by Dylan Young
But there are other theories. The one favoured by Harriet for a start. That there is no one else involved. That I’m the one responsible.
I open a folder labelled Emma on the laptop. Find another folder called Vids. This was a present from my brother-in-law, Owen. They’re video-files, MPEGs and MOVI files. He installed a universal player so that whatever format the files are in, I can play them. There are only a few of Emma before I met her. In university, partying with her pals, gowned and capped at her graduation. But most of them are of the two of us. Holidays in the sun, family Christmas get-togethers, various friends’ weddings. I’ve watched them as much to see what sort of person Cameron Todd was as I have trying to get a handle on Emma. I, there is no doubt, was a bit of a smart-arse. Always ready with the funny quip, the rude comment, the dry put-down. I don’t find my old self hilarious. Because I’m way too much like Josh in these clips. We must have been insufferable at university. But the odd thing is, other people seemed to find me funny. Especially Emma.
There’s one video I go back to. We’re with friends, a group of eight of us. Josh is with a girlfriend and we’re playing games. From the number of wine glasses and bottles, it’s a post-dinner party or a very lazy lunch. Pale faces and scattered tinsel anchors the timeline at Christmas.
A drawing game; someone sketches the word they see on a card, then passes it on to a partner who has to guess what it represents, who then passes it on for someone else to interpret. We’re at the reveal. Emma’s meant to have drawn ‘dumbbells’. Somehow, my written interpretation of this has become ‘elasticised testicles’. Crude, even puerile, but when I hold the drawing up to the camera, they do look worryingly misshapen, unequal, organic.
Emma’s a little drunk because when she sees this, she erupts with laughter. And she gives in to it wholly. First, a dribbly giggle thanks to a mouthful of wine, descending rapidly into something else altogether. She tries to bow her head, as if she knows what’s coming, but that just makes everything worse. Her laugh starts out loud but peters out into a whistling vibrato that leaves her helpless and almost unable to breathe. It’s a contagious laugh and she can’t stop it; her amusement strings well and truly plucked by my one silly comment. Soon the entire group is helpless because watching Emma lose it is hysterical.
I watch the clip and smile, not because I consider myself especially funny or to revel in my devastating wit. I watch it because I was the one who made Emma laugh. Of all the photos and videos I’ve seen, this is the one that makes me wish I could remember Emma the most. The way she collapses into me, thumps the floor, moans in agony. Her hair is mussed up, she’s almost weeping with mirth but still managing to look pretty.
I wish I remembered that girl. The one who laughed at my stupid jokes. Why would anyone want to kill her?
Why would I?
I close the laptop and send Nicole a Snapchat message. I need to see her. She texts back.
Around 7?
That will do.
I realise it’s after two. I grab a sandwich and text Josh.
Fancy a coffee? I have news.
K. Arabicadabra’s. Minton Street. 3.30-ish?
Are they open?
For today, yes. Tables separated by a couple of metres. We should be fine.
Of all the people close to me that are likely not to lie to spare my feelings, Josh is the hands-down winner. I text back a thumbs up. Then I turn back to the screen to find out more about Mathew Haldane.
36
Josh has ordered me a flat white when I arrive at Arabicadabra.
The place is quiet, playing soft music. I like it.
‘Carrot cake?’ he asks as I sit next to him.
‘Turnip pie,’ I reply.
‘Not a culinary competition,’ Josh says. ‘An offer. Me being nice.’
‘Why?’
‘I reckoned you needing to see me mid-afternoon meant a development. I was smoothing the way.’
‘No to the cake,’ I say.
‘Hm. Must be serious.’
‘Were you aware that Emma had a stalker? A Mathew Haldane?’
‘Haldane?’ Josh’s face wrinkles. ‘That’s an unpleasant blast from the past. Short answer is yes. We all knew. But Emma didn’t talk about it much. She only ever opened up once. After we watched the Robin Williams film, One Hour Photo. We had no idea at the time, but she went quiet and started to cry in the final half hour. It really got to her.’
