by Lara Dearman
‘Silence!’
She heard the car door open and then a searing pain at the back of her head.
Silence.
* * *
Everything black, the smell of warm earth and rubber, a pressure across her eyes and over the top of her nose. The blindfold! Don’t panic. She mustn’t panic. She must think. Her legs ached. Not just sore, but bound. Tightly. Throbbing. There was a weight on her right thigh, the thrum of an engine. She was in a car. She was lying on the floor in a car. She was lying on the floor in a car, blindfolded, with her hands tied behind her back. She was fucked.
‘Don’t. Fucking. Move.’
Voices. Muffled. Nothing made sense. Listen harder. Three voices. Two in the front, one in the back.
The weight on her thigh was his foot. His foot on her leg. Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Bleeker Street’ on the car stereo. Laughter. Coughing. A deep, hacking cough. Someone lit a cigarette. A rush of air. An open window. She listened.
Where the fuck were they going? What the fuck were they going to do to her?
The facts. She needed to focus on the facts. There were three of them. One of her. Don’t cry.
Don’t let the fuckers see you cry.
The car stopped. Doors opened and closed. Rough hands pulled her to her feet and dragged her out. Soft ground. Cool air. Hard, cold blade at her throat.
Someone gripped the top of her arm and pushed her forward. They walked. Twigs underfoot. Dog barking. Cars in the distance. They stopped. Barked orders. Foreign language. Romanian? Footsteps.
Something hit her legs and she fell forwards, face on the ground, wet leaves in her mouth, the taste of iron and bile in her throat. He was close to her.
‘You like to write stories. It is good, to write stories. I have a little girl. She likes to write stories too.’
He pulled her head up by her hair, held her hair back from her face, held it tightly.
‘You are all the same, you little girls, I think. Little girls with your little stories.’
‘Please…’
A pause.
‘I’m not going to kill you, Jenny. I want to. You are causing me big problems. But you would be a bigger problem dead. Too many people to miss you, I think. Too much trouble for me. For now.’
The blade was cold against her cheek. He scraped the point down to the corner of her mouth and let it rest. Then it touched her ear.
‘Know this. I am watching you. Always. I see you again near my girls, I will kill you. You write again about my girls, I will kill you. You look again for your little friend, I will kill you. I change my mind, I feel like it, maybe I will kill you too.’ He pulled her hair back, twisting it tighter.
‘Pretty, Jenny. Very pretty.’
The swish of a blade, a burning at the back of her neck, her head falling forwards to hit the cold, wet ground.
‘You know, my little girl, she likes stories about princes and princesses and fairy godmothers. You should write one of these stories, Jenny. They usually have happy endings.’ He paused for what felt like minutes. Then warm breath in her ear. A whisper.
‘I will follow your work, Jenny. I will look out for your fairy tale.’
And he was gone.
* * *
A cool breeze floated in through the open window, ruffling the curtains and allowing a shaft of autumn sunlight to fall on her face. She squinted against the brightness. A familiar rustle of papers, the turn of a page, a shake to ensure the surface was smooth and easy to read. She opened her eyes fully.
‘Dad?’
‘Morning, love.’ He was sitting in her desk chair, turned to face the bed. His full beard was greyer than she remembered, but the hair on his head was thick and black. He wore, as always, a navy Guernsey and navy twill trousers. All he needed was his hat and he’d be ready to go out on the boat.
‘What are you doing here, Dad? And how did you get in?’ She felt a rush of panic. Was the front door unlocked? Could anyone just walk in off the street? She sat up.
‘Your flatmate let me in. Maja. Lovely young lady, she is. Can’t make a decent cup of tea, mind you.’ He folded his paper neatly into four and placed it on the desk. ‘Speaking of tea, will I get you one?’
‘Why are you here, Dad? It’s lovely to see you but you didn’t need to come.’
‘That’s not the way I heard it, love.’
‘Heard from who?’
