FRAUD

by PETER DAVEY

Dominic fell silent again. Then he raised his eyes and said defiantly, “There is one thing I’m not lying about though, that I’ve never lied about. And that’s that I love her.”

  The doctor’s stare was relentless, seeming to probe into the darkest recesses of his soul. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “Her mistake was loving you back.”

  *

  “I can’t believe it,” murmured Anne, slowly shaking her head, “I just can’t believe it. I mean... she was there, right before my eyes, just hours before. I shook her hand. And she looked so... well.”

  Linda was standing behind her where she sat at the kitchen table with the day’s copy of The Independent spread before her – the sadness of the story enhanced by a four-year-old shot of Nicola receiving her Oscar for All about Me. She laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll get through it,” she murmured. For, even though she had no time for Nicola Carson herself, it distressed her to see Anne so distressed. “Have you any idea what caused it?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  *

  It was a wild night. The wind was howling, rattling the tiny window that never quite shut properly, though the rain had ceased and the clouds had parted to bestow a few final bursts of sunshine on the little town. Ted left his caravan and set off under tossing, swaying trees and scraps of paper flying on inky skies like tiny, demented seabirds. He crossed the patch of grass behind the sea wall then made his way through the sloping streets towards The Mariner’s Arms. Passing the petrol station, his attention was drawn to the newspapers stacked in a row of plastic compartments beside its door, one of which – The Evening Star – bore the headline:

  NICOLA CARSON BACK IN REHAB

  He swiftly crossed the few yards of concrete, lifted the lid and grabbed a copy:

  Troubled superstar Nicola Carson (28) [he read] has once again stunned the world by dropping out of the production of ‘The House of Bernarda Alba’ at the Rondel Theatre, Greenwich, which she had single-handedly turned into a box-office smash. Sources close to the star have revealed that she has suffered a mental breakdown and returned to Malvern Hall, the rehab clinic where she was previously being treated for depression, and is on twenty-four hour suicide watch. The cause of the crisis is as yet unknown but it is believed that her boyfriend – wannabe writer Dominic Sealy (28) – is heavily involved. Adrian Miles, director of ‘The House of Bernarda Alba’ told the Evening Star, ‘We are stunned by what’s happened. Naturally we are very concerned for Nicola and hope she makes a speedy recovery. In the meantime, her role is being taken over by her understudy.’ When asked if the company was considering legal action, he said, ‘I cannot comment on that at this stage.’

  Ted did not go to the pub. He couldn’t face that bright, cheery environment nor could he face returning to the bleak caravan and the relentless loneliness of his own company. The sea lay across the road beyond the car park and the parade of shops and he felt drawn towards it. The sea was the edge of everything, the end of everything, the boundary at which all human life has to cease, especially on a night like this. He battled over tarmac and concrete then picked his way through the ragwort-infested wasteland above the beach and kept on going until the shingle was slipping and sliding under his feet. The tide was in and the first cool mists of spray were sprinkling his face. He edged down the bank of clattering pebbles towards the surf line, slid into a sitting position and there he remained, hunched in his coat, gazing at the rays of burnished sunlight touching the heaving, thundering walls of foam. As the hours passed and the darkness folded around him, he relived in memory every moment he had spent with her – their first inauspicious meeting at the Queen’s, their time in Richmond and the night she had nestled under his arm and he, like a father comforting his frightened child, had caressed her hair until she had fallen asleep. And he had maintained his vigil until the morning, giving himself to her because she needed him, just as he was giving himself now to the wind and the waves and the roaring sea.

  8

  Far away in London, Dominic was slumped on his sofa watching what might have been moving, speaking wallpaper on the television screen. His mobile rang and, since it was on the sofa arm, he reached out and grabbed it. Had it not been, he probably wouldn’t have bothered. He lifted it to his ear.

  “Is Nicola with you?” said Dr Lennox.

  He sat up, instantly alert. “No. Why?”

  “She’s gone. But she’s in a critical state and I’m very worried about her.”

  “Gone? You mean she’s just walked out?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what makes you think she’s with me?”

  “Her red shoes. She’s become utterly obsessed with them. She won’t eat, can’t sleep. And she’s convinced you’ve got them. Dominic, I want you to be completely honest for once – have you got them?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  The psychiatrist responded with silence, as though challenging him to change his mind and tell the truth.

  “Maybe one of the hotel staff took them. That woman I told you about. They could’ve gone into the room before she got there.”

  “It’s possible I suppose. Though it’s unlikely they’d own up. More likely they’d just get rid of them if they thought the pressure was on.”

  “How long’s she been missing?”

  “Since about five.”

  “Well if she was coming here she’d have been here by now.”

  “I know.”

  “So what you’re saying is that she’s somewhere in London, in a suicidal state, and no one knows where.”

  It was now Dr Lennox who was on the defensive. “Look, I can’t force people to stay here against their will. This isn’t a prison. And I don’t actually believe she’s suicidal. In spite of everything I think she’s got passed that now. But, thanks to you, she’s completely lost faith in humanity and those shoes were the one constant she was hanging on to...”

  “Have you tried her mobile?”

  “Of course I have. She’s permanently on voicemail.”

