‘No. No! Don’t send anyone … I don’t want that … Hang on, are you still there?’ His voice is rising in both volume and pitch. ‘You there, Eliza? You there? Eliza?’
Eliza
Bugger, bugger, bugger. Just when she was getting somewhere.
She drops her headset in disgust. ‘I don’t believe it. How come he didn’t notice the battery was getting low?’
‘He’s just shot his stepfather,’ suggests Paul, who is calmly updating the log. ‘He maybe isn’t concentrating on those teeny details.’
‘We’ve got a problem if he can’t get that phone charged. I haven’t been able to sort out a safe way to deliver another one to him.’
‘He’ll manage. Lacey will have had a system. But hey—you’ve made enormous progress! Sam’s talking, he’s trusting you. You’re in through the front door and heading upstairs.’
‘And I could lose it all again because of a flat battery.’
She feels like running down to the café and knocking on the door. She knows Sam now. She’s filtered out her own preoccupations, the world around her, everything except Sam’s voice. She’s noticed every nuance, followed the wild zigzags of his emotions. She’s walked in his shoes. Rapport goes both ways. Monitor data in three dimensions, control movement across three different axes. It’s exhilarating to be flying down a canyon in the dark. Sometimes it feels more real, more valid than anything else in her life. Sometimes she almost forgets her own family.
Richard knows this. She’s never admitted it to him, but he knows. He reckons the only way for him to get her full attention would be to hijack a bus. This was his punchline on Saturday night, at the neighbours’ Christmas bash. He’d put away half a bottle of Scotch in short order. Never a good sign with him.
‘Has to be worth it, doesn’t it?’ he asked the assembled company. ‘Hijack a bus and threaten to blow everyone up. Just so my wife—Detective Inspector McClean, Eliza, my clever, highly trained wife—will come rushing along, lights and sirens—nee-naw nee-naw—to spend hours and hours hanging on my every word. She’ll use all those natty little tricks like reflecting and paraphrasing and minimal encouragers and she’ll be ever so empathetic. She’s a terrific listener, you know. She’s a people-whisperer … yep, a people-whisperer.’ He’d raised his glass towards Eliza. ‘Just so long as you’re not married to her. When you’re married to her, she finds you pretty boring.’
Awkward tittering. Someone face-palmed. Their host muttered ouch.
‘Shut up, my darling,’ hissed Eliza, smiling sweetly. But he didn’t shut up.
‘She and her bestie, Paul, spend hours and hours huddled together, saving lives, while I change nappies and do the school run. Then they go to their local and … you know.’ He knocked back another mouthful of whisky. ‘They debrief.’
He’d crossed a line. Muttering apologies through gritted teeth, Eliza manhandled her swaying husband out of the party and back to their own home four doors down. The babysitter tactfully made herself scarce. Eliza was ready for a major showdown—the kind of furious, gloves-off confrontation that can end a marriage—but she never got the chance. Richard collapsed on the sofa and was comatose when she came downstairs with Jack the next morning. The poor man had never looked less attractive: chilled, shivering, his complexion a faint pea-green. He swore he couldn’t remember a thing. I did what? I said what? No! Are you sure?
She let it go. She was afraid of where a fight might lead, because she knew he had a point. She may not be guilty as charged, but she’s not entirely innocent either. The intensity and high stakes of crisis negotiation is like a drug. It can be difficult to come down once it’s all over, so she and her colleagues sometimes stop for a swift drink or two—or three—in a quiet corner of the Black Lion. Sometimes it’s just Paul and Eliza. And why not? They have shared experience. They talk, they listen, they support. It’s never been more than that. Not physically, anyway. Not really.
She stands and stretches, massaging the small of her back. The plastic swivel chairs are exquisitely uncomfortable. She cracks her knuckles.
‘You’ll get arthritis,’ scolds Paul, without looking up.
‘His mother was pretty quick to move on, wasn’t she?’
‘Not for us to judge.’
Eliza’s taking up position at the window. ‘She had an eight-year-old son to think about. She might have waited ten minutes before installing the new model.’
