Close Your Eyes

by Rachel Abbott

  Becky knew exactly the sort of thing. In her experience, if someone was sneaking out of their office without anyone knowing, it was unlikely to be business related. She could be wrong, but suspicion was her middle name.

  ‘Martha knew about the private entrance, I presume?’ she asked.

  ‘It seems so. Martha kind of knows everything that’s going on. She’s not like the others.’

  Becky looked at the man’s anxious face. ‘What does that mean?’

  Spencer sighed. ‘She keeps herself to herself. She doesn’t make friends easily, and most of them don’t get her. That’s why she’s so valuable. She manages all the day-to-day financial stuff: payroll, human resources, pensions – all the crap that Niall and I don’t want to be bothered with but is an essential part of running a business.’

  ‘And what was her relationship with Niall?’ Becky asked.

  For a moment, Spencer looked cagey. ‘Well, it’s hard to say.’

  Neither Becky nor Rob spoke, knowing that an edgy Spencer would fill the silence. He didn’t disappoint.

  ‘They’ve always been fine, until recently. She’s totally professional, but we could never tell who she really was, if that makes sense. She was so controlled. But she did her job. A few weeks ago we had a party to celebrate completion of the next phase of the app, and since then I’ve noticed a bit of distance between her and Niall – particularly on his part. He didn’t seem to want to be in a room with her on his own. I asked him about it, but he said I was imagining things.’

  Becky decided not to pursue this for now. It would be better to ask Niall if it was in any way relevant. And at the moment she wasn’t sure it was.

  ‘If she had a dentist’s appointment or something like that, would she have gone out this way?’

  ‘I doubt it. She’s very upfront about stuff.’ Spencer scratched his head. ‘It’s hard to explain Martha without knowing her. Not that any of us do, really. She never talks about family, friends – you know, the usual stuff. She’s very much a loner, but at the same time she’d consider it dishonest to go to an appointment without telling us. Not that she’d have asked permission; she’d have stated it as fact – something not to be discussed, if that makes sense.’

  ‘Well, whatever her normal behaviour, we’ve come here this morning because Mr Strachan told us she has the pass codes for all the company mobiles. We understand Mrs Strachan used one, and as part of our investigation we need to access it. Do you know where Martha might have kept that information?’

  ‘On her computer, I imagine.’

  Spencer walked round to the other side of Martha’s desk and twiddled her mouse.

  ‘Ah. It’s password-protected.’

  Of course it is, thought Becky.

  ‘Can you access it? I presume as it’s company property you have a procedure for this – in the event someone leaves without notice, for example?’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the tech boys, but yes, I’m sure we can get into the computer. It might take a bit of time, though.’

  Becky clenched her teeth with frustration. Where had this woman gone? Maybe it was a doctor’s appointment, or she was going for an interview for another job and she didn’t want anyone to know.

  ‘Do you have a phone number for her?’

  Johansson looked shocked, as if it was something he should have thought of.

  ‘Yes! Sorry, of course we do. She has a company mobile, like we all do. The number will be on my phone.’ As he spoke, he pulled his own mobile from the back pocket of his jeans, scrolled through a list and pressed the screen.

  He pushed the phone to his ear and waited. After a few seconds he lifted his eyes to Becky’s and shook his head. ‘Martha, this is Spencer. We need to speak to you urgently. The police need access to some of your files and we can’t get into your computer. Can you please call me back as soon as you get this? Thanks.’ He ended the call. ‘As you probably gathered, it went straight to voicemail. That’s odd too. It’s a company phone and she’s supposed to keep it switched on and with her all the time, to test the app.’

  Becky felt her irritation mounting. This should have been the easy bit. ‘Okay, can you dig out her address, please? We’ll have to assume she’s gone home – at least we can start there. We’ll get an officer to go round and ask her to call you with the password. In the meantime, please get someone to try to unlock her computer because we really need to get into Genevieve Strachan’s phone.’

  Spencer Johansson looked anxiously around the office. ‘Her address will be in the personnel records, but I’m not sure where she kept them. Certainly on her computer, but maybe she had hard copies too.’

