Today was the beginning of day four, and today I decided who I was going to be, although I’d actually been sure enough a week before, when the big envelope from America arrived. For the past three days I’d been doing more research. Because it was now time.
She had died of a heroin overdose fifteen months before. She’d lived in Ohio with her three children, who were seven, ten and seventeen.
I found an article about her in the New York Times, published a few months after her death, by a journalist who was investigating the growing incidence of letter writing from females of ‘low socio-economic status’ to death-row prisoners. She was thirty-six years old when she died. Slightly younger than me, but looking at her photos, that wasn’t an issue. Heroin ages the over-thirty woman quicker than any tragedy, I knew; I’d seen enough of them. She had been writing letters to a killer on death row for a few years prior to her own death. The killer’s ‘outside’ best friend had supplied the fatal overdose of heroin to her. The letters she had exchanged with the executed killer and ‘lover’ were retrieved from the Chillicothe Correctional Institution, Ohio, where he had spent most of his sentence before being shipped to the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility in Lucasville. In Lucasville, after too many stays of execution, he finally (thank God, in my opinion) met his death with Old Sparky.
Before he died, and, of course, knowing he would, he’d returned all the woman’s letters to her and, when she passed away, the letters went to her eldest daughter. I intended them to become a template for my own.
A week after my bank transfer hit the eldest daughter’s account, the letters landed on my doormat. The money I sent for both the letters and for a little background on her would, I hoped, help all her children. The abstract innocence of her daughter, coming through so strongly in the letter she sent me made me feel guilty; but guilt was my constant companion. The underlying disquiet I felt at what I was doing brought an instant coolness to my body.
The letters to her death-row boyfriend were, on the one hand, revealing, and on the other, left me with questions, but studying them allowed me to find some essence of her. And it was through these long and badly spelt correspondences I learned how a woman like this would think, and what drove her to seek the love/friendship of a man with no hope of seeing American daylight again. A man who had systematically battered his wife and three young daughters to death, and then burnt all four bodies in a bonfire on his back lawn.
Uninterested neighbours had thought he had been barbecuing pork. For three days.
It was hard to comprehend why she’d befriended such a man; but she had, and I had to pretend to do the same thing, so it was imperative to discover how she would behave, her likes and dislikes. The woman I was to become had to be different from me. Very different.
For my next round of research, I made my way to the psychology section of the library. Like any self-respecting officer who had been promoted to DI as early as I had, I’d devoured every morsel of information on the criminal mind. Today, my intense concentration was not to understand the mind of a killer, but of a twice-married, divorced and widowed Ohio mother, who had been lonely and isolated in a world that had long ago abandoned her.
I sat back in the uncomfortable library chair, and, closing my heavy eyelids, a firm outline of how I would play this woman emerged. In two concentrated hours I’d imbibed the literature on women who befriended and sometimes even married convicted killers. In one famous case during the late 1980s, an adoring fan had been allowed ‘intimate’ time with a convicted death-row prisoner, giving birth nine months later, three months after his execution.
I picked up another book, Families and Abuse, which made for interesting reading, written by an American psychiatrist who, for thirty years, had specialised in interviewing prisoners on death row. Most were men who abused and murdered children, but a handful of women were included in the case studies. I saw something within the personalities of the women described that made me sit upright and think of Margaret.
I squeezed my eyes shut and a picture of her strode through my tired mind; I allowed a few more bricks from my mental wall to be removed. The closer I was getting towards realising my plan, of seeking out Hemmings and killing him, the more often Joe would visit, but his visits made me hesitant in my goal. And the more I remembered my son and our life together, the way he nibbled at muffins and Doritos during every Disney film, how we would play for hours on the zipwire at the park, how he would get bored with me in the school holidays and go and find Liam in the den, the more the memories would return. Memories I’d pushed away for so long. What came back were things I’d buried because I’d known my dad wouldn’t want me to remember them, some of them he hadn’t even known about.
—
Mr Roberts had dropped Rachel off from Sunday school and, despite the cramps in her stomach, her mind still jingled with the lovely songs Mr Roberts got them all to sing.
She had opened her mother’s bedroom door.
The first thing she noticed was Michael. He was twelve. Small for his age, but with the trademark gangly legs and, even then, a tight, muscular body. His legs hung over Rachel’s mum’s bedroom chair. He sat on her lap. The white starched blouse she had been wearing when she’d dropped Rachel off at Sunday school was unbuttoned; not only at the neck, which in itself was unusual, but all the way down. That is what hit Rachel. Her mum with her blouse undone. Rachel saw the crêpey, white skin of her sagging, tiny breast and a large, purple nipple protruding from the left side of the open blouse. This was a shock. Rachel never saw her mum without clothes. The other nipple was firmly lodged in Michael’s mouth. Michael had not heard her. Her mother’s eyes were closed. Rachel stood for what seemed like long minutes, trying to work out what was happening. Her tummy was very sore. She could feel it moving under her jumper. They still didn’t know she was there. Then a spasm overwhelmed her and she moaned quietly. And her mum opened her eyes. Rachel was right in front of her. Margaret started. Michael stopped, taking his mouth away and revealing an engorged aubergine nipple. Margaret jumped up. Michael fell to the floor; a subdued terror, mixed with devotion in his eyes, all the time watching Margaret. He didn’t seem to see Rachel.
