‘ “Auxiliary writers”?’ I blinked again, surprised not just at the suggestion but its tone. ‘The book’s the story of my mother’s time at Morningstar, so unless one of the other Ascendants, or whatever they were called, wants to finish it, which I can’t see, what could auxiliary writers do?’ The more I thought about it, the more it rankled. ‘And what is an “auxiliary writer” when it’s at home anyway?’
‘Well, rather than it being an autobiography as such, under the circumstances we could publish an exposé on Aaron Kessler and the cult. We could put you in touch with someone, a journalist that we trust, who could—’
A journalist?
‘I can’t even think about that right now, Max, I really can’t. There is too much going on here.’
‘Naturally not,’ he agreed quickly. ‘But please, just think about it. You wouldn’t have to go to Morningstar alone. I would be happy to come with you.’
‘I …’
‘Look, just think about it. Aren’t you even a little bit curious?’
* * *
I was still thinking about this conversation as I lay in my bed back at Eden Gardens on Sunday night.
Most of all, I had to be honest with myself, I was frightened of agitating the group any more, with my dad wounded and he and I alone in the house. Every time I shut my eyes, I could see the blind, unswerving glare of the woman on the train, the same glare Monica had when she stood over me with a knife in the café.
The police may have promised us regular patrols and panic buttons while Monica was still at large, but I wasn’t a fool. That wouldn’t be an indefinite arrangement. My dad and I would still have to live in the world that came after.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, the moon casting the silhouettes of tree branches on to it in a kind of shadowplay. There were no sounds in the hot, still night, only the occasional rustle and flap of wings, or the faraway drone of a lone car on the main road.
Was this going to be my life now, lying awake every night, listening out for broken twigs and squeaking hinges, freezing whenever the security light flicked on or the phone rang?
If only I’d been able to find the final notebook. This constant anxiety might at least have had a point.
Typing, typing, Rowan had said. In the morning.
The clunky old computer was back in the office now, and I stomped downstairs and switched it on, waiting impatiently until it booted up. Again, the mail, the folder called ‘NINA’, with four more folders inside it – ‘BUSINESS’, ‘RECIPES’, ‘TAX’ and ‘HOUSE’. I’d been through every last one with a fine-toothed comb, but I went through them again anyway, trying not to dwell too hard on the contents – pictures of her standing outside the café; her hair in a blue scarf printed with swallows that I’d given her for Christmas, and her anxious, diffident smile.
I wiped at my eyes with the sleeve of my pyjamas. I should give this up and go to bed.
All right, I decided, I would try one last thing.
Into the PC’s search box I typed ‘morningstar’ and hit enter.
The icon whirled for a few seconds and the computer made a ratcheting, ticking sound. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.
When I opened them I saw exactly one result:
C:Documents and SettingsNinaNINARecipesMORNINGSTAR3.DOC
It had last been modified five days before my mum’s death.
But why hadn’t I … Ah. Ah.
I clicked ‘NINA’, then ‘RECIPES’, then right-clicked to expose the ‘Show Hidden Files’ option.
And there it was: MORNINGSTAR3.DOC.
The missing third notebook. What else could it be, with a name like that?
I was light-headed as I opened it, waited for the ancient version of Word to kick in, and my heart started to pound at the back of my throat. Oh God, I thought, this is it. What is in here?
Then: ‘Enter password to open file MORNINGSTAR3.DOC’
‘Oh, you have to be kidding,’ I hissed. ‘Mum, what are you doing to me?’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was almost dawn before I gave up on unlocking the password for MORNINGSTAR3.DOC.
Of course I tried ‘EDENGARDENS1’. I tried ‘MORNINGSTAR1’ and ‘A4RONK3SSLER’ and every iteration and fragment of mine, hers, the Ascendant’s and my dad’s mutual lexicon that I could think of, in small letters and caps and in numbers. I tried dates and pet names and addresses. Book and movie titles.