‘Maybe she thought it was best for Sam to have a father figure.’
A sudden gust of wind sets the glass shuddering. After a final burst of brilliance the winter sun has slid below the rooftops, leaving an inky smudge of cloud in its place. Lights have been set up at the cordons, and bars of yellow gleam from between the blinds in Tuckbox’s windows. The rest of Wilton Street is in darkness. No streetlights at all. It will be a tactical decision, to use the falling of night to the advantage of the besiegers. All kinds of things can be put into place in the shadows.
Rain begins fitfully, spitting out of the dark, and within minutes the heavens have opened. Uniformed officers down at the outer cordon are pulling on waterproofs and retreating to shop doorways. The crowd of curious onlookers and media has magically thinned. The dogs are cowering under the awning.
‘I think we’re sinking,’ she says, without taking her eyes off the distant café lights. ‘Richard and I. I’m not sure we can keep afloat much longer.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sometimes I wonder whether Liam’s problems stem from us. All the tension, the silences, the eye-rolling. All the jealousy. All the boredom. We’re both guilty.’
She can’t see Paul’s expression, but she senses his stillness.
‘Don’t give up yet,’ he says.
Ashwin chooses this moment to stride in, waving a cardboard file above his head.
‘From Nicola Rosedale’s solicitor. Not good.’ He slaps the file onto the table. ‘These are copies of court documents. Our boy’s got a recent history of violence towards her. He’s made threats to kill both her and Robert Lacey. I’ve highlighted the relevant bits.’
Eliza and Paul flick through the pile of paper. Sam clearly doesn’t have legal aid and has made his application for contact without a solicitor’s input. His statement is brief, with the occasional spelling mistake. It describes a very ordinary tragedy: two young people met, fell madly in love—well, he did—and once he’d taken over his family farm she moved in with him. They had a daughter, conceived accidentally but loved fiercely, and for a couple of years they were content. We were so happy, writes Sam. Things were so good. Not long after Julia was born we became engaged.
Then came the Ice Age. Late one night Sam woke up to find that the woman he loved was in the act of leaving him and taking his child. To add insult to injury, she was running off to stay with Robert Lacey. His final paragraph is bewildered:
Julia has never been away from me before, hardly even for a night. She’s never lived anywhere but in this house. I can’t sleep for worrying about her. I’ve begged Nicola to bring her to visit but she refuses. She says Julia’s frightened of me but I don’t believe this. I want to know she’s ok. I just want to be her dad.
Nicola’s statement is longer, more detailed, more coherent. She’s got herself a solicitor and it shows. Her ducks are in a row. Disaster is laid out in order: heartbreak, rage and abandonment regimented into numbered paragraphs. Her take on their history is almost diametrically opposed to Sam’s.
4. Things have never been good between us. By the time I became pregnant I knew that Sam was unstable. He has ADHD though he denies this. He’s always late, he acts impulsively and lives chaotically. He cannot control his anger, especially when under any kind of pressure. I tried to break off our relationship when I found I was pregnant but he pressured me to move in with him so I reluctantly agreed. I did this for the sake of our unborn child.
‘She can’t bring herself to admit they were happy once,’ Eliza mutters, turning the paper over as she reads o
n. ‘Why not? They must have been. Unless the neighbour is right and she’s a gold-digger?’
5. Our life together was fraught with conflict from day one. It was a living nightmare. I had to be constantly on my guard with what I said or how I behaved as Sam would fly off the handle. Julia and I lived in fear, walking on eggshells at all times. He has never shown any real interest in Julia. I believe he resented our very close mother–daughter relationship.
6. In May of this year, Sam was given notice that Tyndale Farm is to be sold. It belongs to Robert and Harriet Lacey but is heavily encumbered with mortgages and they need capital for a new business venture in London. The notice period they gave Sam was generous. He is not a competent farmer and was unable to earn enough to pay a commercial rent, so it was inevitable that the Laceys would have to sell.
7. Once Sam knew that he was losing the farm, he became untethered. He was extremely angry and depressed. He ranted about Robert Lacey, even accusing me of sleeping with him. I was disgusted and hurt by this suggestion. I became more and more afraid for Julia’s safety as well as my own.