‘What have I done wrong?’ he asked. She had quickly buttoned up her blouse, right to the top.
‘What are you doing home, Rachel?’ ‘I’m not well, Mr Roberts brought me’ ... ‘Michael, wait for me downstairs,’ Margaret said to him.
‘You don’t want the other today, Aunt Margaret?’ he asked, confused.
Margaret become cross. ‘No, Michael, go downstairs and get yourself a glass of milk.’
The library seemed unbearably hot and I stumbled out to find air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Because of Razor it didn’t take me long to organise another identity; it was shockingly easy. But he’d promised that after this he was giving it all up for his two kids.
Razor trusted me. It was a trust between criminals, as he probably surmised I was soon to become one. There exists a strange respect within the underworld for ex-detectives who wander to the other side. Razor was supremely indignant at what had happened to my family and I.
The internet café was busy. The computer I was working on needed retiring, so I’d asked the girl on duty, Veronica, who wore an outrageous fuchsia-coloured jacket that seemed out of place in the greyness of the café, if I could be first in line to use another when it came free. She saw my impatience, saw that I was well dressed, saw I should have a computer at home and perhaps questioned what I was doing there. It wasn’t that unusual, computers break down all the time; but my nerves waterlogged my usual logical thoughts. Veronica probably thought nothing.
I’d already given up my computer and mobile phone. They were safely locked away. I wanted to become familiar with not having the devices as a crutch, with being non-contactable. I was alone, in every conceivable way –and that was the way it had to be.
‘Hey, missis, it’ll be a while before another terminal comes
free,’ Veronica said. ‘Come with me, you can use the spare one in the back office.’
I followed Veronica, with her pink jacket and her efficiency. She reminded me of myself in another time, in the job that I had lived for. Before Joe.
‘You can have the room and the computer for as long as you like.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, until three, that’s the end of my shift.’
‘That’s great, thank you,’ I said. This room had no ventilation and was stiflingly hot. I took off my jacket. Veronica took a step back and wavered. God, I hope she wasn’t about to get friendly; ask me what I was doing. She didn’t strike me as that type.
‘No probs.’ She studied me. ‘Do I recognise you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I haven’t been in here before.’ Maybe she recognised me from photographs in the papers from the trial, although that was a long time ago now.
‘You look familiar.’
‘No, you don’t know me.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You work out?’
Her question threw me. ‘A bit.’
‘A lot, I’d say. My other job is personal training.’
I studied her in more detail. I could see that. Muscular but not skinny. ‘Good to have more than one string to your bow,’ I said, wondering how long she wanted to chat.
‘You’re in fabulous shape, I have to say.’
I felt a little uncomfortable. She saw it.
‘I’m not a dyke or anything. I just love a good body, on a man or a woman.’
‘I know what you mean.’ And I did know what she meant. I’d always admired women who were toned and fit. I had been before Joe; I’d let myself go afterwards, as Razor had noticed. Two stone heavier, and all around the hips – just like Margaret.
‘So, you planning on entering competitions then?’ she smiled. ‘There’s a big trend now for older contestants in these things.’
I laughed too loud. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Doing it for self-esteem?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sure I don’t know you?’
‘Absolutely sure. I’m new to the area.’
‘Well, good luck with the training, you know where I am if ever you need a trainer, but looks like you’re doing fine by yourself.’ She turned around, theatrically and athletically, and left me alone.
I began my work on the computer, more research, more emails.
The time was getting near. News seeping out from Littleworth told me it was soon.
An email popped into my inbox, but not from Razor. I peered at the screen. The new email was from Marek Gorski. I’d messaged him two days before, asking a favour that I knew was too much. I expected a definitive no.
Hi Rachel,
In reply to your request, I hesitate in saying yes, but would rather it was me than anyone else. Let me know a timeframe when you have one.
Also, sorry to hear about you and Liam.
M
I pressed the delete button and, as I did so, another email appeared. I squinted at the computer screen. Razor. I pulled the damp fabric of my blouse away from my chest. He said a week. I emailed back saying I needed everything within three days. The reply didn’t come through straight away. I sat and waited.
Finally Razor replied. My new ID would be delivered to me, at the address I’d given him – a PO Box at Birmingham’s main post office – within seventy-two hours.
I stared at the screen, imagining Razor at his. We’d spoken about other areas of the dark web in our last physical meeting. I tapped my foot rhythmically on the cheap plastic tiles. I emailed him back asking for web addresses. Within ten minutes he’d sent them: six dark websites that would lead any paying punter towards an innocent child. Good man. He would give all this up.
And I created another email address. Totally untraceable. Razor had taught me that.
I composed an anonymous email to Tom Gillespie, to his private account, guessing few people knew that address. To send it now wouldn’t be a good idea; half of me wanted to be reckless, but I had to be careful. I put the email in my draft folder. I would come back to it later.
