by Julie Corbin
She died quickly.
Sometimes I enjoy making it slow.
I sit back on my heels again. I try to take a deep breath . . . fail. I feel like something or someone heavy is sitting on my chest. I notice a small tremor in my hands and press them firmly down on my knees. I wait a moment and in that space of time my mind hauls me back to before I had Bea, when I was employed as a solicitor with the CPS and I saw, first hand, the damage a knife can do. The last case I worked on was a young woman called Kerry Smith, murdered by her ex-partner, the father of her two children. She had been stabbed in the chest. I had known her when she was alive and I saw her body when she was dead. Her face, without blood to liven it and personality to shape her smile, was a grey-blue colour, inert as moulded clay.
I force myself to finish what I have started. I read on. Email number eight:
Let me refer you to a couple of unsolved crimes: Carlo Brunetti, Rome, 2006, and Boleslav Hlutev, Sofia, 2008.
That’s it. Short but not sweet. I read it several times, memorising the names, places and dates. Then I collect the emails into a pile, go into the walk-in wardrobe and slide them under a row of sweaters.
I move silently from my room along the carpeted hallway. I can hear Charlie and Amy laughing in his bedroom. I stop at the entrance to Bea’s room and watch her from the doorway. She’s changed from her pinafore into a pair of mismatched pyjamas: pale blue trousers bottoms and a pink top with a faded picture of Barbie on the front. She’s lying on her side on the floor, feet close to the door. Her right arm is stretched out and she’s leaning her head on it, her face turned towards her left hand, holding Douglas. She makes him run across the carpet and jump on top of Bertie. She does this a few times and then she sits up and takes the squashed Bertie out of his basket and cuddles him.
I almost walk into the room to hold her, but stop myself because I know that I won’t be able to speak. The magnitude of what I’ve just read is sinking in and my impulse is to grab Bea, pack our bags and drive away. Drive and keep driving until we are beyond the blackmailer’s reach. But I know that this situation is too critical for me to act on impulse. I have to talk to Julian. I have to find out how seriously he is taking these threats and whether or not he has a plan. Has he spoken to the police? Has Georgiev been questioned? Are the emails traceable?
I go downstairs to the kitchen and take a bottle of wine from the fridge. I pour myself a glass, then sit at the table and face the back garden, where shadows lengthen as the sun slips lower in the sky. I sip the wine and think about the tone of the emails, the fact that we were followed and that the blackmailer watched Bea at nursery. The emails said that Bea was playing in the sandpit, and that’s positioned close to the four-feet-high fence, bordering a pathway. I know that Miss Percival and her two helpers are always outside with the children, so if the blackmailer stopped for any length of time on the path to watch her playing and hear the exchange about the sunhat, he would surely have drawn attention to himself. He has to be someone who blends in or is pretending to blend in. A policeman or a janitor, lollypop man or postman.
‘I’ve got grumbles in my tummy.’ Bea comes running into the kitchen, her hand over her middle.
‘I’m sorry, poppet!’ I jump to my feet. ‘Let’s make dinner together, shall we?’ I scoop her up into my arms, kiss her cheek and hug her tight.
‘You’re squeezing me, Mummy!’
I want to keep her close to me for ever, but I make myself set her down on the work surface, between the sink and the hob. ‘Let’s have some of this lovely soup Sezen made.’
She peers into the pot. ‘I like fish fingers.’
‘We’ll have fish fingers too, then.’ I turn on the gas under the soup and take a packet of fish fingers out of the freezer. I lay several under the grill.
‘Your hands are shaking, Mummy!’ She points to my hands and then stares up at me. ‘You have a sad face.’
Her expression is so earnest, so kind that I feel a rush of tears at the back of my eyes. It takes all my inner strength to stop them spilling on to my cheeks. I give a forced laugh. ‘Mummy’s just feeling a bit sorry for herself.’ I put my hands on my hips and say brightly, ‘Shall we do some fish fingers for Charlie and Amy?’
