by Lauren North
His voice echoes in my head. “I know everything about you . . . Mark was working on something for me.”
“But what?” I ask the empty room.
A hard drive? A USB stick? Whatever it is, if it’s in this house, then it has to be in one of these boxes.
I leave the first box, the one your life insurance policy is in, and take the second one instead. Piece by piece I unpack each box, making piles of books, and papers, and computer equipment. There are several CDs, but they are all labeled, dating back years ago to when you were in college.
The threadbare carpet has disappeared by the time I open the final box, the one with your life insurance in it. This one is more personal. There are mortgage statements from the house in Chelmsford, and utility bills, bank statements, and insurance stuff for the house. No hard drives or USB sticks. Nothing I can find that would store a file on it.
The yellow life insurance policy folder is in one hand, the bank statements in the other, and I stare at the empty boxes and the mess. There is nothing here; nothing that the man could want anyway.
I shiver and switch off the light before stepping back to our bedroom and the warmth of our duvet.
Bank statements first, I decide, pushing the yellow folder out of sight under my pillow as if the tooth fairy might come along and whisk it away for me.
It’s time to find Ian’s money and why you needed it in the first place. It has to be connected to this man and his threats.
I cover the bed in a sea of paper. Every page looks the same, with neat, typed lines, double sided, two columns of numbers on the right—money in, money out. The joint account is simple enough. You put money in at the start of the month and the balance trickled down with each tank of petrol and food shop. I had the money from my GCSE and SATs tutoring going in too but it wasn’t much—£60 each week, sometimes less.
There are a few odd purchases I don’t recognize at first. Sanchez’s for £65; £20 at a bespoke jeweler in Chelmsford. I grab my phone and Google the businesses, remembering as the page loads that I went out for dinner with the Chelmsford mums for Julie’s birthday last September. The evening doubled as a farewell party for me. I bought Julie a pair of earrings as a birthday gift. It was a different lifetime from the one I’m living in now.
Money in. Money out. Amazon, Tesco, petrol. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There are no answers in these statements, just a realization of how mundane my life was, and how separate you kept your finances. Aside from putting money into it each month, you didn’t use the joint account for anything other than the odd family dinner out and utility bills.
But if my life was boring, yours was too. Your personal account is no different. There’s one entry in the money-in column each month. The amount varies each time, which makes sense, I guess. Commissions paid on top of your basic salary paid directly to you before transferring a chunk of it into the joint account. I wonder why you did it that way, why you didn’t have your salary paid directly into an account for both of us to use. It’s as though you wanted to keep me separate.
I stare at the monthly salary amount. It’s more than I thought. We skipped, hell, we jumped right over so many stages in our relationship when I got pregnant with Jamie. We never did the weekend away, the meet the parents, the first fight, not until we were all in anyway. I’m not sure if discussing each other’s salaries counts as a relationship stage, but either way we hopped right over it.
Your expenditure column is as boring as mine. There are tiny payments at coffee shops, and higher amounts in pubs. A round or two bought on a Friday night. Seventy pounds spent in December in the shop where you buy your shirts. I remember you bringing them home in an oversized paper carrier bag.
There are some cash withdrawals too, but never for any startling amounts. You always liked to have cash in your wallet, unlike me, who put everything on a card.
There is nothing out of the ordinary. There are no answers here; no sign of Ian’s money either.
I told you not to worry, Tessie.
Not to worry? What about the man who for all I know is still standing outside our house? How can you tell me not to worry?
I flop back onto the pillow, sending paper floating to the floor. There’s a crinkling noise beneath my head and I remember the life insurance policy. I close my eyes and reach until my fingers touch the folder.
There’s no point putting it off any longer.
I open the folder at the same time as I open my eyes, scanning the words until I find what I’m looking for.
Policy Amount: £2,000,000
I blink, forcing my gaze to refocus and look again. Surely it’s two hundred thousand, not two million? It’s startling. It’s unbelievable, in fact. It’s enough to pay off the mortgage, it’s enough forever. It’s enough to pay your brother without breaking a sweat.
Two million, Mark. How is that possible? I feel like I should’ve known. It must have been mentioned when we made our wills. I wish I’d paid more attention that day. I really didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t think we’d need them.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel—relief? I’ll never have to work again. I’ll never have to worry about money, which I guess was why you did it. But every penny is a reminder of what we’ve lost—you, me, and Jamie. There is no amount that can make up for losing you, Mark.
I had to try though, Tessie. I couldn’t have you worry all the time.
Oh, Mark. What good is money if Jamie’s life is in danger? Whatever this man wants, I don’t have it.
I snatch the notebook from the bedside table and flick through the pages. The answer is here, I’m sure of it. I stop at Ian’s name, circled in shiny black pen. Where is his money?
My phone is still gripped in my hand. Before I can think too much about it I call Ian’s number.
“Tess, hi,” Ian says. His voice is groggy.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“It’s fine.” There’s a shuffling in the background and I picture him sitting up in bed. “Are you OK?”
