by Tammy Cohen
STOP AT NOTHING
Tammy Cohen
Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
Praise
By the Same Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Acknowledgements
Read More
Copyright
About the Author
Tammy Cohen (who previously wrote under her formal name Tamar Cohen) has a growing backlist of acclaimed novels of domestic noir, including The Mistress’s Revenge, The War of the Wives and Someone Else’s Wedding. Her break-out psychological suspense thriller was The Broken, followed by Dying for Christmas, First One Missing, When She Was Bad and They All Fall Down. She is also the author of Clean Break, a Quick Reads novel.
She lives in north London with her partner and three (nearly) grown children, plus one badly behaved dog. Chat with her on Twitter @MsTamarCohen or at www.tammycohen.co.uk.
Do you love Tammy Cohen’s books? Try these:
THE MISTRESS’S REVENGE
Her sharp debut novel written as a journal addressed by a former mistress to the married lover who dumped her.
‘Gasp in recognition at this cracking tale’
Grazia
THE WAR OF THE WIVES
A happily married woman whose husband dies unexpectedly is confronted at his funeral by a woman who claims that she was his wife.
‘Moving, funny and completely absorbing’
Prima
SOMEONE ELSE’S WEDDING
The story of a wife and her grown-up family whose secrets come shimmering to the surface at a wedding: told in real-time over thirty-six hours.
‘Utterly gripping’
Lisa Jewell
THE BROKEN
A couple are sucked into their best friends’ bitter divorce with devastating results for all.
‘A work of near-genius’
Daily Mail
DYING FOR CHRISTMAS
A young woman is held captive over the twelve days of Christmas.
‘Packs a killer twist’
Prima
FIRST ONE MISSING
The parents of missing children club together for support. But all is not as it seems.
‘Astonishingly good’
C. L. Taylor
WHEN SHE WAS BAD
Nasty things are happening at work. Can they figure out who is the guilty co-worker, before it’s too late for all of them?
‘Unsettling, tense and utterly unputdownable’
Woman & Home
THEY ALL FALL DOWN
Hannah’s in a psychiatric clinic. It should be a safe place, but patients keep dying. Can Hannah make anyone believe that there’s a killer on the loose before they strike again?
‘You’ll devour this book in one sitting’
Erin Kelly, bestselling author of He Said She Said
For Billie, whose story this happily isn’t
You know when you have a song stuck in your head that you can’t shake off? Earworm, they call it. Something that wriggles into your brain and gets lodged there. Well, you are my earworm. You have eaten your way along my neural pathways and into my frontal lobe and now my thoughts itch with you.
‘Just say no, you can’t come in,’ Mum says. As if it was a question of looking through the video intercom and deciding not to press the buzzer.
She doesn’t understand that you’re already installed, feet up, kettle on.
I had nits not long ago. When you’re in and out of school every day it’s pretty much inevitable. I can still remember that sensation of my scalp crawling, of something living, uninvited, on my skin.
And now that’s where you live too.
Some days I think I would wash myself in bleach if it would get rid of you.
1
‘You must not speak.’
That was directed at me.
I nodded. I was there only as a silent support.
I was sitting about six feet behind Em, slightly to her right. I could see the rounded slope of her shoulders, the heavy fall of hair over her face, the curve of her right cheek, the hand resting on her jeans, one finger worrying away at the ragged skin around her bitten thumbnail.
There is something about your children’s hands, isn’t there, that goes straight to the most primeval part of you? Some muscle memory ingrained from the very first time their tiny baby fingers gripped on to your own, or when a soft toddler palm reached up for yours in the street – that unquestioned trust that you would be there, waiting to receive it.
As I watched, a small bead of blood blossomed on the side of Em’s thumb, and I had to look away.
The room was windowless. Less a room, really, than a partitioned area off the main floor. Fluorescent strip lights, the same drab dark blue carpet as everywhere else in the building. The air stale and mint-edged from the gum the policewoman chewed so her breath didn’t smell of cigarettes, although her clothes reeked of them.
There was another woman in the room who’d been introduced as the defence solicitor. She had a moon-shaped face and an impassive expression, as if it was all the same to her. My daughter. The ugly thing that happened to her. All the same.
A video camera was bracketed to the wall up near the ceiling, and I deliberately didn’t look at it, though I was conscious of it the whole time.
The policewoman read through the script, explaining what was going to happen. A video would play showing nine different men and Em was to watch the entire thing through twice without commenting, after which she’d be asked if she recognized the man who’d assaulted her.
‘Is that clear?’
Em nodded, but then was asked to say ‘yes’ out loud, for the camera. Then she had to confirm her name. Her voice sounded very small and my stomach felt tight.
The video started. A man with heavy-set features and a pronounced underbite turned slowly to show first his left side then his right and then finally face on.
