Beneath the Ashes

by Jane Isaac

  Jackman looked at his watch. “Yes?”

  Nancy looked from Davies to Jackman. She shifted in her chair. “I received a note yesterday morning.”

  “What kind of note?”

  Nancy half stood and rummaged around in the pocket of her jeans for a second. The paper was ruffled. Creases ran through it and it was stuck together with sellotape, but the words were clear nonetheless: Debts pass to next of kin.

  “Who sent it?”

  “I don’t know. It was hand delivered.”

  “Where’s the envelope?”

  “I threw it away. But there was nothing on it, only my name in capitals. Typed.”

  Jackman met her gaze. “What do you think it means?”

  Nancy looked visibly frightened. “There’s more. I went out of the flat yesterday, to put out the rubbish and wandered out into the main street. There was someone behind me. He pulled me back, said that they were watching me.”

  “Who do you think ‘they’ are?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jackman listened carefully as she explained the incident and went on to talk about the man in the supermarket. Thoughts of the cannabis cultivation filled his mind and the words of Mike Clarke from the drugs squad, ‘someone will be missing a crop’. Since these findings weren’t released to the general public, Nancy wouldn’t know about this unless she was involved.

  “Did you see the man?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there was a sort of tattoo on his finger. Some letters. Began with a CC – couldn’t catch the rest. His breath smelled of old chewing gum.”

  “You didn’t think to call the police?”

  “I was scared. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Jackman eased back. “What do you think this all means?” he asked again.

  Nancy looked surprised, as if she was expecting answers, not questions. It was Ryan, silent up to this moment, who answered. “We thought it might have something to do with Cheryl, Nancy’s mum. She has a drink problem.”

  “We know she was an alcoholic,” Jackman said. “Why would this have anything to do with her?”

  “She’s borrowed money sometimes. To buy drink and pay bills.”

  Jackman turned back to Nancy. “So you think that your mother’s loan sharks are hounding you to pay off her debt?”

  Nancy didn’t answer. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, worked the screen. Finally she turned it towards him and he watched the video. As the footage came to an end and the hooded man placed his hands in his pocket and pulled out a gun, Nancy’s hand trembled.

  “Where did you get this?” Jackman asked.

  “It was posted as a private message on the work Facebook page.”

  “Has anyone else seen it?”

  “I don’t think Becca or Karen have, no.”

  “And you didn’t tell them?”

  “I can’t. It’s clearly aimed at me and I don’t want them to be in danger.”

  “You no longer think it’s linked to your mother?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ve been over there. She’s clean, says she has been for almost two months.”

  “It could be an old debt.”

  Nancy shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know. When I mentioned people following me, asking for money she seemed too surprised.”

  “What about you, or your friends? Do you owe anybody money?”

  “No, nobody.”

  “Or Evan? You knew him better than anybody, Nancy. Could it have been something he was involved in?”

  “No. I would have known.”

  Jackman was only half listening now. What struck him was the amount – six thousand pounds. That was a steep amount to borrow. “I need you to be completely honest with me now. Are you absolutely sure you have no idea what this money was borrowed for and who used it?”

  Nancy gave a single nod. “What happens now?”

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jackman was silent a moment. “Have you ever heard the name Richard Garrett?” Davies’ chair squeaked as she straightened.

  “No. Who is that?”

  The faint buzz of the light bulb overhead was all that could be heard in the room.

  “Did the man you knew as Evan, ever mention that name?” Jackman asked.

  He watched Nancy’s expression change from confusion to recognition. “That was his real name, wasn’t it?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “No, he never mentioned that name.”

  ***

  “What do you think?” Davies asked.

  They were back in Jackman’s office, working through Nancy’s account. “I think we need to get someone out to Cheryl Faraday’s address, to make sure she is safe. Although given the size of the demands, I’m inclined to think they are more related to the drugs connection. Let’s contact Mike Clarke, circulate the details and see if they can come up with anything.”

  “So you believe her?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Davies tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I’m not sure. I don’t doubt the video, but there’s something about her. Something I can’t put my finger on.”

  Jackman pictured Nancy’s face as she unravelled her account of events that afternoon. “She’s frightened. Perhaps being on the receiving end of so many broken promises over the years has impaired her judgement. She doesn’t know how to react. It can’t be easy having an alcoholic mother.”

  “That makes her more sad than guilty.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They drove home from the station in silence. Ryan seemed to sense that Nancy didn’t want to talk. Richard Garrett. She’d rolled the name around in her mind.

  Cars were parked nose to tail when they arrived outside the shop. Ryan drove past, around the corner and pulled in on the double yellow lines. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  Nancy looked out into the street beyond. Shoppers, tourists, workers milled around, filling the pavement on both sides. “There’s no need. You can’t leave the car here anyway.”

  “I’ll just walk you back.”

  Nancy raised a hand. “Really. You’ve done enough. I’m grateful to you, for coming with me, I mean.”

  He nodded. “Still, I’d feel better if I saw you in.”

  “Nothing is going to happen here,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. “I’ll go into the shop, get Becca to come up to the flat with me.”

