Trust Me

by T. M. Logan

She shakes the bottle of milk, tests the temperature on her wrist again, nodding to herself.

  ‘Right then, Miss Mia. Tea-time.’

  She settles herself in a big armchair next to the cot and I pass Mia back to her, supporting her head with my right hand. Angela gives the bottle one last shake and puts it to Mia’s lips. The baby latches on immediately and begins enthusiastically guzzling milk, tiny hands across her chest, blue eyes blinking up at her grandmother.

  ‘Could you pass me one of the muslin cloths?’ Angela indicates the chest of drawers. ‘Top drawer on the left.’

  The drawer is full of neatly folded muslins and I unfold a pale pink one from the top of the pile.

  ‘She likes to suck on the corner of these, doesn’t she?’ I lay the cloth gently across Angela’s shoulder, ready for any milk that might come back up. ‘My godson was the same, he was still doing it until just before he started school.’

  Angela smiles and returns her attention to Mia as she feeds.

  I look around the room at the cot, the changing table, the little fabric books and toys, the play mat, all the paraphernalia of new life. Mia is safe here, with the people who love her. This is where she belongs. I think of my little box bedroom at home that will never be used, a hollow opening up inside me.

  I’m glad I made the trip here, but it’s time to go.

  ‘Ellen?’ Angela is looking up at me, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Thank you. For what you did for Mia.’

  I nod, try to give her a smile. ‘I’m just glad she found her way home to you again.’

  She smiles back and it is the saddest smile I have ever seen. ‘So am I,’ she says. ‘So am I.’

  She pulls the half-empty bottle of formula from Mia’s mouth and switches the baby to an upright position on her shoulder, rubbing her back with a circular motion.

  ‘I should go,’ I say. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’

  Angela stands up, still gently rubbing and patting Mia’s back.

  ‘I’m glad you came, Ellen. I’ll show you out.’

  Following her down the second floor staircase, I say, ‘So you kept Mia a secret when she was born?’

  ‘We knew it would get out eventually, but we wanted to keep her to ourselves for as long as we could. No more intrusion, no media, no speculation about my daughter carrying a murderer’s child. As long as she was secret, she was safe. With us.’

  ‘But they did find out.’

  ‘Paperwork was filed from the hospital and somehow the detectives still working on the case became aware of it. Straight away, one of them came to the house, said he wanted to take Mia away with him, put her into care or some such nonsense. Took a DNA swab there and then, said he would fast-track it through their lab.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Gilbourne?’

  ‘Not him, the younger one. That detective sergeant.’

  I feel a shiver of unease, the small hairs standing up on my arms. ‘Holt. Nathan Holt.’

  She nods. ‘He was talking about taking Mia away, putting her into some sort of protection programme. But it was a ridiculous idea. A three-month-old baby, going into hiding with strangers looking after her? We’re her family, her blood, we can protect her better than anyone. We told him no, point-blank. Then he said we could have a twenty-four-hour police presence at the house, as if that wouldn’t attract exactly the sort of attention we didn’t want! Advertising the fact with a police car at the gate, ridiculous. I don’t like him at all. Arrogant sort. You can tell he’s the kind used to getting exactly what he wants. I never wanted them to do the damn DNA test in the first place.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Mia is ours – a part of our family. No one else’s. I wanted to keep it that way. As long as she was anonymous, she was safe. But as soon as you start talking about DNA and paternity, she becomes a target – which is exactly what happened.’

  I look over at Mia, drowsing half-asleep against her grandmother’s shoulder ‘You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Angela resumes gently rubbing Mia’s back as we continue down the stairs. ‘And the whole thing with them getting a DNA sample . . . there’s been something off about it right from the beginning. Something strange.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  She is silent for a moment before replying.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. DS Holt was here again yesterday wanting to see her, wanting to take another swab. Someone rang him as he was leaving and Holt told them he was in central London. Just flat-out lied about where he was, cool as you like, as if he’s got some other agenda, goodness only knows what that might be.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I think about Holt, aggressive and jumpy the very first time I met him, in a police interview suite. Interviewing Kathryn Clifton’s boyfriend alone. Working behind his DI’s back. ‘DS Holt?’

