‘What’ve you come up with?’ he asked, peering at the screen.
‘I have an idea, but it’s risky and will only help with this month’s payments. We’ll have to think of something else after that.’
I had no idea what – even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t keep coming up with something month after month. I hated what I was about to suggest, but we were out of options and I needed to meet my interest payments.
The back of my throat ached and I swallowed hard.
‘We’re going to do a parachute jump. I’ve printed sponsorship forms – one for each of us – and we can do it next weekend. We just need to get people to sign up for whatever they’re prepared to give, and then collect the money when we’ve done it.’
I knew it was fraud and felt sick as the words tumbled from my mouth.
‘I’ve found where we can do the jump, and it’s not too far from where I live. You could come up for the weekend – stay with me. My mum and dad would love to meet you. Then we could do the training and everything together.’
Scott turned horrified eyes on me. ‘I can’t jump out of an aeroplane! Sponsorship’s a great idea, but not that.’
I felt my eyes fill with tears. I thought he would be thrilled with my ingenuity.
He groaned. ‘I’m sorry, Spike. I know you’re trying to help, but I’m not sure I can face your parents either – not until I’m out of this mess. We’re too stressed, and they’re bound to feel it.’
He was probably right about that, but I couldn’t help being disappointed. I was sure they would love him.
‘What about a sponsored walk, or a run or…something?’ he suggested.
‘No one’s going to pay big money for you to walk a few miles, are they? It needs to be something brave.’
‘I get that. But don’t we have to pay to do the jump?’
‘We’d take the expenses from the money we raise. The rest would be ours.’
I was trying to kid myself that it really would be for charity because the money would be used to replace the cash I had collected and Scott had lost, but I knew it was wrong.
Scott scratched the side of his face as he thought. ‘So why do the jump at all? Why not just say we’ve done it?’
‘Because people need evidence. We’ll need to show them our certificates.’
He shook his head. ‘Come on – you know that’s not true. Have you ever signed a sponsorship form and afterwards asked to see evidence that the person has completed the task? Anyway, we could find photos. No one’s going to know it’s not us, are they? They’ll just see bodies floating down to earth. And we save the money it would cost us to do it, plus my train fare up to yours. We’d be much better off.’
I understood the logic, but to raise enough money I would have to rely on the support of people I had known all my life. Friends, family, maybe even some of the regulars at the hotel where Mum worked. And wherever in the country I said I was going to jump, I knew my parents would insist on coming to watch and cheer me on. I hated lying about where the money was going, but I had to cover the first payment, and I needed their help. And somehow doing the jump made it all seem slightly less wicked.
‘I’ll have to do it,’ I said. ‘We’ll need separate forms, so if you don’t think anyone will come along to support you, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether you do it or not.’
Scott sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Spike. Another of my many shortcomings is that I’m scared of heights.’
The thought of the jump terrified me too, but how difficult could it be?
‘How much do you think we might make?’ Scott asked.
‘I’d hope to make at least five hundred pounds. Do you think you could do the same?’
Scott looked crestfallen. ‘Is that all? It still won’t be enough. We need to think of something else – something bigger.’
He was right. I would be able to pay one month’s interest with a little to spare, but it wouldn’t touch Scott’s. We sat in miserable silence for a while, until he leaped up and punched the air.
‘I’ve got it. Why don’t we replicate the raffle – the one you raised the three grand for? We’d need to offer prizes, of course – probably a big win for someone.’
‘Won’t the prize take all the money?’
‘Yes, if we actually declare a winner and give them the prize.’
‘Won’t people want to know who’s won?’ I asked.
He started to pace, hands behind his head, thinking out loud. I didn’t like the sound of it.
‘We’d have to go to other universities, different parts of Manchester, because you’ve been selling tickets here for weeks, so we could go to Salford Uni, Manchester Met, local colleges.’ He spun towards me, clearly excited by his idea. ‘Then we could produce a sheet with the winners on – fake names from different universities – but we’d make sure someone on each campus won something. That way everyone would know of a winner, even if they didn’t know them personally, and hopefully no one would query the big prize.’
‘What sort of prizes?’
‘Something cheap, affordable. Things that students love. Maybe free pizza delivery, book tokens, cinema tickets, a Tesco voucher – things like that. Look, I’ll email you some ideas. Can you design the tickets and get them printed? If you made three grand just around here, we could run it for – say – two months and easily get five. With that and the sponsorship for the parachute jump, we might keep Cameron off our backs until after Christmas.’
I knew this was only a temporary fix. We would have to come up with something bigger and far more profitable if we were to find enough money to cover the interest and start to repay both loans. But however sick I felt at what we were about to do, it was nothing to the fear of what Jagger would do to Scott, and very possibly me, if we failed to make our payments.
But I should have listened to the voice in my head, telling me that what we were about to do was wrong. Terribly wrong.
30
‘What the hell does Dawn Edmunds think she’s playing at?’ Tom shouted as he stormed into the incident room. ‘Becky, have you spoken to her?’ He marched towards her desk and stood there, hands on hips, as if he was about to blame her for Mrs Edmunds’ statement to the press.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of her since the news went out, but she’s not answering her phone. I thought I’d go out there and explain that she might be putting her husband’s life in danger. Do you want to come?’