  “You are going to tell Becca about this, aren’t you?” Ryan said. “And Karen?”

  “When the time is right.” She turned, glared at him. “Don’t you say anything, will you? It needs to come from me.”

  He tossed her an uncertain look. “Text me as soon as you get in. And remember what the detective said – keep your phone with you and don’t leave the flat on your own.”

  Nancy hadn’t forgotten those words. In fact, they were branded on her brain. The detective had gone on to talk about a ‘safety plan’ until they tracked down who was sending those messages. She should stay at home, only go out if absolutely necessary and, if so, take somebody with her; and always keep her phone by her side. Discreet cameras would be rigged up, watching the entrance to the flat, and she’d been given a police alarm, which, if pressed, would immediately alert the control room. A mixture of fear and resentment clung to her. She was a prisoner in her own home.

  Nancy climbed out of the car and could feel Ryan’s eyes on her as she rounded the corner. A car slowed, flashed its lights to let her cross the road. Just as she reached the curb on the other side of the road she heard a voice: “Nancy, isn’t it?”

  Nancy blanched. She followed the voice to an attractive woman in a black Fiat who spoke through the open passenger window. “Do I know you?”

  “Maybe not. I’m Elise Stenson from the Stratford Mail. I’m covering the fire at the barn on Sunday. I’m working on a personal piece from the family’s point of view. I was very s
orry to hear about Richard. Thought you might like to add something?”

  Nancy stepped back and stumbled on the curb. So, the whole world knew who Evan really was. “No. I don’t.”

  “That’s okay. If you change your mind…” She leant across, passed her a business card. “I’d be very happy to hear from you.” The window closed and the car sped off down the road.

  The image of the journalist in the car stayed with Nancy as she climbed the back steps and let herself into the flat, completely forgetting her promise to Ryan that she would speak to Becca first.

  Relieved to find the flat empty, Nancy moved into the lounge, sunk into the sofa and chucked the business card aside. Her mind raced. The video footage and the note, the police interview, the journalist. Nothing made any sense.

  The sound of a key in a lock turned her head.

  “Hello!”

  Becca’s face appeared around the doorway.

  “I thought I heard you come in. Where’d you get off to?”

  For a split second, Nancy considered telling her the truth. Coming clean to Becca would lessen the weight pressing on her shoulders. But it would also bring complications. Becca would naturally be worried, not just for Nancy but also about the work’s Facebook page. She’d feel obliged to tell Karen. And then there was the note. All these little things were mounting up. No, best to keep it under wraps for now. “Just went for a drive with Ryan,” she said. The lie slipped out more easily than anticipated.

  “Good, glad you guys are speaking,” Becca said. “He’s been worried about you.”

  Nancy forced a smile. “How’s it going downstairs?”

  “Quiet today. Still, at least we’ve made a start on the displays for Saturday.”

  Becca chatted on for a while before excusing herself and trudging back down to the shop. After she’d gone, Nancy sat back on the sofa. Her heart was in a vice. She should have been honest with Becca. Told her everything. But these weren’t lies. They were hidden truths.

  Nancy approached the window and peered around the side of the curtain. A car drove past, but apart from that the street looked quiet beneath her. She moved out into the hallway, checked the lock on the front door. It was firm. Her mobile showed no new messages.

  She thought again about the footage sent to her that morning. What if they sent another? She rushed into the bedroom. Her laptop lay on the end of the bed. She sat down next to it, logged onto their Facebook page and scrolled down. There were no new messages added.

  Nancy laid back across the bed, her head propped up with her right hand. The name Richard Garrett chimed like a church bells in her mind. She thought about the police interview, how little she knew of Evan’s background. Maybe it was time to find out more…

  She typed his name into the search engine and pressed enter. A huge list of Richard Garretts came up. A man with a long bushy beard, surrounded by an array of children at varying heights; a silver-haired executive from Glasgow; a biker perched on his Harley Davidson. Curious, she typed in Evan Baker. Again, numerous profiles came up, although none that looked remotely familiar. That wasn’t surprising – Evan hadn’t made any secret of what he thought about social media. When he’d seen her using Facebook on her phone, he’d teased her, saying it was full of people sharing pictures of fluffy kittens and puppies and talking about what they’d had for tea. They’d laughed about it. At first. But the more she used it in his presence the more she could feel an underlying current of annoyance creeping in. ‘Why do you feel the need to share everything on there? Life is about the here and now,’ he’d said. As time passed, he’d got so huffy about it, she found herself logging on in private. And somehow she’d used her personal Facebook less and less in her own time too.

  Nancy switched to Google and typed Richard Garrett into the search engine. Her eyes flashed past the Facebook and LinkedIn references to the images. Nothing looked familiar. She scrolled down, and paused at a newspaper article from the Northampton Express entitled, ‘Acquitted At Trial’ and clicked.

  After a trial that lasted three days, Richard Garrett, formerly of Provence Court in Duston, Northampton was acquitted of rape at Northampton Crown Court yesterday. Based upon the evidence before them, it took the jury less than eight hours to record a not-guilty verdict.

