The Hoax

by Paul Clayton

  PC Crocker and his unnamed companion led her down a blue and cream corridor of heavy doors. It was the sort of place she’d seen on television a hundred times. Pulling open the door of cell number four, PC Crocker asked her to remove her belt and shoes. She perched on a thin ledge under the window, which she assumed served as a bed. There was a rancid smell in the room; once PC Crocker closed the door, Frankie saw the open-plan toilet arrangements in one corner.

  She’d started the day ready to begin a brand-new job and now, five hours later, she was trying to calm herself in a room smelling of shit. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them close.

  There had been many times when she’d taken what life had given her, so why hadn’t she been able to do that today? Why hadn’t she been able to deal with it reasonably? She knew why: she needed to be heard.

  There had been four hours of discussion in that office about a job she knew was hers, a job that two people she’d never met insisted didn’t exist. She was pretty sure they had doubted her sanity by the end of the morning. As soon as she walked out of the door, they would forget all about her.

  She couldn’t allow that. The squeaky wheel got the grease; to get the answers, she had to create a noise. That was just what she was doing when the laptop sailed through the office window – although that might prove a problem with Shannon or Henry when they started looking for the computer to do their homework.

  She’d lost track of the time when the cell door cranked open and the ferret face of Detective Sergeant Webb appeared round the door. ‘Well, well, well. Look who it is.’ Frankie fought hard not to tell the sergeant that he should have opened the door with, ‘Hello, hello, hello.’ He didn’t seem in the mood for jokes. ‘Follow me, Baxter.’

  She was pretty sure it was the same interview room in which she’d spent time when she’d met Detective Sergeant Webb before. It was heartening to see the familiar face of PC Ashley waiting at the interview table. He nodded when she entered the room but stayed silent.

  The sergeant went through the routine with the recording device and then looked her in the eye. ‘You’re not doing badly, are you, love? Session in here as a possible suspect in a suspicious death enquiry and now damage to council property. What’s going on?’

  Frankie took a deep breath. Was it worth explaining? The tone of his voice suggested he would be impervious to any form of excuse, but she knew she couldn’t give up. ‘Something odd is going on, sergeant, and it all seemed to come to a head this morning.’

  ‘You’d better start explaining to me before we get the charge sheet out.’

  Frankie bit back her response. Her stomach tightened and she exhaled slowly while trying to find the right words. She told him about the job application, the emails, the online training and how she’d turned up at the office this morning, as requested, and found it was all a lie or some kind of malicious trick.

  ‘I’m no expert on Internet fraud,’ said Sergeant Webb, ‘but it all sounds a bit extravagant just to get you to turn up for a job that’s not there. A bit of a prank, if you ask me.’

  ‘A prank?’ The word hit Frankie in the face as if he’d slapped her. ‘Somebody’s fucked my life up, sergeant. That’s how much of a prank it is! Somebody’s built up my hopes that for once I could achieve something, that for once I wouldn’t be scrabbling around in the bottom of my purse for loose change to buy something for supper. Just for once, I wouldn’t be having to fill out endless benefit forms to supplement what they call a flexible hours contract. Somebody has taken my miserable fucking life and hung it out to dry.’

  Webb relaxed his gaze and looked down at the table for a moment.

  ‘And if you could feel one bit as stupid as I do,’ she went on, ‘then there’s a slim fucking chance you’d understand.’

  PC Ashley squirmed in his seat.

  Webb looked at her. ‘Right, you can make a formal request for an investigation. I have to inform you that there is very little actual evidence. What we are here to sort out is the damage to the childcare office while you were doing your impersonation of Fatima Whitbread with a laptop. Leave it with me. Detective Sergeant Webb leaving the room.’

  A soon as the door closed, PC Ashley leant across the desk and pushed a button on the tape recorder. ‘Just pausing the recording for a moment.’ He smiled at her. ‘Nothing you say is being recorded now, okay?’

  Frankie looked a little bewildered but nodded her head.

  He moved round to Frankie’s side of the table and sat next to her. ‘I think someone has targeted you for this. Someone wanted this to happen.’

  Ha! The incisive police mind at work, Frankie thought. She remained silent, her heart pumping as she realised what he was suggesting.

  ‘Have you any idea who it might be?’

  The answer was straightforward. ‘No.’

  ‘None at all? You did tell me about the circumstances that caused you to leave your last job. The guy who propositioned you. Wouldn’t be the type to want to get his own back, would he?’

  ‘He did get his own back. I got sacked. I don’t believe this. I keep myself to myself. Me and the kids. I’ve had enough shit in my life. Once Henry’s dad pissed off, I made a promise that it was me and the three of them together. Everything I do, I do for them.’ She snatched a pause for breath. ‘I’ve no idea why somebody would go to such lengths to set me up. My friend Cora sorted this job. Why would somebody want to make me jobless? They’ve made me a fool of me. I owe the bank all the money we spent over Christmas, and now I’m sitting in a police station facing charges of criminal damage. And you think that someone somewhere is getting a kick out of this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ PC Ashley stared at her. ‘But with your permission, I want to try to find out. I can’t do anything today – the sarge will be back in a minute – but I could call round.’

