The Pact

by Amy Heydenrych

  ‘But still,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘wouldn’t it be best to clear the air? We have nothing to hide.’

  Freya is sure she sees a flash of impatience in Jay’s eyes, but before she can pin it down, it’s gone. ‘Think of how it would look, Freya. You and Nicole had an acrimonious relationship, and Nicole and I didn’t exactly break up on good terms. If you or I say anything about the prank, it will unsettle the whole investigation. The police will start asking questions that they needn’t.’

  She nods. Jay is right. Of course he’s right. Nobody in their right mind would want to prolong this ugliness. The mere presence of the police and the journalist in their offices has tainted the place.

  Jay takes her hand in his. ‘We won’t breathe a word of what we did, OK?’

  ‘No, we won’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It was just bad timing.’

  ‘It’s a pact,’ he said, shaking her hand.

  ‘Yes, a pact.’ To keep the peace, to blend in, to forget this ever happened.

  ‘We should probably confirm each other’s alibis if we’re questioned by the police.’

  Jay says it so casually, but Freya can feel the pressure pushing behind his words. He is not asking her, as much as telling her. ‘Sure. Kate was in the apartment when I got home – I will ask her to confirm that she saw you too.’

  ‘She saw me the next morning, so it’s not really a lie.’

  He’s right, she supposes, it’s just an extension of the truth. Something to be clarified so that fingers don’t point in the wrong direction. His hand slides from hers, and they peer out the window, watching Isla pull the car door shut and lurch away.

  ‘Who do you think did it?’ Freya asks, feeling depleted.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jay says somberly, ‘but at least it wasn’t us.’

  Chapter 13

  Isla

  Three days after the murder

  Dead or alive, it’s always about the body. The picture of Nicole that has made the front page is not of her in a suit or doing her extensive volunteer work, but one of her standing next to a mountain bike in tight-fitting shorts. The smattering of early news updates have already mentioned how fit she was, how attractive. In the age of information overload and the daily assault of trauma after trauma, reporters have to find an angle to convince the world that she really matters.

  Isla crumples the paper before her. She’s wracked with a familiar feeling, a heart thudding, throat-closing discomfort. It floods her body whenever she sees a woman being raped in a television show to ‘create a sense of how vicious the historical times were’, or gratuitous descriptions of violence towards women in the thrillers she picks up on trips back home to visit her mom in Minnesota. Helplessness. She does the only thing she can do, and calls Simon to get an update on the case.

  ‘Hello?’ Simon’s voice is barely audible above the clattering din.

  ‘Are you somewhere you can talk?’

  More banging. A long hiss. ‘Yes! Sorry, I’m actually at the station. Every Friday I cook breakfast for the guys – eggs, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, the works.’

  ‘No bacon?’

  ‘I’m Jewish, you know that,’ he laughs. Isla forgets about Simon’s religion, because he’s not religious as such but his spirituality is evident in his kindness towards others, his reluctance to judge, and the thin red Kabbalah string dangling on his wrist.

  ‘Does everyone do this?’

  ‘No, just me. I cooked for the guys once and now they insist I do it once a week. I secretly love it, to be honest. How are you, Isla? Listening to that Spotify playlist I sent you, I hope?’

  Simon is more of a music snob than Isla is, and recently shared a playlist with her called, ‘Songs for murder’. It’s a seething mix of Nick Cave, The Police, The Smiths with some Dr Dre thrown in. The raging spirit pulsing in the notes reminds Isla of the girl she was before.

  ‘I have! It’s pretty good actually.’

  The background noise has disappeared. Isla can picture Simon pacing the small, leafy courtyard at the station, smiling.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ he says. ‘It’s taken me years of trauma to put that collection together.’

  Isla spots her boss on the other side of the room. Time to get to the point of the call.

  ‘I wanted to ask if you have had any news on the autopsy yet?’

  ‘No, it’s still too soon. Again, you know this, Isla,’ he chides.