‘I don’t know it.’
‘Worth a watch. An everyday story of delusional obsession. Robin Williams of all people. Genius casting. Who would guess Mrs Doubtfire could make a good lunatic stalker? Bit old-school now but he is good in it. I say old-school because the premise comes from the days you took your camera film to a lab to get the thing developed.’
‘Shades of Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon then.’
‘Absolutely.’ Josh grins. ‘You watched that one, did you?’
‘Read the book too. Number four of the top ten you sent me.’
‘Glad to learn you’re taking notice.’ Josh looks pleased. ‘Anyway, in One Hour Photo, Robin Williams sees some holiday snaps and gets obsessed with a family. Begins to fantasise about them. Won’t leave them alone. I remember us sitting around afterwards and everything poured out. What Emma’d been through with Haldane. Not exactly the same, but close enough to be a trigger for her. Wasn’t news to you, of course. She’d talked to you about it.’
‘Why have you never told me?’
Josh flinches.
‘Did Rachel ask you not to?’
‘No. I never even considered it until now. I mean, not the sort of thing you bring up in a conversation with someone recovering from severe brain trauma.’ He adopts a faux American accent reminiscent of a hundred cheesy sitcoms. ‘Say, Cam, remember that time your dead girlfriend got stalked and harassed by a creep when she was starting out on her career?’
I don’t react.
‘Come on, mate. I assumed.’
‘Really? You assumed? I can’t remember the name of my first pet goldfish.’
‘Moby. You showed me pictures once.’ Josh tries a lopsided grin. I ignore it.
‘It would have been nice to know about Haldane.’
‘I assumed Rachel would have told you…’ Josh frowns, but then sits forward. ‘Why the sudden interest in Haldane? What’s happened?’
‘I spoke with John Stamford today.’
‘Stamford?’
‘The private investigator hired by Emma’s family.’
Josh sits back in his chair. ‘Why?’
‘Because I asked him about the gasman. I wanted to find out what Stamford knew.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing that the police hadn’t already told me.’
‘The police?’ Josh’s mouth now actually hangs open.
I tell him all about my meeting in Wetherspoons, Harriet, and the Facebook page and the gasman post. I tell him about Keely and about Stamford. I realise there’s a lot to tell. The only thing I don’t tell him about is Nicole and me. The way things have developed. A promise is a promise. When I finish, all Josh can do is stare. ‘Jesus, Cam.’
‘If your next sentence is “does Rachel know?”, I’m leaving.’
‘No, I wasn’t going to mention Rachel. I’m just… shocked.’
‘That I’m finally trying to find out what happened?’
‘Well, yeah. I suppose that’s part of it. But you said Stamford said Haldane had nothing to do with what happened in Turkey because he’s not allowed to leave the country.’
‘No. But hearing about him has rattled me.’
‘I can see that. Bloody Haldane… such a weird na–’ Josh stops in mid-sentence. I see the signs. A lightbulb moment.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Haldane. It’s an unusual name.’
‘You said that once. Come on. What’s exploded in that brain of yours.’
Josh knows he’s got no escape. ‘Physics, man.’ He has his phone out and is googling.
‘Yup. Haldane rang a bell. John Scott Haldane, his namesake, was a medical researcher. Nineteenth century and into the First World War. He was big into sorting out protection for the troops in the trenches.’
I wait. Josh was never any good at getting to the point quickly. And today he seems especially obtuse.
‘Anyway, this Haldane was into masks.’
‘Masks.’
‘For the trenches.’
‘You mean gas masks?’
‘I do.’
‘So what’s the big deal–’ I almost hear the clunk as the penny drops. The Facebook entries Harriet has assumed are from me on the Emma ‘Roxy’ Roxburgh site. One had a sobriquet that I’d assumed came from an anaesthetist. But if your name is Haldane, it could equally be a reference to a namesake.
