Isolation - a heart-stopping thriller, Shutter Island meets Memento

by Neil Randall

  “Oh, right. I see.”

  “First things first: we’ve completed the check on the computers at your place of work, and found nothing out of the ordinary. If the photograph you received in the post last Monday was indeed a piece of skilful photo-shopping – which we’re pretty certain it wasn’t – it wasn’t done in any of the council offices.”

  “Okay. That’s good, I suppose.”

  Kendrick took some papers from the file. “Now I’d like to show you a few sample letters taken from Miss Rouse’s residence.”

  “The letters I’d supposedly been sending her for the last five years?”

  “That’s right.” He handed me the bundle. “As you can see, they are rather, erm…to the point.”

  I took the photocopies and looked them over. Each one was short, typed, having more in common with a poison pen letter than any substantial form of correspondence. One read: Come back to me or I’ll kill you. Another: I’m going to make you pay for this. Another still: Look, Michelle. The more you ignore me, the closer I get. Don’t you understand? If you don’t move back in with me, I’ll punish you and all those you hold dear.

  I looked up from the letters.

  “Like I said, Detective Inspector, after me and Michelle split up, I never, ever tried to contact her again. You have my word on that. It was too painful.”

  “But like we said yesterday, it seems beyond the realm of reasonable possibility for someone to keep up a false diary and a false series of letters for this length of time. Are you sure that you didn’t write them? Maybe in your darker moments, maybe when you forgot to take your medication you—”

  “But I haven’t been on proper medication for years! I don’t think I should ever have been prescribed half the things I was prescribed in the first place. If I were to hazard a guess, and remember, I know Michelle as well, if not better, than anyone else, I’d say she’s kept up this fictitious correspondence to make people feel sorry for her, to play the victim. I bet the whole thing has got little or nothing to do with me, more her and her various hang-ups and neuroses.”

  “And what about her relations with Jeffrey Fuller?”

  “Maybe they’re a fantasy, too.”

  Kendrick’s face momentarily betrayed something, something hard to interpret.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, when questioned, the other members of your old counselling group corroborated that to a certain extent. Not one of them could believe that Mr Fuller and Miss Rouse were ever in a relationship, that they were anything other than enemies. Many went so far as to suggest that Miss Rouse despised Mr Fuller and everything about him.”

  Despite feeling vindicated, I didn’t gloat or say I told you so. The situation, from my point of view, with regards the diary and the letters, still felt precarious.

  “Where does that leave us, then? I saw the news earlier, that you’re now actively searching for Jeffrey and Michelle.”

  “That’s right. So sudden and unexpected were their disappearances, with no word to friends or loved ones, places of work or staff at the institute, we’re extremely concerned for their well-being.”

  “What? You don’t think Jeffrey’s taken Michelle against her will, do you? That he’s trying to exact some kind of twisted revenge for everything that happened in those counselling sessions all those years ago?”

  “It’s a possibility, Mr Barrowman.”

  We talked for another quarter of an hour before Kendrick got up to leave.

  “And what about me?” I asked. “Can I leave the flat now? Can I go to work tomorrow as normal?”

  “Ideally we’d like you remain here for the time being. Realistically speaking, though, it’s hugely unlikely that someone who’d just committed three brutal murders would risk trying to get at you in some way. Therefore, we’re happy for you to go about your day to day activities, work included. To be safe, we’ll have an officer follow you around, have a car parked outside your office, and here overnight.”

  “Hi, Nigel,” said Liz. “Thought I’d give you a quick call. How’s things? What’s the latest?”

  I told her all about the diary entries and the letters, how Michelle claimed a five-year correspondence, a reign of terror and harassment, when I’d never written her a single line.

  “And they’re all conveniently type-written so the police can’t identify your handwriting? Bit fishy, that. And not to be rude, but your ex sounds like a proper psycho bitch.”