  We reach the bottom of the stairs and she leads me into the big hall, pulling open the front door for me, Mia still propped on her shoulder. The two dogs trot up to her and sit obediently at a single word of command. I take one last look at Mia’s little apple-cheeked face, at her slow-blinking blue eyes, wondering if I will ever see her again.

  ‘Something’s not right about him,’ Angela says. ‘But Kathryn must have been in touch with him secretly, over those last few days. He must have convinced her of the danger, because she got it into her head that someone was going to take Mia away. On Tuesday morning she came over to babysit and just took her. The two of them were gone before we even realised. That was the last time I saw Kathryn.’

  I step out into the darkening afternoon, a cold autumn wind snatching at the hem of my coat. The sun is gone, replaced by a blanket of grey clouds stretching from one side of the sky to the other.

  ‘Her note said not to trust the police,’ I say. ‘Why do you think she said that?’

  ‘She trusted Holt at first, but then . . .’ She tails off. ‘By the time she took Mia and ran, she didn’t know who to believe.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘You know the media stories about the Ghost being a scientist or some forensic expert?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t leave trace evidence behind. No DNA.’

  ‘That’s it. Seems to me, a police officer would have that expertise too.’

  56

  Human tissue is surprisingly resilient.

  It’s not just a case of digging a hole and putting the body in. Bones can yield DNA profiles decades after death, hundreds of years after. Even buried under a ton of concrete, hard tissue will still yield a profile if it’s ever found and retrieved.

  Acid is effective. Unfortunately though, rather hard to come by in sufficient quantities without raising suspicion.

  If not acid, pulverisation can do the job nicely. Pulverising the bones into dust. But the forces involved are colossal. Just ask the poor bastards charged with finding bodies in a collapsed building.

  Ultimately, incineration always comes out as the best option. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

  Grind up the bones and scatter what remains over open water to aid dispersal.

  The main issue is with the size of the subject: portability and movement, volume of tissue, bone mass and residue, the time involved in the burning process.

  Which is why it’s so much easier when the subject is a baby.

  57

  The gates close smoothly behind me as I head back out onto the country road that leads into the village. I drive the half-mile into Prestwood Ash and pull over in a lay-by next to a little country church, turning off the ignition and letting my head fall back against the headrest.

  Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Spending time with Angela – hearing about her daughters – was heartbreaking, and it’s almost impossible to comprehend that so much tragedy can descend on one family. And yet somehow she keeps going, keeps putting one foot in front of another. Keeps doing the best she can for Mia, for her family. She is as tough as they come.

&nb
sp; I start the car again and drive on, through the tunnel of overhanging trees, up and over the undulating Chiltern Hills through one village after another. Switching channels on the radio as a distraction, not really hearing the music, unable to settle on anything for more than a minute or two. Spots of rain spatter my windscreen as I drive south and east, picking up the main road back towards London, crossing under the M25 and hitting Saturday afternoon football traffic that ebbs and flows with a tide of cars and buses.

  I’m a couple of miles away from my hotel when I realise I’m being followed.

  A dark saloon, a few cars back, is shifting lanes to follow me. It’s smooth and subtle, nothing to attract attention and on a normal day – in a normal week – I wouldn’t have noticed it there at all. I change lanes again, filtering left at the last minute to leave the elevated section of the A40 and drop down onto city streets away from my route back to the Premier Inn. The dark car indicates and follows, calm as you like, and I finally get a glimpse of the driver. Male. Late twenties. Stubble. Dark baseball cap and sunglasses despite the gathering dusk. Angela’s words in my ear. Just flat-out lied about where he was. As if he’s got some other agenda.

