Stranger Child

by Rachel Abbott

  With Tom’s agreement to organise the team and set up liaison with her, she moved on to describing her conversations with David Joseph.

  ‘I’ll be as succinct as possible. The vault and all the offices at Joseph & Son are below ground. Access to the building is via a communal entrance – lots of people know the code, but it only gets them as far as the entrance hall. There’s a coded keypad to Joseph & Son, but it’s on a time lock and can’t be opened outside working hours.’

  ‘Is he sure about that, Becky?’

  ‘He says so – we’d have to ask the people who installed it to be sure. Anyway, each safe deposit box has two keys – one kept by the owner, the other by Joseph & Son. You need both to open a box. The company’s keys are stored in a room that’s protected by a biometric lock and only four people’s prints can open it. David, of course, is one of them. There’s another biometric lock to the main area of the vault. That’s it.’

  Becky hoped she hadn’t missed anything. David Joseph had gone on and on about how it was impossible, pacing the room, hands in pockets, repeating over and over that it couldn’t be done.

  ‘What about the contents of the boxes? Does he know what’s in them?’ Tom asked.

  ‘He says they don’t have a clue. The owners pull their box from its safe and take it into a private room to put whatever they want in. There are ordinary safes too, without boxes inside, in various larger sizes. According to David, a random attack would be a complete waste of time. He thinks most of the boxes hold personal documents, wills, house deeds – even love letters. But he says it’s irrelevant, because nobody can get in. Whatever’s going to happen, he says he’s convinced it’s got nothing to do with the vault.’

  ‘I can hear a ‘but’ there, Becky. What are you thinking?’

  Becky knew she was sticking her neck out; Tom would understand, though, even if she turned out to be wrong.

  ‘I don’t believe him, Tom. He knows it’s the vault – but he doesn’t want us to know that he knows.’

  *

  There was nothing from his conversation with Becky that Tom thought worth sharing with Emma. Certainly he didn’t want her to know that her home was vulnerable. But as he made his way back to the sitting room he decided there was one thing he needed to ask her, because no matter how hard he tried to forget them, Jack’s words kept spinning through his mind. Unbearable existence.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked when he returned to the room.

  ‘I’m okay, but I need to ask how you would feel about me speaking to a professional about the last letter from Jack, to see if it’s possible to understand his frame of mind when he wrote it.’

  Emma leaned back, resting her head against the sofa. ‘Do what you want, Tom. Do you mean a psychiatrist?’

  ‘No - a forensic linguist. They study how language is used – analyse the words and the structure of sentences – to get an understanding of the underlying meaning.’

  Emma shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s up to you. But it’s all a bit academic since he’s dead anyway.’

  She was right, of course. But he was finding out other things about his brother and struggling to make sense of it all.

  ‘Thanks Emma. I appreciate that, and you’ll be pleased to hear that Becky’s nearly done at your house – she just wants to talk to Natasha and then we can get you back to them. How’s the list going?’

  ‘I don’t know if any of it’s useful. Tasha talked about the kind of jobs she had to do and the punishment she received. I’m not sure it will help, Tom, but I’ll carry on until Becky’s ready and see if I can think of anything else.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tom said. ‘I’m going to check in with a few people. I’ll go to my study, but I’ll let you know the minute there’s any news. Is that all right?’

  Emma gave him a distracted nod of the head. He was certain she would prefer to be alone.

  His study was actually a wide area off the hall at the front of the house. It had a small fireplace, and was surprisingly cosy even in the middle of winter. He sat down, the letters still in his hand, and stared at them for a moment longer, then pushed them to the back of his desk.

  He wanted to call Becky back, but he knew she would call him when there was something to report. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. He knew he had to do this. He pulled the letters back towards him, grabbed his phone and stood up, walking towards the window as he dialled. He looked out at the dark and dismal night, the fine drizzle creating a shimmer around the yellow street lamps, their light reflecting back from the wet pavements. Surely Jack would have realised that no matter how depressing the outlook, there was always the hope that the next day would be brighter?

  The phone was answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Clara? It’s Tom Douglas. I wonder if you could do me a favour?’ he asked.

  Tom explained about Jack’s suicide letter, and Clara suggested the quickest way to get it to her would be for Tom to take a photo of it with his phone.

  ‘Do you have any other examples of his writing? Something for me to compare it to?’ she asked.

  ‘Sadly I have a letter in which he ends a long-standing relationship with his fiancé – will that do.’

  ‘Perfect. I can give you a preliminary view very quickly,’ Clara said. ‘It’ll be superficial – first impressions only. Anything more in depth will have to wait, I’m afraid.’

  ‘An initial reaction would be great. If it needs more, then obviously I’ll pay for your time.’

  ‘Let’s worry about that later. Send them now. I’ll have a quick look and get back to you with my thoughts.’

  Thanking Clara, Tom ended the call and used the side of his hand to iron out the creases in the letters a little. He quickly took a photo of each and, as he forwarded them to Clara, he felt a slight lessening of tension across his shoulders.