Nothing worked. Whatever the password was, it was not obvious.
I’d need expert help, I realized as I squinted at the screen, to unlock it without damaging it. Perhaps the police, or even Max – though the more I thought about it, the more reluctant I was to share this find with him.
Instead I emailed the document to myself and stored the copy in my iPhone.
I sighed and let myself relax a little, my tiredness tinged with elation.
I found you, I thought to myself, cradling my phone to my breast. I found you.
Back in bed, though my eyes were huge and heavy, they would not close, and my room was growing lighter every minute with the rising sun.
I wondered about Aaron, the dark god of my mum’s notebooks, and the deadly charisma that had snared these people to their deaths.
And, if I were being completely truthful, didn’t I also want to try myself against it? To feel those arrows shot against me and resist them?
To see what the big deal was?
It was madness, though. Worse, it was arrogance.
I lay for hours, thinking, and in the end I knew what my answer would be.
I was going to go to Morningstar. I was going to get in that car (with Max as chaperone – he had seemed absolutely desperate for the dubious honour), and go to that house, that darkness that had haunted my mother’s dreams, and confront the spider at the centre of the web.
I was going to look that bastard in the eye and let him know exactly what I thought of him.
If nothing else, I owed it to my mum. And to Tess.
With that decided, it was as if a great weight dropped from my very soul. Within minutes, I fell fast asleep.
* * *
After I’d sent copies of the file to Rob Howarth and my friend Orla, who managed her company’s IT department (‘It might be tomorrow till I find someone, is that OK, Soph?’), I called Max and told him of my decision.
‘Will you come with me?’ I asked him.
‘Of course, of course!’ he said. I could almost hear him beaming down the phone. ‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Thanks. I can’t help thinking it’s better to do it sooner rather than later—’ I began.
‘I think that, too,’ he agreed, cutting across me. ‘Any time works for me, Sophia. Just text me the time and I shall be at your disposal.’
‘Great,’ I said, a little taken aback and, to be honest, a little disquieted by his enthusiasm. ‘I’ll let you know.’
* * *
Next, after a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, I rang Emily Corben. I felt I needed fortifying first.
I was at the cottage – I’d dropped by to return Kayleigh’s Dyson to her – and called the number from the sofa while Riley climbed over me once more, demanding to know who I was talking to.
‘Hush now,’ I told him, raising the phone to my ear.
It seemed to ring for a very long time.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi, is this … Emily?’
‘Who’s calling?’ Again, that controlled, almost robotic voice.
‘This is Sophia Mackenzie. I got your message.’
Silence.
‘I’m willing to talk to Mr Kessler,’ I said, the words feeling strange as I said them.
‘Good. Is tomorrow convenient?’
I blinked. Tomorrow my dad was coming home. I stroked Riley’s head as he fell on to the sofa next to me. ‘I … well, yes. I guess. It would have to be the morning. I need to be back here in the afternoon.’
‘The car can meet you at ten tomorrow mor
ning.’
‘Oh. Oh. Well, to be honest, I would prefer to drive Max and myself down, so if you give me the address …’
‘That won’t be possible.’
Again, she sounded like a computer-generated voice.
‘Ah,’ I said, thrown. ‘It’s just that I have some errands to run first.’
‘The driver can take you anywhere you want to go.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ demanded Riley loudly as he attempted to crawl into my lap.
‘Nobody, Riley, just some people. Sorry about that,’ I said into the phone. ‘I …’
‘Do you have children?’
The question was like a gunshot. It was the first time she’d sounded ruffled. Well, ruffled was the wrong word. Intense, might be better. Concerned, possibly.
But why?
‘Who, me? No. Not at all. This is just my friend’s son.’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to insist on the car,’ she said. ‘Mr Kessler and the community like our privacy here. We don’t allow outside vehicles on to the grounds.’
‘Oh, I …’
‘If you’d like to make your own way down to Kent, I suggest our car collects you from Lullingstone Roman Villa. Mr Kessler looks forward to seeing you then. Goodbye.’