  “You have to call the police.”

  “I’ve already done that. She’s not officially a missing person yet but I’ve explained to them about her mental condition.”

  “And there’s the fact that she’s a celebrity.”

  “Well, officially that’s not supposed to make any difference but we all know it does.”

  “I’ve just had a thought. She may have tried to contact Ted. Ted Haymer.”

  “Does she know where he is?”

  “No, he’s vanished too. But she may contact The Queen’s Head – the pub in Wemborne where they first met – to see if he’s come back or if there’s any news of him. It’s a bit of a long shot, I know, but it’s worth a try. I’ll get onto them.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you have any joy.”

  He found the number on the internet. The lad who answered went off to ask around and he could hear hubbub in the background. Then he returned to inform him that no one had spoken to Nicola Carson that evening. “Is this about that broadcast?” he asked with a laugh. Dominic knew it wasn’t the landlord.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We’re still getting mileage out of that. It’s been great for business! Really put the place on the map!”

  He was about to respond to that remark but restrained himself. He couldn’t afford to antagonise anyone – not that night. Instead he gave the lad his numbers and made him promise to call him at once if Nicola phoned or appeared.

  “And I suppose you’ve heard nothing from Ted? Ted Haymer?”

  “No, Ted’s vanished off the face of the planet.”

  Dominic was falling prey to the overwhelming sense that it was all just activity for activity’s sake, to keep himself from confronting the despair which, deep down, was already seeping into his being like icy water into the hull of a sinking ship. And then there were her red shoes. What the hell was he supposed to do with her red shoes? He’d felt angry, felt that, in spite of everything,
he was entitled at least to one small part of her, one tiny consolation prize. But if not having them was intensifying her anguish, possibly even pushing her over the edge, he had to give them back. But how could he give them back if no one knew where she was?

  He went to the bedroom and fetched them, as though holding them might somehow provide a solution. He fondled them, skimming his fingertips over the vamp, caressing the sides, the soles, the heels. He remembered her telling him about them once, in New Zealand, after he’d remarked jokingly that her attachment to them was almost unhealthy – about how she had bought them in San Francisco when she was shooting All About Me. “They’re magic,” she’d said. “At least, one of them is – the left one.”

  It had struck him as odd, even then. If she’d said “they’re magic!” as in “they’re amazing” or “they’re fantastic” it wouldn’t have been quite so odd, even though he had never heard her describe anything as magic. But why had she said only one was magic? It was as though that shoe really were magic. He held them together, trying to discern a difference, but the left one seemed an exact mirror of the right. He turned them over and inspected the soles and heels. And then he noticed something – the left heel was less worn and of a different consistency – it was not leather like the right but made of some sort of composite material. Maybe it had been re-heeled at some stage though that seemed unlikely – if you have shoes re-heeled you have them both done, not just one. Then he noticed something else – at the side, flush with the seat and tucked into the crease between it and the heel was a miniscule strip of metal. He probed it with his fingernail, pressing it from behind, and found that it moved. He slid it sideways to see how far it would go and it suddenly went loose and the entire heel wobbled as though something had been released. He took it in the palm of his hand, waggled it and found that it unscrewed on a thread – exactly like the lid of a coffee jar. And when he had unscrewed and removed it, he could see why it was harder – it had been reinforced because it was hollow inside. And in the hollow, gleaming in the light, lay the object Nicola was really so concerned about.

  He was back on the phone to Dr Lennox. “I know why she’s so obsessed with those shoes. It’s not the shoes at all. There’s a blade hidden in one of the heels.”

  There followed a long silence. “So you have got them?”

  “Yes, I have. I’m sorry. I just needed to keep something. Something of her.”

  “It’s a pity you couldn’t have made do with a hairclip.”

  Dominic knew what he was thinking and he didn’t care. Anxiety for Nicola was now eclipsing every other emotion and he guessed the same was true of Dr Lennox.

  “But why does she need those particular shoes and that particular blade? If she can walk out of your gates at any time and buy another blade, or a knife or...” The end of the sentence was too horrible to form into words.

  “As I said, I don’t believe she’s planning to take her own life. That’s the hope we have to cling to anyway. Both times she came to us it was for refuge – because she needed a secure, controlled environment. But she also needed to know she could leave at any time – on her terms. And using a blade she trusts to do the job cleanly and efficiently. That was her insurance policy.”

  His words sent a chill down Dominic’s spine. “So what should I do?” he faltered. “Bring them to you?”

  “No, stay put in case she turns up there. We’ll keep in touch.”

  He did not have as much faith as Dr Lennox in the theory that she wasn’t going to harm herself. He found himself thinking the unthinkable but he had to think it if he was ever going to find her. Where would she go if she wanted to take her own life? A hotel room? Somewhere where she could lock the door on the world and dispatch herself in peace – possibly in the bath or the shower?

  He tried her mobile again. Voicemail. He left a message: “Nicola, I’ve got your shoes. I’m at the flat in Stratford. I know you hate me, and you have every right to, but I need to know you’re safe. Please please please call me the moment you pick up. Or Dr Lennox. Or anybody.”

