I was shocked by his words. I was used to the swing of emotions from joy at his approval to the misery of being condemned for any and all weaknesses, but this was extreme, and I found myself basking in his praise. My eyes were still locked on his, and I felt every decision, every hope of life outside those walls, drain from my mind.
He loves me! He thinks I’m special!
I had been conditioned to please him, and it brought me joy. I was overwhelmed, but at the same time I felt as if I was being ripped in two. I had always treasured every crumb of praise, holding it tightly in my heart until it was undermined by at best disapproval, and at worst humiliation. And yet there was now a part of me that wanted to run – to be with Leah.
If I lied to Aram, Leah would leave and accuse him of fraud. It would be the end of my world, of everything I knew and trusted, and I would be letting the whole of our community down. For years Aram had nurtured me, taught me to resist temptation, to fight material cravings. How could I disappoint him now?
And he loved me.
I had to tell him. I really did. And because of me, no one left Lakeside that night.
55
Tom opened the door to the incident room, having been summoned by Becky, and walked over to have a quiet word with Keith. Becky watched as Keith spoke, Tom nodding his head.
‘Are you happy to share this with the team?’ she heard Tom say.
Keith stood a little straighter. ‘If you think it would help, then yes, sir.’
Tom turned to the room. ‘Can I have your attention for a moment, please?’ The room fell quiet and everyone looked to where Tom and Keith were standing. ‘As you know, our suspect, Martha Porter, is using a prepaid debit card in the name of India Kalu. Further research has uncovered the fact that she was brought up for part of her life in Lincolnshire, in a property that is partly owned by a man called Aram Forakis. DI Sims has some information that he would like to share with us.’ Tom stood to one side. ‘Keith?’
‘Thank you, sir. Prior to joining the police force, I attended university for a few months here in Manchester. It turned out it wasn’t for me, and in the early days after my arrival I felt – as I imagine many students do – somewhat lost. I was out of my comfort zone.’
Becky felt for Keith. He was a very private man, and he was having to publicly admit to his insecurities. His back was straight, but his cheeks were slightly flushed.
‘A few days after I arrived, I was approached by an attractive young woman, asking if I was feeling lonely. She said there were many people feeling the same as me, and she’d found it a great help to attend meetings held in a nearby hall. She’d love to take me along, if I’d like to go. I was delighted – if somewhat terrified.’
He grimaced, and there was a ripple of friendly laughter.
‘The meeting was run by what appeared to be a Christian society of some kind, and the speaker talked to us about his work, about why people felt insecure – the root cause of all our problems. He was compelling. After a few meetings, I was asked to make a commitment – financial – to help with his work. I refused. Not because I didn’t want to be part of this group, but because – as I’m sure you’ll appreciate – I had my money planned to the nth degree and there was no room for manoeuvre.’
Becky smiled. Many people would have been put off by demands for money, but few because it messed with their cash-flow forecast.
‘I was harangued, pestered. The girl waited for me and told me I’d let her down, let them all down, and she was being shunned because of her failure to bring me to the light. It was relentless. In the end, I reported what they were doing to the university.’ Keith took a sip of water from a glass on his desk, but no one moved, gripped by what he was saying.
‘Some of you may already be aware of this, but it’s not unusual for universities to be a target for recruitment into quasi-religious groups. These bright young people may already have wealthy parents, and even if they don’t, they have good future earning power. I know many recruits were told to take part-time jobs and had to hand over most of their earnings.’
‘So this was a cult, Keith?’ Tom asked.
‘They didn’t call it that, but yes. Some groups refer to themselves as new religious movements. Those which don’t worship any god often say they are merely a group of people devoted to a person or an idea. But essentially cults have three features: a charismatic leader who has absolute power; a process of indoctrination which can be described as either coercion or thought control; and an element of economic, sexual or other exploitation by the leader. It sounds brutal, but when we all met together, it was supportive, happy, and I felt everyone genuinely wanted to get to know me. Then there were the small-group sessions in which each of us had to identify our failings, our shortcomings, and the group would join in and add their own criticisms to the list. They still claimed to love me, to be saving me, but the price of belonging was to demean myself. It was monstrous, but I didn’t realise what was happening to me until they asked for money.’
Thank God for spreadsheets, Becky thought.
‘How do they exert so much control?’ Rob asked.
‘They isolate you from everyone except the cult members, make you believe anyone who isn’t one of them is a danger to you; they humiliate you, then shower you with praise so that you are conditioned to seek their approval. I could go on.’
‘Do they use hypnotism?’ Cass asked.
Rob tutted. ‘I don’t believe in hypnotism,’ he said, his tone scathing.
‘What about Derren Brown?’ Cass asked.
‘That has to be a con,’ Rob answered, clearly sceptical.
‘DS Cumba, let me put this to you,’ Tom said, his eyes twinkling in a way that told Becky the story he was about to tell amused him. ‘Back in the nineteenth century a Scottish surgeon called James Esdaile performed operations on prisoners. In one case he caused such pain in the first part of an operation that he decided he was going to try mesmerism – hypnosis, if you like – for the second part. He was successful, and the patient experienced no signs of pain. No raised pulse, no screams. Pretty impressive, I think you’ll agree, as he was actually injecting and draining one side of the patient’s scrotum.’
