‘I had to meet someone after work,’ she said. ‘Why?’
He sat down at the kitchen table, moving a couple of dirty mugs to one side. ‘Mags phoned. I haven’t spoken to that bitch for years. She hasn’t changed: still as vindictive as ever.’
Molly sat down opposite him. There was a sticky patch on the table, where something had obviously been spilt and not cleaned up properly. ‘Why is Mags phoning you? I thought you hated her.’
‘I didn’t ask her to phone. I don’t even know how the bitch got hold of my number.’ He looked at Molly as though she was the guilty party.
She suspected a former work colleague had passed it on; she didn’t really care. ‘What did she want?’
Jon looked over at Molly for a moment, his eyes twinkling either with tears or anger, she couldn’t tell. ‘She says you’ve been asking questions about me. She claims you’ve been asking her about my past, whether I was ever violent, that sort of thing.’ His eyes continued to gleam and there was a slight tremble to his voice. ‘Why would you go behind my back like that, to her of all people? I told you what she was like. You can’t trust a word she says, but still – you would rather talk to her than ask me myself.’ He shook his head. ‘Why do I feel like you’ve betrayed me?’
She waited until he’d finished. She could feel anger swell up inside her like a balloon inflating inside her stomach. Her betrayal: that was rich. That was very rich indeed, after what she’d just heard earlier that day. ‘Why don’t you ask me about who I was meeting this evening? Because she had some very interesting things to say about you, Jon. Very interesting and very alarming.’
He splayed his hands and shrugged. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been to see Melanie Harris. You remember, the intern you harassed. You terrorised that poor girl, Jon. She was just a kid.’
She watched his expression change from shock to anger to something that looked like total bewilderment. ‘You’ve done what? You tracked down someone I worked with decades ago and talked to her about me! And did she tell you what you wanted to hear? Did she tell you I was some kind of sicko who did… what, exactly? What did she tell you about me?’
Molly tried to keep her voice level. ‘She told me you pestered her, intimidated her. She had to go to the police, Jon. That’s how desperate she was. That’s how frightened she was.’ Her voice was rising now; all efforts to remain detached and impassive, professional almost, were evaporating. ‘In fact, she pretty much supported everything Magda Kilbride told me about you.’
Jon stood up quickly, knocking one of the mugs onto the tiled floor, where it smashed into several pieces. He went to the sink and ran the cold tap, splashing tepid water onto his face.
She felt a pang of guilt prickle at the back of her neck. Was she being unfair?
Jon turned to face her. ‘It’s all lies, Molly. All of it. I asked Melanie Harris out for a drink a couple of times, but only because she led me to believe she was interested in me. I texted her a couple of times after she left – because she hated the job, not because of me – and asked why she’d lied about me. It wasn’t harassment. This is all shit stirred up by Mags because she’s jealous of us and bitter because her life is empty and the only pleasure she can get is to try and make other people’s lives as depressing as hers.’
There was water dripping off his face. Or maybe it was sweat, Molly couldn’t tell.
He leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the worktop either side of it. ‘But what really hurts, what I struggle to forgive, is that you went behind my back. You believed these lies enough to track down some silly bint I worked with years ago who fed you a ton of shit about me and you believed her. Why, Molly? I mean, just…why?’
She couldn’t answer. Words formed in her head but got stuck in her throat. She hadn’t meant it to be like this – this confrontation between them. She’d wanted to be cool, calm and collected, but instead found herself shaking inside; her stomach twisting and her mouth dry.
‘Jon, I so wanted not to believe that girl, but nothing you’ve said has convinced me otherwise.’ She could feel tears prickling behind her eyes. ‘What happened back then? What was going on inside your head?’
He was red in the face, either with sadness or fury, it was difficult to tell. He looked at her, his face still damp, just staring at her. Then he said, ‘I can’t do this. I need some air.’
He charged past her, out of the kitchen and a moment later she heard the front door slam. She just sat there, her whole body trembling very slightly. Somewhere in the background she could hear tinny music playing, probably a neighbour’s radio.
She tried to convince herself she’d done the right thing confronting Jon: she was a police officer and confronting people with difficult facts was part of her daily life. She’d developed an almost intuitive sense of knowing when someone was lying to her, but when it came to her own boyfriend, she couldn’t be sure.
How could she tell if she was living with a monster?
Chapter Forty-Three
It wasn’t that Denning didn’t want the food; the grumbling in his stomach was proof of that. It was more that he just couldn’t concentrate. It was like the act of eating was just too much effort.
The restaurant was air-conditioned and not very busy, but he felt uncomfortably warm. Their fellow diners consisted mostly of cool young couples looking bright and trendy and trying hard to look bored. Sarah was doing her best to keep the conversation going: talking to him about anything other than work, anything to keep his mind off the very thing he wanted to focus on.
‘I’ve seen a couple of properties online I think we should have a look at,’ she said, smiling at him over a roasted pecan and avocado salad. ‘One’s in Hertfordshire, so it would be a bit of a trek into work every day, but it’s been on the market for a while and they’ve just reduced the asking price by twenty thousand. If we were to put in a cheeky offer…’
He looked up from his plate of chorizo sausage and cucumber salad, suddenly aware that she was waiting for him to speak.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, I was miles away. Something about a property in Hertfordshire.’