Gasman.
Josh and I chew the cud for another ten minutes, but it gets us nowhere. Josh has to get back to the office. He’s had a text about departmental discussions relating to working from home. As a senior team leader, he’s involved in transitioning all that for the staff of Whoneedspensions.
‘Text me,’ he says as we say goodbye.
Outside, the afternoon sun beams down. Still spring. Once again the river draws me. I get on a number 78 bus and get off at Tower Bridge. Half an hour later, I’m standing next to where Banksy painted a child fishing syringes out of the river. Faded now, yet Japanese tourists still wander up, disappointed at not finding it, bemusedly asking locals if they’re in the right place. I stand a little further away, leaning against a whitewashed wall to gaze out across the barges moored to the south bank. The wind has dropped. There’s no one around. A good time and place to do what I’ve decided I must. I have a list of labelled forbidden numbers from Rachel. Ones I should not respond to if they ring me. I scroll down, find the one for Harriet and dial it.
‘Hello?’ Her voice is wary.
‘Harriet, Cameron Todd.’
No reply. The silence lasts so long that I ask, ‘You still there?’
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘I’m listening. For now.’
‘The other day–’
She cuts me off with a sharp, ‘If you’re expecting me to apologise, it’s not going to happen.’
‘That’s not why I’m ringing.’
Another silence. Looks like I’ll need to do most of the talking.
‘Not me that posted crap through your letterbox and not me who posted on Emma’s pretend Facebook page.’
More silence.
‘I did some digging,’ I say. ‘Spoke to the police and to John Stamford.’
She snorts. ‘I noticed.’
I tell her about my initial gasman idea. About asking Keely. I’m halfway through having just mentioned Alison Barnet when Harriet breaks in, her voice seething with anger.
‘How could you think that? Alison was one of Emma’s med school friends. She made a mistake. A ghastly mistake but Emma stood by her. Alison would never post anything horrible about Emma.’
‘I know that now. But I had to ask someone to find out. My memory is not what it was.’
A muffled sound. Harriet snorting.
‘What can you tell me about Mathew Haldane?’ I ask.
I hear air being sucked in before exploding back out of her. ‘What?’
‘Haldane. How come no one ever told me about him?’
The answer pours out in a tirade. ‘Why would anyone in their right mind mention that maggot’s name? He almost ruined Emma’s life and her career. He’s a sick predator. She was newly qualified. Full of hope and promise and he almost snuffed that out. It took her years to get over him. There were times when we thought she never would. Her job saved her. Her commitment to medicine.’
‘And then she met me.’
‘Yes she did. And look what happened.’
Harriet’s bitterness scours my ears. Another pause.
‘Why are we even talking about this?’ she asks eventually.
‘Because I’m trying to find out what happened. Struggling to put things together.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’ Her words are acid. ‘Never mind about my lovely sister who deserved none of this. And Haldane was just the start of the rot. But it’s you who screwed everything up. You who took her to Turkey. You who argued with her and threw her off that cliff.’
‘I don’t remember doing anything like that. And the police–’
‘Are useless. But one day we’re going to find out the truth, Cameron Todd. And when we do, I will be outside the courts when they lock you away for good. I’ll be the one waving a flag and singing “congratulations” at the top of my voice. You’re not fooling anyone with this memory-loss twaddle. And I know you’re just pretending to help John Stamford. I warned him about you. And dragging Haldane into this when he isn’t allowed to come within a hundred miles of Emma’s bloody gravestone is pathetic. It cannot be him that’s posted on Facebook. His restraining order forbids any internet activity involving Emma. He’d go to prison if he did. Why are you stirring this up? Sod off back to Wales, why don’t you. You are pathetic, you know that. You are–’
I end the call before my ears start to bleed. Ringing Harriet was a mistake, though I am wiser about Haldane than I was. But like Stamford, Harriet is sure he could not have been involved in Turkey.
