Your Closest Friend

by Karen Perry

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t recognize this person.’

  ‘It’s a crap shot,’ Kirkby admits despondently.

  ‘You can’t even tell the gender,’ I offer.

  But she’s quick to refute that. ‘It’s a woman.’

  Amy’s face flashes across my thoughts.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I know that you and the deceased were having a relationship, but do you know – did you ever suspect that he might be having a relationship with someone else?’

  I look at her. There’s something behind her eyes – something she’s not telling me.

  ‘I don’t know. He might have been.’ I look down at the image again, try to discern her features through the monochrome haze. Amy didn’t know Finn. They never met. Besides, I can’t imagine the two of them together. I discount my suspicion, realizing it doesn’t stack up. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘We haven’t identified her yet. Although we have samples.’

  ‘Samples?’

  ‘Skin, hair, bodily fluids.’

  I narrow my gaze sharply and she sees it.

  ‘Forensics found evidence of bodily fluids in Mr Doherty’s bedsheets – apart from his own, of course. We think that he had sexual intercourse not long before his death.’

  I am so astonished, I can only stare at her as she explains how these were checked against the blood samples I’d given them, before I was discounted. The room’s dimensions alter as my thoughts surge and retreat, the image looming queasily into focus and then drifting out again.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Kirkby asks.

  I grip the table.

  ‘It’s just the shock,’ I say, my voice a croak.

  She waits for me to recover, and when I do I reaffirm that I know nothing of any other sexual relationship Finn might have been having. It was over between us. He was free to sleep with whoever he chose. I state all this mechanically, as if reciting by rote. Then I get to my feet, suddenly anxious to be outside in the fresh air. I’ve spent far too long in this police station, and am eager to get away.

  ‘If there’s anything else,’ Kirkby begins, and I nod.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘In the meantime, do yourself a favour,’ she advises, her voice tired but kindly, ‘block that number from your phone. They’ll soon get fed up, start bothering someone else, eh?’

  A heavy rain is falling as I leave the station, pedestrians with umbrellas staggering beneath the weight of them. I pull up the collar of my jacket and fold my arms over my chest, tucking my hands into my armpits, keeping my head down as I hurry to the Tube. I need to pick up groceries for dinner, as well as laundry detergent – there’s a mountain of dirty clothes waiting for me at home. But I’m on edge, and keep glancing behind me as I walk from the train station. In the underpass, I have the distinct sensation that I’m being followed, but when I turn and look, there’s no one there. I need to get home, lock the door behind me, sit somewhere warm and quiet where I can gather my thoughts, try to see this thing clearly. Everything has become muddy and opaque.

  As I walk, I think about the person in the photo Kirkby showed me. A woman, she said – a woman Finn had slept with before his death. I try to picture him with this shadowy hooded figure. Who is she? Does she know about me? What might he have done to her to provoke such an attack?

  The apartment block feels quiet. The mass exodus to offices and banks and hospitals has taken place, and it feels like I’m the only person in the building. I am barely in the door, when I hear my phone ping with an incoming text and a plunge of doubt goes through me. Despite Kirkby’s advice, I have not yet blocked the number from my phone and my reason for this is, despite wanting desperately for the harassment to stop, I equally need to know who is responsible. The chances that these anonymous messages are unrelated to Finn’s death seem vanishingly small, and it is for that reason alone – the crazy hope that they might inadvertently or purposefully reveal their identity – that I keep the line of communication open.

  I know who it will be before I even check the message. Gut instinct. Intuition. Call it what you will.

  This is between you and me. No need to get the police involved. OK? YCF x

  I read it quickly, then stuff the phone back in my bag and carry it into my room – Olivia’s room – where I’ve set myself up in exile. My heart is banging away in my chest as I slam the door behind me, the swish of chiffon scarves that hang from the back of the door billowing briefly in the draught. I try to breathe, try to focus. How do they know? I feel watched. A prickling of nerves races along the back of my neck, bristling over my arms and raising the hairs there. I have my eyes closed, still leaning back against the door, when I realize that my limbs are shaking. Deep in my bag, my phone pings again, and it pushes my fear to one side, stirring a sudden anger to life inside me.