‘They’re not hungry.’ Bea screws up her face. ‘They’re doing kissing again.’
‘Ah.’
‘Amy says I have to knock.’
‘Well, that’s probably a good idea.’
‘But Charlie likes playing with me.’ She slumps down, her back rounded, her hands in her lap. ‘He’s my brother, not Amy’s.’
‘Where’s Bertie?’ I tickle her feet. ‘Is he looking after Douglas?’
‘He’s very tired. He had to go to bed because Douglas was climbing all over him all the time.’ She tells me the whole saga, her eyes widening or narrowing depending on the ups and downs of the story.
When the food is ready, she eats four fish fingers dipped in tomato ketchup and in between I spoon soup into her mouth. Afterwards we go upstairs and I help her with washing and brushing her teeth, read her a story and sit on her bed. It takes next to no time for her breathing to settle into the rhythm of sleep, but still I sit there, stroking her hair, soaking up the essence of her. I move from one of her features to the other: the curve of each eyelash, the rosy blush of her cheeks, the slightness of her arms wrapped tightly round Bertie, who, not unlike Bea herself, rarely manages to spend the night in his own bed.
I sit beside her until I hear the doorbell. Leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar, I go downstairs to let Megan in. She’s about five eight, slim, dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s someone who is neither pretty nor plain. She’s dressed in a tailored black trouser suit and a white blouse. On some women this would look sexy, but on Megan it just looks smart. But she’s not someone to be underestimated. She has a sharp, incisive intelligence. She was top of her class at her girls’ school and achieved a double first from Balliol College, Oxford. She is an ambitious solicitor and is out to impress – not that I hold that against her. I was a solicitor myself once. I know that it takes focus and a healthy dose of ambition to make the grade, and for all her brisk efficiency, she always takes the time to chat to me and the children.
‘Come on through,’ I say.
She follows me along the hallway into the kitchen and sits down on the window seat. ‘It’s been a fabulous day.’ She crosses her ankles and smiles at me. ‘Did Bea enjoy her party yesterday?’
‘Very much.’ I offer her some wine, which she refuses, and then I gesture towards the pot on the hob. ‘I know that it’s more salad weather, but this soup is really very good.’ I give it a stir. ‘Butternut squash. Sezen made it.’
‘How’s she working out?’ She picks up a magazine and starts flicking through it.
‘Great. She cooks all sorts, but she specialises in macrobiotic food.’
‘This is a wonderful resort.’ She holds up the magazine so that I can see the photograph of wooden chalets nestling in the snowy hillside. ‘I spent my gap year working in the Alps.’ She smiles. ‘Absolutely loved it.’
She continues reading the article as I place some bread, cheese and tomatoes on the table, and then I sit down and we both eat. Megan asks me how Lisa is doing and I tell her, keeping it short because I want to steer the conversation elsewhere.
‘So this business of the emails,’ I say.
She gives me a wary look.
‘I know you already know about them.’
She tilts her head. ‘So Julian told you?’
‘You’re not being threatened too, are you?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Her eyes cloud with sympathy. ‘But then I don’t have children.’
I tear off a piece of bread and chew it slowly. Megan’s right. For the purposes of blackmail, children are the perfect leverage. Most adults are willing to risk their own lives for something they really believe in, but risking their children’s lives? That’s not an option.
‘How worried
should I be?’ I say.
She shrugs one shoulder. ‘It could simply be Georgiev’s men posturing.’
‘Posturing?’
She purses her lips.
‘You think the threats are meaningless?’
‘It’s not for me to say. Julian is taking them seriously and so are the police.’
‘The police?’
‘Didn’t Julian mention that the police were involved?’
‘We haven’t had much of a chance to discuss it.’
‘They’re trying to trace the emails.’ She cuts a slice of Cheddar and transfers it to her plate. ‘Not easy as the emailer is using a proxy server. You know how it is.’
I nod. ‘Georgiev hasn’t become this powerful without being one step ahead.’
