the kerb for cyclists. There was no one behind her.
She double-checked again – yes – he had his thumb up, then waved his hand to signal ‘you go, you go’. She stood on her pedal.
She cycled alongside him and was just midway past his vehicle when she sensed it move. Alarmed, she looked up. Jesus, he was driving. She was almost at the corner now and saw there were railings along the edge of the pavement. She was sandwiched between the truck and the railings. With a panicked burst she tried to cycle around the corner to safety but then the truck clipped her wheel and with a cry she fell from her bike and the huge, thundering metal machine was over her, the wheels bearing down on her, and then she felt unbelievable, excruciating pain. Confusion, agony. She tried to move, couldn’t move. Somehow, deep in her mind, she knew why. The wheels were on top of her.
A woman rushed over, and Becky registered the horror on her face. Somehow that frightened her more, seeing her reaction.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ the woman kept on crying out, a twisted umbrella in her hand, which she suddenly dropped. ‘An ambulance is on its way,’ she said, visibly trying to pull it together.
Time slipped. Becky felt the woman take her hand. She heard someone else shout, ‘Move! Move it forward!’ and there were blue lights reflected in the windows of the buildings she could just see from under the truck. She suddenly realized what the lights were, and she saw legs in uniforms, a policeman bend down and say, ‘We’re going to get you out, love.’ A thought streaked through her mind: I’m going to be late for Mum. Then the woman who’d taken her hand let go and she heard the engine rev and then everything went dark.
The Daughter Page 32