by Ava Marsh
‘She’s been stashing money away for years, making deposits nearly every month. Usually a good few thousand pounds or more.’
Her eyes glistening with tears. And something else. Shame? Anger?
‘I mean … hell … how else could Amanda get that kind of money?’ She balls her fists and presses them against the table. ‘She always said she was going to get out soon, but that she wanted to earn enough for us to be secure. I never imagined she meant like this.’
I look at her. ‘Are you going to keep it? The money, that is.’
Kristen glares at me. ‘I don’t want it,’ she says indignantly. ‘I don’t want a fucking thing to do with it.’
‘So what are you going to do with it?’
She sighs. ‘I considered handing it over to the police. I did. I know I should, but I can’t bear the idea of anybody …’ She stops. Presses her fist to her mouth. ‘I don’t want anyone knowing that about Amanda. Or seeing those … those things.’
Her voice trails off. Her eyes fill with tears again. She lowers her clenched hands, her knuckles white.
My mind flashes back to the party. What Kristen must have seen in those pictures. I can hardly meet her gaze when she raises her head.
‘So, no police, OK? I know it’s wrong, but it’s what I want.’
I open my hand. Pass the SD-card back to her.
‘No.’ She waves it away. ‘You have it. I never want to set eyes on it again.’
‘But the bank details …’
‘I’ve deleted them.’
‘So why give this to me?’
She swallows, her lips beginning to tremble. ‘God, I miss her so much, Grace, and at the same time I’m so, so angry with her for leaving me in this mess. These last few days I’ve been thinking that, if she were still here, I’d probably kill her myself.’
I look at her, surprised by the vehemence in her voice.
‘I can’t stop going through it all. Who he was, the man that murdered her. Why she met up with him. The ridiculous risk she was taking.’
A tear rolls over her left cheek, pursued by another. She wipes them away with the tips of her fingers. I try to imagine what Kristen was like before all this. How happiness or contentment would have lifted her features. I’ve only known her unhappy, I think; only seen this broken side of her.
And all I’ve done is make her impossible situation worse.
‘Grace …’ Her voice so quiet I can hardly hear what she’s saying. ‘Do you reckon this is what got Amanda killed?’
I gaze at the black rectangle in my hand. Amanda must have gone after someone. Only this time she picked the wrong man.
Or men.
You should learn from her mistakes.
I take her hand. ‘Kristen, I’m sure she was careful. You know she—’ I stop dead. The expression on her face tells me to go no further. Fierce and furious. Desperate.
‘I don’t know,’ I continue. ‘Maybe,’ I say more honestly.
I clutch the chip in my fingers. Consider what it cost Kristen to bring it to me – she had no idea, after all, if I was in on the blackmail. And the risk she’s running today, simply by being here.
The risk both of us are running.
I glance around again, but we’re still alone. ‘I don’t understand though why you’re giving it to me. Why not just throw it away?’
‘I was going to destroy it,’ she says. ‘Pretend it never existed, because I’m fairly sure he … that man isn’t aware of it. If he were, I’m certain you wouldn’t have it now.’
I meet her eyes. I suspect she’s right.
‘So I figured you might need it. That maybe you could use it in some way to make them leave you alone.’
I blink. ‘And you, Kristen? What about you?’
‘I’m taking his advice.’ She puts her purse back into her bag. ‘I’m getting as far away from here, and all this, as possible.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Where …’ I pause. Hold up my hand. On second thoughts, perhaps it’s better not to know.
She leans over and writes a number on the napkin. ‘I’ve got a new mobile phone, a pay-as-you-go. Untraceable.’ She laughs. ‘At least Amanda taught me that much.’ She pushes it over to me. ‘In case you ever need to get in touch.’
I pick up the napkin and stuff it in my pocket. We both stand. Kristen pulls on her coat with such a dazed expression that I can hardly bear it. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, suddenly reluctant to let her go.