  He looked at his watch again. Time seemed to be standing still. He walked into the kitchen and made another cup of coffee. Thinking he should see if Emma wanted anything to eat, he realised he had barely eaten for hours. It had been too late when he arrived home the night before, and anyway he had been keen to wrap himself around Leo’s warm body.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered, realising with a stab of guilt that he hadn’t phoned Leo since abandoning her in the middle of the previous night. He grabbed his private phone.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not called, but things have been hectic.’

  ‘Where are you now? Are you at home?’

  Tom paused, not quite sure what to say.

  ‘Was that a particularly difficult question, Tom?’

  ‘Sorry, Leo, I am at home, but I’m not going to be able to see you tonight. I can’t explain at the moment. It’s a bit tricky – but I will when everything’s sorted.’

  His work phone started to ring.

  ‘Bugger. I’m really sorry, I’m going to have to go – there’s another call coming in.’

  He was about to tell her he loved her, and say he would call her tomorrow, but she had already hung up.

  With a shrug, he accepted the incoming call.

  ‘That was quick, Clara – I thought you would need hours.’

  ‘I would, to do a detailed analysis. But they’re short letters and there are some immediate observations I can make. This is a five-minute analysis. Are you ready for this?’

  ‘Fire away,’ Tom said, almost wishing he hadn’t started this.

  ‘The first thing to say is that while they made interesting reading for me in my professional capacity, they must have been pretty heartbreaking to receive.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that he died right after he sent the second note?’ Clara asked.

  ‘He sent it the day before he died. That’s why Emma was so upset – she felt she should have done something.’

  ‘Well you can tell Emma from me to stop beating herself up. I’d be very surprised indeed if this were a suicide note, Tom.
’

  Tom frowned. What on earth could she mean? It had seemed pretty clear to him.

  ‘We both know there are two types of suicide – those who mean to die, and those who are sending out a cry for help and then somehow it all goes wrong. Your brother was killed in an accident, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. The boat was a total wreck, ripped to pieces.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a botched cry for help – not like taking tablets and hoping somebody gets to you in time. If he intended the accident to happen, then he intended to die.’

  ‘I’d say so, yes,’ Tom responded, wondering where this was going.

  ‘Well, then, I’m even more convinced this isn’t a suicide note.’

  Clara had his full attention.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Generally speaking, people who’ve truly decided to take their own lives have usually stopped relating to the outside world. They’re psychologically isolated from others. They’ve come to a decision, and death – in their mind – is the only option. It wouldn’t be typical of a person who had genuinely decided to kill himself to show awareness of the pain it would cause to others – this is from a man who doesn’t appear to be introspective enough. He is concerned for Emma, his family.’

  Tom was silent. This was good news, wasn’t it? Why didn’t it feel that way?

  ‘You’re sure about this, are you?’

  ‘I would say that Jack was certainly about to do something, but at the time of writing – and that’s the crucial point – I don’t believe he intended to kill himself. Obviously that could have changed, and he could have had a moment of irrationality a day later. But real suicides, as opposed to those who are hoping to be stopped in time, tend to kill themselves immediately after writing their note. They intend the note to be found after their death because they don’t want to be stopped.’

  ‘Thanks, Clara,’ he said quietly. ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘Well, before you go, you might be interested to know that the other letter – the one ending the relationship with Emma – may have come from Jack, but I’m fairly certain he didn’t write it.’

  Tom’s thoughts had been drifting – harsh, colourful images of Jack’s last moments invading his mind. He caught the last few words.

  ‘Sorry – what did you say?’ he asked.

  ‘I suspect that this letter was written by a woman. It could be that the new woman he mentions told him what he had to write, but I’m sure they’re not his words.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘All those personal pronouns and social relationships, for one thing. But there are other clues: females tend to progress information using the negative, such as “I don’t think”, or “our future is not as a couple”. They hedge – you know, use polite forms – to soften the information – “perhaps”, or “I’m sorry if …” – and they refer more to cognitive and emotional processes: think, feel, hope. I’m happy to give you a comprehensive breakdown if you want, but it would have to wait.’

  ‘No, Clara – that’s not an issue, really. I need to think about it all.’

  As Tom ended the call, thanking Clara for being so prompt with her response, he couldn’t drag his thoughts away from the letter that Emma had assumed was a suicide note.

  He had always believed that Jack’s death was an accident, but given everything he was learning or surmising about his brother, he now had to come to terms with the possibility that Jack had been murdered.

  46

  Becky ran across the hall, cursing under her breath. She had only popped into the kitchen for a glass of water and now, through her earpiece, she was getting a message. She couldn’t respond until she was out of the kitchen – away from the bug.

  ‘DI Robinson,’ she answered breathlessly as she closed the sitting-room door.

  ‘Ma’am, we’ve picked something up on one of the bugs in the Slaters’ house. Donna Slater received a phone call a few minutes ago. It was from a mobile, so we only heard her side of the call on the whole – but the woman at the other end was shouting, and we’ve done a quick clean-up and managed to get some of her part of the conversation.’

