‘What?’
‘Please, Gen. This has got to stop.’
I stare at him. The blood is throbbing at my temples. Art’s not going to admit to anything. He’s turning it all onto me. I realize, with a terrible, sickening misery that I no longer trust him.
‘Fine.’ I turn and stare out of the window. The sun is shining in, highlighting a line of smudges across the bottom of the glass. It’s a cold, clear day and from here I can see all the way across the river. The light is sharp, the tallest buildings delineated against a bright blue sky.
Behind me the door shuts. Art has gone.
I have to tell the police. Maybe the CCTV film on the memory stick in my pocket is a fake, but I need to know for sure. They can check Loxley Benson’s books . . . they can track the money Art paid to MDO and find out whether it somehow made its way to Rodriguez.
I slip out of Art’s office. Avoiding the boardroom, I walk through the open-plan area. The younger guys are there – sharp-suited and slick-haired, hunched over their computers. I have to stop myself from running as I reach the corridor off which the board members all have offices. Tris sees me as I pass and calls out ‘hello’. I act like I haven’t heard.
Past the reception area. Camilla is on the phone. I shove my hand in my pocket, feeling for the memory stick. My fingers curl round it and its solidity gives me a boost of courage. I glance over my shoulder. Camilla is watching me leave, still talking into her headset. I raise my hand in a wave and force a smile. She waves back, then looks down at her desk.
Heart thudding, I speed up, racing past the Ladies and the lifts and down the stairs. I hurtle down, down to the ground floor. Past the security guard – another quick wave – and outside. I stop for a second on the pavement, feeling the cold air harsh against my face, then look over my shoulder. There’s no sign of anyone following me from Art’s building.
Lorcan is parked just round the corner. I scurry in that direction. My phone rings. It’s Art. He’s already seen that I’ve gone. I switch off the mobile and run. There’s no traffic, just a few parked cars. No passers-by. The sun is out yet I’m shivering. I wind my scarf around my neck as I hurry along. I’m intent on reaching Lorcan and going to the police. The road is empty.
I step out without looking.
With a roar, a car speeds past. Every cell in my body freezes as I leap back. The car flies by so close I can almost feel the metal. In a split second it’s gone. I stand, staring after it, shocked to the core.
I realize I’m holding my breath. As I open my mouth, a hand grabs my arm. Strong fingers pull me round. Pinching my arm. Pushing me back towards the pavement. It’s a man, his face hidden by his hood. I try to scream but my voice won’t work. Before I can properly register what’s happening, the man shoves me against the wall behind. His hand grips my neck, pressing against my wind pipe.
I gasp, my senses firing, my heart pounding. I can’t move. My eyes fix on the man’s mouth, his thin lips. He’s huge – towering over me. The man leans in close. I can feel his breath against my ear.
‘Enough now, Geniver,’ he hisses. His free hand delves into one of my jeans pockets. Then the other. I can feel his fingers clawing inside my jeans, pushing against the denim. I strain away from him but his grip around my throat is like a claw. I can’t breathe. I want to kick out but my legs won’t move.
Inside my pocket, the man’s hand bunches, his fingers curling around the memory stick. My heart is thundering in my ears, my whole body frozen. The man withdraws his hand, then leans in close, still clutching my throat. ‘Remember what happened to Lucy O’Donnell?’ His voice is a low whisper, full of menace.
I nod. Just the tiniest movement.
‘Good . . .’ The man clutches the memory stick in his fist. ‘Then stop raking up ancient history, or the same thing will happen to you.’
This is how I got back at Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth.
Going into school, I hid behind the big tree and took my school sweatshirt and rubbed dirt on the front of it, then pushed my shoe in the earth and trod on the back of it. It was a bit smudgy but you could see it was some of a footprint, like when I was really little and we did finger painting. I put the sweatshirt on again and went inside. I screwed up my face like I was trying not to cry and told Miss Evans that Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth pushed me over and stamped on my back on the way into school.