  Frankie was having trouble taking everything in. ‘If you do, could you not wear uniform? I’m sure the neighbours are sick of police turning up at my door.’

  PC Ashley laughed and moved round to the other side of the table as the door opened. Sergeant Webb came in. ‘Right, we’ve had a call from a Mr Pravasana who is the guy running the place where you went bananas in this morning. I’m not sure why, but it looks like you struck gold. If you agree to meet the costs of the window replacement, they’ll agree not to press charges. If I were you I’d grab it, otherwise, you’re going to have a criminal record.’

  Walking back up the street to the car, Frankie pondered the events of the afternoon. She’d no idea where she was going to find a couple of hundred pounds to pay for the window. The only positive thing was a brief flicker of hope from PC Ashley. If she could find out a bit more about what was going on, this might all make a strange kind of sense.

  She turned onto the bottom end of the high street and saw the lights on in Snifters wine bar. A few people were sitting at tables in the window. Cora had asked to meet her there that evening for a drink after work. Would she turn up? There was no sign of her at first glance.

  Frankie found a table near the back of the room and ordered a bottle of the cheapest house wine, the sort that would make Cora splutter if she tasted it. She thought of what Cora would say when she found out what had happened. She’d had no response to the phone message she’d left, but that wasn’t unusual. Surely she was nothing to do with this? She’d given them a car. She’d shown them endless kindness. And yet something was wrong. Why had she said she was the boss, when nobody at the office knew who she was? And why did she never answer the phone? It was what Sherlock Holmes might call a two-glass problem.

  As Frankie downed her second glass of wine, things became clearer. Cora had an enemy. Someone had realised what she was up to and resolved to make her plan fail. They’d interfered in the job allocation process and wiped Frankie’s records from the scene.

  Another glass, and that didn’t make any sense. Cora had w
aited outside this morning to wish her good luck. Cora must have thought she was going into a job. But then nobody at the childcare office had heard of Cora. Had she lost her job? Had she been too afraid or embarrassed to tell Frankie about it? Was she lingering there assuming Frankie would be fine, though she herself no longer had a job?

  More wine didn’t make her thoughts clearer, but Frankie knew that somehow this involved Cora. She glanced at her watch. It was coming up to eight o’clock. Cora hadn’t shown up. Frankie suspected she wasn’t going to and, at this moment in time, Frankie had no way of getting hold of her. And she should be at home with the kids.

  She emptied the last splash out of the bottle and, beaming at the chunky barman, she paid the bill. As she stumbled out onto the pavement, Frankie realised she was more than a little tipsy. It was quite a walk home, especially in this condition, and the car was just up the street. Should she chance it? It was a straight road home; with the windows down to get some fresh air and music playing to keep her alert, it would all be fine. Wouldn’t it?

  She held her breath and set off, walking slowly even though her legs were telling her otherwise. She swayed and stumbled forward with a feeling that, no matter how many steps she took, she was no closer to the car.

  All at once she found herself standing outside the childcare office. They’d boarded the window up and there was no sign of her car.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Lottie stood on the cliff edge, staring out at the endless sea. She’d been told many times that France lay thirty miles across the water but she found it hard to accept. Standing here, it felt like the edge of the world.

  She loved watching the waves rolling in to shore; breathing in time with them brought her a calmness she could never explain. She often strolled up here in the afternoons with the kids in a pushchair if either one of them decided they were too tired to walk.

  The seaside town below her curled around the bay, the little harbour providing refuge for the few remaining fishing boats that still set out each day just as this tiny town had given shelter to her when she most needed it.

  Bundling your two small children and worldly possessions into the back of a cab and setting off to an unnamed destination was a massive act of faith, but the alternative had been staying and enduring the physical abuse from Craig.

  She could remember Mrs Heaton’s voice like tyres on a gravel driveway.

  ‘He has a long day working, does our Craig. He does that so that you and the kids get what you want. I know you’ve got two little ones to look after, but it wouldn’t hurt you to get off your arse and think about bringing in some money.’ Mrs Heaton had put an envelope down on the kitchen table. Lottie knew it would contain money to buy her silence. ‘So what if he is a bit short-tempered at times? You just remember. He does it for you.’

  Lottie had called a phone helpline and done as they’d told her: packed an emergency bag, bought a new burner phone and ordered the taxi from a firm in another town. They’d identified her as ‘being at risk’, and the social worker told her that they would help her and the children get to a place of safety. The day the taxi took them to the station, someone met them with rail tickets and the train had brought them here. She’d stepped off the train, bags and children in hand, with no idea what to do next.

  A friendly faced woman strode down the platform towards them. ‘Charlotte? Is it Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes, though friends call me Lottie.’

  ‘I’m Daisy. I hope I may get to call you Lottie.’ She had the kindest eyes Lottie had ever seen and a wide smile that seemed attached to her heart. Lottie knew at once she would become a friend. Her cheap jeans, green T-shirt and hooded jacket were the sort of thing that Lottie might wear herself. Her greeting offered no hint of authority, just a hello.