“Yes . . . I just . . . I’ve got our bank statements in front of me.”
“Good,” he replies. I wonder how much self-will it took him not to add “about time too.”
“But I can’t see any sign of the money you lent Mark.”
There’s a pause.
“Ian?” I say.
“I’m here. Maybe there’s another account.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve gone through all the financial stuff and there are only statements for two accounts going back since before your mum died. You said it was after that, didn’t you?”
“Um.”
“Do you have the account number Mark gave you?”
“I wrote a check.”
“Oh.”
“It wasn’t the first time I bailed him out. Mark was . . . He was a good person, but with money . . .” Ian’s sentence trails off.
Is that true, Mark? I stare at the bank statements strewn across the bed and the floor. If you were so bad with money, then where is the debt? Where are the credit card payments? Where is the proof?
“Tess,” Ian says. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“What?”
“Let me put my forensic accountant on the case. He helps me with my clients and tracking down money. You can give him all the statements and give him the authority to act on your behalf, and he’ll do all the work. He’ll find any other accounts Mark had. He can find any debt in Mark’s name, as well as any pensions he’s got that’ll be yours now. Leave it to someone whose job it is. You don’t need this stress in your life, Tess. I should never have been so abrupt with you at the funeral. I’m sorry. I . . . I was upset too, and it was easier to focus on the money than . . .” His voice trails off and I’m glad he doesn’t finish talking. “I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”
“I’ll think about it,” I
say, although I don’t mean it. If I decide to look further into our finances, then I’ll hire my own forensic accountant. I know Ian is your brother, Mark, but I don’t trust him.
“And Tess?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you found Mark’s life insurance policy?”
“Yes. Why are you asking?” The question flies out without any thought. I picture the kitchen door wide open and the scent of something I couldn’t quite smell.
“I just wanted to make sure you have it, that’s all,” Ian says.
“Did you know the amount?”
Another pause.
“Mark told me he didn’t want you to worry about money,” Ian says by way of an answer. “Look, I know this is difficult for everyone, but the world keeps turning. Mark has made sure you were well cared for financially. I keep banging on about it, but please, Tess. It might be a weight off your mind if you at least talk to Jacob and start the process.”
I have that feeling again, the sense that Ian is holding something back from me. I picture the boxes the wrong way round and the policy document sitting so perfectly on top. The smell in the air, faint, like . . . like the lingering scent of a man’s cologne.
I gasp.
“Tess, are you all right?”
I called the locksmith to change the locks. I suspected it was Ian, but I didn’t know for sure until now.
“Tess?” Ian’s voice whispers in my ear and I jump.
“It’s late, I should go.” I hang up quick before Ian can say anything more.
* * *
—
I drop my phone onto the covers and pick up your life insurance policy instead. It would be so easy to dial the 0800 number at the top of the yellow folder, cash in the policy, pay off the mortgage. Even move house. Get something smaller with a fenced-off garden and windows that don’t rattle at the slightest breeze.
But there’d be no tree house for Jamie. There would be no feeling of you in every room, and I’m not sure either of us is ready to give that up.
I pull the notebook toward me and start to write.
CHAPTER 38
Transcript BETWEEN ELLIOT SADLER (ES) AND TERESA CLARKE (TC) (INPATIENT AT OAKLANDS HOSPITAL, HARTFIELD WARD), WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11. SESSION 2 (Cont.)
ES: Hi again, Tess. Would you like a glass of water before we start?
TC: No thank you.
ES: How is the pain?
TC: OK. Have you got any news? Do you know where Jamie is?
ES: We’re trying. You said earlier that someone had been in your house and taken things. Is that when you called the police the first time?
TC: No.
ES: What did you do then?
TC: (Pause) I changed the locks. It was Shelley’s idea not to call the police. She made me think that no one would believe me, that it was all in my head. But it wasn’t.
ES: You must’ve been scared to be in your home?
TC: Not all the time. Not at that point anyway.
ES: But later you were scared?
TC: Yes.
CHAPTER 39
Saturday, March 24
15 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
Today I woke up angry. Furious, in fact. Angry with you for dying. Angry with that vile, evil man who called me Tessie. Angry for being scared. Angry because there is something going on, something not right, something you didn’t tell me.
The locksmith came back yesterday and changed the locks in the front door and the side door. He handed over two sets of shiny new keys, but still I found my feet padding across the kitchen tiles, checking every hour or so that the door was locked.
So I woke up angry and shitty today, and Jamie was quiet. He stayed in his room playing with his Legos all morning. I made sandwiches for lunch that neither of us touched, and when Jamie left the table he forgot to take his plate to the sink. He’s seven, and seven-year-olds forget, and normally I don’t care and do it for him, but I was grumpy so I said: “Jamie, come back and put your plate by the sink, please.”
He already had his coat on and one welly boot. He stopped and stood up very straight before he spoke. “I’m going to my tree house. You can do it.”