It was good. Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth got in big trouble. It was specially good when I got home. Mummy said that I was very smart and that it was a good start as practice for dealing with Bad People, though I couldn’t expect the teachers to sort out everything and I needed to think of ways of paying back people so they would be hurt too and not just told off. She said that was the only way it was fair because if one person gives an eye, the other person has to as well. I think it was eyes. Anyway, she let me have extra sweets. I liked those fizzy sweets then, in the shape of snakes, but now I think those sweets are for babies, though I would still eat them if I had some.
Mummy said not to eat too many sweets as that can make you sick. I wished I could go back and make Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth eat sweets until they were sick. Then I thought about how Broken Tooth wore glasses and how I would like to get them and smash them up really small and put them in some sweets for them both to eat. I thought how the glass bits would cut your throat and really hurt. It would be so good because they would think it was nice and then they would see it was to make them be ill, ha-ha-ha.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The man shoves me away from him and races off, the memory stick in his hand. I want to move, but shock and fear root me to the spot. The man disappears around the corner to the right and I let the air out of me in a gasp. I force myself to focus: Lorcan is just around the corner, waiting for me. I have to get to him. I make myself cross the road. My legs feel like dead weights and I’m trembling as I reach the other side, but I keep walking, one careful step after the other. As I turn the corner on the left, I see Lorcan leaning against his Audi. He sees me and rushes over.
‘Gen, what happened?’ he says. ‘What did Art say?’
I open my mouth but I can’t speak.
‘Gen?’ There’s a real urgency in his voice. ‘Are you all right?’
I shake my head.
‘Get in the car.’ He puts his arm around my shoulders and ushers me to the car. As I slip into the passenger seat I realize that my hands are still shaking. I shove them into my pockets.
‘Art denied everything,’ I explain. ‘He wanted to see the film on the memory stick, but I came outside and this man – this huge guy – mugged me.’
Lorcan’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. ‘Jesus Christ, are you okay?’
‘It wasn’t random.’ My voice shrinks with fear. ‘He knew who I was. He took the memory stick. And he threatened me.’
‘What did he say?’
As I tell him, my mind is in overdrive, trying to piece together what I know.
‘Gen, this is bad,’ Lorcan glances at me. His face is contorted with worry. ‘Rodriguez must have sent that man, which means he knew what we took and he’s been watching us . . . he must have followed you . . . or else . . .’
I’m silent. He means: or else Art sent the man. Would Art have had time to do that? I can’t answer. I can barely think.
Lorcan drives off. Outside the car, people are rushing past – a blur of activity through the window. Their lives carry on as normal, while I can’t be sure of anything or anyone, any more. I look over at Lorcan. The doubts I had the other day come rushing back. He has bent over backwards for me, even though we’ve only just met. Have I been incredibly naive to trust him?
I’m sick to my stomach. I can still feel the man’s fingers, pressing against my skin. ‘It’s all true,’ I say hoarsely. ‘Someone took Beth. And whoever it was killed people to cover it up . . . the anaesthetist . . . Lucy O’Donnell . . .’
Lorcan slows the car as we reach a set of traffic lights. ‘Did you see his f
ace, the guy who attacked you?’
‘No.’ I look out of the car. An old man with a walking stick is struggling to walk past a newsagent. A little girl with sleek dark hair skips by, holding her mother’s hand. I stare after her. She’s too young to be Beth. Isn’t she?
‘It happened too fast, I just know he was tall. Big and tall.’ I shiver, remembering how the man appeared from nowhere, looming over me . . . a hooded, menacing giant.
‘Could it have been that blond guy we saw at Rodriguez’s window?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I close my eyes, trying to visualize the blond man. I can just about picture his shape in the window, but that’s no help, I didn’t see his face properly. I got the impression that he was stocky but – unlike my attacker – only average height. Still, from the angle at which I was looking up at him it’s impossible to be sure. ‘I don’t know.’
There’s a long pause. I’m unable to gather my thoughts. And then I remember what I decided in Art’s office.
‘I have to go to the police.’