I sat up straight. Made my expression neutral.
This first man looked nervous. Licked his lips. Concentrated. They weren’t actors. I’d already googled it. They were volunteers who’d agreed to go on a national database in return for a tenner or something. VIPER, they called this identification process. I knew it was an acronym but it also suited the sense of menace I’d felt since this whole nightmare started.
The second man could hardly hide his smirk. I pressed my top teeth down on to the bottom ones so those at the back ground together. Did he think this was funny? My daugh
ter. Only sixteen years old. Was it a joke to him?
Neutral face. Silent support.
I was sure I’d have coped with it all better if I’d had more sleep. I’d gone to bed deliberately early the night before, chamomile tea, half an hour’s reading, then lights off. Nothing. Lying in bed, I’d tried being mindful, focusing on the here and the now, the way each part of my body felt in contact with the sheet, relaxing each muscle one by one.
But anxiety whined in my ear like a mosquito.
By the time the alarm went I was a wreck. And now my nerves buzzed like faulty wiring.
Man number three was way too skinny. I could have told them that for nothing. ‘Chunky’ is how Em had described her attacker in her statement to Detective Byrne, the nice policeman, who was currently sitting at a desk in the main area outside. He’d explained why he wasn’t allowed to come in with us. Something about having to be sure the whole process was impartial. He’d worked so hard trying to track down the guy from the CCTV they’d taken from the bus. Perhaps if he was here in the room with us he wouldn’t be able to resist sending some kind of subtle signal when he turned up onscreen. You couldn’t blame him for that.
It was Detective Byrne who came to the house the night it happened. He found Em sitting, crying, on my lap – how long had it been since she’d done that? – the bruising already coming out on her cheek and forehead.
‘Had you been drinking?’ the other policeman had asked her, and I’d been glad she was on my lap because otherwise I might have flown at him, my body charged with shock and worry and all the broken nights.
We were both relieved, when we got to the station a few days later so that Em could give a statement, that it was Detective Byrne who came to buzz us in at the door. Even so, the process had been traumatic.
‘What colour was he?’ he’d asked. And my daughter, taught from birth to be wilfully colour-blind, had been frozen with awkwardness. Even after he’d extracted the description ‘mixed race’ from her, it wasn’t enough.
‘But what complexion exactly? Was he black like me?’ Detective Byrne had skin the colour of the bark chippings outside on the front section of the forecourt.
Em shook her head. In the end he’d used what he called the ‘sliding JLS scale’. He’d called up a photograph of the boy band on his computer screen. ‘Is he more like Aston or Oritsé, would you say?’
Like I said, Detective Byrne was nice.
But Em had definitely used the word ‘chunky’. By the end of her statement I’d built up a pretty good idea of what the bastard looked like. He’d approached her from behind, so she’d only seen a glimpse of him when, before running off, he’d turned to see if anyone was after him. Stocky. Short hair. A pungent aftershave that got up her nostrils.
‘His chin was shaped like a “w”,’ she’d said, and the tissue of my heart had torn softly. She didn’t know the word for ‘cleft’ so she was making up her own description. She wanted so much to be helpful, forcing herself to build pictures of the face she least wanted to visualize.
He’d been wearing a dark padded jacket, she told us. Of course, he would be, I recall thinking, along with ninety-nine per cent of the male population. ‘But it had some kind of logo on the sleeve,’ she remembered suddenly, jubilant at having something to give us. His arm had been around her neck and she’d tried to prise it off with her hands and felt something hard and round on his sleeve. She’d seen it only from the corner of her eye. Some kind of symbol. White, she thought, though she couldn’t be sure.
Now another detail came back to her. When she’d been trying to twist his arm away she’d grabbed his hand and she’d felt a ring. She was sure of it. A metal ring, flat on the top. Chunky, just like the man who wore it.
No, she didn’t know if it was gold or silver. It’d been dark.
Em kept returning to how dark it was, yet in my mind’s eye I saw him crystal clear.
He did not look like man number three.
Man number four had longish dreads. I frowned at the screen over Em’s shoulder. She had described his hair as short. Hadn’t mentioned dreadlocks. Hadn’t they been paying attention? Or was the database really so short on volunteers they had to approximate so wildly?
The fifth man was more like it. Broad, fit, but wary. Barely glancing towards the camera as he turned his head first to one side then the other. As if he had something to hide. I saw a muscle throbbing at his jaw.
I looked at Em, trying to gauge her reaction from the angle of her head. Her right hand was still resting on her leg, though the blood on her thumb was smeared now from being rubbed on the thick denim of her jeans. From the back she could have been twelve years old and I had to fight the urge to reach out and stroke her hair as I used to do when she was little.