There was nothing but the purr of the dialling tone.
* * *
The next day, I drove into Dartford, where I’d agreed to pick Max up outside the railway station, rather than fighting upstream like a salmon through the London rush hour. From there we would go on to Lullingstone to meet Aaron Kessler’s driver.
I’d torn down the M25 that morning, all the while trying to come up with possible passwords for Mum’s Morningstar3 document. It was doing nothing to raise my mood. Rowan was going to collect my dad from hospital in the afternoon, once he’d been signed off on the doctor’s rounds, and part of me was hoping the doctor would have second thoughts. Dad was safer where he was.
As far as I knew, Karen Ince was still on the run, though she’d apparently been sighted near Lockerbie. The CCTV cameras were now turned towards our house, and we’d been told to call at even the slightest sign of trouble.
I wished I could say it was enough to make me feel safe.
* * *
Max was standing outside the doors of the new railway station in Dartford when I pulled up, talking urgently into his phone. There was an odd moment when he saw me. His eyes widened, and his hand clenched around the device, as though I’d surprised him in a guilty act, and within seconds he finished the call.
Though he managed a smile when he got in the car, I was still unsettled, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
‘Carry on with your call, if you like,’ I said evenly, as we pulled back out on to the high street. It was busy and the traffic was fractious, like my nerves. The sky was grey, that metallic gunmetal colour that precedes a summer storm.
‘No, not at all, it’s just office stuff. How are you?’ he asked, dropping his backpack into the footwell between his feet.
‘I’ve been better.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, noting my bandaged hands as they gripped the wheel. The dressings had scaled down to a few thin wraps of gauze now. ‘Wow. It must have been terrifying. Any news on the woman who did it?’
He seemed bursting with excitement, and it was rubbing me up the wrong way. I didn’t see what there was to be happy about.
I shook my head. ‘She’s still on the run, apparently. Spotted near Lockerbie. They think she’s trying to get to her sister’s place near Glencoe.’
‘That must have been really scary,’ he said passionately.
‘Yes. I thought I was going to die.’
I could hear my own voice and realized that it sounded flat, unfriendly. Markedly so.
A conviction was growing inside me, had been growing inside me since the weekend, as more details had come out about Morningstar, about my mum’s suicide and about the book. Details such as how many Ascendants had been there in 1989; pictures of a handsome young blonde man with a tentative smile – Tristan – and talk of his gruesome foreign suicide; pictures of Tess, an attractive, stout, middle-aged woman with salt and pepper hair, smiling at the camera. All these things that should not necessarily be linked automatically in the mind, as Rob Howarth might say, and yet somehow they were.
I was turning off, heading back towards the M25. We were about twenty minutes away from the meeting point.
As if sensing my withdrawal, Max turned to smile at me. ‘You don’t need to be nervous. Aaron Kessler will be at his most charming. He always is when he wants something.’
I nodded, distantly. Behind us, the struts of the Queen Elizabeth Bridge rose like a mirage in the distance, sunlight touching its tracings, just for an instant, before the grey shadow of the clouds moved over it.
It smelled like rain and tarmac through the tiny open gap in the driver’s side window, and the scent lent me perspective in my sleepless, overwrought state.
‘What do you think will happen if we never find the third notebook?’ I asked.
I hadn’t told Max about the discovery I’d made on my mum’s old PC last night, and every instinct I’d had during this journey so far screamed that this was the right decision, at least for now. At least until I’d read it.
‘What?’ he asked. He seemed distracted – his phone was continually vibrating, and he was diverting calls. Perhaps he was very busy, but I don’t remember him being in such demand when we’d had lunch the week before.
‘What happens if we never find the notebook?’ I repeated. ‘If it’s gone for ever?’
‘Well, as I said, the material we have is still interesting. We can still use it – in one form or another. It’s the perfect time for an exposé on Aaron Kessler and his group, with all of the publicity this case has raised.’
