“What’s in the bag?” Gareth asked, glancing down at it. He saw Laura’s hand tighten on the paper. “Anything nice?”
“Never you mind,” she said, almost sharply. “I’ve bought myself something nice, but not telling you what. Nosey parker.” Gareth looked at her and suppressed a grin. She said goodbye and turned to leave, but not quickly enough to hide the fact she was blushing.
24
We need to chat, or the next one’s going to the newspapers.
Annette stared at the screen of her laptop, feeling sick. For a moment, she thought she was actually going to be sick, but the sensation passed.
“What the hell?” she muttered under her breath. Who was doing this to her? Her fingers trembling, she clicked on the attachment and waited for it to open.
When the image appeared on the screen, she let out a gasp, not realising that she’d been holding her breath. Her mouth dropped as she took in the image. It was Philip, sitting down and grinning at the camera. On his lap was an adolescent girl who was looking away from the photographer, her terror obvious. The girl was perhaps in her early teens. Very early teens. She didn’t look European—her skin was a mocha colour, and her clothes ragged. There was nothing explicit about the photograph but the lurid expression on her husband’s face—combined with the fear on the girl’s face—made it one of the most horrifying pictures she’d ever seen.
Annette swallowed back the saliva that had appeared in her mouth, and she closed the image down before deleting the e-mail. Then she emptied the trash of her Gmail account and shut the lid of the laptop. She needed to do something, but she had no idea what.
“Come on, think,” she said to herself. Although she had got over the initial shock of seeing the pictures that she’d burnt, and the realisation that her husband was a paedophile, a sense of confusion and anger had replaced it. If the revelation had been public, it might have been easier as at least then she would have been able to talk about it with someone, but the fact it wasn’t made things much harder. How could she not have noticed? Was she compliant in some way? Was it her fault?
Annette pushed these feelings to the back of her mind, trying to force herself to think logically. What could she do? One option, and the most obvious one, would be to go to the police. If she was being blackmailed, surely they could do something about that? Find whoever it was who was doing it? But then the whole story would come out, and she would be guilty by association. She would almost certainly lose her job. Annette didn’t think that they would want the wife of a paedophile working in the council’s children’s services, no matter how innocent she actually was. After that sort of dismissal, getting any job in the future would be impossible. So going to the police wasn’t really an option.
Her main problem was that she was totally alone. No best friend to confide in, ask advice of. When she had gone to Australia, all of her friends in the United Kingdom had gradually tailed away and, when she had come back, Philip had forbidden her from seeing any of them. He had even deleted their contact details from her phone and her e-mail account.
Annette opened the laptop back up and navigated to the home page for Facebook. She used to have an account, until Philip had found out, but there was nothing to stop her opening up a new one. Maybe she could reconnect with some of her old friends that way? She had just set up an account in the name of Annette Dawson when the doorbell rang, making her jump. She’d been so engrossed in what she was doing that she’d missed whoever it was coming up the path.
“Hey, Gareth,” Annette said a few seconds later when she opened the door to her big brother.
“Little sis,” Gareth replied, giving her his trademark hug. “How are you doing?” he asked, grinning. “Thought I’d pop round and cheer you up a bit.”
“Piss off, Gareth,” she said, with meaning. She really wasn’t in the mood for his banter. “I don’t need cheering up, and certainly not by you.” When she saw his face fall, Annette immediately felt bad. She stepped back to let him into the house. “Sorry,” she said after a few seconds had passed. “That was uncalled for. I’m just having a bad day.”
“That’s allowed, under the circumstances,” he replied. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Five minutes later, they were sitting in the lounge. Gareth looked toward the laptop which Annette had put on the sofa when the doorbell rang.
“You back on Facebook, are you?” he said, nodding at the screen.
“Yeah, I figured I might as well. No-one’s going to delete me off it this time.”
“That’s a good idea,” Gareth replied. “Make sure you add me as a friend. And Laura, too. Her surname’s Flynn.”
“Sure.”
They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments before Gareth spoke again.
“How are you really doing, little sis?” His voice was low, almost a whisper. Annette could feel a lump forming in her throat and was worried that she was about to burst into tears.
“This is shit,” she replied, swallowing. “Absolutely shit.”
“I know.” Annette looked at him as he said this, but he was staring into his mug of tea. “When Jennifer died, I just went completely off the rails.”
“But at least you had somewhere for your anger to go.”
“How d’you mean?” He was looking at her, eyebrows raised.
“Well, you went after the bloke that killed her. You did something about it.”
“Anger’s a natural reaction, Annette.”
“Were you angry with Jennifer? For dying?”
“No, not at all. I was angry with everything else, but not her.” Gareth took a sip from his mug. “Are you angry with Philip?”
Annette paused, not quite sure how to answer. She wasn’t angry with him for dying, but because of what she’d since found out he was. But that wasn’t something she could discuss with her big brother.
“I just feel useless,” she said eventually. “Like I need to do something, but there’s nothing that I can do.”
“It gets easier, Annette. With time.”
