I Let You Go

by Clare Mackintosh

  Ray’s blood ran cold. ‘I can’t do it today,’ he said.

  There was a pause.

  Ray waited for the chief to speak, but the silence stretched unbearably between them until he felt he had to fill it. ‘I have an appointment at my son’s school at midday.’

  It was rumoured that Olivia conducted parents’ evenings at her children’s school via telephone conferencing, so Ray knew this was unlikely to sway her.

  ‘Ray,’ she said, all traces of humour dispelled, ‘as you know, I am extremely supportive of those with dependants, and in fact championed the introduction in this force of flexible working for parents. But unless I’m very much mistaken, you do have a wife, do you not?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And is she going to this meeting?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Then what, may I ask, is the problem?’

  Ray leaned against the wall by the back door and looked up at the sky for inspiration, but all he saw were heavy black clouds.

  ‘My son is being bullied, ma’am. Badly, I think. This is the first opportunity we have had to speak to the school since they admitted there was a problem, and my wife wants me there.’ Ray cursed himself for pushing the blame on to Mags. ‘I want to be there,’ he said. ‘I need to be there.’

  Olivia’s tone softened slightly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ray. Kids can be a worry. If you need to go to this meeting, then of course you should go. But the briefing will go ahead this morning, with the national coverage this force needs in order to cement itself as a progressive, zero-tolerance force. And if you can’t lead it, then I’ll have to find someone who can. I’ll speak to you in an hour.’

  ‘Talk about Hobson’s choice,’ Ray muttered, as he put the phone back in his pocket. It was as simple as that, then: career prospects on one side; family on the other. Upstairs in his office, he shut the door and sat at his desk, pressing the tips of his fingers together. Today’s operation was a big deal, and he was under no illusions that this was a test. Did he have what it took to go further in the police? He wasn’t sure himself, any more – he didn’t even know if that was what he wanted. He thought about the new car they would need in a year or so; the foreign holidays the kids would start clamouring for before too long; the bigger house Mags deserved. He had two bright kids who would hopefully go on to university, and where was the money going to come from for that, unless Ray continued climbing the ladder? Nothing was possible without sacrifices.

  Taking a deep breath, Ray picked up the phone to call home.

  The launch of Operation Falcon was a triumph. Members of the press were invited to the conference room at headquarters for a half-hour briefing, during which the chief introduced Ray as ‘one of the best detectives in the force’. Ray felt a surge of adrenalin as he answered questions on the scale of the drugs problem in Bristol, the force’s approach to enforcement, and his own commitment to restoring community safety by eradicating on-street dealing. When the ITN reporter asked him for a final word, Ray looked directly into the camera and didn’t hesitate. ‘There are people out there who are dealing drugs with impunity, and who believe the police are powerless to stop them. But we do have powers, and we have resilience, and we won’t rest until we have taken them off the streets.’ There was a smattering of applause, and Ray glanced at the chief, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The warrants had been executed earlier, with fourteen arrests made from six addresses. The house searches would take hours, and he wondered how Kate was getting on as Exhibits’ Officer.

  As soon as he had a chance, he called her.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ she said. ‘Are you in the nick?’

  ‘I’m in the office. Why?’

  ‘Meet me in the canteen in ten minutes. I’ve got something to show you.’

  He was there in five, waiting impatiently for Kate, who burst through the door with a grin on her face.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ Ray said.

  ‘No time, I’ve got to get back. But take a look at this.’ She handed him a clear plastic bag. Inside was a pale-blue card.

  ‘It’s the same card Jenna Gray had in her purse,’ Ray said. ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘It was in one of the houses raided this morning. It’s not exactly the same though.’ She smoothed the plastic, so Ray could read the writing on the card. ‘Same card, same logo, different address.’

  ‘Interesting. Whose house was it in?’