  As an assessment, it was pretty accurate. But I was more pleased by the nature of Liz’s unconditional support, that she believed everything I’d just told her.

  “Talking of exes, I made a few phone calls this afternoon. I spoke to Mick and few of my dad’s old mates, proper hard men.”

  “About Scott, you mean?”

  “Yeah. They went down the boozer straight away – mob-handed. Apparently he always has a Sunday lunch-time drink in the Barking Dog, by the station.”

  “What happened? Did he confess to attacking me? Did they attack him?”

  “That’s just the thing, Nigel. He swears he never laid a finger on you, that it wasn’t him who gave you that beating the other night.”

  “What? But if it wasn’t him, then who was it?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  On my desk, amongst a mountain of unopened correspondence, outstanding claim forms, risk and assessment surveys and pothole statistics, was a memo from the Deputy-Director, stapled to a copy of a letter from a Mrs Forbes-Powers, with several sentences highlighted in fluorescent marker:

  …Mr Barrowman’s obtuse manner…rude and unhelpful…the temerity to slam the phone down on me – a taxpayer!!!

  I read the letter from the beginning, soon realising it was from the woman who’d called late last week regarding dog mess on the pavement. I turned back to the memo.

  In my capacity as Deputy-Director, I shouldn’t have to deal with such middling complaints. Mrs Forbes-Powers is a respected member of the local community, a lady with local government connections. V. disappointed. Have contacted personnel re: making your attendance on a customer care training course an utmost priority.

  “Nige!” Michael walked in through the open door. “You’re back! Christ! Let’s hope the police catch this maniac soon then we won’t risk losing you again. I don’t know how I got by without you.” He glanced at my desk. “And sorry about all that paperwork. I had to go to a few important meetings, so the office was literally unmanned. Sure it won’t take too long to file that lot away, though.” He gave me a blokey, down the pub slap on the back. “Oh, and can you do me a big, big favour – dig out the Howard File, the old boy who tripped over that uneven paving slab and broke both his wrists.”

  “The Howard File? I thought you’d signed it off and sent it up to Legal months ago.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Michael pulled a suitably bemused expression. “Must’ve slipped through the net, now I’m getting it in the neck from Mackintosh, who reckons we could be on very dodgy ground due to the delay.”

  My phone started to ring.

  “Hello, Risk and Assessment.”

  “Hi, Nige, just Gemma from reception here. There’s a gentleman in the foyer who wants to speak to you.”

  I glanced out of the window – police car, policeman still in place.

  “Oh, right. Did he give a name and tell you what it was regarding?”

  “Erm, no” – a ditzy giggle – “to be honest, I didn’t ask. But you’ll come through, yeah?”

  In the foyer area, I found a well-dressed, sandy-haired man of middle age sitting on one of the seventies-style faux leather seats

  “Mr Barrowman?” He got to his feet and offered me his hand. “I’m Graham Bannister. Nice to meet you.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr Bannister?”

  “Well, at this stage, I’m not entirely sure. As you’re aware, Michelle Rouse went missing from her home several days ago. In that time, no one, including her family and close friends, has heard from her. Yesterday, her pa
rents engaged my services in hope of—”

  “Your services?”

  “That’s correct. I’m what you would call a private investigator. And I’m sorry to have come to your workplace unannounced, but as it’s around lunch-time now, I was hoping that you might spare me half an hour or so of your time, to answer a few important questions regarding Miss Rouse’s potential whereabouts.”

  I darted yet another look out of the window. Again: police car, policeman in situ.

  “It’s okay,” said Bannister, as if reading my mind. “I had a quick chat with P.C. Gilmore outside, and explained the situation. He’s cleared it with his senior officer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m former S.A.S., you see, and have a few contacts at police H.Q., old friends. So why don’t I drive to that pub just down the road, buy us a drink, and then we can have a chat?”