  ‘Just fuck off!’ I shout, flinging my bag across the room.

  The bag slams against the wardrobe door, then falls on the floor with a loud thump. This is chased by a smaller, lighter-sounding bump, as something dislodged from my bag by the impact ricochets off the floor. I can hear the slide of it along the floorboards, before it comes to rest.

  I put a hand to my face, pinch the bridge of my nose. There is pain there – the start of a headache. There’s paracetamol in my bag, and wearily I push myself away from the wall, cross the room and bend to retrieve my belongings. The bag is zipped shut, which raises the question in my head of how something managed to escape. Not a serious question, but it’s what causes me to peer beneath the bed, and then behind the chest of drawers. I see something small and dark there on the floor, and reach in, drawing it out. It’s a small black wedge of plastic, almost like the key fob for a car. Turning it over in the palm of my hand, I try to work out what it is – some kind of battery? Some part of the bag’s inner design? I have no clue.

  I look behind the chest of drawers again, as if to find another component part that I have overlooked. Feeling around, my fingers alight on something card-like, sharp at the edges, and when I draw it out, I see that it is a strip of photographs, the kind you take in a passport photo booth. Two girls – teenagers – posing and pulling silly faces. At first glance, I assume it is Olivia and a friend – this is her room, after all. But then I look closer. The older girl has braces on her teeth, long auburn hair that looks carefully brushed. I examine the younger girl and it takes a moment for recognition to kick in. She looks so much younger – not just the slight pudge in her cheeks, the childish haircut, but the unadorned glee in her face as she smiles. A show of unselfconscious happiness. There is nothing guarded about this face, not like the Amy that I remember. On the back of the strip, in blue biro, the words:

  Me and C, November 2004.

  Connie.

  Amy’s account of their friendship comes back to me. The girl had had an accident, and they had lost touch. I wonder if Amy has gone back to the States to find her. Whether she has felt the urge to fall back on that friendship, to take some comfort there.

  I look at the strip of photographs for just a moment before unzipping my bag and throwing it inside.

  In the kitchen, I fix myself a coffee and think about calling DC Kirkby to tell her about the latest text I’ve received. My interview with her has left me feeling itchy for information and so I sit at the table and flip my laptop open. Thoughts of Finn’s death are colonizing my mind. I open the browser and start a fresh search for details, looking to see if there are any updates in the newsfeeds, any more titbits on the tabloid sites. It’s depressing and frustrating, and I know I shouldn’t do it, but the urge is compulsive and I can’t resist.

  Deep in my bag, my phone buzzes.

  I look at the bag, uncertain. After a moment’s pause, I open it, check the message.

  This time there is no signature. No kiss.

  Let the dead rest.

  And I realize, with a cold chill of fear, that whoever it is that’s sending me these messages – these threats – they
know exactly what I am doing. It’s like they can see my actions. Instinctively, I drop the phone and turn my eyes to the laptop. At the top of my MacBook, a little eye watches me from above the screen. I stare at the dot while fear backs up inside me. Who are you? I think, feeling the dark heaviness of its gaze. What do you want from me?

  It is strange, walking back into Wogan House. I’ve only been gone a week, but so much has happened in the intervening time to make it feel like months, a year even. I don’t want to go upstairs and risk seeing my colleagues, my boss. I am still suspended, but more than that, I am not yet ready for the prurience of their gaze, the fleeting looks of curiosity, the frisson that would accompany my walk through that space, all of them wondering: Did she do it?

  I call Mark, and tell him I am downstairs in the lobby and then I wait, the security guard giving me an odd look as I take my seat, a sort of frown, like he’s not sure why I don’t go up.