‘Well, he’s no longer powerful. He’s in prison, pending trial. A trial that will be won by the prosecution. Of that there is no doubt.’ She says this with an uncompromising straightening of her back. ‘As long as we have the witness, Georgiev doesn’t have a hope of being acquitted.’
I think she means to reassure me, but it has the reverse effect. If the witness is so crucial, then Georgiev won’t stop until he has the name. In prison or not, he still has clout among his criminal gang, who will work hard to ensure his release.
‘The trial will go on, of course,’ Megan continues. ‘It’s just unfortunate that Julian has had to resign’ – her fingers move through the air, putting quotation marks round ‘resign’ – ‘when he’s worked so hard on the case.’
Julian has resigned? I try not to show that this is news to me. I take a spoonful of soup and move it around in my mouth before forcing it down my throat. ‘Yes,’ I hear my voice saying. ‘It’s been difficult for him.’ So difficult that I didn’t notice. And so concerned was he that he didn’t feel the need to tell me he has resigned from a case he’s spent almost a full year working on. Two hulking great secrets that for nine whole days he’s successfully kept to himself. I would never have believed it.
‘He’s a fantastic barrister and a great teacher,’ Megan continues. ‘I’ve learned such a lot working with him.’
The undisguised hero-worship in her voice is both touching and hurtful. Megan knew about both the emails and his resignation. So why didn’t I? My head scrolls through a thousand different reasons, but the only one that fits is that he feels closer to Megan than he does to me, that somewhere along the line she became his confidante. And yet this is about our family. This is about Bea. I can’t believe that he would keep this from me. It feels like the worst sort of betrayal.
‘So what’s the plan?’ I say.
‘Well, clearly there’s a conflict of interest for Julian and so he’s been obliged to step back from the case. Gordon Lightman is now lead counsel.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Nominally. Everyone knows this is really Julian’s case.’
‘I don’t mean with the case. Bea’s safety is what concerns me.’
‘Hasn’t Julian told you himself?’
‘He had to go off in the taxi. It was one of those conversations that was cut short.’
‘Well, why don’t I find you his hotel details?’ She stands up to fetch her laptop bag. ‘I have the address and phone number in here.’ She sits down, takes out her laptop and switches it on. ‘Won’t take a moment.’
‘I understand that he needs to resign,’ I say. ‘His position is compromised. I see that. So why, then, has he gone to Sofia?’
‘Officially Julian is off the case, but he’s taken Gordon with him for a handover. He wants to make sure Gordon is completely up to speed.’
‘Twice before in fifteen years Julian has tried to bring Georgiev to justice and failed.’
‘Exactly. And this is our best shot yet. Julian wanted to introduce Gordon to Iliev, the chief of police out there, so that they could review the evidence together.’ She takes some paper and a pen from the side pocket of her laptop bag and writes. ‘Here.’ She holds the paper out to me. ‘Address and phone number.’
‘Thank you.’ I take it and put it in my pocket.
‘The soup was delicious.’ She stands up again. ‘I need to head off.’
‘Date?’
‘I wish.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Bundles to check through. Should keep me up till midnight.’
I walk with her to the door.
‘Nothing will happen until after the pre-trial hearing on Monday,’ she says, setting off down the steps. ‘There’s still time to find out who’s sending them. It doesn’t have to turn nasty.’
‘Turn nasty?’ My feet follow her down on to the pavement. I catch hold of her arm and another question occurs to me. ‘Those two cases that the blackmailer quotes, Brunetti and Hlutev . . . what happened with them?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says quickly. Too quickly. She puts her arms round me and gives me a brief, awkward hug. ‘I’m sorry this is happening, Claire. Truly I am.’ She pulls away. ‘Call Julian. He has more information than me.’
I go inside and lean my back against the closed door. My head spins with a jumble of half-questions and incomplete answers. And then, in the midst of it all, I see Bea’s face: smiling, uncomplicated, safe. My hands start shaking again. I push the palms together to make them stop. I try to think my way forwards. I need information and I need a plan. I take the piece of paper from my pocket and go into the kitchen. When I’m a few steps away from the phone, it starts to ring. I lift it and press the green button.
