Tim jumps up from his chair, pushing it back on its wheels, and stomps out of the door. I can see through the glass that everybody is trying hard not to look at what he’s doing. He is at my desk, where I put my laptop just moments before, yanking the lead out. Then he marches back into his office, slamming the door behind him.
‘Log in to your Facebook account,’ he demands.
I shrug and click on the link, knowing my password is stored so it will log in automatically, but confident he’s not going to find anything in my posts other than a couple of early pictures from Myanmar. He pulls the screen round to face him and Heather, and I begin to feel slightly sick. All of Ian’s emails are on my laptop, and I pray they don’t go searching through those as they hunt for further evidence of my misconduct.
There’s a click on the trackpad, and Tim sits back in his chair, shaking his head, his mouth in a tight line. He’s a big man with a florid face, and his lips almost disappear into his jowls. Heather spins the computer back to me.
‘Does anyone else know your Facebook password?’
I look from one frowning face to the other, speechless, and shake my head.
Tim and Heather can see my confusion, but they’re not backing down.
‘That’s being disrespectful, and as if that weren’t bad enough you are bringing the company into disrepute,’ Heather says, leaning towards me as if being empathetic rather than dealing me a death blow. ‘As I’m sure you know, that is an offence that results in immediate dismissal, and you should think yourself lucky that Tim isn’t going to sue you for defamation of character.’
I barely listen as they talk through the details of when and how I must leave. I want to shout out a denial, but I’ve already told them it wasn’t me and I have no way to prove my innocence. I know I won’t be allowed to work out my notice, and I’m not going to be able to say goodbye to the rest of the team. I thought they were my friends, but from their behaviour this morning maybe I was wrong. Or perhaps they’re just scared of the repercussions. I want to go out there and deny it all to them too, but they won’t believe me because it seems like the only possible truth.
A million thoughts flood my mind. I’m not going to be able to pay the mortgage, let alone afford to move out of the house while I find a way to get rid of Ian. I thought my life was a mess when I arrived at work this morning, but now it’s ten times worse.
I walk back through the office towards the main door. The phones continue to ring, my colleagues take the calls, tap on their keyboards, sip from their coffee cups, shuffle papers on their desks. And not one of them looks up.
18
After I leave the silent office I’m not sure what to do, but I’m not ready to go home to face Ian. I walk aimlessly along the street until I find myself in Saint Peter’s Square, where I park myself on a bench. It’s freezing, and I pull my coat tightly across my chest and huddle on the seat, pretending to watch the world go by but actually seeing nothing. Everyone has their head down into the wind, racing towards somewhere, someone. I’m alone on the bench.
I try to tie in the date of the Facebook post with my trip, to decide which day it was and what I was doing, and it comes as no surprise when I realise it was the night Ian called with the lie that my mother had died. Surely he didn’t hack into my account somehow and post those words? Maybe he didn’t need to hack in. I can’t remember if I logged out of Facebook on our home computer the last time I used it. I should have thought about that and told Tim and Heather. But I doubt they would have believed me.
I have been known to say that Tim is an idiot; I even mentioned him during the holiday. I remember Paul leaning back in his seat to listen to the conversation, but what would he have to gain by sneaking into my cabin to post something on Facebook about someone he didn’t even know? On the other hand, I can’t believe that at any point I was sufficiently drunk to write those words for the whole world to read and not remember I’d done it. So who else could it have been?
It had to be Ian. It would be just his style. Anything to undermine me, to weaken me. I can picture him after our phone conversation had ended with so much vitriol, thumping upstairs in a rage to the spare room where we keep the desktop computer and hammering out something he knew would get me into trouble.
I start to shiver, and I’m not sure if it is the weather or my fear of the hours, days and weeks ahead. The world around me looks grey – the sky, the buildings, the dirty wet pavements. I know I need to go home, to get out of this wicked wind, but Ian will be there and I’m sure he will laugh at my predicament, particularly if he was its architect.
I can feel tears running down my cheeks and lift my hand to wipe them away with the backs of my fingers. I push myself up from the bench and head towards the tram stop.
It is only a five-minute walk from my stop to the house, and I find myself dawdling, not wanting to get there, not wanting to tell Ian what has happened. But I can’t go in looking defeated. I take a deep breath and lift my head.
As I turn the last corner I’m surprised to see a woman in a long royal-blue coat walking up our path towards the door. I’m even more startled when I recognise the silver hair and realise that it’s Thea.
‘Hello,’ I say, unable to disguise my relief at seeing a friendly and supportive face.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says, a smile lighting up her eyes. ‘How lovely to see you. I thought you’d be at work. I popped round with a card with our address on in case you ever fancied a visit.’ She waves a piece of cream-coloured card in the air. ‘I’ve been to see an old friend in hospital, and as I was on this side of town I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.’
‘I didn’t know you had my address,’ I say. ‘I meant to give it to you, but I think my worries about coming home drove all the sense out of me.’
Thea nods. ‘I know. I didn’t want to bother you with trivia when you were so concerned. I looked you up in the electoral register. Anyway, I hope things have turned out better than you expected. If not, the doctor and I are here, if you ever need us.’