  I don’t know Mark very well. He’s only been with the corporation a few months, and in that time, I’ve only dealt with him a couple of times, the most recent being my email humiliation. It’s a long shot, asking him for help. But when he comes out of the lifts and crosses to the bank of chairs, and I see the friendliness in his face, his stride, I feel more hopeful. When he asks if I want to come up to his office, I decline, and he is gracious enough not to ask why.

  I take my laptop from my bag and hand it to him.

  ‘I think someone might be watching me,’ I explain. ‘I know it sounds mad, but earlier today, I was googling for information, and I got this message from an anonymous source, and … Well, there’s no other way of saying this, but it felt like that person knew what I was doing on my laptop, at that very moment.’

  Mark frowns and takes the laptop from me, flips it open.

  ‘Do you use the webcam?’

  ‘Not much. Skype a few times. I haven’t taken any steps to disable it.’

  ‘No real way to disable it that you can’t hack around,’ Mark intones. ‘Best to just stick some insulating tape over it.’

  He asks for my password, and I jot it down on a Post-it which he sticks to the closed lid.

  ‘There’s also this,’ I venture, taking out the plastic fob. ‘I’ve no idea if you can help me with this or not. I found it in my bag. It might be nothing.’

  He takes it, turns it over, peers at the serial number engraved on one side, then closes it in his fist.

  ‘I’ll check it out.’

  He stands, puts the laptop under his arm and asks for my number.

  ‘I’ll give you a call later,’ he tells me. Then, putting his phone in his shirt pocket along with the black fob I’ve given him, he shoots me a smile that is oddly reassuring. It carries me on an unexpected wave of hope out into the damp afternoon.

  I feel better now that I’m doing something. Restive from days of being cooped up, it feels good to be proactive. Both my conversation with Mark and my interview with DC Kirkby combine to create the impression in my mind that things are beginning to swing in my favour. There’s a lift in my step now as I hurry to the nursery to collect Mabel, and when we get home I pull out the Magimix and we spend a happy afternoon baking brownies and fairy cakes before she curls up on the couch to watch Big Hero 6 while I clean up the kitchen and get to work on dinner.

  ‘This is unexpected,’ Jeff remarks that night, not unkindly, when we sit down to confit of duck and chips, a bottle of Sancerre. I have even lit candles in a gesture of optimism.

  It’s a small reciprocation – this comment of his – but I am grateful for it. Taken with this new energy, I am determined to turn things around between us. A fighting spirit has been reawakened within me, like I’ve only just shaken off this stupor I’ve been in since finding Finn’s body.

  We finish the Sancerre after Mabel goes to bed. Our conversation steers clear of recent difficult events, instead focusing on the imminent house move, a topic we have both been circling, reluctant to land on, but now, in the spirit of optimism, we start discussing ideas on redecorating once we’ve moved in, our talk fuelled by hopefulness for once, rather than wariness or distrust.

  It’s a surprise to both of us – this lifting of hostilities. We’re not quite back in those early heady days when I was greedy for his company, longing for each exchange to go on and on. But still, it’s a start. And somehow or other, instead of retiring to Olivia’s room as I’ve done every night for the past week, I follow him upstairs where we lie together, not speaking, not touching. But there’s comfort in knowing that he has forgiven me enough to allow my return to his side in the marital bed. For now, that is enough.

  I wake the next morning to the smell of coffee brewing, the sound of eggs spitting in the pan. Stretching luxuriously, I see the grainy light creeping through the early-morning sky, and feel a wave of joy. We have turned a corner. A night of good sleep has awoken a sense of optimism within me. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I believe that Finn’s death can be solved, and that these hateful little text messages will peter out. The past few weeks can be put behind us and Jeff and I will find our way back to what we once shared.

  Sitting up now, I hear his footfall on the stairs, and seconds later, he comes in bearing a breakfast tray and a smile.

  ‘Thought you could do with a lie-in,’ he says, leaning forward to place the tray down on my lap.

  He is already dressed, I note, and Mabel trails in behind him in her uniform, hair inexpertly done in plaits.