‘Let me get you that cup of tea. I’ll get myself a decent one while I’m at it. And then we’ll talk, all right, love?’ He was a tall, strong man and it was easy to forget he was nearing seventy. There was no sign of age in the way he held himself or in his confident gait as he left the room. She heard the sound of voices from the kitchen. It must have been Maja. She must have phoned her parents. Fuck.
She went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face, ran her fingers through her unwashed hair. She tried pulling it back into a ponytail although she knew it wouldn’t go. He had cut it just too short. She let it flop down again over the dressing on the back of her neck. She gargled with some Listerine, pinched her cheeks to bring some life into her ghost-like complexion, then smoothed some concealer under each eye for good measure. Her mum would have seen through it in no time, but there was a chance her dad could be persuaded she was OK.
Charlie came back into the room and placed one mug carefully on the desk. He handed the other to her. ‘Maja tells me you’ve hardly been out of your room in days.’ Jenny started to protest but he shook his head.
‘No. Listen to me, Jen. I was willing to believe you when you said you were OK, even though I could hear it in your voice. As soon as I picked up that phone I knew you were anything but OK, but I said to myself, she knows what she’s doing. She’s a smart girl. Who am I to argue if she wants to stay? And, God knows, I’ve encouraged you. I know I have. Filled your head with ideas, telling you to get off the bloody rock, to put that brain of yours to good use, to do something more exciting than get a job in a bloody bank, but look where it’s got you, love! You were reckless, Jenny, you could have been killed!’
‘Dad, I am OK. I was scared, I’ll admit that. And I was stupid. But I promise you, I’ve learnt my lesson.’
‘But these men, the ones you were investigating, the police haven’t found them. They threatened you. Maja’s filled me in. There’s a lot more to all of this then you let on. What’s to say they won’t come after you again? And next time maybe they won’t stop at hacking your hair off! Come home, love.’ He was pleading now. ‘Even just for a couple of weeks. Have a rest, let you mother feed you up a bit. Don’t give me that look. You need looking after. You’ll never admit it, but you do.’ He seemed self-conscious all of a sudden. He cleared his throat and picked up his newspaper.
‘It’s a nice day. Bit chilly, but the sun’s out. Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go and get a spot of lunch? Saw a nice-looking pub down the road – I can get a Doom Bar, a decent pint for a change. Not like that piss they serve at home.’
* * *
She went home and stayed until Christmas but she had been back in Hackney for the New Year. She had to admit that the rest had done her good and she was almost feeling herself again.
Almost. The feeling of the knife at her throat, of his hands in her hair. It came back to her. Often. When she looked in the mirror each morning. When she went out with friends. When she laughed. And every time she looked over her shoulder.
* * *
Jenny hung her coat on the hook in the corridor, next to Margaret’s. There were three more hooks, all unused. They had always been full when Charlie had been alive. Grief suddenly washed over her, soft waves, less violent than the piercing, physically debilitating pangs she had felt in the days and weeks after his death, but no less painful now, almost two years later. People talked about missing someone so much it hurt – and it did. She had got used to the pain, had tucked it away so that she could think about Charlie, talk about him, without breaking down. It was the emptiness she couldn’t get us
ed to. The fact his absence was almost tangible: a clean doormat, once peppered with sand and seaweed, a neglected bucket, lying on its side in the back garden, a space on the wall where a coat should be.
‘Jenny? What are you standing there for? I saved you some dinner.’ Margaret stood in the bathroom doorway, steam billowing around her. ‘I’ve finished up in the loft, cleaned it, sorted it, and I’ve found some brilliant stuff up there. Let me get dried and I’ll show you.’
* * *
They sat in the kitchen, Margaret showing Jenny old school photos and report cards. ‘We should keep them down here, make an album or something, don’t you think?’ Margaret asked. ‘Let’s sort out the good ones.’