She smiles at me kindly and reaches out to touch my arm. It’s enough to set me off and the tears start to fall, the words tumbling out: how I’ve lost my job; how hateful Ian is being; how I don’t know what to do.
She stands in the street and listens, appearing unconcerned that people are walking past and giving us inquisitive glances. Eventually the tears dry up.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’d better get inside. I’m sure Ian will be watching and wondering what’s going on.’
‘If he cared about you, he would have come to find out, don’t you think?’ She pauses and frowns. ‘I have an idea. Why don’t you go into the house and tell him what’s happened? See how he reacts. If he’s helpful and positive, that’s fine. Great news, and you can work things out.’
I snort unattractively at the very thought that Ian could be helpful.
‘I see,’ she says. ‘It’s every bit as bad as you thought, then. Why don’t I wait in my car? If he’s a total nightmare and you need to get out, you must come to stay with the doctor and me. You would be very welcome, you know. We have a huge house so you could be totally independent. No pressure. Whatever works for you. Even if it’s just for a couple of days until you get your head straight, it might be useful. We’re on completely the opposite side of Manchester, but it’s only about eight minutes’ walk from a tram stop, so you wouldn’t be cut off, and you can always borrow one of our cars.’
I can’t accept this. I’ve only known Thea for a couple of weeks, and while it is such a generous offer, it doesn’t feel right to simply run away from my problems.
‘I can see you hesitating, dear, and I understand. I’ll leave you to it. The invitation is there, if ever you need it.’ Thea gives my arm another squeeze and turns away.
I suddenly panic. I have no doubt at all how awful it is going to be when I go inside, and Ian and I will have to live there, together for twenty-four hours a day, while we work out the future. I know
that nothing will be resolved if we’re in the same house. And I need to look for a job, but I will be in no frame of mind with him undermining my last ounce of confidence.
‘Wait,’ I call before I can change my mind. ‘I’m sorry, Thea. It’s a wonderful offer. Do you mind hanging on for a few minutes? I would ask you in, but…’
‘You take as much time as you need.’
I lean forward and give her a hug. ‘You are so kind,’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t keep you waiting long.’
Thea shrugs. ‘I’m not doing anything else and I’ve got some music to listen to. Pack enough for a couple of nights. You can always come back for more.’
I suddenly feel so much better, and there is a slight spring in my step as I walk up the path to the front door.
My moment of positivity is soon crushed.
‘Who was that old bag you were talking to?’ Ian says, without looking up from his newspaper. ‘And what the fuck are you doing home at this hour?’
I look around the room. Although I tidied it and cleaned over the weekend, it’s back to looking a tip with two coffee mugs and a plate of half-eaten toast on the floor.
‘I’m here because I’ve been sacked.’
That gets Ian’s attention and his head jerks up. ‘What?’ There is a trace of a smile on his face, and I can’t decide whether it is because he is enjoying my pain, or whether it is pleasure that his plan has come to fruition, or both.
‘There was a Facebook post about Tim apparently made by me, but I’ve no idea how that happened. Anyway, the details don’t matter.’
Ian throws his head back and laughs. ‘How the mighty are fallen! This is priceless. You do know that if you’re sacked you can’t claim benefit for three months, don’t you? Maybe you’ll realise it’s not so easy to get a job now, after nagging me for all this time.’
I’m almost certain now that it was him.
‘I will get a job, Ian, whatever it takes. It doesn’t have to be an office job. I’ll work in a bar, as a cleaner. I don’t care. But I’ll have to cancel the lease on the car.’
Ian crumples the newspaper and throws it on the floor. ‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous. I need a car.’
‘Fine, you pay for it,’ I tell him, walking towards the door.
He leaps up from his chair. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asks, storming across the room and blocking my way.
‘I’m going to stay with a friend for a while. I need to work out what to do.’
‘Which friend? You don’t have any.’
I have no intention of telling him where I’m going. Not that I know any details.
‘And how am I supposed to eat now that you’ve cleared out the bank account?’ he says, a whine of self-pity in his voice.
I want to tell him he should have thought of that before he started messing with my Facebook account. He probably thought I would just get a warning, a telling-off, and now it has backfired. But I feel so tired I want to drop to the floor where I’m standing. I can’t cope with this. There must be something of the hopelessness I’m feeling in my expression because Ian drops the arm that barred the doorway.
‘Do what you want,’ he says. ‘You always do.’
No, Ian, I think to myself. What I would really like to do right now is see you disappear off the face of the earth – disintegrate in front of my eyes.
But I say nothing and trudge upstairs to get a bag, thinking only about the minimum I can pack to get out of there as quickly as possible.
19
It was ten days since the body of the woman, ‘Penny’, had been found at Pennington Flash, and well over two weeks since she had died. And yet they still didn’t appear to have made any real progress in finding out who she was or where she had come from. The shoes that had caused a flutter of excitement had definitely not belonged to Penny. As well as being the wrong size, the DNA wasn’t a match.
