The Friendship Pact

by Alison James

  ‘So whose idea was this?’ she asks in a conversational tone, taking a small sip of the cooling tea.

  ‘His.’ Adele continues to keep her gaze directed at the ceiling. ‘I told him about you coming down to the Dog and Fox that night. We’d just met then.’ There is a smile in her voice when she mentions her beloved. ‘I told him about how you’d married someone rich and moved to London and he said, “There’s an opportunity there, babe.”’ Adele twists her body far enough to drop her cigarette butt in the ashtray. ‘And in case you were wondering, it was him that chased me.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ says Lucy, though she was, a little. The dynamic she’s briefly witnessed had painted a picture of neediness on Adele’s side and lack of interest on Denny’s.

  ‘He saw me out and about and he came up to me. Said he’d fancied me as soon as he first saw me, and wanted to get to know me.’

  ‘I see. So this Pauline Jennings… Jenkins. She doesn’t exist either?’

  Adele shakes her head. ‘Made her up. I told Den you were looking for fake ID and he said he’d sort it. He reckoned he could make a bit of cash and also that it would get you trusting me again.’ She rummages in the packet for a fresh cigarette, then lies back on the sofa again. ‘Originally, Denny’s idea was that we would threaten to tell your old man where you were unless you paid up.’

  ‘But when I left Marcus and started over, I couldn’t get my hands on any money. I literally left with just a couple of grand.’ Lucy feels obliged to point out this flaw in their plan. Relying on logic is helping her to focus.

  Adele lifts her shoulders towards the ceiling. ‘I know. So Den had to think again. And he decided he’d try and get your husband to pay to find out where you were. But the geezer found you somehow anyway. So that didn’t work either.’

  Lucy feels a hollow shiver of memory run through her. ‘You’re right,’ she offers grimly, ‘Marcus found me anyway. He managed to get a location through my secret phone. Turned out it wasn’t so secret after all.’

  ‘That was still a result for us though,’ says Adele blithely. ‘Because we stood a better chance of getting our hands on a decent sum of money if you were still with him. So it was better for us if you were back with him; didn’t really matter how. And by then Den had come up with the idea of making it look like you’d killed your old man and getting you to pay to stay out of trouble.’

  ‘I could never have killed Marcus,’ Lucy says firmly. ‘He made me unhappy… he made me very angry, but I just wanted to get my life back. I didn’t want to harm him.’

  ‘I know that.’ Even though she can’t see her face, Lucy can tell Adele is grinning. ‘But Den was going to take care of it.’

  A cold stab of shock runs up Lucy’s spine. ‘You mean to tell me he would really have gone ahead and killed Marcus?’ Denny had outlined this plan to her of course, the one with the overdose and the carbon monoxide poisoning from the car’s exhaust, but Lucy assumed it was just for the purpose of getting her to incriminate herself on audiotape.

  ‘He didn’t need to, did he though? Your husband went and killed himself. So all Den had to do was make it look like you’d done it and the cash would roll in.’

  Except it hadn’t, because Lucy had resisted. Called his bluff. But one thing has become clear from this exchange: Denny is clearly Adele’s Achilles heel.

  ‘I told you he’s not really Denny Renard though. It’s a fictitious name. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  ‘Why the fuck should it?’ Adele, belligerent as ever. ‘A lot of people who’ve been inside use a new name when they get out. Keep the heat off them.’

  ‘So he was convicted of fraud?’

  ‘And… other stuff.’

  More serious stuff, presumably. GBH, or even murder.

  ‘And how were you and he proposing to share the proceeds of your blackmail? What was the deal? Fifty-fifty?’

  Adele simply scowls, but her discomfort at the question suggests this detail has not been nailed down.

  ‘Adele…’ Lucy draws in a long lungful of breath. Her back is starting to ache, and her bladder is uncomfortably full. ‘You and I go way back. And as you pointed out yourself a few months ago, I did you a massive favour and kept quiet about Joanne Beckett’s… accident. Why would you want to hurt me like this? If you needed money that badly, I’d have given you money.’