‘You don’t think this kind of thing could be real, do you?’ she says when I release her. ‘Part of me can’t believe it’s actually happening, that I must be imagining it.’
She adjusts the scarf around her neck. Looks me right in the eyes. ‘But the rest of me has never been so scared in my entire life.’
33
Tuesday, 31 March
I go straight back to my flat. Double-lock the door behind me and cancel my afternoon appointment, pleading a cold. The client sounds disgruntled, like not getting his rocks off is a major inconvenience.
Tough.
I boot up my laptop, hardly able to bear the minute or so it takes for all the icons to settle on the screen. Consider running back out and buying that pack of cigarettes.
‘Focus, Grace,’ I mutter to myself as the egg timer over my cursor finally disappears. I insert the SD-card into the little slot below the mouse pad. ‘Import pictures and documents?’ my computer asks. I click ‘No’, then bring up the file directory and open the Removable Disc icon.
About thirty files fill the screen, each headed with initials. I click on the first – ‘DRH’. It reveals a Word document and half a dozen photographs. I glance through them. They’re slightly blurred and obviously taken in a hurry, but you can plainly see a man in various poses, all of them nude. All of them incriminating.
The last few images have a movie icon next to them. I hover over the first and press play. A man lies on the bed looking straight at me.
‘What the hell are you doing, Elisa?’ His tone commanding. A little plummy.
A woman answers in the background. ‘Hang on a sec. Just switching it off.’
Seconds later Amanda comes into view. She’s wearing her hair piled loosely on top of her head, a style that makes her look particularly glamorous. She climbs astride the man and slowly lowers herself on to him.
‘Richard,’ she says teasingly. ‘You really have missed me, haven’t you?’
The man laughs. ‘You know damn well I’d see you every day if I could afford it.’
The angle of the film is slightly skewed, their heads bobbing in and out of shot. I’m guessing Amanda propped the phone up somewhere inconspicuous. On a chair, maybe, piled with clothes, or on the desk.
I imagine her routine. Photos would be simple enough. Pretend you’ve got a text come in or you’ve forgotten to turn off your mobile. Take a sneaky snap or two while fiddling with your phone, or set the delay to get a shot of the action. Videos would be even easier – simply press record and prop the phone somewhere with a view of the bed.
Amanda’s voice pulls my attention back to the video. I can’t quite hear what she’s saying, but I can tell it’s dirty. Nothing much from him. Murmuring. The odd incoherent grunt. The clip goes on for nearly five minutes, then abruptly ends. Maybe the phone ran out of battery, or perhaps she put it on a timer. After all, how much do you need to blackmail somebody?
Not much.
Amanda, I think as I click open the word file accompanying the pictures, definitely not just a beautiful face.
The document is only one page long. ‘Richard David Harris,’ it says at the top. Below, a list of details:
Chairman of the Harris Clothing Group.
Age 57.
Married to Louisa.
Two kids – John and Geoffrey.
The Beeches, Guildford Road, Godalming, Surrey.
Below that another column of figures:
15/4/13
– £1,500
13/7/13 – £1,000
1/3/14 – £1,000
Right at the end is a mobile number, along with an email address. An anonymous Gmail account – presumably the one she used to contact him.
I click back to the first picture. Check the Properties tab to see when it was taken. Ice in my stomach as I read the date.
Three weeks before the initial payment.
The next file has only two photos. A man in his forties, lean and muscular. And another video. This one more distinct, though less dialogue. Amanda getting fucked from behind, his body obscuring hers so I can’t tell exactly what he’s doing, but I guess for Amanda’s purposes it hardly mattered.
The Word document tells me this is John Leesham, manager of a well-known football team. He has a wife named Audrey, one daughter and a house in Cheltenham with what I suspect is a good address.
He paid her over five thousand – one lump sum in April last year.