  ‘Dominica Letts. She won’t talk till her brief gets here.’ Kate looked at her watch. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go.’ She thrust the bag at Ray. ‘You can keep that – I’ve got a copy.’ She grinned again and disappeared, leaving Ray looking at the card. There was nothing distinctive about the address – it was a residential road like Grantham Street – but Ray felt he should be able to glean more from that logo. The figures of eight were broken at the bottom and stacked one on top of the other, like Russian dolls.

  Ray shook his head. He needed to go and check on the custody team before he went home, and double-check that everything was in place for Gray’s sentencing tomorrow. He folded the bag and tucked it into his pocket.

  It was gone ten o’clock before Ray got in his car to go home, and the first time since that morning that he had felt any misgivings about his decision to put work before his family. He spent the drive home rationalising it to himself and by the time he reached his house he had convinced himself that he had made the right choice. The only choice, really. Until he put his key in the door and heard Mags crying.

  ‘Oh my God, Mags, what happened?’ He dropped his bag in the hall and came to crouch in front of the sofa, lifting up her hair to see her face. ‘Is Tom okay?’

  ‘No, he’s not okay!’ She pushed his hands away.

  ‘What did the school say?’

  ‘It’s been going on for at least a year, they think, although the Head said she couldn’t do anything about it until they had evidence.’

  ‘Which they’ve now got?’

  Mags gave a hard laugh. ‘Oh, they’ve got it, all right. Apparently it’s all over the internet. Shoplifting dares, “happy slapping”, the works. All filmed and uploaded to YouTube for the world to see.’

  Ray felt something grip his chest. The thought of what Tom had been put through made Ray physically sick.

  ‘Is he asleep?’ Ray nodded towards the bedrooms.

  ‘I would have thought so. He’s probably exhausted: I’ve spent the last hour and a half yelling at him.’

  ‘Yelling at him?’ Ray stood up. ‘Jesus, Mags, don’t you think he’s been through enough?’ He began walking towards the stairs, but Mags pulled him back.

  ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’ she said.

  Ray looked at her blankly.

  ‘You’ve been so wrapped up in solving problems at work that you’ve completely ignored what’s going on in your own family. Tom isn’t being bullied, Ray. He’s the bully.’

  Ray felt as though he had been punched.

  ‘Someone’s making him…’

  Mags interrupted, more gently. ‘No one’s making him do anything.’ She sighed and sat back down. ‘It seems Tom is the ring-leader of a small but influential “gang”. There are about six of them – including Philip Martin and Connor Axtell.’

  ‘That figures,’ Ray said grimly, recognising the names.

  ‘The one consistent piece of information is that Tom rules the roost. His idea to bunk off school; his idea to lie in wait for the kids coming out of the Special Ed centre…’

  Ray felt nauseous.

  ‘And the stuff under his bed?’ he asked.

  ‘Stolen to order, apparently. And none of it by Tom – by all accounts he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.’ Ray had never heard such bitterness in Mags’s voice.

  ‘What do we do now?’ When something went wrong at work there were rules to fall back on. Protocols, laws, manuals. A team of people around him. Ray felt totally adrift.

  ‘We sort it out.’ Mags said simply. ‘Ap
ologise to the people Tom’s hurt, return the things he had stolen, and – more than anything – find out why he’s doing it.’

  Ray was silent for a moment. He almost couldn’t bring himself to say it, but once the thought was in his head he couldn’t keep it to himself. ‘Is this my fault?’ he said. ‘Is it because I haven’t been there for him?’

  Mags took his hand. ‘Don’t – you’ll drive yourself mad. It’s as much my fault as it is yours – I didn’t see it either.’

  ‘I should have spent more time at home, though.’

  Mags didn’t contradict him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mags. It won’t always be like this, I promise. I just need to get to superintendent, and—’

  ‘But you love your job as a DI.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘So why go for promotion and leave it behind?’

  Ray was momentarily floored. ‘Well, for us. So we can have a bigger house, and so you don’t need to go back to work.’

  ‘But I want to go back to work!’ Mags turned to him, exasperated. ‘The kids are at school all day, you’re at work … I want to do something for me. Planning a new career is giving me a focus I haven’t had in years.’ She looked at Ray and her expression softened. ‘Oh, you daft sod.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ray said again.