“But I need to do something.” Annette thought for a moment, Gareth seemingly content to leave her alone. In that moment, she made a decision.
“Gareth, do you know how I get back an e-mail I’ve deleted?”
“It’ll be in your trash folder. You use Gmail, right?”
“I’ve emptied it.”
“And now you want it back?” he asked, frowning. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. But do you know how to do it?”
“I don’t,” Gareth replied, “but I know a man who does. Will I get Dave to call you? He’s my tech bloke in the office.”
“Will he be able to get it back without reading it?”
“If I tell him to, he will.” Gareth’s frown deepened. “What’s going on, Annette?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Annette replied, forcing a smile onto her face. She pulled the laptop onto her lap and tapped at the keys. “Right, I’ve sent you a friend request. What was Laura’s surname again?”
25
Gareth leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. He looked across the table at Laura, who was staring out of the pub window watching a cruiser make its way along the Norfolk Broads. They were sitting in the Adam and Eve, a pub in the centre of Norwich. The pub itself had been there for hundreds of years under one name or another, and served some of the best food in the area.
“My God,” Gareth said, rubbing his hands across his stomach. “I’ve eaten too much.” The plate in front of him was almost empty, with just a tiny bit of the pork belly and apple infused mashed potato that he’d put away left on it. “That was fantastic. How was your salad?”
“It was lovely,” Laura replied, looking at him with a smile, “and I don’t have to undo my belt to breathe.”
“Very funny,” Gareth said, sipping his pint. “Are you up for pudding?”
“Of course I am. It’s a separate stomach, so doesn’t count.”
They ordered de
ssert from the waitress and sat in a companionable silence for a moment before Gareth spoke.
“Tell me something personal about yourself, Laura?” She looked at him, and he caught the slightest hint of reticence in her face.
“Such as what?”
“I don’t know. It’s just, I was thinking, you know a lot about me. My history. But I don’t know that much about you.”
“How many pints have you had?”
“Only a couple. Come on, humour me.”
“I don’t know what to say. You’ll have to think of something.” Gareth paused before replying. He needed to ask her something—he’d started it, after all—but he’d not really thought it through.
“Have you got any tattoos?”
“Really?” Laura laughed, and her eyes twinkled in the light from the candle between them. “You’ve brought me here for dinner, and you’re asking if I’ve got any tattoos?”
“Yeah,” Gareth replied with a wry grin. “Annette’s got one on her wrist. Have you got a tramp stamp hidden away anywhere?” Laura’s laughter got louder, and she picked up her glass.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked him, looking at Gareth over the top of her drink.
“I would, actually,” he said. “Maybe a pair of slag’s antlers across the small of your back? You look the type.” Her laughter turned into a cackle, and she almost snorted on her drink.
“No, Gareth,” she replied when she had composed herself. “I do not have a pair of slag’s antlers, or indeed any other tattoos anywhere. Try again.”
“Okay,” Gareth said, thinking again for a moment. “Who was the first person who broke your heart?”
“Oh,” Laura replied, her smile vanishing in an instant. “That one I wasn’t expecting. Why?”
“I’m curious.” He watched her as she considered the question for a few seconds. She wasn’t trying to remember who it was, Gareth realised, but she was trying to decide whether to answer the question or not.
“That would be Sam.”
“Okay, cool.” Gareth considered his next question. “Was Sam your first, er, partner?”
“That’s starting to get a bit personal, Gareth.”
“Is it? Sorry. I withdraw the question, Your Honour.”
Laura’s face crinkled into a smile. “Yes, Sam was my first ever proper partner. Your turn.” Gareth paused for a second before starting to laugh.
“You might not like this, but her name was Laura.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Laura Hutchinson. I was only fifteen, and madly in love with her.” Gareth watched as Laura considered his statement.
“So what was it like?”
“How’d you mean?”
“What was it like, your first time.”
“Oh, now who’s being personal?”
“Your turn to humour me.”
Gareth sipped at his drink while he thought about the next way to respond. The truth was it had been awful the first time, and not that much better the second. There’d never been a third time. Not with Laura Hutchinson, anyway.
“You used to be a runner, right?” he asked Laura. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve got a trophy on the mantelpiece in your flat. Two hundred metre champion at Thorpe High School,” Gareth replied. “I was going to nick it, but it’s not real silver.”
Laura laughed. “I think you’ll find it is,” she said. “But what has my athletic career at school got do with you losing your virginity?”
“Well, imagine sex is a race, right?” Gareth replied. “The first time, my partner was still doing up her shoelaces when I crossed the finish line.” He watched as Laura processed the statement, a slow smile creeping across her face.
“Oh,” she said mischievously. “You were a bit quick out of the blocks, then?”
“I was fifteen, Laura,” Gareth replied. “Full of hormones and absolutely no idea what went where. I mean, I knew the theory, but not the practical.”
“Does that count as losing your virginity, though? If you don’t actually, er, participate in the race itself?”
“Well, if you’re going for anatomical accuracy, then the first proper time wasn’t much better,” Gareth replied. “Lasted a bit longer, but at the end of it all, it was all kind of, disappointing. I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about.”