‘No, I bloody don’t. I wouldn’t be able to keep my temper. We’ve got officers there in case her husband comes home or someone decides to come looking for him. What the hell were they doing when she was chatting to the press? Having a cup of tea? Give them hell, Becky.’
Becky stayed silent. Tom was in a rare bad mood, and she could only assume it had something to do with the problems with his daughter.
‘Keith, where are we with the details of the victim?’ Tom stomped off towards the whiteboard, to which Keith was sticking photographs in perfectly straight lines.
Becky breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Lynsey. ‘Do you want to come with me to see Mrs Edmunds, Lyns? Get out of here for a while? The house has to be seen to be believed.’
Lynsey leaped up from her desk, clearly as anxious as Becky to escape. But their getaway was thwarted.
‘Becky, come and take a look at this.’
She winked at Lynsey, who was looking slightly terrified. The young detective sat back down abruptly and Becky made her way over to Tom.
‘The victim in the car – the valet – is Derek Brent, we believe, so before you go off to read Mrs Edmunds the riot act, can you liaise with Keith and set up an investigation into Brent, as quietly and subtly as we can? All we say is that he appears to be missing and he might be vital to an ongoing investigation.’ Tom tapped his finger on a name on the board. ‘Next we have Roger Jagger. Tell Becky what you just told me, Keith.’
Keith pulled a piece of paper from below Jagger’s name on the whiteboard and re
ad from it. ‘He isn’t on any electoral register that we can find. He doesn’t pay tax and isn’t registered for National Insurance. We can’t find any bank accounts in that name, nor can we find a driving licence. We have a Roger Jagger with a police record, but no address that is still valid, and we don’t know if it’s the same man.’
Tom turned to Becky. ‘Is Jagger his real name or a pseudonym? We need to find him. It sounds like he’s our best lead to track down Edmunds, who’s been missing for a couple of days now. We need to make sure he’s alive and safe.’
He turned back to the board. ‘There was nothing of any use in the Edmunds’ house, and for now we can’t get into the safe. We’ve requested CCTV from the casino, and we’ve had officers there seeing if they can identify the woman he is sometimes seen with. A picture would be helpful, so see if we can grab a still from the CCTV when we finally get it. Get someone to check ANPR to see where he’s been in the last week – anywhere that his wife might identify as out of the ordinary, if she knows what that is. I want to know where his phone went to sleep each night and where it woke up each morning. Whether he was the intended victim, the perpetrator, or is entirely irrelevant to our investigation, we need to know.’
Becky decided not to mention to Tom that most of these tasks had already been assigned. There was no point, so she merely nodded.
‘I’ll make sure everything’s in hand before I go to see Mrs Edmunds,’ she said evenly.
‘Well, let me know when you’re ready because I’ve decided I’m coming too. Her husband is now a missing person, flagged on PNC as locate/trace. We need to know everything about him – every last little sordid detail that she has implied but hasn’t told us. Ring ahead and tell the officers on duty there that we would appreciate it if she’s bloody sober when we get there.’
With that, Tom strode out of the room.
Becky ignored Keith’s slightly shocked expression, turned to Lynsey and winced.
‘I guess you wouldn’t want to come now even if I suggested it, would you?’
‘Err…no, I don’t think so. Plenty to be getting on with here.’ Lynsey grinned.
Becky laughed. ‘Wish me luck.’
31
In the end I decide I can’t stay at home – not even for the whole morning, let alone the whole day. Dominic is watching me with concerned eyes, and I have to get away so he can’t see my confusion.
If Cameron’s wife was telling the truth, it wasn’t her husband’s body in the car park. And, whatever the reporters think, I find it hard to doubt her. There was something depressingly indifferent about her, as if she didn’t much care whether her husband was dead or not as long as the reporters moved away from her gate. Knowing Cameron as I do, that makes perfect sense.
School feels like a safer, calmer option, although Jennie can be uncannily perceptive too. I switch the radio to a music-only channel for my journey. I don’t want to hear anyone’s opinion on any subject at all right now, least of all on whether Cameron Edmunds Junior is dead or alive.
I still sometimes feel a tremor of fear as I drive through the school gates, scanning the car park for any vehicles that I don’t recognise. Today it hits me hard as I remember the morning shortly after Dominic was hurt eighteen months ago, when I walked through the main entrance to find Jagger sitting on one of my new red chairs in reception, looking respectable in a suit, white shirt and tie.
‘This gentleman would like to talk about his daughter, who’s moving to the area,’ Jennie informed me.
I wanted to scream at him to get out, to leave me in peace, but I couldn’t, so in a shaky voice I politely invited him into my office.
I’d spent the days after Dominic’s ‘accident’ looking over my shoulder, waiting for the inevitable moment when Jagger would strike, but I never expected him to have the audacity to march into my school.
I asked him to take a seat because Jennie could see through the glass window in the door between our offices, and with a charming smile, as if we really were chatting about his daughter, he cut straight to the chase.