  “As I’m sure you appreciate” – Bannister placed two pints of bitter on our table – “Miss Rouse’s parents are sick with worry. After all, this is their only child we’re talking about. And with all the problems they’ve faced over the years – the depression, self-harming, suicide attempts – for Miss Rouse to disappear so unexpectedly, just when she seemed to have attained a perfect balance in her life, work and relationships, is a particularly cruel blow.”

  “How do you mean – the perfect balance? Has she got a good job now? Is she seeing someone special?”

  Bannister looked at me questioningly. “Are you saying that you don’t know?”

  “Yes. Because I don’t! Despite what the diaries and letters found at Michelle’s home indicate, I’ve never once phoned, written or tried to contact her in the five years since we parted.”

  Bannister screwed up his face, as if my outburst had just confirmed the impression he’d already formed of me: pathological liar, weirdo, nutcase, someone not to be trusted.

  “Well, on that I’ll have to reserve judgment, because, as you know, pretty compelling evidence has come to light suggesting otherwise. But, in answer to your question, Miss Rouse recently obtained a T.E.F.E.L. qualification, enabling her to teach abroad. Having worked in a local junior school for a few years, gaining essential experience, she was about to embark upon a career, a vocation, if you will, as her parents were convinced that she was a born teacher.”

  This was yet another piece of information that I found hard to believe, because it was so contradictory. Granted, Michelle was highly intelligent, perceptive, articulate, even, but she had no patience whatsoever, a short temper, a complete lack of interpersonal skills, qualities essential for any teacher.

  “In addition to her professional plans, Miss Rouse had just started a serious relationship.”

  “Really? With who?”

  “That her parents don’t know. After her relationship with you failed so spectacularly, Miss Rouse was very secretive about her private life. She wanted, so she told her mother and father, to make sure that she’d met the right person before making the whole thing official.”

  “Do you think it could be Jeffrey Fuller?”

  “That’s certainly a possibility. And that’s where I’m heading later this afternoon – to the secure housing unit on the Norfolk coast. But, and I see no reason in concealing the fact, Miss Rouse’s parents have requested that I focus my attention upon you, finding out where you were and what you were doing around the time of their daughter’s disappearance.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Put yourself in their position: the diaries, the letters – all bearing an Ilford postmark – the fact you’ve been questioned by the police in regards to the killings. Wouldn’t you, if you were them, see Nigel Barrowman as prime suspect in your daughter’s disappearance?”

  “Erm, yes I suppose I would. But I assure you, I have nothing to do with any of this.”

  As if still reserving judgment, Bannister asked a series of questions related to the photograph and obituary, information I was sure he was already in possession of. Then he said something very odd:

  “Did you ever cheat on Miss Rouse during your relationship? Were you ever interested in, how can one put it: deviant sexual practises, S&M, role play, rape fantasies, maybe even intercourse with another man?”

  “No! We were very much in love. Our relations were normal. I would never have dreamed of cheating on Michelle or of becoming involved in any of the sick things you just mentioned.”

  “Okay, okay, Mr Barrowman, we’ll leave it there for now. Thank you for being so frank and upfront with me. You’d have been well within your rights to tell me where to go, to refuse to talk, to cooperate in any way.”

  “That’s because I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Just as I was about to leave off for the day, the telephone started to ring.

  “Risk and Assessment, how can I help?”

  “Is that Barrowman?” barked a very well-spoken man.

  “That’s right.”

  “Terrence Biles here, Deputy-Director.”

  “Oh, hello, Sir, how can I help?”

  “You don’t know? You haven’t seen the memo I sent last week?”

  “No, I mean, yes. What I mean is, I’ve been out of the office and—”

  “I can’t believe this! You receive a communiqué from senior management and you don’t see fit to respond.”

  “I didn’t realise that you wanted a response. I thought the matter was, erm…closed, that you’d recommended that I attend a training course.”