  Adele sits up and turns to face her. ‘You just don’t get it do you?’ Her expression is fierce. ‘Ever since we were kids, you’ve thought you were better than me. Your mum and dad didn’t want us being friends. They looked down on me, thought I was common because I came from Danemoor. And now we’re gown up, I’m just some thieving lowlife with useful connections. Well, I’m showing you that I’m more than that. That you need to show me some respect.’

  She stands up abruptly and disappears into the girls’ bedroom, returning with something shiny in her right hand. As she gets closer, Lucy recognises her silver christening bangle. Bending down, Adele forces the metal over Lucy’s left hand and up onto her wrist. Lucy’s arms are slim, but the bangle is designed for a child under the age of eight and the metal cuts cruelly into her flesh, causing a stab of pain. She tries to tug it off with her right hand, but Adele yanks her wrist away.

  ‘You leave that where it is, or I’ll handcuff you.’ The look she gives Lucy sears her like the pain in her wrist; a look of combined fury and disdain. ‘You’ll wear that to teach you that I’m better than just a common thief.’

  Thirty-Three

  September 2002

  ‘How are you getting on?’ Felicity Gibson stands in the door of Lucy’s bedroom and takes in the pile of belongings on the floor – two large suitcases, a duvet and pillows, piles of towels, a brand new kettle, toaster and microwave still in their boxes. ‘Are you just about ready? Only we ought to get going soon.’

  Lucy looks around the room she’s slept in since she was three, a room that will soon be empty. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  She and her parents load her things into the boot of Felicity’s Volvo estate, filling it completely, then she hugs Jeffrey goodbye and pats the elderly Kibble, who wags his tail in farewell. She’s leaving home for the first time in her life, heading for the fresh pastures of the University of East Anglia and a degree in Society, Culture and Media.

  ‘Does it feel strange?’ her mother asks as they head towards the ring road. ‘Leaving Redgate for good?’

  Lucy shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I won’t really know until I’m not here any more. Oh, hold on… slow down.’

  Felicity glances in her partially obscured rear mirror and changes down a gear as they pass the Dog and Fox. ‘For heaven’s sake, what is it?’ she asks, not hiding her irritation.

  ‘Look – it’s Adele Watts.’

  A group of teenagers are laughing and mock-brawling in the pub’s car park, and Adele is at the centre of their group. Her olive skin is darkly tanned after the summer holidays and she’s dressed in a tiny miniskirt, brandishing a cigarette.

  ‘Can we stop, Mum? I ought to say goodbye.’

  Felicity scrunches her shoulders. ‘Really, darling? Is that necessary? It’s not like you’ve seen her recently.’

  ‘For old times’ sake. It won’t take a minute, I promise.’

  The car is pulled up onto the kerb, with hazard lights flashing, and Lucy jumps out. Adele narrows her eyes as she approaches but says nothing. Her friends stare.

  Lucy holds up a hand awkwardly. ‘Hi Adele… I just thought I’d stop and say goodbye. Because, you know, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Where you going?’ Adele asks, without much interest.

  ‘University,’ Lucy says, smiling. ‘In Norwich.’

  ‘Norwich,’ Adele repeats blankly. ‘What you want to go there for?’ She takes a swig of her drink, a pint glass of what looks like cider. Her friends snigger and nudge each other.

  ‘It’s a good university.’

  ‘A good university? Very nice,’ Adele drags on her cigarette. ‘Very nic
e for those who can afford it, I suppose.’

  Lucy nods, at a loss. She now feels as though she’s showing off.

  ‘Well, don’t let us keep you. Off you toddle,’ Adele waves a dismissive hand. ‘Go and join all the other little posh kids being driven by their mummies and daddies.’ She turns her back as Lucy walks away.

  ‘Was she pleased to see you?’ Felicity asks, as Lucy slams the car door and yanks at her seat belt.

  ‘Sort of,’ Lucy says disingenuously. Felicity raises her eyebrows but keeps her eyes on the road ahead.

  ‘You never liked Adele, did you?’ Lucy says, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory.