There was general laughter as Rob winced. ‘Okay, I take it back!’
Tom turned back to Keith. ‘Do you want to explain how you think this relates to Aram Forakis?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Keith cleared his throat and faced the room. ‘When I withdrew from the cult, I saw a counsellor at the university for a while. We got on well, and we stayed in touch when I joined the police. He told me that cults were an ongoing problem on campus, but there had been one particularly sad case of a girl who’d been demeaned repeatedly for not bringing in enough money or new recruits. Finally, she was banished as a total failure, and she was so distraught that she killed herself. Her name was Jordan Callahan. The leader of the cult in question was Aram Forakis.’
The silence was broken by Tom. ‘DI Sims, thank you for being honest with us about what must have been a dreadful time in your life. All I can say is that the university’s loss is the police force’s gain.’
There was a smattering of applause, which brought even more pink to Keith’s cheeks, but it was interrupted by a shout from Cass, who had returned her gaze to her computer screen.
‘Sir! I think we’ve got her! She was picked up on ANPR on Tuesday evening – first travelling towards Leeds and then heading down the A1(M). We lost her at Retford.’
Becky knew what that meant. ‘If that’s where she came off the A1, sounds to me like she was going home. To Lincolnshire.’
‘We’re getting close,’ Tom said with a smile. ‘Becky, I think we have a road trip to make. There has to be more to this woman’s story than the killing of Genevieve Strachan, and I want to know what it is. It’s as if India Kalu knew that at some point she would have to adopt a different persona and run. You don’t plan your escape and shroud your life in mystery unless you have something to hide.�
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He was right. Becky knew Tom had not been able to reconcile Martha’s long-term planning with Genevieve’s murder. Maybe she really had done this before, although perhaps Manchester had been the wrong place to look. Perhaps something happened while she was living in Lincolnshire.
He walked over and perched on the edge of her desk.
‘The local force can locate and arrest her if we’re right about where she’s heading,’ Tom said, ‘but we need to take a long hard look at her background – most of which, at least since she was about ten, seems to have been in Lincolnshire. We could drag her back to Manchester on suspicion of murder and interview her here, but she has a child, and that’s an added complication. Let’s organise an interview team – Rob can lead it – but I want to be there when she’s questioned. I want to see her face to face. When we know what we’re dealing with, we can decide if we should set up a mini-incident room down there. Can you pull together the preliminary team and get someone to organise a hotel for tonight at least?’
‘No problem. I’ll need to make arrangements in case we’re there for longer than we expect to be.’
Tom groaned.
‘What?’ Becky asked.
‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing Lucy tonight – for the first time in nearly six months. She’ll understand, but she won’t be happy.’ He pulled a face. ‘Not much I can do about it. The only way we’ll be back tonight is if they don’t find her.’
‘Or they do find her, and she immediately confesses.’
Tom nodded. ‘That would certainly make life simpler. I’ll see if I can get hold of Philippa. I have a feeling she won’t be too impressed with my decision.’
‘Rather you than me,’ she muttered with a grin.
‘No, Tom. There’s absolutely no need for you to go rushing off to Lincolnshire with half of the Greater Manchester Police. Send your interview team. Let them do their jobs, and they can bring her back so you can interview her yourself when she gets here.’
‘Philippa, my suggestion of four officers hardly constitutes fifty per cent of our workforce, and I have to tell you I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I didn’t think it was a necessity. We’re not talking about a jolly to the sunny beaches of Cornwall – it’s a small town in the middle of nowhere. Come on, Philippa, I don’t do things like this often.’
Philippa’s eyes opened wide. ‘I beg your pardon! You do things that are wildly inappropriate on a fairly regular basis. I won’t remind you of them all.’
Tom couldn’t deny it, and he tried not to smile at her outrage. ‘Okay, I’ll concede that I don’t always stick rigidly to the rules. But only in the interests of justice, and I’m concerned about this suspect. There’s something else going on. There has to be. I can’t believe she changed her name over five years ago just in case she happened to kill her boss’s wife at some point in the future. There’s an assumption of guilt right now, which is entirely justified, but I think it’s more complex. I can feel it. She hasn’t been hiding for nothing, and I want to know why. What if Genevieve wasn’t the first to die?’
Philippa grunted. ‘I could tell you to stay here, but I know you. Somehow you’ll prove me wrong.’ She rested her forearms on the desk and leaned towards him. ‘Here’s the deal. You don’t leave here until she’s been located. They may not find her, and then we’ll have had you and Becky chasing round the country for hours wasting your time. You can be there in under two hours when you’re needed. Then you follow procedure – the official one, not the Tom Douglas version.’
It wasn’t perfect, but it was as good as it was going to get.
56
MARTHA
We arrive at the post office before it’s even open. The woman said Dad usually gets here about nine, and I can’t afford to miss him. It has to be today. I’m more convinced with every passing minute that the police are right on my tail, and there’s something I have to do before they reach me.