  Daisy stooped down and picked up Lottie’s bag. ‘And look at these two little lovelies,’ she said in a comforting country burr that made Lottie feel warm and welcome. She introduced Daisy to the children and the little party set off down the platform.

  ‘It shouldn’t be too far for the little ones. It’s between here and the sea. We’ll get you all settled in, then you and I can have a natter and I’ll explain how everything works. How does that sound?’

  Lottie thought it sounded perfect, though she wasn’t sure she’d heard anything after the word ‘sea’. When they had clambered aboard the train, Lottie hadn’t noticed where they were going. She knew they had to get off at a station called Queenscliffe Bay. It sounded a little unusual, but to be by the sea, far from Craig, was breathtaking.

  ‘Here we are,’ declared Daisy. They stood outside two grand Victorian houses with enormous bay windows. This was to be their home.

  There were eleven other women and three staff living in the refuge. Like Lottie, two of the other women had children. Every morning a staff member looked after the youngsters in a nursery at the rear of the house. This gave Lottie time to talk and to listen and, above all, to realise she wasn’t alone.

  For the first time since the chats in the attic room with Little Girl, Lottie sensed she had friends. Daisy would ask the women to form a circle with their chairs and then lead the conversation. It was a safe space where Lottie could talk through what had happened. There were some tears. What her past held scared her, and memories pricked her skin like needles. With no way of fighting back, she endured the pain as a picture of Craig’s face flashed through her mind. But, little by little, she felt the weight lifting from her.

  The days gave her a routine that she adored. Staff put meals on the table and everybody ate together. It was one big, noisy, dysfunctional family or, as Lottie heard one of the little boys describe it, ‘It’s a family with too many mummies.’

  Lottie liked this family with too many mummies. She couldn’t remember how long she was there before Daisy explained there was a time limit on how long she could spend in the refuge. She made it clear that they would never push Lottie out, but that the staff at the refuge would put her in touch with social services in Queenscliffe Bay. ‘They’ll do their best to find you and the little ones somewhere to live.’

  ‘Here? By the sea?’

  ‘I don’t think it will have a sea view, and it might be a bit of a squeeze. They do tend to come up with bedsits or small flats, but I know people who’ve made them into lovely comfortable homes,’ said Daisy. ‘Remember, we never know what’s round the corner.’

  Lottie liked Daisy a great deal; she was like an eager head girl at the kind of school Lottie had read about as a child. She was always smiling, a smile which came from deep inside and lit up her eyes. Lottie could hear the smile in her voice.

  Sometimes, in the evenings when Daisy had left to go to her own family, the women gathered in the lounge around the television. Lottie thought about the journey that had brought her here, about the decisions she’d made. In the programmes they watched on television, everybody talked about their journey – their journey to stardom, their journey to business success. Lottie knew that she’d made some wrong turns on her own journey.

  The refuge brought happiness for nine months. One morning, Daisy called Lottie into the office. ‘Social Housing have been in touch. They’ve got a pretty little flatlet they think might be just the place for you and the little ones. Shall we go and have a peek?’

  It had two rooms and a bathroom. One was a bedroom with a pocket-sized double bed and a single bed pushed into a small alcove; the other room had a battered sofa and an extremely basic kitchen corner with a gas ring and tiny fridge. In the bay window stood a dining table with a couple of rickety chairs.

  ‘The splendid thing is that it’s clean and everything comes with it.’ Daisy waved her hand to indicate the colourful pots, pans and crockery. But for Lottie, the best thing of all was standing on one of the wonky chairs in the corner of the window and catching a glimpse of the sea.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, and Daisy envel
oped her in a tremendous hug.

  Everyone was so helpful. They arranged her benefits and two of the other women helped to move things from the refuge.

  Daisy called round on the afternoon of the first day with a cake. ‘Here’s to your new home,’ she said cutting two large slices, one for herself and one for Lottie. They had tea and Daisy fussed around plumping some cushions and straightening sheets on the bed. It took several long hugs before she left. ‘And do keep popping in and letting us know how you are. Success stories like you encourage the other women,’ she said.

  Lottie watched her walk away, before climbing onto the chair to take a look at the sea. Then she set about helping the kids settle into their new home.

  ***

  Queenscliffe Bay was a town of two halves. Along the promenade on the seafront were the shops to attract the day trippers and holidaymakers, and the large houses that had been turned into bed and breakfasts. On the clifftop overlooking the harbour were new developments of glass-fronted palaces and apartment blocks. These were homes for people who’d discovered the joy of a town like Queenscliffe after life in the city.

  The further back from the sea you walked, the older and grubbier the houses became. It was an urban landscape of faux-Victorian architecture that bore grudges. Shops fought to sell their goods for under a pound, and houses meant for one family now housed four or five in small, ill-fitted flats. This was now home for Lottie and the kids.

  It was a squeeze for the three of them in the flat. Lottie felt as though the children were on top of her all the time. Daisy had managed to find an old TV set, and Lottie promised she would get round to buying a licence for it. Plonking the kids in front of the set for most of the day, she missed the interaction with the other women at the refuge. Two or three mornings a week, she found herself heading back there to catch up with everyone. She might be able to catch a glimpse of the sea, but she felt like she couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.