‘Your debt is off the scale, Anna. You’re smart, and I imagine you’ve checked it out. Three thousand at ten per cent per month compound interest for – what – over twelve years? Billions, Anna. Billions.’
He was right. I had used an online calculator and nearly passed out when I saw the total. Three billion, give or take a million or two.
‘Funny how it adds up, isn’t it?’ He gave me a sick smile. ‘Cameron’s not unreasonable, though. He knows you can’t pay that, and it would be foolish to ask. So we’ve assessed your assets – looked at your house, both your cars, and we have a rough idea of their value. No mortgage, I understand. That’s good, isn’t it? Makes life easier.’
I didn’t answer, the tightness of my throat making words impossible.
‘Oh, and of course there’s your mother’s house!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘How could I forget that? How thoughtful of her to transfer ownership to you.’
I closed my eyes. How had he found that out? But he seemed to know everything. After my dad died, Mum thought it might help avoid inheritance tax if she transferred her house to me, as she was in her seventies. Although I told her repeatedly that the value of her home was below the tax threshold, she wouldn’t change her mind.
‘Governments switch these things around, so better to be safe than sorry,’ she’d said.
Jagger was clearly waiting for me to say something, but there was nothing to say. The agreement could well be binding, but demanding repayment using threats of violence was definitely illegal. What would happen if I went to the police? Who would he hurt next? Dominic again? My mother? My children?
Jagger nodded as if my silence signified compliance. ‘Cameron has decided that on the basis of the value of these two properties – around £450,000, we reckon – he’ll settle for that. We expect to see sale boards up in the next two weeks.’
He stood with a further smile and walked towards the door. He turned, one hand on the knob. ‘Oh, and Cameron asked me to mention – if you’re thinking of stalling for time or seeking third-party advice – that he has some photos your husband, or indeed the trustees of the school, might be interested in. And of course we know where you live. Be seeing you, Anna.’
That was eighteen months ago, and I don’t know how I made it through the next few days or how I managed to convince everyone that I was fine. When Jennie asked if there was something worrying me, I said I was concerned about Dominic’s leg, which was true. In fact, it became a useful excuse for my erratic moods while I tried to figure out what I was going to do. How could I deprive my family and my own mother of their homes?
But I learned a vital lesson in those few days. I discovered that I was able to lie without blinking, and I taught myself to hide every emotion other than those I wanted people to see. I taught myself to become the other me.
There are no unknown cars outside school when I arrive today. It’s one less thing to worry about, and so, pasting a smile on my face, I walk through the front door and head towards my room, giving a cheery wave to Jennie as I pass the window to the general office. The look I get from my friend and colleague is difficult to interpret. It’s a smile but one that tells a story. A story that hasn’t yet been shared with me.
With a frown I close the door to my room, expecting Jennie to come bounding in behind me with a cup of coffee, eager as ever to say hello and talk about the day ahead. But she doesn’t appear. Maybe after my absence yesterday, and then again this morning, she is beginning to wonder if I am as reliable as I should be. I need to offer some explanation for yesterday, and I should do it straight away if I want to retain her trust, so I push back from my desk and walk through to the outer office.
Hanging onto the doorknob, I lean through the opening. ‘Hi Jen, have you got a minute?’ I give her my brightest smile.
Jennie looks up, and I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes.
‘Are you okay? What’s the matter? Come into my offic
e and tell me what’s upsetting you. Let me see if I can help.’
Jennie gives me a look that I can only describe as puzzled, but she stands up and follows me, grabbing a couple of tissues from a box. I guide her towards the sofa in what I call my ‘cosy area’, where I chat to parents and children in an informal way.
‘I’m sorry for my absence yesterday and this morning. I know it was unprofessional, but there was something I had to do that I don’t want to talk about. It’s tricky, but I’ll try not to make a habit of it.’
I smile as if I have cracked a small joke, but Jennie looks down at the tissue she is twisting in her hands. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she says quietly.
‘I know, but you’re my friend and I don’t like keeping things from you unless I absolutely have to.’
Jennie lifts anguished eyes towards me. ‘I understand why you need to keep it a secret – we all do. You’ve been very specific about not wanting to talk about it, but it’s impossible for me to say nothing, to act as if there’s nothing wrong.’
I stare at her. What on earth is she talking about?
‘Look, I don’t know what you mean, Jen, but everything’s fine. Really it is.’
‘It’s not, though!’ Jennie is practically shouting. ‘This is when you need your friends, so don’t shut me out. I don’t know how long you’ve got, but for God’s sake, Anna, we can’t ignore that it’s happening. We care about you, you know. All of us.’
Now I’m totally bemused.
‘Jennie, love, tell me what you’re talking about. Please.’
Jennie raises her eyes in apparent frustration. ‘Stop messing with me. You’ve posted it on the Internet, so it’s not exactly a secret. You say you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fair enough, but can we just acknowledge it and then never mention it again?’
This is becoming weirder by the moment. I no longer know what questions to ask.
‘And before you say another word, Anna, we’re all chipping in. We’ll get you the money. We’ve already been talking about ways we can help, and everyone’s putting their minds to jumble sales, sponsored events, anything we can think of. We’ll get you there.’
The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Page 14