Jenny carefully wiped some dust off of a brown cardboard sleeve edged with gold before opening it to reveal a picture of Charlie at about five years old, in a flat cap and blazer, shorts and knee socks. She removed the photograph from its frame. The back was yellow and damp-stained, the paper soft with age. In the corner someone had written, Vauvert ’52. His first day of school, Jenny thought. She put it to one side. Took a bundle of pictures from the pile. Margaret, this time: a teenager. Jenny smiled. ‘Check out your miniskirt, Mum.’ She held up the photo.
‘I had great legs, didn’t I? So do you. You should try putting on a skirt every now and then. Get out of those jeans for a change.’
Jenny ignored her and looked at the next picture. ‘That’s Elizabeth?’ She pointed at the girl next to Margaret. Margaret nodded. ‘Who’s that?’ Jenny pointed to a small boy standing next to them.
‘That was Elizabeth’s brother. I forget his name. Billy? No, Bobby, that was it. Bobby. Followed us round everywhere. So different back then. Look at him, he can’t have been more than six or seven and he would always be turning up on his bike all by himself. I didn’t mind. I quite liked it, not having any brothers and sisters, and I was always a bit envious of Elizabeth having someone to mother. What is it? Where are you going?’
‘I have to do something, Mum, I won’t be long.’ Jenny walked to the hallway and pulled on her coat.
‘You’ve just got in, you can’t go out in this!’
Jenny stood in the open doorway, the wind blowing leaves and twigs into the house.
‘I’m just going round the corner, I’ll only be a few minutes.’ Margaret looked distressed. ‘Put the kettle on, Mum. I’ll be back before you’ve made the tea.’
It was a five-minute drive to Amanda Guille’s house. Jenny saw the blue flicker of light from a television glinting through the drawn curtains. It was late, but there was never a good time for a journalist to doorstep a grieving family so she knocked. She hadn’t thought about how she was going to ask what she needed to know without causing them more distress, or if they’d even have any answers. The door opened and Amanda’s mother stood there, hollow-eyed, at her side a small boy wearing faded Spiderman pyjamas, trailing a little grey donkey on the floor behind him. He looked up at her and she saw fear flicker across his face. She was another stranger bearing bad news. Jenny couldn’t do it. This family had known enough horror. If there was more to come, it could wait until the morning.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ She stepped back. ‘I must have the wrong house.’ Amanda’s mother looked nervous.
‘Whose house are you looking for?’ she asked.
‘Who is it, love?’ Amanda’s father appeared behind his wife.
Jenny turned and walked back to the car.
Amanda had stopped her singing lessons with David De Putron. Something had upset her. Hayley had refused to bring her little brother Jax to her piano lessons. Elizabeth’s brother had followed her everywhere. Jenny felt sick. Had Elizabeth noticed something was amiss? Had she challenged David? Was that how she ended up dead? The others too? Jenny had nothing to go on. Just a hunch. She had to ask more questions. Starting with Brian. She had a feeling that he already knew what she suspected: David De Putron had never been interested in teenage girls.
* * *
Sunday morning. The presses were rolling. She got a coffee from the machine and watched one of the delivery guys, a skinny man in his twenties, still in his coat, whistling along to his iPod as he stacked and bundled the papers. He saw her looking and pulled out one of his earphones, pointed to the front page.
‘What’s going on with this, then? My sister used to be friends with her at primary school. I remember her when she was nine or ten, coming round for tea.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s terrible. Things like this shouldn’t be happening here.’
Jenny nodded. ‘It is terrible. The police are doing the best they can, I know that.’ She didn’t know what else to say. Elliot came in, sweating despite the cold, the bottom of his jeans soaking wet.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Had to negotiate four or five different diversions to get here. Got stuck in a ditch trying to get out of the way of a van in the Green Lanes, had to push the car out. The exhaust is practically hanging off now, I only just made it here.’
He sat at his desk, beckoning Jenny over and took a file out of his rucksack.
‘What have you found?’ Jenny nodded at the papers.
‘Company registration documents, showing that Diane De Putron’s family is the majority shareholder of the Guernsey News. She owns several hotels and restaurants and I’ve also got a list of businesses she’s sold or wound up over the years. Everything is in Diane’s name. Doesn’t look like David got anything.’