  ‘Sure, but I thought I’d try my luck.’

  The smile Isla had at their earlier banter has faded. She wills herself to remain calm. It’s just another crime story, with the same processes that are always followed. The paper has run an initial feature, outlining the bare bones. The case will be fleshed out, if she is patient.

  ‘Have you examined the CCTV footage yet at the apartment building?’ she adds. ‘Or analyzed her phone records? And do you have any initial suspects yet?’

  ‘Hey, hey, slow down! You can barely breathe, you’re talking so fast! We’re on it, Isla. All of it.’ His voice changes then. ‘This case is a big one for you, isn’t it?’

  It’s not how a police officer usually speaks to a journalist, but their relationship is far from normal. He knows why the murder touches on her greatest hurt.

  ‘I suppose. I want to give Nicole the dignity that I was never given by the press.’ Her heart races as she remembers the images in the paper, and the words used that minimized the crime perpetrated against her, that made her out to be a liar. Even when she won the case and her boyfriend was charged, there were still questions, and snide remarks. For something that happened over ten years ago, some flashbacks still have the power to knock the breath out of her.

  ‘I don’t want to read another story about a broken woman. I want to hear about her strength, and who she was before.’

  This isn’t the first time they have had this discussion.

  ‘If anyone can write a story like that, it’s you. I’ve always believed in you, Isla. I’ll send on the information when I get it. We will speak soon.’

  Isla is quiet. The words I believe in you mean more than Simon could ever know.

  Her eyes scan the report once again. She doesn’t share her suspicion yet – that Nicole Whittington and Freya Matthews – the nervous woman she met at Atypical’s offices – are somehow linked. She doesn’t reveal that she worries for Freya’s safety. Why else would Freya wall herself off so carefully? Yet instinct doesn’t hold up in a conversation with an investigator. Only hard evidence will.

  ‘Cut yourself some slack, OK?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, Simon, got it.’

  She takes a sip of coffee, so hot it scalds her mouth. She’s meant to be tough, unflinching, objective. But here is another story about a woman reduced to two dimensions and black-and-white type, and it cuts deep through her every sinew, until the knife scrapes the bone.

  Chapter 14

  Freya

  Three days after the murder

  On the walk to work, Freya is absorbed by her cellphone, like so many other pedestrians. Some smile and tap happily as they respond to a funny meme, and others frown as they pre-emptively catch up on emails. Freya is the only one who stares at her phone with all color drained from her face.

  The message she received on waking this morning made her blood run cold.

  Good morning, beautiful – do you always sleep in such revealing clothes? You’re trying to tease me, aren’t you?

  Freya was wearing an old, worn T-shirt from university. It was a soft, frayed secret comfort. Not the kind of thing she wore in front of her roommates, or Jay. It’s not only because of its age and the hole on the left shoulder, but because it was practically transparent. The moment the message came through, she wrenched her curtains shut and threw on a bathrobe. Who was looking at her? And why?

  She knew she shouldn’t, but she replied. Who are you, and how do you know where I live?

  The reply chilled her to the bone. Swe
etheart, you told me to come here.

  An invitation. An address. Didn’t she and Jay write something similar as a joke the other night? The resemblance was too much to bear.

  Now, although she tried to put it out of her mind, she rereads the message, as if by looking at it often enough, a clue will reveal itself.

  Pushing against the warm bodies of strangers on the sidewalk, she feels every unwelcome touch, every pair of eyes that assesses her, and then looks away. Then, a body separates from the throng. Heavy, sharp footsteps approach swiftly behind her, their urgency pushing her like a current. She walks faster. It’s OK, it’s OK, she thinks. There are people everywhere, she won’t get hurt. Yet people get pickpocketed, robbed, kidnapped and worse in public spaces. The perpetrators are professionals, who know how to blend in and dodge the interest of the innocent eye.