  Becky felt a renewed shot of energy. They wouldn’t be contacting her if it was nothing.

  ‘The call is from another woman, who Donna calls Julie. We’ll piece the whole thing together as best we can and send it to you, but we thought you might like the headlines now.’

  Becky tapped her foot impatiently.

  ‘The woman called Julie was talking about a baby, saying something about not sleeping. She said – or rather screamed – that nobody had ever told her having a baby was so difficult. Donna replied, “Well when it’s your first it’s always difficult to know what to do when they cry,” so we assumed this Julie had just had a baby and was asking advice from somebody who appears to have had about ten.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘And then Donna said, “Give him a biscuit.” Now I’ve never had a baby myself, but even I know that you don’t give a newborn a biscuit.’

  The blood was suddenly pounding through Becky’s body. A woman has just ‘had’ a baby, but this baby isn’t a newborn – and they referred to him as a boy. It was too much of a coincidence. It had to be Ollie.

  *

  It had been good of Tom to leave Emma in peace, but much as she had craved solitude in the past twenty-four hours, there was a huge difference between curling up in a chair in Ollie’s room, where she could feel her son all around her, and sitting in a room she had never seen before, surrounded by somebody else’s possessions. She felt lost, alone, even though Tom was just outside the door.

  She angrily wiped fresh tears away. She didn’t want to think of her own pain. She wanted to focus every thought on Ollie – to let him know how much she missed him and loved him.

  And now all this business with Jack and his involvement with Caroline was confusing her. How could he have known something was about to happen? Why did it feel that the past and the present were somehow colliding?

  It had taken Emma a long time to admit that she would never again love anybody the way she had loved Jack. That rush of excitement when he came home after a day or two away; the passion with which he had loved her; the moments of joy when he would impulsively pull her to her feet and dance with her, holding her close, or whizzing her wildly round the room, laughter finally making them collapse together in a heap on the nearest chair – they were moments never to be repeated.

  He had hurt her so deeply, though, and more than anything she had wanted a calmer type of love with David. She felt they’d had that until this week. Now they had both seen a side of the other that neither had known existed. David would never have expected her to sneak out in the night to follow Natasha, and she would have expected him to be more proactive, more energised. He seemed prepared to sit back – to let everything take its course and to pretend that it was all going to be all right in the end.

  Would they ever get back to the couple they had been?

  She had no more time to think about it, though, as Tom burst into the room, a look of excitement lighting up his tired face.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Becky,’ he said.

  Emma pushed herself to her feet, knowing this was going to be good news.

  ‘Do you remember Natasha mentioned somebody called Julie? Well, we think that Julie may be the person who has Ollie.’

  Emma closed her eyes and swallowed.

  ‘But we don’t know who she is, so how the hell do we find her?’ she asked.

  There was only one answer.

  ‘We ask Natasha.’

  *

  Natasha lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, its deep shadow brightened in one large circle by a single lamp on her bedside table. She didn’t like the dark – never had since that night when, just for a moment, everything had gone black as her mum’s car had turned over and over, her head banging on the roof of the car, her legs swinging backwards and forwards. The next
thing she could remember was being dragged from the car, screaming. One of the men had shaken her until she had stopped. It seemed as if everybody was talking in urgent whispers, their voices low. The one who shook her had the deepest voice of all of them. He’d sounded as if he had a sore throat or a cough, because his words had jagged edges. She couldn’t remember what he had said. Except for that one thing – the phrase that had gone round and round in her head ever since.

  ‘Her mam’s dead. She’s no use to us now. Get rid of her.’

  Then he had pushed her towards a man who smelled bad – the man who she now knew was Rory – and he had chucked her in the back of a car.

  She had thought she was going to die, and for a long time she wished she had because when they took her out of the car they threw her in The Pit – to hide her, to keep her quiet. She could still taste the stench of the room, feel the cold and damp that left her shivering. They said she had to stay in there until it was safe – but she didn’t know what that meant. She did now, though. She had had to stay in there until she believed herself to be Shelley Slater, not Natasha Joseph. She had to forget the past. It was done. Over.

  Now here she was – back in that past that was supposed to all be behind her. Was she Natasha Joseph, or was she Shelley Slater? She no longer knew. And what about the future? She couldn’t stay here. They wouldn’t let her.

  She felt alone, as if she had been dumped in the middle of a vast desert with no sign of life in any direction. It was a bit like a film she had watched with the little kids at home.

  It would probably be best for everybody if she was dead. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe that’s how Izzy had felt.

  Her body tensed as she heard a soft knock on the door. What did he want – again? But it wasn’t David.

  ‘It’s Becky. I need to talk to you, Tasha. Can I come in?’ Becky’s voice was an urgent whisper.

  Natasha watched as the handle went down, secure in the knowledge that nobody could get past the chest of drawers that she had pushed behind the door.

  ‘I can’t shout – the bug in your dad’s bedroom might pick me up, but it’s about Ollie. We think we might know where he is and we need your help.’