The sun is already beating down, and my poor little boy is sitting in the back of a hot car. I open the windows as wide as I can and sing to him softly. Not a pop tune, but his favourite song – ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’. He joins in, his piping voice drawing smiles from passers-by. I want to ask him to keep his voice down so people don’t stare, but he has enough to deal with today.
I’m so busy gazing at my child, painting his features onto my memory, that I miss the Range Rover pulling into the space two cars away from me. By the time I notice it’s there, all I see is the back of a man disappearing into the shop.
I’m frozen to the spot. Is this my dad? So often when I’m playing with Alfie I remember how he used to swing me round in those big powerful arms of his, and how I used to scream with delight. I’ve told Alfie all about him, hoping that one day they would meet. This man is thin, stooped and looks old – and yet my dad is in his mid-forties. He wasn’t much more than a boy when I was born.
I have to get my act together. I can’t show any shock when I see him. Who wants anyone to look at them with horror at the changes life has wrought?
I force myself to take some deep breaths, ready to paint on a smile. I push open my door and reach into the back for Alfie. What I’m about to ask my dad to do will seem all the easier with his grandson by my side.
I’m shaking. I don’t know if it’s fear of rejection or worry that he won’t recognise me. Or maybe he won’t care what’s happened to me. And I am about to let go of my son. The ache in my chest grows stronger.
Suddenly, he’s there, standing stock still in the open doorway of the post office, staring at me with his mouth slightly open. His gaze goes from me to the little boy by my side, and even from where I’m standing I can see his eyes fill with tears. And still he hasn’t moved. And neither have I.
A woman walks in front of him and looks up. ‘Can I get past?’ she says in a slightly peevish voice.
It seems to jolt him out of his reverie, and in three long strides he’s in front of me, reaching out his arms and pulling me close, squeezing the breath from me.
‘DeeDee, oh God, DeeDee,’ he mumbles over and over.
Alfie knows something is wrong and starts to cry. Dad lets go of me immediately and crouches down.
‘I’m so sorry, little one. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to say hello to your mum.’ He looks up at me as if seeking my permission. I know what he’s asking, and I nod. ‘Do you want to tell me your name?’
‘I’m Alfie, and I’m five and a half – nearly,’ he says with a final sniff, stopping crying as quickly as he started in that way small children do.
Dad smiles, and all the strain goes out of his face. ‘Are you indeed? Well, my name is Joel, and you might not know this, but I’m your grandad.’
Alfie’s eyes widen and he looks at me. I nod again.
I give them a bit of time to explore each other’s faces with their eyes, and then Dad stands up.
‘DeeDee, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you, but you know how things are, and I have to get back.’ The pain in his expression nearly tears me in two.
‘Is it still like that?’
‘It’s taken a long time for me to win back the trust I lost. I don’t regret it for one moment, especially now, but I can’t go back to how things were after you left. I just can’t.’
This time it’s my turn to cry. ‘I’m so sorry. I should never have asked for your help.’
He reaches out and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You should. Absolutely.’
‘What did he do to you?’ I’m not sure I want to know, but I have to ask.
Dad shrugs. ‘You know how it is.’
I do, but I need him to tell me, so I wait.
‘They shunned me. I wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone. I had to eat alone. You’ve seen it happen to others.’
‘Yes, for a few days. And I remember it was terrible. How long?’
He drops his head. ‘Two years.’
I did this to him. I am the reason my dad looks like an
old man. I risked everything to escape, and now I’m planning to risk everything to go back – to win our freedom so Alfie will never suffer the despair and humiliation I was forced to endure. But at what cost? Was I right to do this to my dad?
57
LAKESIDE
The realisation that I was pregnant crept up on me. My periods had always seemed regular, but I’d never specifically checked my dates, and one day was much the same as another. It was only when I opened the bathroom cabinet and saw a packet of tampons that I realised it had been a while.
For a day or two I assumed time must have been passing more slowly than usual. I didn’t have any frame of reference, like going out to work each day, to tell me that a week had passed. When I woke feeling nauseous, I thought I must have eaten something that had disagreed with me. I was twenty-one years old, and hadn’t seen or spoken to a pregnant woman since I was ten. I didn’t know what the signs were and there was no longer anyone I trusted to ask.
Then a memory hit me. I must have been about thirteen and I’d just come into the house from the garden when I heard someone being sick in the laundry room. I was about to open the door when I heard Aram’s voice – calm, controlled, with a slight note of distaste.
‘I hope you weren’t planning to keep this from me, Nicola. How long have you known that you’re pregnant?’
I clamped my hand over my mouth, scared I was going to gasp out loud.
Mum was silent for a moment. ‘Three weeks,’ she whispered.
‘You should have told me sooner. I’ll give you something to take.’
‘Will it make the sickness go away?’ she’d asked, a note of relief in her voice.
‘I should think so. Go to your room when you’ve cleaned up, and stay there.’
Mum was pregnant! At long last, I was going to have a little sister or brother.
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