  ‘I’m taking her to school,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell him, my voice soft, and I reach up and draw his face towards mine. Our lips meet and I hold him there, drawing out the kiss, feeling my own longing mingling with gratitude, and I hope that it conveys how much he means to me and how badly I want to make things up to him.

  He draws back and looks at me, and we both laugh a little, made shy by the sudden strength of feeling between us.

  ‘What?’ Mabel asks, feeling left out of the joke.

  ‘Nothing, sweetheart,’ I tell her, and it feels like a perfect moment, the warmth and closeness I feel for both of them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, and it seems from the way his eyes pass over my face that this time he accepts it. He reaches forward and kisses me again, and I feel forgiveness in that kiss.

  Then, remembering, he retrieves my iPhone from his back pocket as he straightens up, saying, ‘You missed a call. Here.’

  I listen to them as they gather their belongings and depart, and then there is silence, a silence that reverberates with the ghosts of their happy voices, and echoes my own inner calm.

  I take a sip of tea and look at the missed call. It’s a number I don’t recognize. When I listen to the voicemail message, it’s Mark’s voice I hear.

  He answers on the second ring.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday –’ he begins.

  Straight away I cut in, ‘No, look, I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know what came over me yesterday. I feel kind of stupid about it now.’ And it’s true, I do feel foolish. Looking back on my behaviour of the previous day, it seems paranoid, those outlandish claims. ‘I’m so sorry for wasting your time –’

  But he interrupts me. ‘Hang on a second. Look, I know you were worried about the webcam, but there’s something else. I found something. A software program running in the background.’

  ‘What kind of program?’

  ‘It’s called Zlob or Zlob Trojan. It’s a type of spyware that reports information back to a control server.’

  I sit up straight. ‘Spyware?’

  ‘Right. The information it sends back to the server includes search history, websites visited, even keystrokes.’

  ‘I don’t understand – how did this get on my laptop?’

  ‘That’s the thing. Someone must have downloaded it on to your laptop.’

  A cold thump in my chest. I put down my tea, push the tray aside.

  ‘How long have you had the laptop?’ Ma
rk asks.

  ‘I don’t know. Three years, maybe.’

  ‘Did anyone own it before you?’

  ‘No. It was brand new. It was a present from my husband …’ My words trail off.

  ‘I can wipe the software for you,’ Mark explains. ‘In fact, I’d recommend wiping everything and then reinstalling whatever applications you need, and starting afresh.’

  I’m barely listening, too caught up in the dark tangle of my thoughts.

  ‘But the thing is, Cara,’ he says, ‘that plastic key you gave me? I checked it out. It’s a voice-activated audio recorder.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bug. You can buy them from any surveillance shop or website, even on Amazon. They record and store audio which transfers to a computer. This one is battery operated, so someone must have had access to it, in order to recharge it …’ He pauses, then asks, ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I say, my voice low and calm, my thoughts slowing right down, homing in on my suspicion.

  ‘You say you found this in your bag?’ he asks, and when I say yes, he makes a noise like a sharp release of breath. ‘I don’t mean to alarm you,’ he goes on, not realizing the alarm is right there inside me, screaming like a siren in my head. ‘But the spyware and this audio device – these aren’t remote-access items installed by some hostile government in a scattergun approach. This is targeted and personal and would require physical access to install and to hide. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  I make a sound of acknowledgement but he doesn’t hear it.

  ‘Someone close to you has done this,’ he tells me. ‘Someone near you, someone you trust, is spying on you.’

  24.

  Cara

  Jeff closes the door to his study and comes into the kitchen shortly after eleven. I am at the sink, rinsing out the milk frother in anticipation. He is breaking for coffee. I know his routine well enough, even if there are other things I don’t know.

  ‘Good news,’ he announces, crossing the room and joining me at the sink where he pushes up his sleeves and takes over the hot tap, rinsing his hands. ‘The estate agent just rang to confirm. We get the keys next week.’