  He walked over to a set of three filing cabinets and seemed to pull drawers out at random.

  ‘I’m sorry. We seem a bit disorganised. But you see Martha has her finger on the pulse for us, so we don’t need to worry about where stuff is.’

  He riffled through the folders. Becky was itching to help; even from where she was standing she could see they were all clearly marked, and yet he seemed to be looking through folders marked auditors and expense analysis. It was not until he reached the third drawer that he found a section labelled personnel.

  ‘I think this must be it,’ he said, lifting the entire section from the filing cabinet and bringing it to the desk.

  The file was subdivided alphabetically by the surname of each member of staff, and he laboriously checked each page, licking his fingers every now and again, until finally he reached the P section. He looked up, his gaze roaming from Becky to Rob and back to Becky again.

  ‘There’s a record for Matthew Parsons, but the next one in the folder is for Stella Roberts.’

  Becky knew what this meant. There was no file for Martha Porter.

  8

  MARTHA

  To my relief, the man at the taxi company confirms that they are not too busy, and they’ll be there to pick me up on time. I thank him and hang up, dashing up the front path to the childminder’s, an excuse about a sick family member at the ready. Thank God it’s the school holidays. At least the childminder doesn’t ask too many questions as I scoop up my son, Alfie, to hurry home.

  I clutch him tightly in my arms and kiss him.

  ‘I want to walk, Mummy,’ he says.

  ‘I know, poppet, but we need to be quick, so I’ll carry you for a while. Is that okay?’

  I don’t want to stress him, so I make up silly little rhymes about running as I trot along, but I can hear my voice shaking.

  ‘Too tight, Mummy,’ Alfie grumbles. He’s right. Every muscle in my body is taut, and I’m squeezing the life out of him. I put him down, and suggest we have a race. His face lights up.

  ‘I bet I can win you,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ I agree as I take baby steps by his side, squeezing his hand in mine, wishing he could run faster.

  Our flat is on a busy road, on the first floor above a chiropodist’s surgery. The thought of living somewhere with a communal entrance, where people could get in as others leave the building, has always terrified me. Here we have our own front door at the side of the house, and I rarely have to come into contact with anyone. The chiropodist tried to be friendly at the outset, but gave up when I didn’t reciprocate. I can’t have friends. They would ask questions that I couldn’t answer truthfully, so it’s better to keep my distance.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ I tell Alfie as I pretend to chase him up the stairs to our hall.

  He stops at the top. ‘What is it?’ His eyes light up. He loves a surprise.

  ‘We’re going on a little holiday. Come on. Let’s get ready. We need to be quick.’

  He beams with delight and follows me into my bedroom, where I clamber onto a chair and lift down a leather backpack from the top of the wardrobe. I don’t need to check its contents. I know everything is there.

  ‘Can you take your shorts and T-shirt off, Alfie? We need to get changed,’ I say as I strip out of my dark blue suit and pr
istine white blouse. I pull open a drawer to grab black jeans, striped T-shirt, red jacket and red trainers – the kind of clothes that no one here has ever seen me wear.

  My hair, tied back fiercely into a tight bun, is released from its hold, and I tip my head upside down to shake the wild black curls free. I throw my glasses onto the bed and grab a bright red lipstick.

  ‘Mummy, you look different,’ Alfie says, staring up at me, his eyes wide.

  That is exactly what I want to hear.

  I quickly dress Alfie, pulling a sun hat on. His hair’s as curly as mine and I want to cover as much of it as I can.

  ‘Are we ready?’

  Alfie looks down at his clothes and turns to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.

  ‘Can I please wear a different T-shirt?’ he asks. ‘I look like a girl.’

  I don’t like to tell him, but that’s the idea. It’s pale pink with a little frill round the bottom.

  ‘No time now, sweetheart – but you don’t look like a girl. That colour’s trendy now, you know. Jamie likes it. He told me to buy it for you.’

  He looks a bit confused, as well he might because Jamie is his imaginary friend. Much as I want to rush my son, I don’t want to upset him. None of this is his fault.

  After a couple of seconds, he nods. ‘Okay then,’ he says, beaming.