I work my way through the rest of the files, which appear to be in date order. The line-up includes a TV presenter, the editor of a tabloid newspaper, and the head of a large private school, as well as a motley collection of MDs and CEOs – at least half in banking. And four men in government – two Conservative MPs, a top-ranking civil servant, and a Labour backbencher.
Some of them have given Amanda several smaller amounts; others what look like larger, one-off payments.
I pause halfway through. Calculate that she had amassed nearly three hundred thousand by last summer alone. I sit back in my seat. I’m sweating, my fingers sticky on the keys.
So easy, when you think about it. So easy, if you’re prepared to cross that line. I find I’m feeling almost sorry for these men, who got so much more than the mind-blowing sex they bargained for.
Taking a deep breath, I carry on. The videos become noticeably sharper, the sound less tinny. Obviously Amanda upgraded her phone, got one with a better camera. God knows, she could afford it.
I force myself to check every file, every single photo and video, in case there’s more to discover. After a while it’s like viewing a series of tedious amateur porn movies. I notice Amanda talks a lot, describing what she’s going to do in graphic detail. Less for titillation, I realize, than to implicate these men even further.
You cunning little minx, I mutter, pondering the psychology behind all this. Surely it wasn’t just about the money? There’s something playful in Amanda’s manner; not quite coquettish, more like she’s toying with them.
Which, of course, she was.
What happened to her, I wonder, as I watch Amanda fellating an MP. What lay beneath the contempt she clearly harboured for these men? Because they’re not all bad, those who visit women like us. They’re bored, they’re lonely, they’re curious – they’re simply human.
They surely don’t deserve this.
I open the second-to-last file. And freeze. My stomach flips as I recognize the face staring back at me.
Harry Arthur Elliott, says the Word file. Fifty years old. Senior partner at Trellum Bailey and Company.
I switch into Google. Trellum, Bailey and Company turns out to be a sizeable private equity firm, specialists in emerging markets. Harry is one of its top dogs, by the look of it. I go back to the photos. His ruddy face beams out at me. I check the stats. Two sons, both at a top private school.
Then I see it. At the bottom of the document is a single figure. £15,000. The largest sum Amanda ever demanded.
And no payment date.
There’s only one video. I click the start arrow. A flinch inside tells me what’s coming. Harry, kneeling behind a girl with mid-length dark hair. His hands clamped around her hips as he eases his way into her anus. Beneath her, another man, his face obscured by the angle of the shot.
Me. Sandwiched between Harry and Rob.
‘You enjoy fucking girls up the arse, don’t you, Harry?’ Amanda’s voice. Mocking, almost derisive. ‘Does it make you feel big and powerful?’
Did she really say that? I don’t remember. I guess I was too busy to notice.
The girl in the image looks up into the lens. Her eyes widen, her face contracting into a frown as she clocks Amanda fiddling with her phone.
I can’t bear to watch any more. I get up and make myself a cup of tea and stand by the kitchen window, waiting for it to cool. It’s getting dark outside, and there’s no one much around. A couple struggling to get a buggy into the boot of a car. At the end of the road, on the other side of the street, a man leaning against the wall of the pub on the corner, smoking. His face is turned in my direction, though it’s too far away to see clearly.
Am I under surveillance? Is that possible? Or just paranoid?
I stare as he drops the cigarette on the ground, grinds it under his shoe and disappears back into the pub.
A draught pushed its way through the gap in the sash window, making me shiver. Would this be enough to go the police, I wonder. I know I promised Kristen I wouldn’t, but surely it’s the most sensible thing to do? I have proof now. They’ll have to take all this seriously.
But what if they don’t? I think, remembering those marks on Kristen’s neck, dark and livid. And even if they did take it all on board, would they be able to protect Kristen? Or me?
I go back to my laptop and force myself to open the last file on the list. Inside are some pictures from the party. Several of me with Edward Hardy. Christ, how did Amanda get those? She must have sneaked into the bedroom when we were screwing. Unless she’d already set up a camera in the room.
I examine the remaining photos. Study their faces. Hardy. Harry’s friend, Rob.