  The faster she goes, the more she feels the presence behind her, closer, closer, closing in on her, breathing down her neck. She would cry out but she is suddenly mute. Panic has swallowed her voice. The presence behind her barrels towards her, it can’t be stopped. This is it, he has followed her from her home and found her here.

  Freya is pushed up against the wall, eyes shut and breath ragged. And then, the presence is gone. She is free.

  She opens her eyes and watches as a tall, overweight businessman thunders down the sidewalk, absorbed in a phone call. The crowd flows on, too focused on their destination to notice Freya standing like a statue.

  Is this how Nicole felt when she walked home a few nights ago? Did she read a reply to a message she hadn’t sent, turn around, wondering if someone was waiting in the shadows? Did she close her door and sigh in relief when she made it home safely?

  Freya is used to being alert, she knows how it feels to pre-empt the unthinkable and to imagine herself in the place of the assaulted women she reads about in the news every day. But this is different. Because something dark lies between the lines of the messages on her phone, something that makes her feel that the threat is imminent.

  Chapter 15

  Isla

  Three days after the murder

  An unsuccessful visit to the apartment block on Market Street. Five pages of bystander interviews, two hours spent drinking weak cups of tea in the various apartments on the edges of the murder scene. Everyone heard something, but what they heard is unclear. Was it a man’s voice or woman’s voice? There is an almost 50/50 split.

  It is enough for Isla to consider Freya as a potential witness. Her presence outside the apartment that morning is too much of a coincidence. She calls Simon to run the theory past him.

  ‘With all due respect, I don’t think she saw anything.’ He sounds weary this morning and in no mood to entertain Isla’s outlandish theories. She persists anyway.

  ‘I know I saw her outside the crime scene that morning, behaving erratically. I almost hit her with my car!’

  ‘You can’t pin someone down as a witness just because they happened to jog past a crime scene, hours after it happened,’ says Simon.

  Isla ignores his resigned tone. Every interview confirmed that Nicole had had company that night. It could have been Freya, or someone they both knew at work. Maybe even someone in power . . . someone stopping Freya from telling the whole truth.

  Simon continues, ‘The staff at Atypical are untouchable. We spent the last few days interviewing each one, including Freya. There was a big office party on the night of the murder, and everyone has an alibi.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Trust me, I would love that to be a lead as much as you do. But at Nicole’s estimated time of death Julian posted live video updates of himself cracking open champagne on the company’s Facebook page. There is video footage of Nicole’s friends, Melanie and Anne, stumbling out of the Atypical building in the early hours of the morning. As for Freya, as a part of her statement she gave me the details of her three roommates, who have all confirmed that she left the party early and spent the remainder of the evening with them. There’s footage on Freya’s Instagram stories where she is drinking hot chocolate in her apartment with her housemate Kate, time-stamped at 1 a.m. that night.’

  Isla’s heart sinks, but she tries to sound upbeat. ‘Have you had a look at the security-camera footage?’

  ‘It’s inconclusive,’ he says. ‘That night was one of the coldest this season. The camera is only angled towards the entrance of her corridor. Several people pass through, but their faces are shrouded in coats and hoods.’

  ‘I’m sure I spotted a flash of brown hair in the stills, and half the bystanders I interviewed today thought they heard a female voice that night, a voice that sounded afraid.’

  Simon is gentle with her. He listens when most police officers wouldn’t and is often more yielding than required when offering classified information. His ability to see beyond the obvious is what makes him a great cop. But Isla has taken it too far, even for him.

  ‘It could just be a coincidence, Isla. I spoke to her for over half an hour. She was upset that her colleague has been murdered but that was it. She didn’t seem any more traumatized than anybody else in the office.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the voices the neighbors heard that night? All accounts point to the probability that Nicole knew her killer.’

  ‘People have the ability to tell themselves extraordinary stories. How would you feel if a murder took place a few feet from your doorstep? Wouldn’t you try and make sense of it?’

  ‘You think it’s a false memory.’

