Come A Little Closer

by Rachel Abbott

  There was a knock on his open door, and Tom looked up to see Lynsey standing in the doorway.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Do you have a moment?’ she asked, flushing as she always did when she spoke to him. ‘DI Robinson said I should come and have a word with you.’

  ‘Come in, Lynsey. Have a seat.’ She hurried forward and sat down, a bundle of papers held tightly in her hands. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about the drugs that were found in Penny’s tox analysis, sir. I know they have already been flagged as an unusual combination, but I’ve been looking into ways in which she might have obtained them, and when I wrote down the order in which the hair sample tells us they were taken, it seemed a bit strange.’

  Tom looked at her anxious face. It was always difficult to be a novice detective desperate to make the grade, and he wanted to put her at ease. ‘That sounds interesting. What are you thinking, Lynsey?’

  ‘As you know, hair grows around a centimetre every thirty days, and the sample from Penny has been analysed for the last ninety days. I’ve made a note of all the possible effects of each drug, and I’ve also looked into where she might have bought them. A couple of them could have come through legitimate prescriptions, although they’re also available on the street – or online of course – so that’s inconclusive. But when we look at the sequence, it raises a few questions about her state of mind.’

  Tom had already indicated to Philippa that the mixture of drugs would have conflicting impacts on the mind, so he was keen to hear what Lynsey had to say, but through the open door he heard the squeak of rubber on vinyl flooring that indicated the arrival of Becky, who had taken to wearing trainers around the office as she had grown larger. And they were moving at a faster than normal pace.

  ‘Hold that thought, Lynsey. If Becky’s moving that quickly, something must be up.’

  Becky’s face appeared around the door, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘We’ve got her! We know who Penny is.’

  Tom and Lynsey followed Becky back to the incident room, where Keith was pinning photographs on the board. He turned as Tom entered the room, his back straightening ever so slightly. Even after all these months working in the team, he seemed to find it necessary to stand to attention when a senior officer walked into the room.

  ‘Okay, Keith, what have we got?’

  ‘We’ve been looking into the girl who tried and failed to kill herself at the Flash – the one who was rescued from the water but who subsequently succeeded in committing suicide elsewhere. She was Esme DuPont. Her twin was Jasmine, more commonly known as Jaz.’

  Tom was hit by conflicting emotions: relief at the possibility that they knew who their victim was, and dismay at the thought that Keith was about to tell him their Penny – now dead – had been Esme’s surviving twin, Jasmine. How horrific for both sisters to die so young.

  ‘We managed to get photos of the girls. It’s only just over two years since Esme committed suicide, and the twins were both Facebook users. A lot of their pictures are of the two of them together.’

  Tom walked towards the board, not sure what he was hoping to find. His eyes were drawn to the girl on the right of each picture, who he knew instinctively was Jasmine. She was happy, smiling, laughing in every one. He glanced at the girl on the left. There were clear similarities between the two of them, but he could sense that this girl was more troubled. This one had to be Esme. Her smile looked forced and her eyes seemed to be unnaturally wide, as if she was doing her best to look happy. He looked back at the first girl, the one that Keith was irritatingly tapping with his telescopic pointer pen. Could this cheerful, lively-looking girl really be Penny?

  ‘What makes you so convinced it’s her, Keith?’

  The sergeant moved his pointer to the photo of the body they had found at the Flash, taken as she sat against the wall of the hide. ‘Tiny scar above the left eyebrow, sir, and a small mole to the left of her chin.’

  Tom stepped closer and peered at the image. Keith was right. It was hard to compare photos of a laughing smiling woman of around thirty years of age to one of a body that had been dead for days, but in addition to similarities in general facial structure, Keith was right about the marks of identification.

  ‘So our Penny is actually Jasmine DuPont. What else do we know about her?’ Tom asked, staring at the two beautiful young women, both of whom were now dead. Maybe life without her twin had proved unbearable for Jasmine and drained the joy from her, to the point where she had asked someone to help her die. It was a heartbreaking thought.

  ‘Not a huge amount yet, sir. We’re gathering information as quickly as we can. We’ve sent someone round to her last known address and we’re waiting to hear back. Jasmine hadn’t used social media since about three months after her sister died, although in the period immediately after Esme’s death she used Facebook as a platform to denigrate her own parents, and anyone with children who refused to listen to their problems or told them to “get a grip”, as she put it. She didn’t have any privacy settings – it was as if she wanted the world to find her posts. There were several with links to sites that deal with depression, and towards the end even more that deal with suicide.’

  Tom let out a long breath. ‘Okay. Well done, everyone. Now that we have a name, we can start to make some progress. But to be clear, just because she was posting links to suicide sites it doesn’t mean we can ignore other possibilities. Keep your minds open and use each bit of new evidence to form a picture – one that right now we don’t know either the shape or colour of. No preconceived ideas, please.’

  He saw a few heads nodding and turned to leave the room, stopping for a quick chat with Lynsey.