  Her mother fiddles with the radio controls, trying to find Classic FM. ‘It’s really not that simple, darling. When you’re a parent, it’s not about liking or not liking certain children, it’s about…’ Her voice trails off. ‘Anyway, I regret that. I know I tended to be overprotective when you were younger. I am sorry.’

  Her mother was to apologise to her again, fifteen years later when she lay in bed in the Royal Surrey Hospital at the end of her battle with terminal cancer. ‘I’m so sorry I’m leaving you, darling.’

  Lucy squeezed her hand. ‘It’s okay, Mum. I’ve got Dad.’

  ‘But it’s not the same. He doesn’t feel the same way about him as I do.’

  And she realised that her mother was referring to Marcus. To her fear about his treatment of her daughter. A tear leaked out of her half-closed eyes and ran down the paper-thin skin of her cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry I won’t be there to protect you.’

  Thirty-Four

  Within thirty minutes the bangle has made an angry red weal on Lucy’s wrist, causing her fingers to swell.

  Her bladder is becoming uncomfortably full too, but Adele insists she has to wait until Denny returns before she can use the toilet. He appears after what feels like hours, and Lucy is unchained and guarded while she uses the small, windowless bathroom.

  ‘This really isn’t necessary,’ she sighs, as she’s chained to the radiator again. ‘I’m not going to try and run off. That would be pretty pointless.’

  ‘Won’t be too long, Blondie, don’t worry,’ says Denny cheerfully. He holds up her iPad, presumably just fetched from the house in Barnes; a property he now has total control over. He shows Lucy that he has already opened the banking app and logged into her account. ‘You shouldn’t let your ID and password get saved to your keychain,’ he tells her. ‘Not on a bank account. Rookie error.’ His pale eyes flit down the screen, checking the balance in both current and savings account. ‘Sixty-seven grand? That’s all you’ve got?’

  He sounds both surprised and aggrieved.

  ‘Obviously, most of my money is in investment funds, and Marcus’s pension fund.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake. Can’t you transfer it?’ Adele asks angrily.

  ‘I’d have to go and see my financial advisor in person to organise it.’ Lucy grits her teeth, trying to remain patient, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her left wrist. ‘It’s not a question of just making an online transfer. There are penalty clauses for early withdrawal from that kind of investment bond. You have to sign a special waiver form.’

  Denny and Adele exchange a look. ‘I could go,’ Adele says.

  ‘You need official ID.’

  ‘No worries there, darling.’ Denny waggles Lucy’s passport, which he must have found in the desk drawer. ‘Easy enough to doctor the photo. You two are the same age after all.’

  ‘My financial advisor has met me. He’d know it wasn’t me. They check these things really carefully.’

  As soon as she has spoken, Lucy regrets pointing this out. How better to raise the alarm than for Alan Bradbury to get a visit from Adele, posing as her? The more potential errors she allows the two of them to make, the better it will be for her.

  ‘Good point,’ Denny is still irritatingly cheerful. ‘We’ve got the big prize to play for, right here.’ He waggles the house keys at Lucy. ‘But meanwhile you can transfer the sixty-seven grand into my account. I’ll just make myself a payee…’ He starts entering data on the screen. ‘Says here I need to enter a passcode sent to your phone before it can be set up, but that’s not a problem, is it?’ He holds up Lucy’s mobile. ‘Because I’ve got it here.’

  Adele fetches a can of lager from the fridge, and sits swigging it while she watches Denny. He stabs his huge thumbs on the screen, becoming increasingly frustrated.

  ‘It won’t let me do it. Fucking thing.’ He slams the iPad roughly onto the table, cracking the screen. ‘Well?’ he snarls at Lucy. ‘Why won’t it transfer the cash?’

  ‘There’s a limit to how much I can transfer online. I think it’s fifty thousand. Over that and I have to make a phone call to a manager.’

  If he has any brains, Lucy thinks, he will take the fifty grand and leave it at that, rather than try and clear out the account. But Denny’s already shoving the phone at her.

  ‘Are they open?’

  Lucy decides against lying. As one of the bank’s gold account holders, she has access to customer service twenty-four hours a day. She nods.

  ‘Phone them then. And no funny business. No trying to tell them the wrong security information or anything.’ To reinforce his point, he pulls a flick knife from his pocket and opens it, holding the blade up to her face.