8. On 15th July I telephoned Robert to wish him a happy birthday. Sam flew into a rage, shouting and throwing things around the house. Julia was terrified. I decided I must leave immediately. The Laceys had offered shelter if I ever needed it. Because I feared Sam’s reaction I had no choice but to leave secretly in the middle of the night. I had our bags by the car and Julia in her car seat when Sam woke up and confronted me. He screamed in my face that he would kill both me and Robert. I was petrified. I ran to my car and tried to lock the door, but he chased after me and wrenched it open. He gripped me around the shoulders close to my throat and shook me while attempting to pull me out of the seat. I believed he was going to throttle me. I truly feared for my life. I still have bruises on my collarbone as a result. I drove off in order to free myself. As I did so he was still banging on the windows. Julia was inconsolable. Since this event she’s had constant nightmares and will only sleep in my bed.
9. I have had to rely heavily on the help of the Laceys, who have supported me financially and been wonderful grandparents to Julia. I stayed with them until Robert found me alternative accommodation in a flat belonging to a friend of his. Robert has given me work with flexible hours in his business, a café called Tuckbox.
10. Julia is terrified of her father and constantly seeks reassurance that he won’t be coming to our home. She has nightmares about him attacking me and banging on the car windows. It cannot be in her best interests to force her to have contact with someone she fears. I do not believe that the Respondent has any genuine interest in seeing her. He has never been much involved in her life. I believe he is only making this application in order to harass me.
11. I am living at an address in South London. I ask the court’s permission not to disclose it as I fear the Respondent’s reaction. He may try to snatch Julia. If he discovers my address, I shall apply for a personal protection order against him.
Eliza reads to the last page, shaking her head.
‘It’s been months. How come he still hasn’t seen his child?’
‘According to the solicitor, Harriet Lacey was diagnosed with cancer soon after the application was made. That slowed things down.’
‘Gawd, she makes him sound like Heathcliff! This lowering, gothic presence, all moods and violence. But if you look at the timeline he’s actually been quite patient.’
‘Not quite the word that springs to mind,’ says Ashwin. ‘There’s a dead man in Tuckbox.’
‘He’s tried to work through the legal process. Until now.’
Paul is leaning perilously far back in his chair, tipping it onto two legs, hands on his head.
‘I think it changes our threat assessment, and we have to let the boss know. Look, Eliza, even if he’s nursing a legitimate grievance—moot point—Ballard’s got to be treated as an extremely high risk to Nicola, hasn’t he? He’s threatened to kill both her and Lacey. One down, one to go.’
‘I’m not convinced,’ says Eliza. ‘This threat—this alleged threat—was in an unusual situation. She was taking his child away!’
Ashwin’s been bringing something up on his phone. He hands it to Eliza without explanation. She reads it, and sighs.
Battery v low. Julia cld go live with my dad?? She doesn’t know him, not great but family at least and best I can think of. Pls pls tell her I LOVE YOU FOREVER AND BACK JULIA. So sorry XXXXX
‘The woman who wrote those words is within feet of Ballard,’ says Ashwin. ‘She’s alone, in the dark, with a fading mobile phone. Trusting you to save her life.’
TWENTY-SIX
Mutesi
She indulges in a moment of self-congratulation when she finds that blessed charger. It was obscured by plates of half-prepared breakfasts, plugged into a socket on a steel work surface immediately above Robert’s body. The others have instinctively been avoiding the grim lump on the floor, and missed it. With a shout of triumph she yanks it out of the wall.
‘Brilliant!’ cries Abigail. ‘Gimme that phone, Sam. I’ll plug it in by the radio.’
Sam obeys meekly. He seems dog-tired. The cut on his forehead has broken open, and a thin trail of blood is heading for his right eye. The phone’s battery is pancake-flat, so they’re going to be off the air for a while. Might as well make use of the time.
‘Has anyone seen the first-aid kit?’ asks Mutesi. ‘There must be one. I’m going to fix up that mess above your eye, Sam.’