Gareth watched as Laura sat back in her chair to let the waitress place a lemon cheesecake in front of her. He had gone for a cheeseboard, probably not the best choice when he was stuffed already.
“Thank you,” Gareth said to the waitress as she retreated. “So, come on then, your turn,” he said as soon as the waitress was out of earshot. Laura paused, a spoon full of cheesecake half way to her mouth. “Tell me about your de-flowering?” She put the spoon back onto the plate and looked at him, a mock expression of horror on her face.
“Did you actually just say that?”
“Say what?” Gareth replied, spearing a piece of stilton with his knife.
“De-flowering? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that used in normal conversation before.”
“Come on, don’t dodge the question because I’m using cultured language.”
“This is hardly a cultured conversation, Gareth,” Laura said, lifting the spoon again. “But if you really want to know, there was a lot of oohing and aahing, followed by a lot of fumbling. Sam was quite self-centred, much more experienced than I was, and definitely came out the more satisfied partner.”
Gareth was surprised by Laura’s sudden honesty, especially given her earlier reticence.
“Oh,” he said, momentarily lost for words. “Right.”
“How’s your stilton?” Laura asked with an impish smile on her face.
26
“Jon? It’s Malcolm.”
“I kind of guessed that when your name popped up on the screen.” Malcolm laughed at his friend’s reply. “You’re working late, mate. It’s nearly nine.”
“I know, sorry to call at such an unsocial hour.”
“Don’t worry about it. All I’ve got for company is a microwave cannelloni and Eastenders on the telly. What’ve you got?”
Malcolm shuffled the bank statements in his hands and looked again at the notes that Kate had made on them.
“I got one of my youngsters to go through those statements,” he said. “She did find a couple of things. First one is that although it was a joint account, only Philip McGuire used it.”
“Very good,” Jon replied. “Anything else?”
“The payments to a bank in Bali.”
“Yep. That’s what caught my eye, too.”
“What are you thinking? Blackmail?”
“Almost certainly, yes. Put that together with the credit card payments, and it makes sense.”
Malcolm paused for a moment, thinking.
“So,” he said, “McGuire was being blackmailed by someone who knew he was a paedo. Any way of tracing them?”
“By the NCA, do you mean?”
“Well, that is your sort of thing, mate,” Malcolm replied.
“It is, but the fact he’s dead makes us a lot less interested in him being blackmailed. Not enough resources for that sort of stuff. You know how it is.” Malcolm sighed. He knew only too well. “Plus, if the blackmailer’s hiding in Indonesia somewhere, it’ll be harder than finding a needle in a haystack.”
“Have you got anything else on him?” Malcolm asked.
“Nope, just the credit card purchase.”
“Which could have been made by anyone.”
“Not really, he’s the only one with access to the account. Him and his wife, who didn’t use the account, anyway.”
“As far as we know.”
“What’s she like, the wife?” Jon asked. Malcolm thought for a few seconds, remembering Gareth’s comments to him about Philip.
“Hard to say, to be honest. McGuire was a bit of an arsehole, by all accounts. Knocked her about,
that sort of thing.”
“She’s probably glad he’s dead, then.”
“There’s nothing to suggest that she was involved at all, Jon.” Malcolm thought back over the discovery at Cley-next-the-Sea. “Unless she managed to poison his scuba tanks and hope we never find them.”
“Bit of a stretch, that one,” Jon replied with a laugh. “You’ve been reading too many fiction books, mate.”
“Yeah, I can’t see her for it. So it’s case closed on your end, I take it?”
“Yep. The NCA will be closing it down. At least, this strand of it. The primary operation’s still going on though. We’d rather have the producers than the consumers, anyway.”
Malcolm thanked his friend and ended the call. He spent a few moments on the internet, looking at various cases where scuba divers had died, but couldn’t find any cases where they’d been poisoned deliberately. There was one case in Australia where a diver had been killed by carbon monoxide in his tank, but that was an error in the way the tanks were filled. Not a deliberate act.
His thoughts turned to Annette McGuire as he got to his feet and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge. Malcolm poured it into a glass, shaking his head at the amount of froth he managed to generate while he was doing it. Annette McGuire was, Malcolm reflected, a battered woman who was married to a man who controlled her. That much was obvious. Gareth had told him about the way Philip had treated her when they came back from Australia. Classic manipulative behaviour.
A few years previously, there had been a particularly nasty case involving a paedophile ring in Norwich. One of the main players in the whole thing had been a man not unlike Philip. Domineering and violent—a really nasty piece of work. Malcolm cast his mind back to the case as he took a sip of his frothy beer. What had made the case very unusual was that of the people involved, several of them were women.
Malcolm couldn’t remember the name of the man in the case, but he managed to find a newspaper report on it. It had made the national news, as had a subsequent police investigation into the children’s services department when it was discovered that several social workers had changed their reports. Malcolm hadn’t been involved in either investigation, but knew several of the officers who had been. It was, by all accounts, one of those cases that could not be easily forgotten.
Gareth Dawson Series Box Set Page 72