  ‘We need to prioritise, Lynsey. As we already know, the tox results proved conclusively that the drugs didn’t kill Penny – or Jasmine, as we must now call her. But when we have more of a picture of her life we might be able to make sense of her medications, prescribed or otherwise. That’s when your work will come into its own, so make sure you’ve got it all written up, and then we can see how it fits into Jasmine’s story.’

  Thank goodness they had a name at last. The investigation should begin to move forward at a pace now, and the team would be re-energised.

  Tom couldn’t help thinking about the girls’ parents, though. They might have lost contact with Jasmine, but it would still break their hearts. To lose both daughters at such a young age would be devastating.

  28

  The meeting with the building society didn’t go well. I had to admit to the girl sent to talk to me – who looked about twelve – that I had been fired from my job. I asked for a few months to get back on my feet and she said they might be able to allow me some leeway, but I found myself getting angry with her when she tried to explain the limitations imposed by their procedures.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I said, leaning across the desk towards her. ‘I was sacked for something I didn’t bloody well do! None of this is my fault. All I’m asking for is time to sort myself out, and no, of course I can’t commit to resolving the situation in the next four weeks. My boyfriend won’t move out, so I can’t even rent rooms out to cover the cost.’

  I could hear my voice rising, and the girl’s head shot backwards as if she was scared I was going to punch her. I sat back, ashamed of myself for a moment, but there was a huge ball of anger building inside me, spinning, growing, wanting to burst out and spill over everything and everybody in its way. No one wanted to listen to me; they all thought I was every bit as bad as my idiot ex-boss said I was. In the end I jumped up and stormed out of the door, shouting that they could stuff their mortgage.

  Now, as I sit outside my house in Thea’s car, I take a deep breath to try to calm myself.

  ‘I know you’re trying to be cool,’ Thea says, ‘but it might not do Ian any harm to see how angry you are. If you’re always pleasant and balanced about things, he’s never going to take you seriously, is he?’

  She’s right, of course, bu
t I need to feel in control, and I’ve never believed that shouting was the answer to anything.

  I lean over to the back seat to grab the house keys from my handbag. ‘I’m sorry, Thea. You shouldn’t have to be involved in all this. Why don’t you go home? I can get the tram.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear. It’s no problem to wait. It’s quite soothing just sitting here, watching the world go by while I listen to some lovely music. Take all the time you need. I promise that if I get fed up, I’ll go home. So don’t worry. You’ve got enough to think about with that madman in there trying to control your life. He’s taking everything from you, and you mustn’t let him.’

  I nod once, open the door and get out. I can feel my heart pounding, and I lean back against the car for a moment, closing my eyes, trying to calm down. But the backs of my eyelids seem to be painted with multicoloured fractured images, and I quickly open them again. With both hands I push myself away from the car and march towards the front door, key at the ready. Shoving the key into the lock I try to turn it, but nothing happens. I pull it out and try again, but it still won’t turn. With mounting fury I realise he’s put the catch on, and I can’t get in. The bastard! I pound on the door with the side of my fist and open the letterbox to yell through it.

  ‘Open the fucking door, Ian. Now, or I’ll break a window.’

  I think of all the times I have meekly stood by while Ian has hurled abuse at me, intimidated and controlled me, and for the first time I don’t care if my behaviour angers him. I’m so tightly wound I know I will give every bit as good as I get.

  He still hasn’t opened the door. The garage is open, though, and I’m about to march through to the back of the house when I hear Ian fumbling about behind the front door. There is a click as he releases the lock. He pulls open the door, and I’m horrified at the sight of him. In my absence it looks as if he hasn’t shaved for a week, and his hair is greasy and flattened to his skull. I always thought he was quite good-looking, but not now. I never realised how high his forehead is. With so much facial hair, he looks as if all his features have been squashed into the lower half of his face, and my head jerks back.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’ His voice is harsh, abrasive. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I might have had a shave. But then again, probably not. You’re not worth the trouble.’

  I take a step towards him, and he must see something in my expression because he moves back. I give him a shove anyway, just because it makes me feel better. I see the shock register in his eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he says, his voice sounding squeaky to my ears. ‘Have you lost the plot completely?’

  I throw my keys on the hall table and storm into the sitting room, which is looking just as hovel-like as I expected. But I almost don’t care. It’s him – every bit of him suddenly seems repulsive, hideous, and I bend down and pick up a slice of toast from a plate on the floor and fling it towards him, Frisbee style, so it spins through the air. It hits him in the middle of his T-shirt.

  ‘You’re disgusting.’ I hear the sneer in my voice. I pick up the detritus from the floor and head to the kitchen. Flicking the lid of the bin open, the smell hits me before I realise that it is full to overflowing. He can’t have emptied it since I left, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust, reaching in to push everything down.

  ‘Shit!’ I scream as my hand hits something sharp. I pull it out quickly, but blood is pumping freely from where a piece of broken glass has pierced my palm.

  Ian says nothing.