‘Perhaps.’ I pulled out on to the motorway. I felt sick to my stomach. ‘Perhaps.’
We drove in silence to Lullingstone and turned into the car park Emily Corben had suggested. Trees overhung it and the air when I got out was heavy and humid. I’d worn the lightest work suit I had and already beads of sweat were gathering at the nape of my neck and slithering down my cleavage. I was glad I’d worn no make-up.
Max leapt out of the car, and once again I wondered at his enthusiasm as I followed him out, locking the car behind me, my bag over my shoulder. The car park was practically empty, and I could see nothing that looked like a chauffeur-driven luxury car, unless Kessler had been forced to downgrade to a VW Polo with a dented wing.
‘So how do you think this will go?’ I asked, tucking my arms around me despite the hot weather.
‘I don’t know. We can press him about Peter Clay – he doesn’t know we don’t have the third notebook yet.’
‘I suppose.’
‘All the media and publicity will have rattled him. If we can get an exclusive now …’
I gave him a sideways glance while my hand drifted protectively down towards my phone.
‘What do you mean? What exclusive?’ I asked sharply.
At that moment the car arrived, and there could be no mistaking which car it was, even though this wasn’t the Bentley of the notebooks but a gleaming silver-grey Mercedes Benz, driven by a man in a charcoal uniform with a peaked cap.
I looked at Max, with his hipster hair, pointed shoes and hungry eyes as the car rolled towards us.
His excitement was palpable. His eyes shone with it.
And suddenly I knew that what I’d been thinking all the way here was true.
‘You set this up,’ I breathed. ‘You set all of this up.’
His smile didn’t move, but his eyes were blinking just a little bit more than before.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You told those reporters about Morningstar, about my mum being in that cult, about how it related to Tess and the others!’ I said. ‘That’s where they got it all from.’ I fought to control my growing rage, my sense of betrayal, which, onc
e let off the leash, was threatening to consume me. ‘I didn’t understand where they’d unearthed all the information from so quickly, how they’d worked it all out, how they’d joined up the dots.’ I felt incandescent with fury. ‘They got it from you.’
‘Sophia, that’s very—’
‘True,’ I snapped. ‘It’s very true, isn’t it, Max? You wanted to whip up excitement for the book. And to do it you put me and my sick dad in the most appalling position – those reporters were hunting us at the hospital like animals. My God, did you set up this meeting with Aaron Kessler, too? Was this your idea? Did you give him a prompt, tell him to get in touch with me?’
‘Now, Sophia, calm down. This is such a golden opportunity for us, for all of us – your dad included. We’re doing this for Nina, after all—’
‘Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! Don’t you dare say my mother’s name! When were you going to let me in on all this? You unscrupulous bastard!’
‘Listen,’ he said, and his voice sounded an octave higher and a little desperate. ‘It’s not like that.’
But it was like that. It really was. It was the only explanation.
I knew what I was going to do next, but the only way to move through the madness of the decision was not reflect upon it.
He was absolutely depending on getting into this meeting with Aaron Kessler, on obtaining this ‘exclusive’.
I forced myself to look calmer, and instead just shook my head at him sadly, as if in defeat. I opened the door and quickly slid into the backseat of Kessler’s car.
Meanwhile Max had to go round the back to get in the other door, which gave me all the time in the world to just lean over and lock it.
‘Drive,’ I said to the chauffeur, as Max tried the door a few times, having not quite understood yet. ‘You’re just here for me, right?’
The driver looked over his shoulder at me as Max knocked on the window, still thinking this was an oversight. The driver was young, his head shaved under the cap, and florid tattoos crept up his neck from his chest.
He nodded.
‘Then drive. Not him. Just me.’
Max was pounding on the door now, saying, ‘Sophia? Sophia!’ and his voice was muffled by the tinted glass, though not enough to disguise his panic.
Everything Is Lies Page 27