The anger boiled over, the words flying from my mouth loud and fierce without a moment of thought. “Jamie, you will get back here right now, and you will put your plate by the sink.”
Jamie’s tongue stuck out, pushing the tooth at the front that still hasn’t fallen out, swinging it back and forth as he narrowed his eyes and glared at me. I was just about to snap at him again when he moved, stomping through the kitchen in his one welly boot, trailing dried mud across the tiles.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, my teeth clenched together as Jamie lifted his plate from the table.
Except he didn’t take it to the sink, he gripped it in one hand and threw it like a Frisbee. He was halfway out the side door before the plate had even smashed.
He aimed straight for me, and he was damn close too. The plate missed me and hit the cupboard with a clonk before bouncing off the worktop and smashing on the tiles.
“I wish Shelley was my mum,” he shouted, disappearing into the garden before I could respond.
Shards of china covered the kitchen. Splinters of white lodged in the grout between tiles, larger chunks shot under the oven, and one piece jumped up and fell inside my slipper.
I dropped to my knees and cried gut-wrenching sobs, angry, loathsome tears. We’d been doing so much better, Mark. I haven’t been snapping over every little thing. I thought we were OK, but we’re not. Nowhere close.
I hated myself in those minutes. I hated who I’d become—a mother who screams at her child over nothing. I hated you too, just so you know.
Oh, Tessie. I’m sorry.
His final words turned over and over in my head. He didn’t mean it, I told myself. He only said it to hurt me. Mission accomplished.
I didn’t understand until I was on all fours sweeping up the last of the plate and the crumbs and the mud how bad things were between Jamie and me. I thought back over the past weeks of our lives. The times we cried together on the sofa, the time on the walk back from school when he shouted and I almost hit him. Almost. Then there are the snippets of normal when I tried really hard, when we played Parcheesi and jumped in puddles and Jamie was OK.
I realized then that I needed to do something fun no matter how much it hurt, no matter how exhausted I felt. I had to do it for Jamie. He was feeding off my mood. When I was sad, so was he. When I was angry, he lashed out.
He needed to laugh; we both did. So later, after I’d pulled out the fridge and swept up the decades of dust and dirt and the last bits of china, after I’d pushed it back without finding Jamie’s magnet photo, after dinner when Jamie had disappeared into his bedroom, I flicked on the TV and called upstairs. “Jamie?”
“Go away,” he shouted back.
“You’ve Been Framed! is on. I’m doing the ironing if you want to come down?”
There was a silence before I heard the creak of his bedroom door and the thud of his footsteps on the stairs.
I didn’t say anything about the plate. I didn’t say anything at all. I just moved your mother’s old standard lamp from the parlor to the living room. The lampshade is straight out of Miss Marple’s era—burgundy with a fringe dangling down over a twisted, dark wood stand—but it gives a nice light to iron by.
Then I scooped up the pile of ironing from the utility room. God knows when I last touched the ironing. It’s been weeks and weeks. Almost ten weeks, in fact, but I don’t want to think about that right now. Like I won’t think about how creased Jamie’s school uniform must have been over the last few months. It didn’t even cross my mind to iron his shirts. Thankfully it’s been so cold he’ll have kept his jumper on.
With the living room door shut and the rest of the dark, col
d house forgotten, the soft lamplight makes the room feel cozy for the first time, but maybe that has more to do with Jamie’s howling, boyish laughter bouncing off the walls.
Remember that laugh, Mark? The one with gasping breaths and sighs and giggles before something sets him off again.
“Oh no.” Jamie giggles, covering his eyes and splaying his fingers to peek through. “Why would anyone do that?”
I look at the TV and watch someone climb onto a low roof during a windstorm. Tinny canned laughter echoes in the room. It’s obvious what’s about to happen, but still Jamie’s body is shaking with giggles.
There is something awful about a seven-year-old boy laughing at other people’s misfortune, but I don’t care. I didn’t know I missed Jamie’s laugh and the joy it unleashes inside of me, like warm summer evenings, like seeing old friends. I didn’t know I missed it. You’re the one who’s gone and yet so much of Jamie and I were lost that day.
Then something moves in the corner of my eye. It’s brief. A flash of light from the garden when it should only be darkness. But it’s enough for a shiver to run over my skin and my smile to disappear. I move away from the ironing board and step to the window.
Chilly air creeps through the single panes. It’s pitch-black, like I’m standing nose to nose with a black mirror. I can see the reflection of the light from the lamp and the sofa and Jamie watching TV. I can see my face—jutting cheekbones I don’t recognize and hollow eyes staring out.
A shudder takes hold of my body and I step quickly away.
I’m almost back behind the ironing board when I see it again—another flicker, a split second of white light like a torch or a phone, illuminating the rope ladder that leads up to Jamie’s tree house and the silhouette of a figure standing below it.
Then the phone rings.
CHAPTER 40
Ifreeze, not daring to breathe. The phone cuts dead on the fourth ring just before the answerphone would’ve picked it up.