‘Well…?’
He took a sip of iced water, hoping it would help to cool him down. ‘Yes, I think we should look at it. This weekend maybe.’
‘Matt, is anything the matter? You’ve barely touched your food.’
He threw his fork down on the table. ‘I’m just not as hungry as I thought.’
‘Do you want to order something else?’
He shook his head. His phone pinged with a text, from Claire. Can we meet?
His first thought was to ignore it; she probably just wanted to mess him around over Jake again. But he wanted an excuse to get away from the restaurant and away from Sarah and her incessant chatter about buying houses.
‘I need to pop out,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat. I won’t be long.’
‘What about your dinner?’ Sarah asked, her voice rising an octave above its usual level. ‘You can’t just leave it.’
‘I told you, I’m just not that hungry.’ He took three twenty pound notes out of his wallet and placed them on the table next to Sarah. ‘Tell them to keep the change.’
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Denning was knocking on Claire’s door. The minute he opened the door, he could tell she’d been crying: her puffy eyes were tinged with red.
‘What’s happened?’
She ushered him into the compact sitting room at the front of the house. The walls were painted an off-white and a cream sofa and two matching armchairs sat on a pale carpet. The only punctuation of colour was a blue and beige rug beside the faux marble fireplace. Denning sat in the armchair that faced the television, where he always used to sit when he lived there.
Claire sat down on the sofa, folding her body around herself.
‘Where’s Jake?’ Denning asked.
; ‘He’s in bed,’ she replied, although it was much earlier than his usual bedtime.
‘What’s happened?’ Denning repeated.
‘Alan and I have had a massive argument.’ She said it very matter-of-factly. ‘I think it might be over between us.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of hours ago. Jake was playing up and I said he couldn’t go to LazerWorld tomorrow. He had a massive tantrum and started throwing things. Alan just snapped. He said he’d had enough of us living like this.’ She rubbed a hand over her eyes. ‘He’s not been himself lately. I think he’s stressed about work. That and the fact his new place is taking so long to finish. I’ve texted him a few times in the last couple of hours saying we need to talk about it, but he hasn’t replied.’
For a moment Denning thought this might be down to him, that maybe he’d come across too heavy when he’d confronted Marsden that morning: the overprotective father and ex-partner scaring off the competition… ‘It doesn’t follow that it’s over just because you’ve had an argument. Maybe he just needs a bit of space to get his head together.’
She shook her head. ‘No. Things haven’t been right for a while. I think he resents Jake. I mean, he’s never said so, and they seemed to get on well together, but God knows Jake can be difficult when he wants to be.’
He couldn’t deny that Jake could be a handful, even though he’d calmed down since his GP had changed his medication to Equasym XL. However, Marsden had assured him Jake wasn’t an issue, despite what Claire might think. ‘You need to speak to Alan, Claire. Before you start jumping to conclusions.’
‘I know when a relationship is dead in the water, Matt. I knew with us, didn’t I?’
He sighed. ‘This isn’t about us though, is it?’ He looked over at his ex-wife, sitting crumpled and pathetic on the pale sofa. He couldn’t help feeling responsible for the mess her life had become. Part of him wanted to go over and give her a reassuring hug, tell her everything would work out all right. But there wouldn’t be any point: neither of them could turn back the clock.
‘Look, if you want my advice, call him tomorrow. Tell him you want to meet up somewhere neutral, and talk things through. Sarah and I can look after Jake for a while if the two of you need some time to yourselves.’
Claire’s face contorted into a tight fist. ‘Is that why you came round tonight? It’s not about me at all: you just want to take Jake from me.’
‘Now you’re not being rational, Claire. I came here because you texted me. You wanted to see me, so here I am.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight. I don’t even know why I texted you. I just needed to talk to someone.’
‘There’s always your mum.’
‘My mum doesn’t want to know. She’s never forgiven me for agreeing to divorce you. She thinks I should have worked harder at the marriage. She blames me.’
Again, he felt another twinge of guilt. ‘That’s not true. She’s never taken sides.’ He’d always got on well with his former mother-in-law; obviously she’d saved her censure of their divorce for Claire’s ears.
‘Speak to Alan, Claire. Sort this out. If you want him back in your life then do something about it.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the time or the energy to deal with this right now.’
* * *
Molly waited up for Jon. She’d tried reading a book, tried watching some rubbish on television, but nothing seemed to sink in. She’d thought about calling him, but realised his mobile phone was sitting on the table in the sitting room.
She didn’t know how she felt. She knew she loved Jon, despite everything, but she couldn’t commit herself emotionally to a man she couldn’t trust. She couldn’t take the risk of getting hurt again.
It was after midnight when he returned. She’d assumed he’d been down the pub, getting pissed out his mind, but he was sober. Sober and surprisingly calm.
