by Anne Cassidy
‘A bit empty now. I’ll have to buy a few things . . .’
Rose noticed something on the work surface behind Joshua. A large padded brown envelope. On the outside were the words Private and Confidential. Joshua Johnson.
‘This arrived,’ he said, picking it up.
Joshua looked excited. Rose sat down at the narrow long table where she’d been on many occasions before.
‘It came by post.’
Joshua put his hand inside the envelope and pulled out a number of exercise books. This made Rose sit up. She didn’t speak but watched as Joshua laid the books out on the table. There were four of them. Rose stared at them one after the other.
‘The rest of the notebooks,’ he finally said.
‘Frank Richards must have sent them,’ she said, her voice low, ‘after he saw us in Wickby. He must have decided to send them.’
Joshua nodded.
She pulled one of the books towards her. She frowned. It was exactly the same as the two that they had once had in their possession. When she opened the first page there was a photograph there. The rest of the book was full of coded writing, page after page of unreadable prose. She closed it and pulled another one across. Then another. In the end the four books were lined up in front of her.
There was, however, something different about these books. They had a name and a date written across the cover in neat black capitals. The one she was holding had 2005 GEORGE USHER on it. She picked up the others – 2007 MICHAEL McCALL, 2008 RONNIE BINYON, 2010 JAMES BARKER.
‘Frank Richards has given us more information,’ Joshua said. ‘He’s identified the men in these notebooks, the men who were executed.’
Executed. Rose flinched at the word. It brought to mind a man with an axe or a hangman, an anonymous person who dispassionately ended the life of someone else.
‘You remember what James Munroe said when we were in Newcastle?’
She dragged her eyes away from the books. The printing on the covers was precise in a straight line, as though Frank Richards had written the names with a ruler underneath. She must have looked blank because Joshua went on.
‘He said that six evil men had been removed from our society. If you count the Butterfly Murder as the first one plus Viktor Baranski, that leaves four. These are the four other men who have been removed. If you look at the inside of the back cover of each of the books you’ll see some other information.’
Rose took the first one and opened it up at the back. The word Judgement was there and underneath the details of the death of George Usher. It was blunt and cold. She picked up the second book and saw the word Judgement again and the name of Michael McCall. Again the cause of death was stated. A single word. No emotion at all.
‘I’ve made a list of them, here, look. I’ve included Baranski even though we don’t have his notebook any more.’
On a piece of A4 paper was a bulleted list.
• 2005 December George Usher: Shot.
• 2006 August Viktor Baranski: Drowned.
• 2007 July Michael McCall: Stabbed.
• 2008 June Ronnie Binyon: Hit and Run.
• 2010 December James Barker: Fell under a tube train.
‘What about the other two? The boy from my college and Skeggsie?’
‘They don’t count. They’re not part of this project. You know that. These are the people who they meant to kill. I’ve researched them. George Usher, sixty-two, big hotel owner in the West End. Possible cover for drug dealing and prostitution. Police arrested him for the murder of one of his own girls but couldn’t make anything stick. The newspapers hinted that his murder was drug related. Viktor Baranski we already know about. Michael McCall, forty-three, walked away from a prison sentence for the manslaughter of his second wife due to a technicality. His first wife died in mysterious circumstances years before and there’s even a suggestion that his mother died an unnatural death. Ronnie Binyon, fifty-four, money lender and property owner. High profile case of two brothers who lived in one of his flats beaten to death by his workers. Then the mother of the brothers commits suicide. Binyon stays out of prison. Lastly James Barker, thirty-nine, a serial rapist and killer out on remand awaiting trial. His victim kills herself so no trial. He falls in front of a tube train weeks later.’
Rose didn’t know what to say. She stared at the notebooks in front of her.
‘Why did Frank Richards give us these?’
‘I don’t know. Munroe said Frank was a maverick. Munroe was dismissive of the notebooks. Maybe the notebooks were Frank’s way of collecting the evidence. He had once been a policeman. While Munroe was trying to cover up what they’d done Frank Richards was trying to record it in some way. I just don’t know . . .’
Rose thought of the red notebook she had back at Anna’s. She was trying to record things in much the same way.
‘So the mystery of the notebooks is solved.’
‘There’s one more that I haven’t shown you yet.’
Joshua got up and disappeared for a moment. Rose heard him moving about in his room. He came back holding another notebook. This one looked brand new, unused. There was still a name written across it, though; 2013 MACON PARKER. She opened it. Inside, on the first page was a photograph of a middle-aged man. His hair was receding a little but it was jet black, as if it had been dyed. The rest of the pages were blank.
‘What does it mean?’ she said.
‘It means that Macon Parker is the next person to be killed off.’
‘Oh.’
‘I looked him up,’ Joshua said excitedly.
‘What is he? Murderer? Rapist? Drug dealer?’
‘He’s an American businessman. Used to be a doctor specialising in organ transplants. Now he’s in private medicine as well as a number of other things.’