  Holt. Who had been in contact with Kathryn before she ran. A decision she had paid for with her life.

  How long has he been following me? A few miles at least. Maybe more than that, maybe from the start of this journey back in Buckinghamshire. He could have been waiting in the lane outside Angela’s house. How did he know I’d be there? And what will he do when I stop?

  For a moment I think of googling the nearest police station and pulling up outside but just as quickly dismiss the idea. He is the police. And more than that, I’m tired of being stalked and followed, of constantly looking over my shoulder. There’s a lump in my throat, a painful mixture of fear and anger, as I make another turn, right at a junction. Again, he slides into the lane behind me, one car back. I’m still heading in the wrong direction, away from where I need to go, compounding my sense of creeping dread.

  As the next set of traffic lights approach I slow down and let a gap grow between me and the car in front. I dawdle on the green light, dropping down into third gear, then second, the driver behind me hooting furiously that I’m holding him up. When the traffic light turns orange I stamp on the accelerator and speed through the junction with the engine screaming, the car behind me forced to stop on red, his horn still blaring. I check my rearview mirror and feel a pulse of relief as I see Holt is stuck behind the angry driver, both of them receding behind me.

  When the road curves out of sight, I brake hard and turn left into a busy shopping street, accelerate to the next junction and then take another left into a supermarket car park. I find a spot facing the road and kill the engine, sliding down in my seat. My heart is thumping, my hands slick with sweat on the steering wheel. Sure enough, thirty seconds later the dark saloon car roars past with Holt hunched behind the steering wheel. I don’t think he’s seen me but I’m not going to wait to be sure, reversing out quickly and returning the way I came.

  I keep one eye on my mirrors all the way back.

  *

  I’ve eaten nothing since breakfast but the thought of sitting in the hotel restaurant – alone, exposed, surrounded by strangers – makes my palms itch. Instead I call in at a Tesco Express near the hotel, grabbing items with barely a glance and dropping them into my basket. A ready-to-eat pasta salad from the shelf. Crisps, flapjacks, chocolate chip cookies. Comfort food. I add a bottle of red wine and take it back to my hotel, fighting a powerful urge to ignore the food and get started on the wine straight away. I need a drink.

  In the car park of the Premier Inn, I find a space in the corner with a view of the main entrance, checking all the cars around me and keeping an eye on the main entrance to the hotel. I can’t see Holt’s dark saloon car anywhere. But I do see a side entrance leading into the car park, a fire exit by the looks of it, slightly ajar after a staff member steps out for a cigarette break. After ten minutes, when there’s been no one suspicious coming or going from reception, I lock my car and walk quickly to the fire exit. I find myself in a side corridor away from main reception, quickly orientating myself. Ignore the lift. Take the stairs. On my corridor, I pull the stairwell door open a few inches, just enough to get a look each way. My room is only five doors away. The corridor looks clear, still no sign of Holt. I reach into my handbag and my fingers find the attack alarm that Tara gave me. Next to my keycard for the door. I hurry to my room and let myself in, a breath of relief pushing from my chest as the door slams shut behind me.

  Silence. I flip on the lights and put the Tesco bag down on the desk, checking the bathroom in case there’s anyone hiding in there. It’s empty. I flip the security latch on the door, check the fisheye view of the corridor through the peephole, then take off my jacket and shoes, finally feeling some of the tension in my neck and shoulders start to ease. It feels better to have a solid door between me and the outside world.

  I can’t stop thinking about Angela’s haunted expression as she sat with Zoe in the annexe, as she told me about her shattered family, weighed down with tragedy and grief. Circled by an unseen predator, who was waiting even now for his moment to finish what he started more than a year ago. Because it seems logical to assume that both her daughters were attacked by the same man. The same man who now wants to kill Mia – the clue to his identity he unknowingly left behind.

  Holt. Markovitz. Church.

  One of them is the Ghost.