‘I think I owe you an explanation,’ he said, sitting on the chaise longue. He rubbed a hand over his head. There were sweat stains on his t-shirt and a faint smell of vomit about him.
‘Jon, I—’ she began, but he cut her off.
‘It’s true, about Melanie Harris. Not the way she puts it, but basically she’s right about me behaving badly. I’m not going to gloss over it, but I was in a bad place, mentally. I’d just split up with Marguerite, my head was all over the place. Melanie was all friendly and flirty at first; she clearly enjoyed having someone chasing round after her like a prick. She got off on me making a twat of myself over her. But, I admit, things probably went too far.’ He paused, staring at his feet and slowly shaking his head from side to side. ‘She was just a kid, she didn’t know what she was doing. I was in my thirties, twice divorced, I should have handled the whole thing better. But, like I said, my head was scrambled; I was drinking too much, taking too much white powder. I didn’t know my own backside half the time. I was desperate and I thought she offered a way out.’
‘So you did harass her? Is that what you’re saying?’
He rubbed his palms into his tired eyes. ‘No. Not “harass”. She’s wrong. I just… I suppose I did get slightly obsessed. I thought if I could pull an attractive young girl like Melanie, then I could convince myself I wasn’t useless and past it.’
Molly struggled to take all this in. ‘You deliberately intimidated a young woman just to prove to yourself you weren’t past it? And you think it’s OK to behave like that?’
‘No, of course I don’t. I’m not trying to excuse my behaviour.’ He reached out to touch her but she flinched, backing away instinctively.
‘Really? Because it sounds to me like that’s exactly what you’re doing.’
He rubbed his hand over his face, wiping away sweat and tears and snot. ‘I don’t know what else I can say. It was a long time ago. I was a fuck-up back then.’ He shot her an imploring look. ‘I was a different person then. You have to believe that.’
A silence filled the stuffy room. Molly didn’t know how to respond. If Jon had been capable of that, what else was he capable of?
‘I’m going to move my stuff into the spare room,’ she said, ‘at least for now.’ She couldn’t think about the long term. She didn’t even know if she and Jon had a ‘long term’. She wasn’t sure about anything any more.
* * *
The digital clock display read 02:43.
Denning had been awake for at least half an hour. Knowing sleep was unlikely, he eased himself out of bed carefully and quietly so as not to disturb Sarah who lay next to him, her deep breathing giving way to the occasional light snore. There was a coolness about the flat, helped by the fan standing at the foot of the bed, circulating unruffled air around the large, open space. His skin was itchy and the t-shirt he slept in was drenched with sweat.
He padded downstairs to the living room and headed to the French windows. Outside, London slept the sleep of the just. Except it didn’t. London never fully slept: there was always a lack of stillness about the city, even at night.
Claire’s cry for help still echoed in his ears. He knew that he and his ex-wife would be forever bound together by their love for Jake. But sometimes it felt like more than that. Marrying so young, both barely out of university, it had felt as though their lives were destined to be eternally entwined. Claire was going through a bad patch, again, and he was going to have to shoulder some of the blame.
Then there was the unavoidable reality of there being a serial killer out there somewhere…
A stubborn pain gnawed at the base of his neck. He tried rubbing it away, but it stayed there, throbbing like a pulsating dagger. He scratched at his skin, trying to erase the itchiness that just wouldn’t go away.
He thought about Fisher and her wild claims; maybe not so wild after all – maybe more like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit at the moment, but could somehow if someone were able to slot them together correctly.
Chapter Forty-Four
Mo
lly pushed open the door to the MIT suite. The room felt stuffier than the CID offices downstairs, but the layout was exactly the same: a large, open-plan office with metal desks arranged in pairs. Although it was a Saturday morning, there were already one or two detectives tapping away at keyboards as though this were a normal working day for them. She hadn’t had time to take it all in the other day, when Denning had ushered her into Betty Taggart’s office, only to promptly usher her out again a few short minutes later.
She noticed three mobile whiteboards at one end of the room, on which were posted an assortment of photos and a mass of scribbled notes, connected by arrows and with certain words encircled. The atmosphere felt heavy and slightly intimidating. CID seemed friendlier somehow, or maybe she just knew everyone better.
Molly was trying to be positive. This was what she’d waited such a long time for. But the timing couldn’t be worse.
Jon was still asleep when she’d left for work that morning. She’d briefly thought about knocking on his bedroom door to ask how he was, but everything still felt too raw for her to go prodding that particular wound. Part of her wanted to run a PNC check on Jon: if Melanie Harris had reported Jon’s harassment to the police then there would be a record, combined with their respective statements. But what would be the point? Jon had as good as admitted that Melanie Harris’s claims were true. And there was always the possibility the PNC would tell her something she didn’t want to know.
The first person to speak to her was Trudi. She arrived a few minutes after Molly and greeted her with a warm smile. ‘Molly, hi. What you doing here?’
‘I’m joining the team,’ she said, feeling slightly awkward, realising she should have let Trudi know beforehand, rather than just pitching up unannounced. ‘Temporarily,’ she added. ‘It’s been OK’d by Betty Taggart.’
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