‘Claire?’
The relief at hearing his voice sets up an ache inside me: part fear of what’s to come and part hope that simply lying in his arms would make it all go away.
‘I was just about to call you,’ I say.
‘How were Lisa’s results?’
‘Not good . . . but listen.’ I sit on the window seat and lean my forehead against the glass. ‘Julian, what’s going on?’
‘I’ve been meeting with Iliev, the chief of poli—’
‘I don’t mean that. I mean I know there’s something you should be telling me.’
A couple of seconds pass before he replies. ‘Why don’t we talk when I get home?’
‘I know about the emails.’
Silence.
‘I know about the emails and I know about the fact that you’ve resigned and I feel scared and I feel hurt.’ My voice cracks. I try to take a breath, but I feel as if I have a lump the size of a walnut in my throat. ‘And I can’t for the life of me come up with a good reason why you wouldn’t have told me that our daughter’s life was being threatened.’
More silence.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
His voice when it comes sounds more distant that mere miles could account for. ‘Who told you about the emails?’
‘Bea told me.’ Anger flares in my stomach. ‘Because for some reason you were unable to.’
‘Bea? How did she—’
‘She listens. She picks up snippets of conversations. You know that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘And Megan told me you resigned.’
Across the distance I hear him sigh.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I hear the puzzled tone in my voice and try for a firmer one. ‘Julian, I’m your wife. You should not have kept either of these things from me.’
‘Sweetheart’ – he takes a quick breath – ‘let me explain everything face to face. I’ll be home by four tomorrow. Can we leave it until then?’
‘Bea and I have been followed. Someone has been watching her at nursery. Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘Of course it bothers me. It hasn’t been easy keeping this from you.’
‘Then why did you?’
‘Because we thought we had a lead on the blackmailer and I thought it could all be resolved without worrying you and without bringing it into our home.’
‘Yet you had no difficulty telling Megan, and in front of Bea.’
‘I had no idea that Bea was listening.’
‘So that makes it OK?’
I don’t answer. I keep my jaw clamped shut. I want to shout at him. You told Megan? Megan? And yet you didn’t tell me?
‘Nothing will happen before the pre-trial hearing on Monday.’
‘But yesterday you clearly thought Bea had been taken.’
‘Yes, I did. And as I said yesterday, I over-reacted.’
‘So what are the police doing? Have they traced the emails?’
‘Not yet. But I think you’ll be reassured to know that Andrew MacPherson’s running it.’
The name vibrates in my ears and travels up the neural pathways into my brain. I hope I’ve heard wrong. I clear my throat. ‘Who?’
‘Andrew MacPherson. You worked with him, didn’t you?’
I’m not breathing.
‘He’s with Serious and Organised Crimes. Has recently had a promotion to DI. Everyone calls him Mac.’
I know what everyone calls him.
‘He’ll come to the house and talk to all of us after the pre-trial hearing on Monday.’
My mind is reeling. As if the threat to my daughter’s life isn’t enough for me to cope with, now Mac has been thrown into the mix. There must be a dozen senior policemen who could have been assigned this case and it ends up being him. I drop my head into my hands.
‘Claire? Are you still there?’
‘I’m thinking,’ I say.
‘You had a lot of respect for Mac, didn’t you?’
‘He’s a good policeman,’ I say flatly. ‘Efficient, patient, intelligent.’ Dangerous. ‘He’s as good as they get.’
‘I feel that too. I think we’re in good hands with him.’
‘Mm.’
‘I’ll be home by four tomorrow. Sweetheart, we’ll get through this.’
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘I love you, Claire.’
I hesitate for a second and then say with complete conviction, ‘And I love you.’ I end the call and stand up. Today is Wednesday. I have no intention of waiting until Monday before I speak to the police. To Mac.