And Alex. He stares back at me, his expression blank yet somehow challenging. I feel a lurch inside. A kind of ache.
I open the accompanying Word document. Hardy’s listed there, with his full ministerial title – Amanda had obviously caught the news reports. I wonder if she were planning to blackmail him too, or decided that was too risky. Robert Mulligan, it says next to the picture of Rob, along with his job title and the name of Harry’s bank.
My eyes drop down to see what Amanda had dug up on Alex. But there’s nothing. Clearly she hadn’t yet worked out who he was.
I switch to the internet, bring up Hotmail and create a new email address. I know strictly I should do it from a different computer, to mask my ISP, but there isn’t time. From this new account I paste in Tony’s address and type ‘The Others’ into the subject line. Below I paste pictures of Harry, Rob and Alex, along with those details I have. I add a note that I’m leaving town for a while, and tell him to contact me via this address.
The second I’ve sent it I delete the message from the email site and shut down my computer, removing the SD card. I hold it between my fingers and stare at it for a few moments. So small, so insignificant.
‘Amanda,’ I mutter out loud, picturing her beguiling smile, that gorgeous mask she wore to the party. Hiding so much more than any of us could ever have guessed.
‘Jesus Christ, Amanda. What the fuck were you thinking?’
34
Wednesday, 1 April
There’s nothing here. I drive along the seafront searching for Ryall Close. Double back at the roundabout where the high street meets the promenade, craning in the darkness to read the road signs.
Stacy said it was just off the main road. Told me I couldn’t bloody miss it.
I glide past a desultory-looking block of flats and several ugly beach chalets masquerading as guest houses, vacancy signs swaying in the wind. Several pebble-dashed bungalows. Even in the dark I can see it’s a far cry from the cheerful little resort I went to with Rachel and Tim. Of all the coastal towns of the southwest, I seem to have landed up in the most desolate.
Pulling up next to the sea wall, I lean my head against the side window and watch the rain slashing across the windscreen. I’ve been driving for five hours solid and have the kind of headache that makes you want to throw up. Why didn’t I hire the car with the satnav? It
was only an extra fifty quid for the week. But I was paying in cash and hadn’t reckoned on needing quite so much of it – as it is, I got the smallest model on the forecourt.
I lift my head and scan the horizon. In the distance, on the outskirts of the town, glows a giant luminous Tesco sign. I set off towards it, pulling in at the adjacent garage.
‘Could you point me towards Ryall Close?’
The man behind the counter thinks for a second, then draws me a map on the back of a discarded till receipt.
‘Can’t miss it, love. Just off the main road.’
I detour into the car park and dash into the store to pick up some provisions. Only the basics. Plus an umbrella and a new phone. I choose the cheapest, and pay for everything in cash.
Five minutes later I find the squat little bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac. Cliffview Cottage. Finally.
I’m there again.
In that room, in that flat, on a stained mattress on the floor. It’s chilly. My skin prickles, the film of sweat where my belly touched his cooling now he’s peeled himself away.
He’s standing by the window, bare-chested, jeans slouching low on his hips, looking over the estate and the city beyond. Just standing there, looking out that window, and then he turns and fixes me with those blank blue eyes and he says, ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Grace.’
And I wake. I wake with a cry and a gasp and the sensation that I’m falling, plunging downwards through the bed, through the floor, through the earth beneath. Sweat soaks the T-shirt and knickers I fell asleep in. I’m sticky and clammy and cold all at once.
Things fall apart.
I sit up, straining to take in my surroundings, the half-light of approaching dawn barely visible behind the thin curtains. No sound, except for the ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine I’ve been spared in London’s ceaseless clamour.
The bed is a double, and I’m tucked between a sheet and the thick cream cotton bedspread. Opposite looms a large wooden wardrobe, a thin strip of mirror down the central panel. On either side of me are two matching bedside tables, their varnish orange with age.