‘I brought you some tea. And a sandwich. You should eat, Linda. We don’t want you wasting away.’
I fight the urge to place my hands around the hot mug he has set down on the chest of drawers. My mouth is parched and I long for a drink of tea, but gratitude is the last emotion I want to betray.
I say, ‘I suppose I should be flattered, given the lengths you’ve gone to. A simple invitation would have sufficed.’
A look of distaste passes across his face before he masks it with a grin.
If circumstances were different, the sight of Henry would bring me some light relief. He’s wearing a Barbour, a cloth cap, and a tartan scarf that matches the throws in the cottage. Quite the Scottish laird. It slips into focus. Henry owns this place, that’s why ‘Naomi’ persuaded me to book it. The knot tightens in my stomach. How many layers of deceit are there to unravel?
‘Drink your tea before it gets cold,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t like to see my efforts wasted. Can’t say it was a pleasant trip. I’m not in the best of moods myself. And now we find ourselves in this fix, what with you being dead and all.’
Henry is so close to me I can smell his breath. It’s not pleasant – never was, if my memory serves me correctly; always the faint whiff of last night’s whisky corroding his mouth, and something else deeper down, rotting inside him. I wince, push back into the wall to gain an inch of space. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
‘I do wish you had listened when you still had the chance. All that nonsense you fed me about having nothing to lose. Changed your mind now? You never could see the full picture; always was your Achilles’ heel. You obsess about what is in front of you, don’t look beyond. These girls whose cause you’re fighting, they were game. They didn’t argue or say no. Nobody forced them to do anything they didn’t want to do. But then you know that, don’t you? This isn’t about justice and you don’t care about them any more than I do, you’re using them to get to us. We are a reminder that you are not who you think you are, and you can’t bear it. But the thing is, Linda, we’re alike, you and I. Oh don’t look at me like that, we are alike. We’d both do anything to protect ourselves. The only difference is I can live with who I am, whereas you can’t stand who you’ve become.’
‘The difference is I didn’t do it to protect myself.’
‘You think that makes you a better person? The decision was the same, Linda. That’s what counts. If you really believe those women, ask yourself this: why did you decide your son mattered more than them?’
I recoil. It’s too much, to be this close to him. I can’t listen to his voice, watch his lips form the words, the same words with which I’ve been beating myself all these years. I try to unhook his fingers from my shoulder, but he digs in deeper. He knows my pressure points. He knows me. Knows the truth.
‘It’s time you faced up to who you are,’ he says.
I boil over with hatred. Spit at him. It provokes a smile.
With one hand he holds my head tight against the wall and with the palm of the other, he wipes the spit away, then plants it on my face.
‘Finally,’ he says, ‘we catch a glimpse of the real Linda Moscow.’
‘This will be your undoing, Henry. You’re going to be found out and they’ll pull apart every rotten layer of your life and see what’s hidden underneath the money and power. There are plenty of women out there ready to testify when they do.’
‘Women like Jennifer Patcham, you mean?’
Her name hits me like a punch, a reaction that hands him an easy point. She was the first woman from the website who had agreed to meet me. Mum to a little boy called Trey. Being a mother had made her determined to speak out, she said. We met in a park, spent hours talking. She told me of the trips out of the care home, the entrance into a glamorous world, the preying on dreams and hopes.
‘Changed her mind pretty sharpish, didn’t she?’ Henry says.
Now I know why. After the meeting, she didn’t reply to my emails or phone calls and with few avenues left I followed her home from work one day. I wanted to reassure her, urge her to be brave and continue, but she spotted me first.
Get away from me or I’ll call the police.
Henry lets the information hang in the air between us, waits for it to worm its way inside me, eager to witness the revulsion that will thrash around under my skin. It is the kind of reaction he feeds off. But this time I’m not giving anything away.
‘What did you do to her?’
‘Oh, Linda, you really are naïve. All she needed was a little nudge,’ Henry says. ‘We gave her a choice and like any good mother she chose her son. You of all people should understand that.’
He leans in, pushes a stray hair off my face. His finger runs down my cheek.
‘Talking of sons, I hear he’s not doing too well, that boy of yours. He’s been put on suicide watch. I was always very fond of him. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. One last chance. And to think all this could have been avoided if only you’d listened last time I paid you a visit.’
One Year Before
I was watching Gabriel’s show on television when the doorbell rang. It would be Bernadette calling early, foisting another one of her fruit loaves on me. She had a key, in case of emergencies, but would never dream of using it to let herself in. I was already agitated when I opened the door and found Henry standing behind it. I’ll admit to doing a double take, and as odd as it sounds I almost forgot how much I loathed him. It seemed my powers of facial recognition had sprinted ahead of my emotional response. Then he smiled, his upper lip hitched on his teeth, and it all came bounding back.
What was the bastard doing here?
‘I heard about Hugh,’ he said. ‘Terribly sorry for your loss. I thought I’d see how you were doing.’ He wielded a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine, props to help him act the part.
‘Hugh died eight months ago. We divorced last century.’