  ‘Good boy. Maybe I’ll call you Jamie today, shall I? You can pretend you’re him.’ He grins. He loves to play pretend, and I encourage it because I never know when it will be useful. ‘Off we go,’ I say in my cheery voice. ‘It’s holiday time!’ If only that were true.

  As I hurry to the top of the stairs, I take a moment to look around. This has been our home for two years. I always knew it wouldn’t be for ever, but I’ve tried my best to make it comfortable, even though little of what I see belongs to us. We can take nothing, and it hurts me to abandon Alfie’s paintings, toys, books, and what few clothes we have. We’ve been happy here in our own little world, but now we must leave it behind.

  For just a moment I’m tempted to hunker down and wait for the police to find me, as they inevitably will if I stay here. But I can’t. It’s not fair on Alfie. With one last glance over my shoulder, I walk down the stairs and out of the door, double-locking it behind me, knowing we can never come back.

  It’s a ten-minute walk to the pharmacy, but I can’t risk asking the taxi driver to come to the house; minicab companies keep records.

  He isn’t there when we arrive, and for a moment I feel a rising tide of panic. I don’t want to stand out on the street for long, even though I’m unrecognisable with my hair set free, no glasses and bright lipstick. I try to interest Alfie in the shop window, but there’s a limit to the fascination of a chemist’s display to a five-year-old. Just as he’s starting to get fractious, I hear a car horn and turn to see a large man leaning across the front seat of a taxi to shout out of the open passenger window: ‘Cheryl?’

  I nod, ignoring Alfie’s quizzical expression, grab his hand and head for the taxi.

  ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t know you had a little one. Give me a moment and I’ll get the car seat out of the boot. You okay for time?’

  I’ll have to be, so I nod again and try not to gaze anxiously around while he heaves himself out of the car, gets the seat and attaches it. Every second seems too long, and I feel as if eyes are burning into my back.

  ‘There you go. In you get, pet,’ he says to Alfie, panting a little with the exertion. He smiles over his shoulder at me as he climbs into the front seat. ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she? Salford Royal, is it? Hope it’s nothing serious. Which entrance?’

  ‘Main entrance, please. Oh, excuse me, my phone’s vibrating.’

  I reach into my bag and pull out my dead phone.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to the silence. ‘Yes, of course. That makes sense. See you soon.’

  I push my phone back into my bag.

  ‘Sorry, can I make a slight change? We need to meet someone so we can go in together. Could you drop me at Stott Lane car park, please?’

  ‘Course I can, love. Not a problem.’

  The taxi driver tries to make conversation with me, and I do my best to respond. I don’t want to stand out in his memory, so I need to strike the balance between being friendly and not overdoing it. I don’t want to be interesting enough to be the subject of a conversation with his wife or his mates.

  He drops us off, and I’m careful to give him an appropriate tip.

  ‘Hope everything goes well for the little ‘un,’ he says, having gleaned from me that Alfie has an appointment for a minor procedure. Nothing too interesting or life-threatening. Routine. Everything has to seem routine. Fortunately, Alfie had no idea what we were talking about.

  As the taxi disappears down the road, I crouch down.

  ‘We’ve got a bit of a walk, sweetheart, then we’re going on a tram! That’ll be exciting, won’t it?’

  It’s clear that Alfie’s excitement quota has been used up. Our life is usually orderly, and he’s been rushed around from pillar to post. I vow to make it up to him as soon as I can.

  We walk down the lane, away from the hospital, towards the tram stop. I resist the temptation to keep looking over my shoulder.

  We only have a few minutes to wait, and I play ‘I Spy’ with my son, but I can tell he’s tired, and I hope he will fall asleep on the tram.

  My wish is granted, and within seconds of getting on board, he’s nodding off. I ease him away from my shoulder so I can remove my jacket. It won’t look strange because it’s a sweltering day. I take Alfie’s hat off too. The tram isn’t busy, but I wait until the lady in the seat across the aisle from us has reached her stop, and then, keeping the jacket low so no one can see, I slowly pull the arms through, turning it inside out. My red jacket has become bright blue. The same with Alfie’s hat, which is now yellow. I pull a T-shirt for him from my bag. I’ll wake him when we get close to St Peter’s Square – our final tram stop – and whip his pink one off to replace it with the yellow striped one to match his hat.