  He tried Ted’s mobile. Anne would have already tried it of course but anything was worth a shot. “I’m sorry, the person you are calling is unavailable.”

  He switched on the television as well as the internet. He wanted as much activity as possible in that mausoleum of a flat, as much contact as possible with the outside world. Nicola was a superstar after all. And she’d be in people’s minds after dropping so dramatically out of the play – the story had been on the front pages of all the tabloids. If she checked into a hotel in a distraught state, she would attract attention. If people spotted her in the streets or at an airport or railway station, they’d notice her. If anything happened to her it would make the news in a flash – especially as the paparazzi and half the hacks in London seemed to be on her tail. But there was nothing. He was determined to draw some comfort from that.

  The television was playing some sort of American comedy, each line greeted by gales of canned laughter. Angrily he grabbed the controls and switched to the rolling news channel, lowering the volume in case he missed the phone ringing. Not that he would. But there was no news. Everything in the world was as normal.

  He thought of ringing Dr. Lennox again. But there was no point. He knew he would call the moment there were any developments at his end and he didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself. He checked the internet again, he checked his emails and voicemail. Nothing.

  Suddenly exhausted, he carried his laptop to the bedroom, sat down and zapped his other television which also served as a computer monitor on his desk. Wednesday drifted into Thursday. He switched to News 24. As the news droned on and on, the same stories repeated over and over again – an earthquake in Japan, a sham election in some brutalised African state, a rail disaster in Romania – his head began to swim. For an instant he forgot where he was. A voice was saying, “We’re now going live to Waterloo Station.” Waterloo Station? “The toilet cubicle where the girl’s body was found has now been cordoned off... the police cannot release her identity at this time but foul play is not suspected...”

  He sprang forward and groped for his mobile, his fingers trembling so violently he could barely connect to the number. The ringing went on and on. Then there was a click.

  “Dr Lennox?”

  “Your call is being forwarded to...”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake! Don’t tell me you’ve gone to bed!”

  But then his voice came on the line.

  “Dr Lennox! Thank God! I’ve just seen the news... a girl’s body’s been found in a toilet at Waterloo Station... suspected suicide... they haven’t released her identity but you have to phone the police and find out if it’s... maybe use your influence...”

  Then the doorbell rang, stopping him in mid sentence. There it was again, longer this time, more insistent, its harsh jangle echoing round the flat. It would be the police, of course, to confirm what he already knew. He tore out into the hall, snatched open the door and there she was standing before him. Nicola. Alive. Unharmed.

  “Give them to me,” she said icily.

  “Nicola...”

  “Just give them to me!”

  Trembling with relief, fighting to maintain his composure, he went to the bedroom to fetch them. She came after him into the living room. He returned and gave them to her. “There are your shoes.”

  She dropped the right one, unscrewed the left heel and stared into the empty compartment. She sank down onto the sofa. “You’ve stolen it. You’ve fucking stolen it!”

  “I haven’t stolen it! I got rid of it! I wrapped it in bog paper and flushed it down the loo where it belongs because I didn’t want you hurting yourself! Why are you still carrying that thing around with you anyway? All the time we’ve been together... All the time we were in New Zealand...?”

  “I needed an insurance policy.”

  “An insurance policy? Jesus! You had me!”

  “You!” she retorted furiously. “You? I nev
er trusted you! Never! Not for one single fucking second!”

  “So why did you leave Malvern Hall and come here then?”

  “Christ knows! Because I’m a sad, pathetic loser! I got taken in by you!”

  “Bollocks!”

  He lowered himself to the edge of the armchair. He drew a deep, trembling breath. “Look, I fucked up. I know I did. And I’m sorry. But you know what it was like – you were there yourself, that’s why you cooked up that scam with Ted. I just wanted to be a writer. A successful writer. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life stuck in some editor’s office reading other people’s manuscripts. And when I saw that copy of ‘Loss’ it was like... a door opening onto the future, it was like my passport out of there! You were the last thing on my mind. You were just a celebrity, an image on a screen, a face in a magazine. I didn’t know you. You weren’t the person I met when I came to Malvern Hall, the person who smoked my cigarettes, the person I fell in love with. And when we got together I wanted to tell you all that but I couldn’t because I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to convince you. And I... didn’t want to lose you.”

  “Well you’ve lost me now anyway.”

  “I know,” he cried, pressing his hands over his face. “I know.” And after a silence, he said, “Maybe you’d better go now.”

  She turned and stared at him. “What do you mean... go?”

  “I mean go. You’ve got your shoes, which is what you came for. So go.”

  She was flabbergasted. “Look, I decide when I fucking go! I dumped you, remember, because you turned out to be a lying piece of shit whatever sob story you dream up to justify it! So don’t tell me to go! And, by the way, there’s no comparison with what I did with Ted. We may’ve lied to the world but we didn’t lie to each other!”

  “You bloody did! At least, you betrayed each other, which is the same thing. But it’s different rules for you, isn’t it? So take your brand new Mercedes and go! The keys are in the hall. Go and find yourself some gorgeous hunk and live happily ever after. I was never more than an appendage to you anyway. Your chauffeur cum fucking sex slave!”