  Mags bent down and kissed his forehead. ‘Leave Tom for tonight. I’ll keep him off school tomorrow and we’ll talk to him in the morning. For now, let’s talk about us.’

  Ray woke up to see Mags putting a cup of tea gently by the side of the bed.

  ‘I thought you’d probably want to be up early,’ she said. ‘It’s Gray’s sentencing today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but Kate can go.’ Ray sat up. ‘I’ll stay home and talk to Tom with you.’

  ‘And miss your moment of glory? It’s fine, really. You go. Tom and I will potter about at home, like we used to when he was a baby. I’ve got a feeling it’s not a talking-to he needs: it’s listening.’

  Ray thought how wise she was. ‘You’re going to be a brilliant teacher, Mags.’ He took her hand. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  Mags smiled. ‘Maybe not, but you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.’ She squeezed his hand and went downstairs, leaving Ray to drink his tea. He wondered how long he had been putting work before his family, and was ashamed to realise he couldn’t remember a time when that hadn’t been the case. He had to change that. Had to start putting Mags and the kids first. How could he have been so blind to her needs, the fact that she actually wanted to go back to work? Clearly he wasn’t the only one who found life a little dull at times. Mags had addressed this by looking for a new career. What had Ray done? He thought of Kate and felt himself blush.

  Ray showered and dressed, and went downstairs to find his suit jacket.

  ‘It’s in here,’ Mags called, coming out of the sitting room holding the jacket. She picked at the plastic bag protruding from his pocket. ‘What’s this?’

  Ray pulled it out and handed it to her. ‘It’s something that may or may not be related to the Gray job. I’m trying to figure out what the logo might be.’

  Mags held up the bag and looked at the card. ‘It’s a person, isn’t it?’ she said without hesitation. ‘With their arms around someone.’

  Ray’s mouth fell open. He looked at the card and saw instantly what Mags had described. What had looked to him like an incomplete and out-of-proportion number eight was indeed a head and shoulders; the arms encircling a smaller figure that echoed the lines of the first.

  ‘Of course!’ he said. He thought of the house in Grantham Street, with its multiple locks, and net curtains stopping anyone looking in. He thought of Jenna Gray, and the ever-present fear in her eyes, and slowly a picture began to emerge.

  There was a sound on the stairs, and seconds later Tom appeared, looking apprehensive. Ray stared at him. For months he had seen his son as a victim, but it turned out he wasn’t the victim at all.

  ‘I’ve got it all wrong,’ he said out loud.

  ‘Got what all wrong?’ Mags said. But Ray had already gone.

  43

  The entrance to Bristol Crown Court is tucked away down a narrow road appropriately called Small Street.

  ‘I’ll have to drop you here, love,’ my taxi driver tells me. If he recognises me from today’s papers he isn’t showing it. ‘There’s something going on outside the court today – I’m not taking the cab past that lot.’

  He stops at the corner of the street, where a collection of self-satisfied suits trickles out of All Bar One after a liquid lunch. One of them leers at me. ‘Fancy a drink, sweetheart?’

  I look away.

  ‘Frigid cow,’ he mutters and his friends roar with laughter. I take a deep breath, fighting to keep my panic under control as I scan the streets for Ian. Is he here? Is he watching me right now?

  The high buildings either side of Small Street lean towards each other, creating a shadowy, echo-filled walkway that makes me shiver. I haven’t walked more than a few paces when I see what the taxi driver was talking about. A section of the road has been cordoned off with roadside barriers, behind which thirty or so protesters are grouped. Several have placards resting against their shoulders, and a huge painted sheet is draped over the barrier immediately in front of them. The word MURDERER! is written in thick red paint, each letter dripping down to the bottom of the sheet. A pair of police officers in fluorescent jackets stand to the side of the group, seemingly unfazed by the repetitive chant I can hear from the other end of Small Street.

  ‘Justice for Jacob! Justice for Jacob!’