  I know I might be being overcautious, but I have no idea where all the CCTV cameras are in the city centre, and I’m not taking any risks.

  Finally, we’re off the tram and heading towards the hotel I booked online while we were travelling. I had three stored in the memory, but there was availability at the first one I tried, just three minutes’ walk from the tram stop. Once we’re in our room, I can give my complete attention to Alfie, who must be totally baffled by all that’s going on.

  I push open the door to the reception area of the hotel and bend down, my back to the receptionist, as if to tie the lace of my trainers. I surreptitiously lift the bottom of my T-shirt to where I can feel the thin body pocket strapped to my waist, quickly unzip it and pull out the debit card that is never separated from me for more than the time it takes for me to shower.

  Having secured my shoelace again, I stand and force myself to smile at the receptionist.

  ‘I have a reservation,’ I tell her, ‘in the name of Kalu.’

  I don’t know if it’s a mistake to use that name, but it’s the name on the card, and it’s the only untraceable source of funds that I have.

  ‘Yes, I have your booking here, Ms Kalu. And who’s this little one?’ She gives Alfie a smile.

  ‘This is Jamie,’ I say as I hand her the card, hoping and praying there won’t be a problem.

  Alfie giggles but says nothing as he leans against my leg.

  The receptionist looks at the card. ‘Oh, it’s a debit card. I’m afraid we’ll have to take payment in full now, Ms Kalu, and you’ll need to pay for anything else you need throughout your stay – room service, restaurant and so on – at the time of purchase. Is that okay?’

  I give her my most relaxed smile. ‘Of course.’

  I glance down at Alfie, wondering if he’s suddenly going to ask who Ms Kalu is. But despite the momentary fun of being introduced as Jamie, the poor child is exhausted and confused. I n
eed to cuddle up with him on the bed and tell him a story.

  He doesn’t know that we’re running away. And I don’t know what to tell him.

  9

  LAKESIDE

  ‘We’re not running away, DeeDee!’ Mum said, glancing over her shoulder. Her mouth was a tight line, and I knew she was cross with me for being sulky, but I didn’t understand why I had to be taken away from all my friends. ‘Look, we’ll be there soon, and you’re going to love it. Anything has to be better than that awful flat.’

  I saw her cast an anxious glance at Dad, knowing he believed we’d only been living in such a dreadful place because his factory job didn’t bring in enough money for us to live in the kind of house that Mum was used to. Mum was doing office cleaning jobs to try to ‘make ends meet’, whatever that meant. And anyway, that ‘awful flat’ was the only home I had ever known, and I loved it there. At ten years old I didn’t understand much about money. We didn’t seem to have either more or less than any of my friends, and Mum and Dad had always been so happy.

  The thing I loved most about our life was the nights when we danced. Even though we didn’t go out much, Dad made the weekends fun, playing his favourite music and dragging Mum up from the sofa to dance with him, his hips swaying as he pulled her closer, his hands on her waist, singing in her ear. Then he’d pull me up too, and when I was smaller he used to dance with me in his arms. Even though he was born in south London, Dad said he must have inherited his moves from his Nigerian ancestors.

  I caught sight of his eyes in the car mirror. ‘Come on, DeeDee. We’ll make lots of new friends, you know. Especially when you go to your new school. And there’s an enormous garden so we can have parties too.’

  I knew I was upsetting my parents, but they hadn’t let me say goodbye to my friends. I didn’t even know we were leaving until this morning when Dad told me to pack one small bag with my favourite things because we were moving to somewhere completely new. They said they hadn’t told me before because they wanted it to be a surprise, but I don’t think that’s true. Things had been weird for a while. I even heard Kelsie from next door shouting at Mum when I came home from school one day. They stopped arguing when they saw me, but Mum wouldn’t tell me what it was about, and Kelsie didn’t say goodbye this morning. She saw us going but just turned her back.