  My hunger has disappeared but I make myself open the pasta salad anyway, picking at it in its container, pouring wine into a plastic tumbler which doesn’t leave my hand until it’s empty again. The wine is a French Grenache, velvety and dark on my tongue, and I’m deep into my second cup and thinking about a third when an unfamiliar ringing breaks my train of thought.

  It’s the hotel phone beside the bed, a little red light flashing below the keypad. Reception? I hadn’t asked for a call.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence. Broken by the sound of breathing from the other end of the line, slow breaths in and out.

  ‘Hello?’ I say again. ‘Who is this?’

  The voice is precise, careful. Refined.

  ‘Have you figured it out yet, Ellen?’

  I recognise the voice instantly, my stomach turning over.

  Leon Markovitz.

  I grab my mobile up off the bed. No missed calls. Plenty of charge. So why is he calling on the hotel landline? Before the question is even fully formed, the answer comes to me: to show he knows where I am. To show me he’s in control.

  Nowhere is safe.

  ‘Figured what out?’ I manage to say.

  ‘What happens next.’

  ‘How did you find out where I am?’

  ‘You left a trail about a mile wide, Ellen. Not difficult to follow, not difficult at all. So how do you like the hotel? Nice view from the window?’

  58

  I reach over to pull the curtain aside. The car park below is a pool of deep shadows. A figure steps out of the darkness in the far corner, into the cone of half-light thrown by one of the street lamps. Dark clothes, a heavy coat, black hat and gloves. Mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t gesture at all. But he’s staring right up at my room, directly at me. I step back from the window and hit the light switch, not wanting to be outlined against the dark, an unpleasant bump of adrenaline tingling in my stomach.

  ‘What do you want, Leon?’

  ‘We never finished our conversation the other day.’

  I rub at the fading marks on my neck from our last encounter. ‘Because you hit me with a stun gun.’

  ‘Yes, apologies for that.’ His voice sounds loud and close, as if his lips are pressed right to the mouthpiece. ‘That wasn’t my intention. But I had to. You didn’t give me any choice. You attacked me, you were going to run off and tell the police.’

  ‘You were in my house!’

  ‘I was trying to help.�
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  ‘I don’t need your help, Leon. Please just leave me alone and don’t call again.’

  ‘Listen to me for a minute: the person who broke into your house on Wednesday night. You were alone. He could have attacked you, made you give him what he was looking for. But he didn’t do that, he slipped away into the night.’ He pauses for a second and I can almost feel his hot breath on my ear. ‘Why do you think he did that?’

  Is he talking about himself? I’ve heard about people who refer to themselves in the third person; it’s a sign of extreme narcissism, of dangerously large ego, an inflated sense of their own importance. The traits of a sociopath. And an associated trait: that they’re fluent liars.

  ‘I don’t know, Leon, why did you do that?’

  A sigh comes down the line. ‘It wasn’t me. But somebody thought you weren’t going to be home on Wednesday night. He was spooked when he realised you were still in the house So he came back the next day when he knew you wouldn’t be there.’

  I inch closer to the window so I can see out into the car park again. At least my room is on the first floor. Leon has moved closer, his dark outline visible among the shadows directly underneath my window. The ego that prompted him to call me on the hotel phone direct to my room – to surprise me, unsettle me, show me how clever he is – has also given me an opportunity, I realise. I pull up the keypad on my mobile and press nine three times, my thumb hovering over the green call button. If I can keep him on the landline and somehow direct the police here, they might be able to arrest him before he can get away. Box him into the car park, where there’s only one way in and out.

  I press call, 999 on the display. I don’t put it on loudspeaker in case he hears it when the call connects.

  ‘I know about you, Leon.’ Matt Simms’s words come back to me: Total fruit loop. Psycho. You want to stay well away from him. ‘I know what you’ve done.’

  He ignores me. ‘Did you tell anyone your house would be empty that night?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No one. Not even my best friend.’