He ignored me. This was Henry all over, steamrolling his way through a conversation. ‘I didn’t want to intrude at the time. Lovely man.’
‘The sentiment wasn’t reciprocated. He thought you were a prat.’
‘Glad to see you’ve lost none of your charm, Linda. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘I hadn’t intended to, no.’
‘How kind. A cup of tea would be marvellous,’ he said, and he pushed his way past me.
I found an old carton of milk curdling at the back of the fridge and tipped a generous amount into his tea. My lax approach to housekeeping had its benefits.
‘Just like old times,’ he said casting his eyes around and puckering his nose at whatever smell had caught him. ‘Not much has changed around here, I see.’
It was true; the house mocked me. My career, my family, my life had altered beyond recognition and yet the house remained resolutely unchanged, right down to the duvet covers on the beds, the tea towels hanging from the oven door. Life had gushed like water through my home with a force that had seemed unstoppable at times. Too much. To think I had often dreamt of escaping for a day or two, just a bit of peace and quiet, me time. And now the supply of life and energy had been cut off. The only evidence left of a once busy household were a few memories pinned to the walls, moments where Gabriel had been stilled long enough for the camera to catch him.
‘Of course you have changed, Linda, but age does that, doesn’t it?’ I pawed my face, hated the way he had made me feel self-conscious. I stood up, made a show of looking for biscuits. He took a gulp of tea, the milk hit the back of his throat, soothing my irritation. ‘Good God!’
‘If you’d warned me you were coming, I would have bought a fresh pint.’
He set the tea to one side as if it might do him serious harm.
‘What is it you want, Henry?’
‘I hear you’re busy on a project.’
/>
‘You do?’ My body tensed, as if I were facing a snake, unsure of which way he would try to squeeze the breath out of me.
‘It is ill advised. You’ve been duped by hysteria again, and if the past has taught you anything, you should know you won’t succeed.’
‘We’ll see shall we.’
‘What on earth do you stand to gain?’
‘That’s where you and I differ. I don’t have to gain personally to do something.’
‘But you stand to lose a great deal. Surely I don’t have to remind you.’
Laughter bubbled out of me. ‘Do you honestly think I care about what happens to me? I have nothing left to lose. I suppose that’s why I scare you.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, look at yourself. The only person you’d scare is the postman.’
The doorbell broke through my anger.
‘Well, Henry,’ I stood up, ‘this has been entirely predictable. If you have nothing else to say, I really should be getting on.’
He sat for a moment, refusing to rise on my order. ‘I can’t say I’ve missed your company. What Curtis ever saw in you is beyond me. Mind you, even he didn’t go back for seconds.’
‘Get out.’
He walked through the hallway, ‘Do you know, Linda, this is the second time you’ve thrown me out of your house.’ He leaned in towards me, his gaze snagging on something on the wall behind me. ‘He’s doing rather well for himself, that boy of yours. Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to lose. There’s always something. Always.’
I opened the door to find Bernadette. ‘I’ve brought chocolate tiffins for a change. I have them in the car, wanted to check you were going to open the door first, just you wait till you taste them, my God, they’re heavenly. Oh, hello, who would this be?’
I can’t say I’ve ever been so pleased to see her.
Thursday 12.25 p.m.
Detective Inspector Victoria Rutter
‘I have six missed calls and four texts. You’ll tell me you’re waiting outside the station next,’ DI Rutter says.
‘I’m just round the corner.’
‘Jesus, I was joking. I have nothing for you, no updates, no new lines. We’re still questioning him.’
‘I’m not asking for information.’
‘Then you’re the only reporter in the country who isn’t.’ Gabriel Miller’s detention was already a huge story, but when she confirmed to the press, late last night, that it was Linda Moscow, his own mother who he was suspected of murdering, it went nuclear. She’s working inside a pressure cooker, whistling out steam with every move she makes. Victoria has headed investigations before but no other case has come close to attracting such intense scrutiny.
‘I have something for you,’ Jonathan says.
DI Rutter puts her decision to meet him in the park down to gratitude, the fact that in their short telephone conversation Jonathan didn’t pump her for a quote or an off the record steer. She agrees to see him for five minutes, not a second more. Any other reporter and she wouldn’t even contemplate speaking at this stage in the investigation, but Clancy is a decent sort. And she owes him a favour from a few months back when he ran a story about a young man who was killed in a homophobic attack. A key witness came forward after reading it and they charged a suspect as a result. Mainly though, she needs to get out of the station, craves a blast of icy air to shock her mind back to life. Right now, all she can see is what is in front of her face: the forensics that tell her Gabriel was at his mother’s house, her blood on his clothes, in his car, under his nails. They don’t have a body yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s not guilty. It is a credible motive or the lack of one that is bothering her. The theory that he killed Mariela Castell in some weird sex game then murdered his mother when she wouldn’t cover for him is winning the popular vote among her colleagues. His muddy boots were found dumped in his neighbour’s dustbin. But – and it is a big but – she has just taken receipt of the forensics from Mariela’s body and they don’t fit the story as perfectly as she might have hoped.