  I walk slowly towards the court, wishing I had thought to bring a scarf, or some dark glasses. From the corner of my eye I notice a man on the opposite side of the pavement. He’s leaning against the wall but when he sees me he straightens and pulls a phone out of his pocket. I quicken my steps, wanting to get inside the court as soon as I can, but the man keeps pace with me on the other side of the street. He makes a call that lasts seconds. The pockets of the man’s beige waistcoat are rammed with what I now realise are camera lenses, and he has a black bag slung over his shoulders. He runs ahead, opening the bag and pulling out a camera; fitting a lens in a fluid movement born of years of practice; taking my picture.

  I will ignore them, I think, my breath coming in hard lumps. I’ll simply walk into court as if they aren’t there. They can’t hurt me – the police are there to keep them behind those barriers – so I’ll just act as if they aren’t there.

  But as I turn towards the entrance to the court, I see the reporter who accosted me as I left the Magistrates’ Court all those weeks ago.

  ‘Quick word for the Post, Jenna? Chance to put your story across?’

  I turn away and freeze as I realise I’m now directly facing the protesters. The chanting dissolves into angry shouts and jeers, and there’s a sudden surge towards me. A barrier topples over and slams on to the cobbles, the sound ricocheting between the high buildings like a gunshot. The police move lazily across, their arms outstretched, ushering the protesters back behind the line. Some are still shouting but most are laughing, chatting with others as though they are going shopping. A fun day out.

  As the group melts backwards, and the police replace the barriers around the designated protest area, one woman is left standing in front of me. She is younger than me – still in her twenties – and unlike the other protesters she holds no banner or placard, just something clutched in one hand. Her dress is brown and a little short, worn over black tights that end incongruously in grubby white plimsolls, and her coat flaps open despite the cold.

  ‘He was such a good baby,’ she says quietly.

  At once I can see Jacob’s features in hers. The pale-blue eyes with their slight tilt upwards; the heart-shaped face ending in a small pointed chin.

  The protesters fall silent. Everyone is watching us.

  ‘He hardly ever cried; even when he was sick he would just lie against me, looking up at me and wait
ing to get better.’

  She speaks perfect English, but with an accent I can’t place. Something Eastern European, perhaps. Her voice is measured, as though she’s reciting something learnt by rote, and although she stands her ground I have the impression she is as frightened by this encounter as I am. Perhaps more so.

  ‘I was very young when I had him. Only a child myself. His father didn’t want me to keep the baby, but I couldn’t bring myself to have a termination. I already loved him too much.’ She speaks calmly, without emotion. ‘Jacob was all I had.’

  My eyes fill with tears and I despise myself for such a response, when Jacob’s mother is dry-eyed. I force myself to stand still and don’t let myself wipe my cheeks. I know that, like me, she’s thinking of that night, when she stared at the rain-streaked windscreen, her eyes screwed up against the glare of the headlights. Today there is nothing between us, and she can see me as clearly as I can see her. I wonder why she doesn’t rush at me: punch or bite or claw at my face. I don’t know if I would have such self-restraint, were I in her shoes.

  ‘Anya!’ A man calls to her from within the crowd of protesters, but she ignores him. She holds out a photograph, thrusting it towards me until I take hold of it.

  The picture isn’t one I have seen in the newspapers or online; that gap-toothed grin in the school uniform, head turned just so for the photographer. In this photo Jacob is younger – perhaps three or four. He nestles in the crook of his mother’s arm, both lying on their backs in long grass scattered with dandelion clocks. The angle of the photo suggests Anya took it herself: her arm is outstretched as though reaching right outside the picture. Jacob is looking at the camera, squinting against the sun and laughing. Anya is laughing too, but she’s looking at Jacob, and in her eyes are tiny reflections of him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. I hate how weak the words sound, but I can’t find any others, and I can’t bear to offer only silence in response to her grief.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  I think of my son; of his weightless body wrapped in its hospital blanket; of the ache in my womb that has never left. I think that there should be a word for a mother with no children; for a woman bereft of the baby that would have made her whole.