  Garrett was charged with the rape of a seventeen-year-old woman last November, following a night out in Northampton. For the past eight months he has been held on remand in custody at HMP Gartree, pending the trial. In a statement his solicitor said, “This has been a gruesome ordeal for both Mr Garrett and his family to endure. He is relieved that it’s over and wants to be left at peace to concentrate on rebuilding his life.”

  A spokesperson for the alleged victim’s family said yesterday, “We are devastated by the result and will be discussing the verdict with our legal team to see how we can take this forward.”

  The date of the article was 2 April 2011. Nancy stared at the screen. Her breath balled in her chest. She reread the statement from his solicitor.

  She couldn’t quite believe it. Written there in black-and-white. Not her Evan.

  As she reread the statement from the family, she shuddered, worked back through their relationship. Evan was certainly adventurous in the bedroom. He was much older than her, more experienced. But she’d liked that – liked that fact that he was stronger than her, dominated her. It made her feel protected. But that didn’t make him a rapist. It must have been a misunderstanding. It had to be.

  She brushed her hand across the silver bracelet laced around her wrist, an impromptu present on their first month’s anniversary. Yes, he was stubborn. Liked things his way. But he was also kind. There’s a big difference.

  Maybe this was why Evan had felt uncomfortable talking about his family. It certainly explained why he’d felt the need to change his identity, have a fresh start in a new area where people didn’t know him.

  She grabbed her laptop, her fingers working the keys. Evan’s mother was called Audrey. She remembered them laughing together because she shared the same name as her gran. She typed Audrey Garrett into the search engine. Immediately a list came up, sandwiched together by a row of images. There were endless Audrey Garretts listed. She added UK to the search box. There were eleven Audrey Garretts in the UK. Nancy knew she lived somewhere in Northampton, but she couldn’t remember the exact area. She typed in the town, scrolled down through the directories. Towards the bottom of the page she found the electoral roll website and clicked. Her stomach bounced; here they were listed with full addresses. She scrolled through one in Birmingham, one in South London, another in Manchester. Finally she came to a listing for Northampton. Age 52. Evan was 34, it had to be worth a try.

  Nancy followed some more links and found a free phone directory. She typed in the details, more in hope than expectation, and was surprised when the phone number flashed up on the screen.

  She reached for her phone. She could maybe just dial, listen to the voice. If it sounded friendly, she could ask. It would be so lovely to find a part of Evan, to talk to someone who knew him like she did.

  She bit her lip, grabbed her phone and dialled. What did she have to lose?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jackman pulled into his drive and parked up next to the black Fiesta.

  He climbed out of the car, grabbed the bottle of Zinfandel rosé he’d picked up on his way home and strode over to his front door. As soon as he was inside, Erik came rushing towards him, his tail beating against everything in his way.

  “Hello, mate.” Jackman bent down and rubbed his head. “Where’s Celia?”

  The dog skipped around his legs. Jackman stood and called out to his daughter, but there was no reply. Assuming she’d gone out, he moved into the kitchen, pressed the switch on the kettle and flicked through the post. Swirls of steam were filling the air when he heard a sudden bump upstairs. He placed the letters down.

  The low rumble of a growl emitted from the hallway. Jackman crossed the threshold.


  Erik cast him a fleeting glance and glared up the stairs. Jackman looked up. A skinny man with dark hair, fitted jeans and a goatee beard was hovering at the top of the stairs. The whites of his eyes were glued to Erik.

  “Top marks,” Jackman said. “I’ve never heard him growl at anyone before.”

  The man switched his gaze between Jackman and the dog. Erik, now bored, slumped down on the floor next to Jackman.

  “You must be Adrian,” Jackman said.

  The man nodded his response. “Hi!” he said feebly.

  “Come on down,” Jackman said. “He won’t hurt you. I think you just spooked him.”

  Adrian walked down the stairs gingerly, half an eye still on the dog.

  Jackman smiled at him. “I’m Will, Celia’s dad.” He shook his hand. “Where is Celia?”

  “In the shower.”

  “Ah.” For a split second Jackman felt sorry for him. He could still remember the first time he’d met Alice’s father – a formidable Dane called Elias, one of the few men in his adult life that had towered over him. Elias had never hidden his disapproval of Jackman, making it obvious he didn’t think he was good enough for his daughter, especially when they married and decided to make their home in England. “Can I get you a coffee?” he said.

  Adrian nodded and followed him through to the kitchen.

  “What time did you get here?” Jackman asked.

  “About an hour ago.”

  Jackman busied himself with making another drink and was just handing it over to Adrian when soft footfalls skipped down the stairs and Celia’s face appeared in the doorway, beaming from ear to ear. “Dad!” She rushed through and encased him in a bear hug. “I see you’ve met Adrian,” she said pulling back.

  “I have.”

  She pushed her white-blonde hair out of her face, glanced across at the table and smiled. “You bought me rosé.”

  “Is it still your favourite?”

  “It is, although can’t afford to have it much at uni. Thanks.”

  Jackman cocked his head to the side. “There’s something different about you.”

  “Oh, I had a fringe cut in.”