  Lucy calls the bank’s number and beckons to Denny to show her the iPad screen so that she can reel off his account number for the transfer as soon as she has cleared their security procedures. She comforts herself with the fact that the bank now has its own record of the destination account. That’s evidence of sorts. And by insisting on her emptying her accounts completely, Denny’s greed may have led to the raising of some sort of red flag. But she keeps these thoughts to herself. She had a chance to glimpse the time on the tablet screen briefly, before Denny snatched it away again. Ten minutes to midnight.

  ‘The other thing’s going to have to wait until first thing tomorrow,’ Adele says, as though reading her thoughts. ‘Come on.’

  She and Denny retire to the bedroom. Lucy half crouches, half lies on the sitting room carpet, with her hands over hear ears to both block out the sound of noisy coitus and quell her rampant anxiety. Eventually, several hours later, she sleeps.

  ‘Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!’

  Lucy is prodded awake by a foot in a fluffy panda slipper. Adele stands there, wearing a towelling dressing gown and sipping on a cup of tea. There’s a lit cigarette in her other hand.

  ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ Lucy croaks.

  Adele fetches the padlock key and frees her. ‘But if you were thinking of trying anything, don’t bother. Denny’s already awake.’

  Once the door is closed behind her, Lucy sinks with relief onto the toilet seat. She splashes her face with cold water, then leans her face down to the tap and gulps awkwardly at the stream. The silver bracelet has sunk deeply into the flesh of her arm, which is now so swollen that the strip of metal is barely visible.

  ‘Hurry up for Christ’s sake!’ Adele hammers on the door. ‘We need you to make a phone call.’

  Lucy strips off her T-shirt and washes her armpits, then smears toothpaste on her finger and rubs it round her teeth before swilling it out again into the basin. In the mirror, a puffy, grey face with greasy hair looks back at her. Please let this end today. She repeats the words like a silent mantra.

  When she comes out of the bathroom, Denny is sitting with one elbow on the table in the living room, shovelling cereal noisily into his mouth with the other arm. Milk drips down his chin, and he uses a scarf of Adele’s that’s hanging over the back of the chair to wipe it off.

  ‘Oi – don’t do that!’ Adele snatches the scarf from him, giving him a sour look. In response, Denny merely raises a forefinger in an aggressive gesture of warning. Clearly last night’s passion has evaporated.

  Denny explains to Lucy that she’s to phone one of the prestigious estate agencies in Barne
s and put her house on the market, priced for a quick sale. Then Adele will go to their office in person to sign the forms, with Denny’s bank account the one nominated to receive the sale proceeds.

  ‘Knightons: they’re the poshest one,’ Adele interjects.

  Lucy keeps her expression neutral, but her mind is whirring. Knightons was the agency she consulted about putting the house on the market, only a couple of weeks ago. Just as she’s calculating, with a fresh surge of hope that some quick-witted agent might remember speaking to her and think it’s odd that she’s phoning again about the same property, Adele says quickly: ‘Hold on… if she’s the one that phones them and then I show up, they’ll spot the fact that we sound completely different. I’ll have to phone them myself.’

  She dials the number and puts on a faux middle-class voice, giving an almost comical impression of the way Lucy speaks when she requests a valuation of her property: ‘Yes; I’ll give you all the details when I come in… That would be terrific… I’ll see you later on. Cheerio for now!’

  ‘Tell ’em three million, okay?’ Denny calls after her, as she hangs up and goes into the bedroom to change. ‘We could probably put it on for higher, but we don’t want to wait months for an offer.’

  Adele comes back into the living room twenty minutes later, having applied a full face of make-up. She’s wearing jeans with stiletto ankle boots, a plain white shirt and a black jacket. ‘Do I look like one of them yummy mummies?’ she crows.

  Denny narrows his eyes but doesn’t smile. ‘It’ll do, I suppose.’

  After Adele has left to catch the train to Waterloo, Denny roams the flat, picking his teeth, performing pull-ups on the door frames and holding grunted, monosyllabic phone conversations with his shady associates.