‘Where did you get all this?’
Elliot raised his eyebrows at her.
‘Sorry. Don’t tell me.’
‘So. What do you think is going on?’ Elliot asked.
‘I think Brian is in with the De Putrons. Either they’re threatening him or bribing him, I don’t know for sure, but he’s working for them, and not just as editor of their newspaper.’
‘Maybe we’d better ask him to explain.’ Elliot pointed to the door where Brian stood, immaculate as always, in a tan belted mackintosh which he was unbuttoning, shaking off the damp which had settled on the collar before he hung it on the coat rack. He looked over at them. He might have dressed well, but he could not disguise the shadows under his eyes.
‘What are you doing here so early?’ His voice was hoarse.
Jenny motioned to Elliot to stay where he was, gathered the papers and joined Brian at the door to his office.
* * *
‘He has alibis. The police are satisfied with them. And I’ve spoken to him. He told me himself. I believe him. There’s no way he killed those girls.’
‘You were worried enough to ask him about it, though, weren’t you? You’ve been covering for him, keeping his secrets for years and you panicked, didn’t you? What do you know, Brian? If the police raid his house, what are they going to find?’
‘How the hell should I know? Apart from the call he made a few days ago, asking me to stop you from harassing him, I haven’t spoken to him in years!’
‘I have a theory.’
‘Please share it. Enlighten me, why don’t you?’ He folded his arms, leant back in his chair.
‘I think you were convinced of David’s innocence because you knew full well that women and girls were of no interest to him.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You said, last time we spoke, that David “wasn’t the type”. I thought you meant you couldn’t believe he was capable of murder, because you knew him, because you were good friends once. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Brian?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. I think David De Putron has used his position as a music teacher and a respected member of the community to groom children. Seven and eight year olds, Brian. Little boys like Amanda Guille’s brother and Hayley Bougourd’s and Elizabeth Mahy’s. Maybe many, many more. And I think you knew about it.’
Brian’s hand slammed down on the desk.
‘I did not!’ His voice crack
ed as he shouted. Jenny saw Elliot get up from the desk and approach the office door. She shook her head at him.
Brian spoke, still angry. ‘There is no – and never has been – evidence that David actually abused kids. If there had, I would have done something about it. I’m not a fucking monster.’
‘But you knew something. You suspected. You got mixed up with his family. How?’
Brian rubbed his face, rested his head in his hands and stared out of the window. Then he reached into his desk and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘I need a smoke.’ He walked out of his office and headed towards the exit. She followed.
He crossed the road, Jenny a few paces behind, and stood on the slipway leading on to Belle Grève Bay. The tide had receded and the sun, still rising, threw a milky yellow light on to the rock-strewn sand.
He waved the packet at Jenny, who shook her head.
‘What, your body a temple or something?’ He lit up and blew the smoke over his shoulder, away from Jenny. ‘My wife, Helen, begged me to quit. Her dying wish. Fucking pain. Feel guilty every time I have one now, which is stupid. It’s not like she knows about it.’ He laughed, humourlessly. Jenny said nothing. They stood there in silence, until Brian shook his head and turned towards the sea.
‘I confronted David, the morning after Elizabeth Mahy’s body was found. Like I told you before, I knew he was with her that night, I wanted to give him a chance to turn himself in. He begged and pleaded and cried like a baby. Said it was all an accident, told me the story I told you. I said I’d give him until the end of the day and he agreed he would go to the police. I was a junior reporter then, just starting out. I went back to his house that evening, to make sure he’d done the right thing, but David wasn’t there. I spoke to his mother. She told me exactly the same story. That it had been an accident. But the police might not see it like that. There was no point ruining David’s future, she said. She offered me money and a job for life at the paper. Told me I’d be the youngest editor in chief the Guernsey News had ever had. And I was.’ He sat on the edge of the sea wall.