Lorcan says nothing for a minute, then he glances over, his expression grave. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, Gen? I’m just asking the question. I know that guy threatened you, but . . . what exactly would you tell the police?’
Suspicion shoots through me. Why on earth would Lorcan object to me turning to the very people who are supposed to protect us?
‘I’ll tell them what I know, that I’ve seen film showing Art with Beth . . . that she didn’t die.’
‘But that film doesn’t prove or explain anything. You don’t even have it any more.’
He’s right. There is nothing whatsoever to back up my story.
‘Maybe I can get the police to investigate,’ I say, feeling defeated. ‘At the very least I could get them to properly investigate Lucy O’Donnell’s death. I mean, what else can I do?’
‘Okay, then,’ Lorcan agrees, reluctantly.
I find the address of the nearest police station on Lorcan’s phone and we drive on. As we near our destination fear circles me like a vulture.
What if Art really did all this . . .? Took Beth. Paid Rodriguez. Killed Lucy O’Donnell. Got someone to threaten me.
My guts twist into knots. I can’t bear to believe it. ‘Art didn’t know I had the memory stick before I went into his office,’ I say out loud. ‘He couldn’t possibly have organized that guy to take it so fast.’
‘Unless someone rang ahead to warn him. Anyway, it doesn’t prove anything.’ Lorcan pulls the car over and stops. We’re right beside the police station. I stare at the dark blue sign. ‘That’s my point. Nothing you know proves anything.’
I open the door.
‘Shall I come with you?’ he asks
‘No,’ I look him in the eyes. ‘I’ll be fine by myself.’
Detective Sergeant Gloria Manning gazes at me. She’s about thirty-five, with a lined face and lank hair that curls limply onto her shoulders.
‘So you don’t have this memory stick any more?’ she asks gently.
‘No, I told you.’ My voice rises and I place my hands flat on the table in front of me. I press the palms against the cold steel, trying to stay calm. In the clinical atmosphere of the interview room, with its bare walls and scrubbed floor, my story sounds hysterical. ‘I was mugged.’
Manning shoots a swift glance at my handbag, hanging on the back of my chair.
‘The memory stick was in my pocket . . .’ I explain. ‘The man knew . . .’
‘Okay,’ Manning says slowly. ‘And you think that the doctor who was present at your daughter’s stillbirth may have got this man to steal it. And organized the death of the woman in the road traffic accident last week who, you claim, came to you last week and told you your baby was alive?’
I nod, suddenly exhausted. I can see in Manning’s pitying eyes that she doesn’t believe me. Lorcan was right – without any proof, my whole story sounds ludicrously far-fetched, like some sort of melodramatic soap opera.
DS Manning clears her throat. ‘But until a week ago, you believed your baby was stillborn . . .?’
‘Yes.’ I look down at the table.
DS Manning leans back in her chair. It gives a weary creak that matches the look on her face.
‘Look, I know there’s no real proof of what I’m saying, but that’s why I’ve come here, so you can find the proof,’ I insist. ‘And find my little girl?’
DS Manning studies me carefully. ‘Have you told me everything? I mean, if you think this Doctor Rodriguez really pretended your baby was dead, why would he give you this film showing she was alive.’
I bite my lip. ‘He didn’t exactly give it to me.’
DS Manning raises her eyebrows. ‘What does that mean?’
‘We . . . I broke into his house and took it.’ DS Manning sighs. ‘Mrs Loxley—’
‘I found a newspaper cutting as well.’ This, I remember, I still have in my bag. Eagerly I take it out and offer it to the sergeant. ‘This is the anaesthetist at my C-section. The one who assisted Doctor Rodriguez.’
DS Manning takes it and holds it gingerly between her finger and thumb. She glances at the headline. ‘Killed by a hit-and-run driver,’ she says. ‘So?’
‘Well, don’t you think that’s suspicious?’
Manning stares at me. ‘You’re saying you think this man’s death was a fake too?’
‘No.’ Frustration wells inside me. ‘No, I’m saying that maybe Rodriguez killed him because he was threatening to expose the fact that my baby was born alive. Why would Rodriguez keep the cutting otherwise?’