He touches his forehead. ‘You’re not.’
‘Oh, I think I am.’
‘What’s the point?’
Good question, she muses wryly as she searches along the shelves. What’s the point of cleaning the minor wound of a man who has absolutely no will to live, has just blasted his stepfather into kingdom come, and who seems to be planning on following him very soon?
‘Deckchairs on the Titanic,’ mutters Abigail.
‘The point,’ says Mutesi, ‘is that I am a nurse and you have an injury that needs treatment. Neil, we will put something on your cracked fingers too. Ah! There it is, on the corner shelf. Can you reach it for me, Neil?’
The fight has gone out of Sam. His shoulders slump. His face is twitching. For a moment he seems tempted to drop his forehead down to the table, though he checks himself.
‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘But it’s pointless.’
The kit is well stocked. Mutesi sorts through the box to find saline wipes, butterfly stitches and plastic gloves. She gives Neil a pot of petroleum jelly with instructions to rub plenty of it into his sore fingers. Finally she takes a chair next to Sam.
‘Now,’ she tells him, looking into his face. ‘Listen to me. Are you listening? I am not going to try to overpower you or take that gun away. That is my promise to you. I swear it in Jesus’ name, and for me that is an unbreakable vow. All right? Do you believe me?’
Sam meets her eye for a moment before managing a sullen nod.
‘Good. I’ll take that as a yes.’ She’s pulling on the gloves. ‘But in return I need you to keep still. Will you put that gun down? No? Well make sure your hand is well away from that horrible trigger. Your job is to make sure this thing doesn’t go off accidentally. All right? So … ready? I’m going to touch your head right now. Okay, here we go.’
She cleans the wound with slow, gentle movements, careful not to cause any sudden stab of pain. The injury looks nastier than it really is: livid bruising and swelling around a star-shaped laceration. There’s no permanent damage. Blood has clotted among the hairs of his eyebrow. She hears wind outside, and a smattering of rain. The temperature is dropping fast.
‘How did you do this?’ she asks as she snaps open a phial of sterile solution.
‘Banged my head against a brick wall.’
‘What, literally?’ asks Abigail. She’s standing on one foot, grasping the other behind her in a stretch.
‘Yep. Literally. About five times.’
Abigail winces, her mo
uth forming a silent ooh of empathy. ‘That had to hurt.’
‘It hurt like buggery. That was the point.’
‘You banged your … five … I mean, why on earth would you do that?’
He blinks up at the lawyer, lifting a hand to the wound.
‘Keep still,’ scolds Mutesi. ‘You’re like a jumping spider. I can’t do this properly with you leaping about the place.’
‘Sorry.’
Mutesi smiles to herself. He threatened to shoot her just a few hours ago. Now he’s apologising like a small child, just for fidgeting.
She takes her time in cleaning around the wound. Physical contact and care are tools of her trade; perhaps the most powerful tools, when used at the right moment.
‘Where did you train to be a nurse?’ asks Abigail.
‘In Rwanda, at the government nursing school. Then I worked in a small hospital, in a town beside a lake.’
‘Rwanda’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Very beautiful. A paradise.’
‘My cousin travelled through there,’ says Abigail. ‘She went to see the mountain gorillas.’
‘Ah, yes! The gorillas. Your cousin will have been in the Virunga Mountains.’ Mutesi takes another wipe out of its sachet and continues to clean. There’s no harm in talking while she works, in fact it may help to distract Sam. ‘The land of a thousand hills. Sometimes a morning mist settles in the valleys, but then the sun warms everything. Plants and trees grow even as you watch them. You see colour everywhere. Colour and light. It’s not dark and grey like London can be.’
‘You sound a bit homesick.’
Sometimes she curls up on the sofa in her bedsit and allows herself to remember things that make her weep. Family, more family. Old friends and neighbours. Her boys setting off to school, Giselle’s little feet. Sunlight on the path to the church.
Sam’s eyes are bloodshot, drooping at the corners. He can’t keep still. She suspects he truly isn’t capable of it. He twitches, sniffs, rubs his nose.
The Secrets of Strangers Page 18