‘Why is he a target?’
‘There’s a hint that one of his companies was involved in illegal organ transplants. You know – paying people to give their kidneys. I don’t know any more than that. One thing I do know, though, is where he lives.’
Rose waited. She knew that Joshua was bursting to tell her.
‘In Essex just outside a village called Two Oaks. That village is about three miles from Wickby. Don’t you see, Rose? If he is the next target then Dad and Kathy might be there.’
She looked at him sadly. He was keen again, buzzing. And yet the things he was talking about were grim and awful.
‘So what does this all mean?’ she said. ‘What do you think it means for us? I don’t understand why you’re so fired up?’
‘Because you and I are going to find Kathy and Dad.’
She looked at the notebooks. Coded stories of premeditated murder. Why should they have anything to do with this?
‘We’re going to stop them carrying out this murder. We’re going to get them away from all this.’
‘I don’t want to be part of it any more. I’ve told you that.’
‘But this must change your mind?’ he said, pointing at the notebooks.
‘No.’
‘When we’re finally getting somewhere you give up!’ he said stiffly.
‘You think what you like,’ she said.
She’d had enough. She picked up her coat and bag and left him at the kitchen table.
Waiting at the bus stop she shoved her hands in her pockets. In one of them she felt the leaflet that she’d picked up from college earlier. She thought back to the conversation she’d had with Sara and Maggie, the invitation to go out on Friday night. How nice it would have been to tell Joshua, to arrange to meet him outside the pub. To open the doors and feel the heat and the noise and the bonhomie of a local bar full of young people like them. Why couldn’t they shake off all this stuff, leave it behind, get on with their lives? Go to the Pink Parrot and get drunk every Friday night?
Why couldn’t both of them just be regular teenagers?
TEN
Early the next morning Rose got up, wandered into her study and found an email on her lapto
p from Joshua.
Dear Rose, Some weeks ago you sent me a message saying you wanted a break from me, from what I was doing about Dad and Kathy. I was hurt but I understood. We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. You mean a lot to me but at the moment your lack of commitment to this search is holding me back. So I’m going to say I need a break from you for a while. I am determined to continue and feel that I’m getting close but your reluctance is pulling me down. I care about you but I can’t be with you right now. Josh
She sat down and read it again, the words sinking in.
Joshua was breaking off with her.
She crossed her arms tightly, feeling the thump of her heart deep in her chest. She shook her head. Joshua could not distance himself from her. She walked back into her bedroom and picked up her mobile. She would call him, explain, persuade him not to be so dramatic. He’d most probably sent it in the heat of the moment. No doubt the minute she’d walked out of the door yesterday he’d hammered out the email just to show he was angry with her. She accessed his number and stood very still for a moment, thoughtful. She turned back into the study and looked at the email to see what time he’d sent it. Thirty-eight minutes past six. It had been sent just over an hour before. He’d had all night to consider. He’d thought about it, weighed up the pros and cons, slept on it and decided to push her away.
Hadn’t she done the same thing weeks before?
She sat back down in front of her laptop. She remembered the message he’d sent her when she told him she wanted a break. She tapped out her own reply.
Whatever is best for you, Rosie.
She pressed Send.
Anna was getting ready to go out and Rose, still in her nightclothes, took her time over her breakfast, telling her she had a late start at college. When her grandmother left she went back up to her room.
She lay on the bed for a while, feeling confused.
Wasn’t this what she had wanted? To be left to get on with her own life. Hadn’t she been pining for this ever since they’d got back from Newcastle? She made herself sit up. She straightened her back and flexed her shoulders and then ran her fingers roughly across her scalp, mussing her hair. She needed to pull herself together. Get ready, go to college, keep her studies going strong, build up momentum for Cambridge. She picked up a towel and went into the en suite and put the shower on. She let the water soak into her hair and drill into her face. This was what she had wanted. To leave the troubles of her family behind her.
Once she was dressed she went into her study and began to pack her bag for college. She put it over her shoulder and looked round her room for stray books. Her eyes settled on her mother’s things in the corner.
She let her bag slip down her arm. Energy drained from her.
She walked across and picked up the top box file, labelled in her mother’s handwriting, Legal Papers. Rose sat cross-legged on the floor and opened it. Inside was a pile of papers covered with the small print of legal documents: pension plans, work contracts, tenancy agreements, life insurance. Rose closed the file. She pulled the second box file across. It was labelled Old Photographs. She looked inside and saw wallets of photographs. She plucked some out and saw colour photos of groups of people and places that she didn’t recognise. Her mother looked young enough to be at university. All pictures from before Rose was born or when she was a very young child. She found herself looking through these for what seemed like a long time.
Then she picked up the last file which had Miscellaneous, Old Correspondence written on the label. Inside were a number of envelopes – Job Applications, Health and Car. Underneath them was one that said Personal. Rose opened it. In it were four short letters and a number of birthday cards. They were all from Brendan to her mother. They were more like notes than letters, no address at the top, only dates. The first was 15 April 2007. The others were written soon after, one in May and two in June. How odd that Brendan would write to her mother after they’d already been together for almost three years. Rose put them down, feeling that she was prying, but after a few moments she picked them up again. She read the first one.