‘Because they were colleagues?’ DS Manning offers. ‘Because they worked together?’
There is a long silence. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Loxley,’ she says. She leans forward and pats my arm. ‘I had a miscarriage too. Ten weeks. I know it’s hard to accept.’
I shake my head. I can’t speak, I’m too angry. How dare this woman compare my losing Beth with her own experience? How dare she imply I’ve been unhinged by my grief?
DS Manning clearly takes my silence for some kind of acquiescence. She pats my arm again and leaves the room.
Ten long minutes later she’s back.
‘There’s no record of a break-in at the house belonging to Doctor Rodriguez in Mendelbury.’ There’s a flat finality to DS Manning’s voice.
I nod, letting this news sink in. Rodriguez hasn’t reported the break-in. Of course he hasn’t. Why would he want to draw attention to the memory stick I stole? Especially now that he has clearly managed to get it back.
‘We’ll circulate the description of the man who mugged you and I have the number here of a victim-support unit.’ DS Manning pauses. ‘As I say, I’m very sorry, Mrs Loxley. Now, is there someone we can call for you? Someone who could take you home?’
The truth sinks into my head like a stone falling through water: the police aren’t going to believe me. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. I am numb with shock. ‘My friend’s outside.’ I stand up. My hands are still trembling. If the police don’t believe me, I have nowhere to hide.
Nowhere I will be safe.
Tears blur my vision as I walk to the door. Somehow I make it back out to the waiting area, down the steps and onto the pavement. I reach Lorcan’s car and get inside.
‘Gen?’ he says.
‘They didn’t believe me.’
‘Oh, Gen.’ There’s compassion in his voice. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I lean against him. All the tension of the past few days leaks out of me along with my tears. I rest my head against Lorcan’s chest, letting him wrap me in his arms, and a memory hits me from nowhere.
I’m racing out of primary school, a painting of my dad, created for my dad, in my hand. And he’s there, my dad. One of the rare occasions he picked me up after school, and he’s there, watching for me. And the unexpected and amazing coincidence of this overwhelms me and I hurtle towards him. And he sees me too and he smiles and he opens his arm and I’m almost flying through the
air to reach him faster, faster; and then something trips me and the playground rushes up to meet me and I’m smashing onto the tarmac and there’s pain in my knee and then his strong arms pick me up and my dad holds me and he’s saying: ‘Hey, Queenie, don’t cry,’ and his breath is sweet and comforting and I cling to him like the universe is disappearing all around us. And then he sets me down and I’m still sobbing but they’re little jerky sobs now and he takes my hand to lead me away and I remember the painting and I look round and it’s on the ground behind me, mud-spattered and trodden into a puddle by the other children. And no one has noticed, and I stare at it over my shoulder, the tears rising again and my dad is walking along, talking to one of the other mums and he is tugging me after him and I want to make him stop so we can go back and fetch the painting but he pulls me after him: ‘Come on now, Geniver,’ and I stare at the painting and my knee stings but I stop crying because there is no point and in that moment I know the hopelessness of love.
I lift my face, knowing it is tear-stained and that my nose must be red and my make-up must be smudged under my eyes. Lorcan says nothing but I see the tenderness in his eyes as I pull away from our hug.
As he drives off, he glances over.
‘Where do you want to go now?’ he says.
I look at him. ‘I don’t know.’ I want to say that I just want to be somewhere quiet, where I don’t have to answer to anyone or even think about Art lying to me or that Beth may be alive. But the words in my head are trapped there. Too hard to express.
Lorcan reaches out his hand and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
‘You can come and stay with me, if you like,’ he says.
I shake my head. Lorcan has been brilliant, but sleeping over at his flat feels like too great an intimacy. I run through the options in my head. Hen is the obvious choice – the person I always turn to – and yet I don’t want to confide in her. Not after all her conversations with Art, and knowing how unstable she already thinks I am. On the other hand, it doesn’t really matter where I go. I don’t have to talk. I just don’t want to be at home.
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