After all this, I intended to do something to address the problem of the dark web – the children, that was – if I survived.
I felt Joe’s presence again, and wasn’t sure if this meant he approved or not, but I convinced myself he did and attempted to ignore the painful hunger that sat deep inside me, inhabited me. Owned me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As soon as Jonathan had left Sam and Bridget’s he made his way north. From some subtle investigations he knew Doctor Patterson was at home, not at work, on ‘gardening leave’ for a while, and that Toby Abbs had a few days off.
Toby Abbs’ flat was on the third floor. It had taken Jonathan some time to find it. The council-flat complex was a maze. Why did planners not plan? And, annoyingly, some of the numbers were missing from the doors. Either ripped off by vandals or taken off by owners who didn’t want to be found.
Jonathan could hear Toby Abbs’ television from outside the door. It took Abbs a while to open his door and, when he did, the groans of male ecstasy were loud.
‘Toby Abbs?’ Jonathan asked over the groans coming from the TV.
‘Just a sec, wait there.’ Toby ran back inside and the noise stopped. ‘What do you want?’ he asked on his return, slightly out of breath.
‘My name’s Jonathan Waters. I’m a journalist. May we have a chat?’
‘I don’t think so ...’ Toby Abbs looked shit-scared. His trousers were unbuttoned, Jonathan noticed. Toby tried to close the door.
‘Not so quick, Toby.’ Jonathan wedged his foot at the door’s bottom edge. ‘I know about you and Michael Hemmings.’
Jonathan watched with amusement as Toby attempted to gather himself. Jonathan let go of the door.
‘As it happens I have a bit of free time ... What’s this about?’ Abbs said.
Jonathan was already standing in the cramped hallway. ‘It’s about your job and your relationship with Michael Hemmings.’
Abbs capitulated easily and led him through the small flat. Jonathan was certain he could see Abbs’ heart sprinting through his cheap cotton shirt. Toby Abbs was the type of guy who would toe the line.
He sat down on the only chair in Abbs’ small kitchen. ‘I’ll be direct, if you don’t mind. I’ve spoken with your ex-wife in Australia. She told me why she left you, about your “relationship” with Michael Hemmings. I know about the children who visited Littleworth. You must be glad she’s in Oz ... your ex-wife.’ He hadn’t spoken directly to Amy Abbs, but she had been very forthcoming in emails.
‘You can’t prove anything,’ Abbs said, waiting for his answer.
Jonathan took his time.
‘This is ... off the record, Toby. No newspapers involved. But I need some answers.’
‘About what? You know about Hemmings and I. What else do you want to know?’
‘I’d like to know if Hemmings is receiving letters.’
‘From whom?’
‘Anyone.’
‘Occasionally from his dad. A few loony letters. The usual.’ Abbs squirmed, without enough time to think. ‘He’s had a letter from his aunt,’ he blurted out.
‘His aunt? Margaret Hemmings?’
‘Yep. First one from her. Something weird going on in that family.’ Toby studied Jonathan. ‘You know what Hemmings did, don’t you? Cut his...’
‘Yes, I know that.’
Abbs took a quick step back, anticipating his anger. Jonathan did want to hit him.
‘You sure the letter wasn’t from his mother, Bridget?’ Jonathan wanted to be sure.
‘No, deffo no. He’s never had one from her.’
‘Did you read the letter?’
‘Yes, all letters are censored.’
‘This one wasn’t though, I take it?’
‘I didn’t make it official, no. A man needs some privacy.’
‘You mean Hemmings needs some privacy ... with you?’
/>
‘I didn’t show it to the Doc.’
‘Patterson?’
Abbs nodded.
‘What did it say in the letter?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘The hospital director, your boss, finding out about your relationship with Hemmings?’
He rubbed his head as if trying to get rid of a headache. He’d have a big one after this visit, Jonathan predicted.
‘She talked a lot about God and forgiveness. She made it plain that there was a secret between them, and I got the feeling she was keen to keep it a secret. She suggested...’ Abbs faltered. ‘She suggested that it wasn’t a good idea for him to go to a step-down unit, that he’d be better off in “the safe place, Littleworth”.’
‘And?’
‘And that was about it.’
‘What did you think when you read the letter?’
‘I thought it was fucking weird.’
Jonathan got up. ‘Might be wise to remember that in the future.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘You know, Toby, Hemmings isn’t your boyfriend.’
‘Michael cares for me, I care for him.’ Abbs fiddled with the top button of his shirt. ‘He’s not as bad as people think he is.’
‘I find that a bit difficult to believe. If I were you, I’d be careful.’
Abbs shrugged. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yep, thanks for your time.’
‘And can I be expecting to hear from you again?’
‘I would imagine so. I’ll make my own way out.’
Toby wriggled from one foot to the other. ‘Mr Waters, there’s something else.’
Jonathan turned a little. ‘What?’
Toby hesitated a fraction. ‘If I tell you, you’ll go easy and keep me out of any story you plan to write? And not talk to the director?’
‘I’ll think about it, yes.’
‘Margaret Hemmings came to see Michael at Littleworth, after the letter.’
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