Man number six was also promising, though he had the look of someone taking his role too seriously. Frustrated actor, perhaps. People like that must gravitate towards these types of gigs, I guessed. A chance to appear on screen, perhaps for some stranger hundreds of miles away to remark, ‘That one is particularly good.’ He was self-consciously relaxed, if that makes sense. His chin was square, with a hint of a dent. Like I said, promising.
Number seven was a flat-out no. Too dark, too slight. I looked at his delicate mouth. Tried to imagine him hissing, ‘Stop, bitch,’ in my daughter’s ear. Impossible.
Then came eight.
It was like a physical punch in the guts, that first sight of him.
I knew him, you see. I recognized him in some primordial part of me where my daughter and I were still one, where our consciousnesses had not yet divided, where I felt what she felt and knew what she knew.
He was so exactly how Em had described him. Squat, muscular. Skin stretched tight over the bones of his face. He had green eyes. Now that was a surprise. But then it had been dark and she hadn’t seen his face up close. The chin, though. A perfect ‘w’, as if, while he was still being formed, someone had taken a finger and pressed hard. Each corner a mean point of bone. I imagined how it must have felt for Em when he gripped her from behind, those nubs of bone digging into her skull. Of course there was no jacket, and no ring. None of them wore any accessories. No jewellery or distinctive clothing.
But it was him. I knew it instantly.
I glanced at Em. Adrenaline was charging around my body and I wondered if I’d be able to see it in her too. She was sitting up rigid. Where her shoulders had been sloping a moment ago, now they were tensed. I looked at the hand resting on her jeans and saw how the fingers were digging into her thigh, knuckles protruding, anaemic, through the skin. Was I imagining how pale she looked suddenly?
There was a tugging in my rib cage as I watched her concentrating on the screen, just as she’d been told. Not looking away, no matter what it must have cost her to see him again, this man who’d smashed his way into her life, looming up out of the darkness. The bogeyman of her childish nightmares come to life. She knew she had to watch the video twice. She mustn’t give away any reaction. She was doing exactly what was asked of her.
But, oh, I wanted to get up then and cross that horrible blue carpet and put my arms around her. My blood felt like it was boiling in my veins. There was no air in that room. Sweat popped on my skin.
This man’s neck was meaty and thick. His arms bulged and strained under his T-shirt. I imagined him hooking one of them around my daughter’s pale, narrow neck from behind. Acid rose up in my throat.
Face on, he looked straight at the camera. Those green eyes shockingly direct. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, as if he were saying, Come on, then. What have you got? And I had to dig my nail in my palm because a pulse of hatred shot through me so strong it almost propelled me right out of the chair.
Neutral face. Silent support.
I don’t remember anything about number nine because number eight was still papered all over my eyelids.
After the tape had run, they reminded Em not to speak until she’d seen it a second time. Then they replayed
it. This time I didn’t pay any attention to the first seven men. Impatience knitted my muscles together, set my foot tapping against the chair leg.
Even second time around the physical reaction to him was visceral.
I’d reached fifty-two years of age without wishing serious harm on anyone.
I wanted him dead. Wanted to split that cleft chin open, rip tissue from bone.
Afterwards, the policewoman stopped the tape.
‘Did you recognize the man who grabbed you around the neck at 00.15 hours on Friday 12 January on Brownlow Road and repeatedly hit you around the head while trying to pull you away from the main road?’ she asked my daughter. Her voice was flat. Matter of fact. She could have been reading out her shopping list.
Now it was coming. I bit down on my lip, already anticipating the sweet relief of it all being over. Now he would get what was coming to him and we could move on with our lives. For the last four weeks since it happened, we’d felt powerless. Em frightened to come home on her own, even to walk to school. What if he’s still out there? Now the tables had turned.
‘No.’
So certain was I of hearing ‘yes’ that I thought at first I’d misheard, then that Em must have got it wrong. Must have said ‘no’ when she meant the opposite. I sat up straighter, leaned forwards, trying to tap her on the back with my mind, alert her to her mistake. Emma was always inclined to be cautious, particularly where other people were concerned. This isn’t the time for niceness, I wanted to tell her. Number Eight. You saw him.
But instead I remained impassive, my hands on my lap, while the video camera recorded the scene.
Neutral.
Silent.
As we left the video room I saw Detective Byrne sitting at a desk behind a glass partition. He raised his eyebrows in a question then lifted his hand to Em. I remembered how excited he’d sounded when he called to say they’d got an identification on the CCTV taken from the bus that night. Another officer had recognized the man who’d gone through the doors behind Em on the tape. He had spent time inside. Common assault. ABH. There were hints of something more serious, though Byrne wouldn’t be drawn. No sexually motivated convictions. Yet.