‘I don’t think Gabriel Miller killed his mother,’ Jonathan says. A fine drizzle is falling, creating a wet fur on their coats. They have the park to themselves, give or take a lunchtime jogger or two.
‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’
‘You’ve only given me five minutes, I haven’t got time for pleasantries. Do you want to hear my theory?’
‘I sense you’re going to tell me anyway.’
‘Henry Sinclair and Curtis Loewe – ever heard anything about them?’
DI Rutter knows Jonathan well enough to guess he’s not asking for a biography or a list of their greatest achievements.
‘Well, have you?’ he asks again.
The answer is yes, although nothing concrete. A while ago a colleague told her there was a complaint made against Curtis Loewe years before. Nothing ever came of it. The investigating officer was signed off on the sick. Never came back, apparently. She’s not ready to tell Jonathan this because she wants to know what he has first. She may trust him more than any other journalist but that’s not saying a lot.
‘Linda and I have been trying to expose them for years.’
‘You and Linda Moscow?’
‘We’re friends, go way back. Girls, underage,’ he continues. ‘His theatre school charity provided him with a constant supply of them. We’re talking vulnerable children here. He knew how to pick his victims. Linda has been trying to gather testimonies of women who were abused. I think they found out what she was up to. Speaking from experience, I can tell you that people who stand in their way have a habit of getting hurt.’
DI Rutter shakes her head so the nonsense Clancy is propounding doesn’t settle. This is the most high-profile case she’s ever landed, and the pressure, the unremitting appetite for updates and information and statements is cooking her brain. The top brass want results quickly too. She hasn’t been home for three days, can barely remember her children’s names. She missed a dance show last night in which her daughter Bella had the starring role. Frankly, she could be doing without the left-field conspiracy theories.
‘Jesus, what have you been taking?’
And come to think of it, there are some images she’d rather not see tarnished. Certain people, figureheads, national treasures, who she needs to believe are wholesome and good because if they’re not, the whole country has bought a lie. Curtis Loewe gives millions to charity, she watched his films as a kid, her own children have been brought up on them. She’d dismissed the earlier rumour about him as nasty gossip. Tall poppy syndrome.
‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘I don’t think this is the time for jokes, do you?’ Jonathan says. Victoria studies him and to her alarm, she realises that he actually believes Curtis Loewe could be behind Linda’s disappearance. She’s had enough of this, checks her watch, gets up to go.
‘Wait!’ There’s a note of desperation in his plea that makes her stop. Hasn’t he just said Linda was his friend? She should show some compassion, no matter what pressures are bearing down.
‘I have something I want you to hear.’ Jonathan reaches into his battered leather satchel and pulls out a Dictaphone, plugs earbuds into it.
‘Listen to this. It’s old, the sound quality isn’t great.’
It’s a recording of Jonathan talking to a woman. He’s angry with her at first, venting his rage, but as she begins to speak he falls silent. The woman is Linda Moscow.
What DI Rutter hears, the account Linda Moscow gives, scorches images of happy family days gathered around watching a film, taints memories of her kids dancing in the kitchen to well-known soundtracks.
‘Shit,’ she says.
‘Still think he’s a good person?’
Clancy tells her about a website – www.whathappenedatkelmore.com – started
by one of the victims. ‘I went to her address yesterday, her neighbour told me she hasn’t been seen for months, and now Linda disappears. You’re probably going to tell me that’s just a coincidence.’
‘I don’t like coincidences.’
Encouraged, he searches for the website on his iPad, ‘So you know I’m not making this up.’ But it isn’t there, it has been taken down, a holding page in its place.
‘It was there yesterday.’
‘Really.’
‘I have the screenshots to prove it. By the time you get back to the station they’ll be in your inbox. You’ll take a look at them, won’t you?’
‘I can’t promise anything. Now I really have to go,’ Victoria says. She leaves Jonathan in the park, wishing she could scrub everything she has just heard from her brain, turn the clock back an hour to when her biggest problem was finding a motive for Gabriel Miller to kill his mother. But that is impossible, Linda’s words are imprinted in her mind and she cannot score them out.
Summer 1994
Charlie
‘Bloody hell, have you seen the car?’
‘No way is that for us.’
‘Well, it’s not Mrs O’Dowd’s boyfriend, is it?’ We both cracked up laughing. We’d spent days chewing over what had happened the weekend before, high on excitement. It felt like the load had lightened, as if our connection to the world outside made Kelmore bearable, or as close to bearable as humanly possible. We danced everywhere, to lessons, to the dinner hall. Danced in our sleep.
‘Are you going to keep him waiting all day?’ Mrs O’Dowd sidled up behind us like a ghost, appearing with no warning. ‘Well, go on then. And girls . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t disgrace yourselves.’
Two cans of Fanta orange welcomed us to the back seat. Next to them was a massive bag of Skittles that we wasted no time in opening. We were too busy throwing them into our mouths to notice we’d overshot the turning for the town centre and the theatre where we had rehearsed the previous weekend.
An Act of Silence Page 12