  ‘How could they be sure that it was even Nicole they heard laughing? I need witness statements and hard evidence in order to have a viable case. The murder looks like the work of a seasoned criminal, of which there are several operating in the area. I’d pin it on gang violence, or some random person.’

  They are both silent as the information percolates between them.

  ‘What if I could prove that there’s a link between Nicole and someone she knew?’

  ‘You can try. Not all violence needs to mean something. I’m afraid your theory just doesn’t hold from an investigative or legal point of view. Remember, we’re a strong force, with many resources you don’t have access to.’

  Isla recalls the fragility in Freya’s eyes. She had seen something she shouldn’t have, Isla is sure of it.

  ‘The likelihood of you discovering something new about this case is almost impossible, Isla.’

  Impossible. She’s heard that before, many years ago. She staggered into a police station crying help me, somebody please help me. She had never felt so filthy, with her bare feet, torn clothes and the stickiness of blood on her thighs.

  The officers on duty had rushed to her. The first, a thin, wily type with a thick mustache. The second, a thickset woman with a severe bun. They held her as she collapsed, comforted her as she shook. They let her cry as the now all-familiar panic inhabited her body for the first time, and took hold of her with the force of a spirit.

  She was ushered into a corner office and wrapped in a warm blanket. The female officer – Mandy – had taken the pen from her to write her statement. Isla was shaking too much to write it herself. Saying the words out loud was excruciating, but necessary. It had the disgusting, satisfying pain of lancing a boil. But when she uttered what happened, she noticed the imperceptible change in the officer’s expression, no matter how she tried to hide it. It was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment.

  ‘Will you repeat that, please?’ the officer had asked politely. Isla’s shock started to catch up with her. The muscles of her legs ached and pain prickled at the surface of where her flesh had broken. The fear that had driven her to walk barefoot to the station in the cold dead of night had given way to a crippling tiredness, a will to sleep until the evening had assumed the texture of a dream. But she repeated the course of events, slowly and carefully, even though she could see the doubt in the officer’s eyes.

  Impossible. Such evil can’t be committed by young men who play in indie
bands and write songs with sweet, soulful lyrics and play the ukulele. Such crimes are reserved for the nameless monsters that prowl the quiet streets after dark. Poor men, bad men, the kind with rough skin, and broken teeth who look more at home in prison cells than in normal society.

  Impossible. For so long, she had believed that too. She had kept herself up at night analyzing what she had done to provoke it, how her fragile memory had twisted the events to rid herself of any blame. She shuddered when she saw the scars on her feet, an unwelcome reminder of her guilt.

  She hangs up. Glugs the rest of her cold coffee until her hands stop shaking. She’s worked hard to heal and reframe the power of words. Impossible is no longer a simple word, impossible is no longer an ending. She opens her notebook and begins to write. Impossible is a challenge.

  Chapter 16

  Freya

  Three days after the murder

  A new message. A new number. A different person, again.

  Hey . . .

  She ignores it.

  What are you doing tonight?

  She remains silent. Eyes fixed on the cell. She thinks it will go away if she doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t stop.

  I want to touch you, I want to taste you. I want to do all the things you asked for.

  She digs her nails into her wrist until the scream surging within her disappears. But in its wake she feels empty and wrecked with worry. Whoever is behind these messages does not like her. They don’t want a date, a casual fling, or even a one-night stand. Every come-on feels like an intrusion, an expression of power. Whoever is on the other side of the phone knows about her prank, and doesn’t want her to forget.

  Chapter 17

  Freya

  Three months before the murder

  Freya glances quickly at her phone, and picks it up, feeling a warm rush. It’s him.

  Hey

  She can feel Jay watching her across the room.

  Hey . . .

  You free after work?

  She pauses. Is this a good idea? She has a lot going on. There is work to take home, a dress that she was hoping to cut the pattern for. Her new life has expanded to fill every gap. But then she remembers that feeling she has sometimes late at night, that sting of loneliness, the yearning for comfort.