  “Of course the matter isn’t closed, you imbecile. Moreover, your caviler I couldn’t care less attitude is indicative of a much deeper malaise running throughout the junior ranks of local government. If a member of the public contacts your department, you should endeavour to provide exemplary customer service, even if it means going above and beyond the call of duty, even if it means contacting other departments yourself. To put the phone down on anyone is completely unacceptable.”

  I wanted to say: Shut up, you sanctimonious old prick. Over the last week, I’ve been caught up in three brutal killings, assaulted outside my own home, implicated in the disappearance of an old girlfriend, things far more important than some posh old woman moaning about dog shit on a pavement – but, of course, I remained silent.

  “However,” a slight softening of tone, “you have, due to the lady in question’s almost saint-like magnanimity, been offered a chance to reprieve yourself.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes. As luck would have it, Mrs Forbes-Powers lives a stone’s throw away from your office. Have you got a pen to hand? Jot this down.” He relayed the address, a street I knew well; just around the corner from my flat. “All this kindly, venerable woman would like you to do is call round, this very afternoon, as soon as you put the phone down, to have a look at the problem of dogs fouling the footpaths near her home. Requisition a camera, take photographs, act courteously and professionally, show her that you are taking her complaint seriously, mention the new dog bin and poop-scoop initiatives local authorities are hoping to put in place to encourage dog owners to clear up after their animals. Talk to the lady as if she’s a human being, not some mental deficient put on earth merely to irritate you. Understood?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You’ve gotta do what?” P.C. Gilmore leaned on the steering-wheel, looking right and left, looking to take advantage of a gap in the ever thickening traffic. “Take photographs of dogshit?”

  “Well, basically, yeah.”

  “Ha! And I thought I got all the crappy jobs ‘round here. But if that’s the case, I’ll drop you off and pick you up in say, half-hour or so. Gotta get to the mall before it closes, see. It’s me missus’ birthday today, and I’ve left it a bit late to bag her up something special.”

  “No, no, don’t worry. You don’t have to do that. It’s just around the corner. Let me get out wherever’s easy. I can always make my own way back to the flat. It’s literally five minutes away.”

  “Oh, I don’t know ‘bout that. If anything went wro
ng, the guv would hit the roof, ‘specially after that pasting you took the other night.”

  “What could go wrong? I’ll take a few quick photographs, offer a sincere apology on behalf of all the inconsiderate dog owners in the area, and probably be back at my place before you are.”

  He hesitated. “Erm, are you sure? I mean, you don’t mind? It don’t freak you out or nothing, being out on your own?”

  “Not at all. I can get out here, and be where I need to be in no time.” I pulled the door open a fraction, emitting a cold breeze, the hum of passing cars and the rumble of many idling engines.

  “Okay. Cheers. I’ll see you in ‘bout half-hour, then.”

  “Mr Barrowman?” shouted a haughty, superior, very familiar voice.

  I lifted my head. Across the street, standing outside a towering three-storey house, was, presumably, Mrs Forbes-Powers, the hall light spilling from the front door illuminating her tall, slender shape.

  I crossed over.

  “Good afternoon. Mrs Forbes-Powers, I take it.”

  “That’s correct, young man.” She opened the garden gate and stepped out onto the pavement. “Thank you for taking the time to come out and see me.”

  “No problem.”

  “No problem!” she spluttered. “Well, that wasn’t quite the case when I contacted your office last week, was it? Or when I wrote those two letters marked specifically for your attention?”

  “Letters?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb, pretending you haven’t seen them. I suppose you passed each one on to the correct department, like the metaphorical buck – unread. That’s the problem with you low-ranking civil servants: you’ve got no spunk, no drive or ambition. You think you can exist in your drab, grey little world, pottering around your drab, grey little office for forty-odd years and then retire on a nice comfortable pension. But life, I’m afraid, Mr Barrowman, isn’t like that.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Rich, well-educated people, the arrogance and assurance of the moneyed classes, had always unnerved me.