As soon as I think I’m getting somewhere I get the legs cut from under me. But there is one more call I need to make.
37
I’m still standing with my back to the Thames. There’s 4G and a full battery on my phone. At 4.40pm, I FaceTime Rachel.
She answers within ten seconds. She always does. Her face swims into view. In shadow with a bright window behind her. She shifts so that the light falls on her face. She’s got some colour back in her cheeks. I tell her so.
She smiles, pleased. ‘And where are you? Outside getting some exercise? Is that the river I see behind?’
‘Yes. Been to see Josh. I’m walking back to the flat.’
‘So you thought you’d do an outside broadcast?’ Rachel laughs.
‘The sun sometimes shines in London too. Thought you might want to see it.’
‘How is Josh?’
‘Same as always. We had a good chat. About Mathew Haldane.’
Rachel’s mouth slides into a quizzical, troubled smile. ‘Mathew Haldane? Why on earth were you talking about him?’
‘His name came up.’
‘How?’
‘My brief trip to Emma’s old practice seems to have shaken my memory tree. I met someone who knew Emma. She’s nice.’
‘She? Who’s she?’
‘She’s called Nicole.’
Rachel blinks.
‘Don’t look so surprised.’
‘I’m not. It’s… good. That’s good.’
I can almost see Rachel’s antennae twitching as she slips into mother hen mode. Though mother ant would be a better analogy if she has antennae. I concentrate.
‘It is. And after talking to her, I had a chat with Harriet about… things.’
‘Ca-am.’ She splits my name into two horrified syllables.
I plough on, needing to get it all out. ‘That was interesting in a car wash type of way… I mean car crash. But not half as interesting as talking to John Stamford.’
‘WHAT?’ There’s a sudden movement as Rachel shoots up out of her chair. I see she’s in a T-shirt and running pants.
‘Rache. He’s okay.’
‘No he is not, Cam. Oh my God, I knew this would happen.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that you shouldn’t be speaking to these people alone.’
‘Why? I have nothing to hide. And it’s helping. I remembered some things and I’m understanding others.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how my memory is jumbled. Just like I mix up words when I speak, my brain has twisted my recollection of certain things.’
‘Clear as day,’ Rachel says wi
th a little shake of her head.
‘Oh, come on, Rache.’
Rachel takes a deep breath and finds the chair again. ‘Go on.’
‘In my recurring fugue, my rooftop visits, I assumed that someone was Russian when he’s actually Dutch. I twisted a Dutch name into Russian.’
Silence. Rachel’s worried stare is augmented by a confused furrowing of brows.
‘Look, gobbledegook it may be to you,’ I say, ‘but for me this is progress. And Stamford is working on what happened in Turkey. He’s not trying to get me to confess anything.’
‘You shouldn’t trust him, Cam. He works for Harriet and the Roxburghs.’
‘Is that such a bad thing? How can finding out what happened to Emma be a bad thing?’
‘Because… you’re vulnerable, that’s why. And Harriet’s made her mind up about what happened.’
I can’t argue with that. Even so, Rachel needs to understand that things are changing. Evolving. ‘But I’m also a grown-up,’ I say. ‘And I need to work through this stuff to get to a point where I can move on.’
‘Agreed. But as Adam has said, it takes time. Trying to run before you can walk can lead to a nasty fall if you’re not very careful.’
‘There’s a difference between walking and crawling, Rache. I am not a bloody toddler.’
‘Fine. Once the kids are better and I’m out of this self-isolation, I’ll set up a meeting between us and Stamford.’
‘You don’t need to do that. If I need to speak to him again, I’ll do it.’
‘No, Cam. Don’t. He’s a detective. He has… techniques. I don’t want you getting yourself into any trouble.’
‘I’m always in trouble, Rache. Have been since I fell on that metal stanchion on Cirali beach. I need to find some answers. For myself as much as for everyone else.’
‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Cam.’
‘Didn’t I? How do you know?’
A fresh silence mushrooms between us.