  I grab a tea towel, but that is filthy too, so holding my hand above my head I march back through the sitting room and up the stairs, dripping blood in my wake, but I don’t care. The whole place will have to be scrubbed before it’s fit for anyone else to live in. In the bathroom I find the last of the clean towels and push it against my hand, but the blood is still coming. This is all I need.

  Ian has followed me upstairs, looking defiant, waiting for the moment when he can tell me that none of this is his fault. It will be all down to me – for going away without him, for asking him to leave, for dragging him away from his life in London. I don’t want to hear a word of it, and I round on him, still pressing the towel hard against my hand.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, shall I? You are leaving this house. I’m moving back in and renting out the spare bedroom to make some money to put towards the mortgage. If you don’t do as I say, I will default on the mortgage and tell the building society I’m not going to make any more payments. They will repossess and throw you out anyway. I’ll tell them to do it sooner rather than later.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Ian’s voice sounds uncertain though. He’s never seen me like this, but the rage is building nicely inside me and suddenly I feel capable of anything.

  ‘I can, and I will. The house is in my name only, so when it’s sold – and it will no doubt go for a ridiculously low price so they get their money back quickly – the balance, the fat deposit that I put down, will all be repaid. To me. Not you. Now, if you think you’re going to get any of that, you can whistle for it or sue me. Whichever takes your fancy. Have you got all that, Ian?’

  I realise I must look like a fishwife. My head is thrust forward towards him.

  He looks shocked. ‘Jesus, what a bitch you are.’ He spits out the words. ‘You can’t make me do anything.’

  ‘Watch me,’ I snarl.

  I push past him again and march into the bedroom to collect some more of my things, and Ian returns to the sitting room, no doubt hoping that if he doesn’t argue I might leave as soon as I’ve packed.

  The bedroom is a tip too, Ian’s clothes all over the floor, most of them dirty. I slept in the spare room when I got back from holiday, and the bed in here smells as if it hasn’t been changed since before I went to Myanmar. I feel my nostrils flare with disgust. And something snaps.

  I thrust open the window, initially to let in some air. Then I eye the clothes on the floor and scoop them up, an armful at a time, and chuck them out of the window, my blood all over them. I rip the sweaty bedding off the mattress and that follows. I hear a thundering of feet up the stairs.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Ian yells.

  ‘Giving your clothes an airing, you slob,’ I scream back at him.

  I glance towards the window. A couple are walking past, staring up at us, and I glimpse a look of concern on the woman’s face.

  I spin back towards Ian. ‘Get out of my way.’

  I reach under the bed and grab a soft case, randomly flinging in underwear, tops, jumpers and jeans, ramming them into every corner.

  ‘You’re a mad bitch, you know that, don’t you?’

  I advance on Ian until my nose is inches from his. ‘If you call me a bitch again, I will punch your sad, squashed-up face. Understood?’

  Ian raises a hand, and for a moment I think he’s going to hit me, but he just rubs the top of his head as if he’s totally confused by the person in front of him.

  Good.

  I snatch the case from the bare mattress and stomp towards the door, elbowing Ian in the guts as I pass for good measure. He grabs my arm and spins me round.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ he says, genuine bafflement in his tone and on what I can see of his face.

  ‘I’ve realised what a wanker you are,’ I spit as I yank my arm free. I push him away with my bloodied hand and pound down the stairs and out through the front door, heading towards my car, which is parked on the drive. I open the boot and reach in for the flat shoes that I wear when I go for a walk. I can’t see them and push Ian’s never-used fishing gear to one side.

  He is hard on my heels, and I just want to get out of here. I can live without the shoes.

  ‘Come back and talk to me,’ he pleads. ‘We can sort something.’

  I hide a smile of satisfaction. Now he wants to talk, when his back’s against the wall and he has lost. I spin round. ‘I would rather slit my throat than spend another sixty
seconds in your company. No, scratch that. I would rather slit your throat. Don’t push me, Ian. What have I got to lose?’

  Another passerby – a middle-aged man – peers at me nervously and crosses to the other side of the street, but I don’t care who sees me or what they think. All I want is for Ian to be out of my life, one way or another.

  29

  I return to Thea’s car and throw myself into the passenger seat. Without a word I grab my seat belt, buckle up and fling my house keys onto the back seat.

  ‘I thought you might be upset, so it seemed a good idea for me to drive,’ Thea says.

  The journey passes in silence, with me staring sightlessly out of the window, my lips clamped tight together, my body rigid. Slowly I try to calm my breathing and let my blood pressure fall to a reasonable level, muttering nothing more than ‘Thanks’ to Thea.

  She doesn’t speak, giving me time to calm down. I always thought the anger I had felt when I rowed with my father and Annabel over Pops’ early inheritance would be impossible to beat, but that was tame in comparison to my feelings during the confrontation with Ian. Anger has always reduced me to tears in the past, but not today. I don’t for a single moment feel like crying. I am beyond frustration; I am a boiling cauldron of rage.

  I don’t realise we are home until Thea speaks. ‘Is your hand okay? Do you want me to look at it for you?’