Kathy, my love, I’m sorry about the row last night. I had to leave early this morning so I thought I’d write this and try and explain my feelings. I can’t seem to put into words how sad I am about the baby. When you first told me that you were pregnant I was surprised because you and I had no intention of extending our little family. It took me some time to get used to the idea and this upset you, I know.
Rose narrowed her eyes and read on.
I know how depressed you’ve been since losing it. You think I am pleased but I’m not. It’s just that with everything else going on I don’t see how a baby can fit into our lives. We’re all right as we are. Love you lots. See you in a few days, Brendan
A baby? Her mother had lost a baby? Rose picked up the second letter dated 12 May 2007.
Dear Kathy, I’m sitting in my hotel room with an empty bottle of wine next to me. I’m sorry you’re so down and I’d do anything I could to make you happy but we can’t change what’s already happened. It was out of our hands and we have to move on. We have our family, my Josh and your Rosie. That has to be enough for us.
You should never accuse me of not loving you. I do. You know it.
Brendan.
The next letter was on 8 June 2007.
Kathy, I’m not sure how we can go on like this. I feel that you don’t love me any more. It was not my fault that you lost the baby. I’m just trying to look forward. We have a lot going on right now so I have to be away. You know how important our project is. I have to think of the bigger picture. I’ll be back by the weekend and then we can talk about what to do. Brendan
The last letter was also dated 21 June 2007.
Dear Kathy, I’ll be away for almost a week and I think this will give you time to think things over. I don’t agree that our relationship is ‘tainted’, to use your word. I still love you but I am beginning to doubt that you love me. If everything we had depended on this accidental baby then I’ve misread things between us for years. We have our family and we have our project. If these things are not enough then I don’t know what to say. Ring me. Yours, Brendan.
Rose replaced the letters in the envelope marked Personal.
Her mother had been pregnant with Brendan’s baby and she had had a miscarriage. Then she and Brendan started to have troubles in their relationship.
Rose wondered whether Anna had read these letters. She had had these papers for over five years. She must have looked through them, analysed them, tried to work out what had happened to her estranged daughter and her partner. It would certainly explain the things she had said about Brendan the previous autumn. She had accused him of murdering Kathy and running away from justice. Maybe these letters had made her think in that way.
Anna had never seen Brendan and her mother together. They had been happy. Rose was sure of that. And yet the letters suggested something different, things that had happened of which Rose had no memory It had taken place in 2007, their last summer together in Brewster Road.
A golden time.
And sometime during that summer Daisy Lincoln had been killed and buried in their garden. She had been suffocated and her hands were tied behind her back with Brendan’s tie.
With a heavy heart Rose put her mother’s things back in the corner.
She went to college but only stayed for a couple of classes. In the early afternoon she found herself on the tube heading for East London. Just after four thirty she walked up Brewster Road and stood across the road from the house that she had once lived in. It was a strange feeling to be there on her own. The police were no longer around and there was no crime scene tape. The street looked normal, like any other street – cars parked along each side, people walking, groups of young people standing talking. Further along a removal van was parked with the back open and a ramp sloping down to the tarmac. Men were walking up and down it carrying boxes. A woman in a shalwar kameez was stan
ding at the gate holding the hands of two small children, a beaming smile on her face. A family was moving in, starting their new life in Brewster Road.
Rose pulled her eyes away from her old house and walked along the road until she reached number fifty-four. She went to the door and rang the bell. Loud footsteps sounded along the hall and there was a shout of ‘I’ll get it!’ A woman of about forty-five answered. She had short dark hair and half-moon glasses which rested on the end of her nose. She looked quizzically at Rose.
‘Mona?’ Rose said. ‘I’m Rose Smith, Kathy’s daughter.’
Sandy’s mother looked puzzled, then she took the glasses off, pushed each of the arms closed until the glasses lay flat in her hand.
‘Rose Smith. Goodness. Sandy told me she’d seen you and Joshua last week. Come in, come in. Sandy’s just upstairs bathing Jade. Come in.’
Rose stepped into the hall. She placed her bag alongside a pushchair and took her coat off and let it hang over her arms.
‘It’s so nice to see you, Rose, and you’re so grown-up. Of course you are. You’ll be . . . seventeen?’
Rose nodded.
‘Come and have a cup of tea. Sandy will be down soon.’
From upstairs there was the sound of a baby crying. Rose looked up and Mona rolled her eyes.
‘I love Jade to bits but she was an unexpected surprise, I can tell you!’
‘I saw her. She’s very sweet.”
‘I know! Sandy was in the third year of her degree course and came home one weekend and told me she was giving it all up. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. But still, if it hadn’t happened we wouldn’t have little Jade.’