The tox results had confounded them all, with no reasonable explanation for such a weird mix of drugs. Although it was clear from the hair analysis that Penny had been taking some of them for months, they were not the direct cause of her death. Despite forming all kinds of hypotheses about why she had taken this strange concoction, they still had nothing concrete. Tom was hoping that an investigation into the source of the drugs might help them identify Penny, but as yet they hadn’t found anything of use.
Becky rested her chin on her fist. At this rate they wouldn’t solve the case before she went on maternity leave, and that thought was driving her mad. Her frustration was making her irritable, and her partner, Mark, had raised his eyebrows a couple of times when she snapped at something trivial. But he said nothing. It was amazing what you could get away with when you were pregnant.
Becky glanced across at Lynsey. She had settled in well and her confidence was growing, but she was clearly picking up the vibes from the rest of the team. From where Becky sat in the incident room she could see the girl trying to concentrate on the latest reports, but judging by her lack of enthusiasm as she flipped the pages, it was doubtful that they revealed much.
Becky’s phone rang. ‘DI Robinson.’
‘Hello.’ The voice was quiet, hesitant, female. ‘I don’t know if I’m speaking to the right person, but I’m ringing because I think I might have some information.’
‘Well thanks for calling. Can you tell me your name?’
‘What? Do I have to?’ she asked, the pitch of her voice rising.
For a moment Becky thought the caller might hang up, so she hurried to reassure her. ‘No, no, not if you don’t want to. But it might be easier for me if you did. I’m Becky.’
‘Will my first name do? It’s Sharon.’
‘Hello, Sharon. How can I help you?’ Becky said in her friendliest voice.
‘I was told this was the number for anyone with information about Pennington Flash.’
Becky immediately sat up straight. Several members of the team saw her reaction and the general hubbub in the room died down as eyes turned towards her.
‘That’s right. We’re investigating the discovery of a woman’s body, found there ten days ago.’
‘Oh,’ Sharon said, her voice dropping with a hint of relief. ‘It said on the news that it was longer ago than that. Sorry. I’m probably wasting your time, then.’
Becky spoke quickly: ‘The news reports were right, Sharon. We found the woman ten days ago, but we think she had been there for longer. Perhaps from when the freeze began more than two weeks ago. Whatever you were going to tell me might be more useful than you think. Shall we give it a try?’
There was a moment’s silence, as if Sharon was gathering her nerve.
‘Right.’ Sharon took an audible deep breath. ‘Well, I’ve been away, see, and only just got back – that’s why I haven’t called till now.’
From the way Sharon spoke, Becky suspected she was reading from some notes she had prepared before calling, which suggested she could be lying. Combined with the reluctance to give her name, Becky surmised that Sharon had been trying to decide whether to talk to the police or not.
‘That’s okay. It’s good of you to call now,’ Becky said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking? Don’t worry about whether it’s relevant. It’s our job to make that decision.’
‘Okay.’ There was another pause. ‘I might have seen something. I was there – at the Flash. Look, I don’t want my boyfriend to know any of this, okay? He’d call the wedding off, and that would be a disaster…’
Becky thought Sharon was about to cry, and realised that whatever she had been doing at the Flash, she was regretting it now.
‘Don’t worry. Just tell me what you saw, heard or think you know. Take your time.’
‘It was Thursday night – as I said – just over two weeks ago. I thought I’d like a bit of space – do a bit of thinking, you know? So I thought of the Flash. It’s a lovely spot, and I was sure it would be deserted at that time of night. It was well after midnight.’
Becky desperately wanted to interrupt to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing – a girl alone – driving to an isolated spot in the middle of the bloody night! But she didn’t. She would save that for later, and anyway, she had a sneaking suspicion the girl might not have been alone.
‘Go on,’ she said, keeping the sense of rising excitement from her voice.
‘I’d been there for about fifteen minutes when I saw a car coming. It didn’t have its lights on.’
Becky listened in silence as Sharon told her everything that had happened: where the car had gone, who had got out, and the woman or child who had not returned.
‘When they got out of the car together, did you get the impression the man was forcing the woman to go with him?’ Becky asked.
‘No. If I’d thought that I would have found a way to call you lot. She didn’t appear to be struggling or anything and could easily have legged it when she first got out. And I don’t know for certain that the driver was a man – I never saw his face, so I suppose I just assumed it was.’
‘Do you have any idea about the car – make, model, colour? I suppose the registration number would be going too far?’
‘I’m not much into cars. I was more worried about getting away myself, to be honest. The car was a dark colour, not a hatchback – you know, it had a proper boot and everything, big but not massive. Sounded expensive, though. It kind of purred, if you know what I mean.’
‘Sharon, I’m sorry to ask you this, but were you definitely on your own? Because if someone was with you we could talk to him or her privately to see if they could add anything.’
Sharon gave a small gasp. ‘Gosh, you’re not a police officer for nothing, are you? I was on my own, as it happens. But…Oh, never mind the rest of it. Honestly, there was nobody else there. Just me. But there was something else. He took down my number plate, and I think he’s trying to find me, maybe to find out what I know.’
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