The Dangerous Kind

by Deborah O'Connor

  When she’d called Marnie last night and told her she was willing to do some preliminary research, the young woman had been delighted, and although Jessamine had been careful to manage her expectations, Marnie had insisted they meet first thing today.

  ‘I guess I’ll see you next week,’ said O’Brien. ‘Last show before the holidays.’ He paused. ‘Or we could meet up beforehand. A Christmas drink?’

  ‘Thanks again, O’Brien.’

  ‘Understood.’ He laughed. ‘Take care, Jessamine.’

  Marnie was joined on the doorstep by an older woman and a little boy in school uniform. She came over to Jessamine in the car and, once she was inside, gave them both a wave.

  ‘My mum and my son, Jayden.’ She shifted in her seat and the friction of her jacket’s arms against her body made a high-pitched, swishy sound.

  ‘You live at home?’

  ‘I had Jayden when I was fourteen,’ she said, giving them one last wave. ‘Getting a flat-share with your mates is a lot trickier with a kid in tow. Plus, I don’t earn that much.’

  Jessamine did the maths. Jayden looked to be eight or nine, the same age as Matteo. That made Marnie twenty-two or -three. She seemed younger.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. Her fingers danced around the lower part of her necklace. ‘For helping.’ She brought the beads up to just below her mouth and pressed them against her bottom lip. ‘The police seem to have given up. I’ve felt so much better since I got your call.’

  Up close, Jessamine could see that Marnie’s foundation stopped just short of her jaw-line. The fine blonde hairs that grew on the sides of her cheeks emphasised where the makeup had clumped on her skin. ‘Like I said, I can’t promise anything. It’s likely I won’t get any further than they already have.’

  Jessamine placed her phone in its window holster and tapped the Voice Memo app. Last night, on the phone, they’d agreed they’d begin with Marnie showing Jessamine where Cassie lived. ‘I can’t take notes while I’m driving so I’m going to record our conversation. You okay with that?’

  Marnie nodded and pointed at the road ahead. ‘Aim for the high street. Back out the cul-de-sac and turn right.’

  Jessamine did as instructed. ‘I’ve read the things you sent me but I’d like to hear the story from you.’ She guided the car onto the main road. ‘From the beginning. I want all the details, no matter how small.’

  Marnie took a breath to prepare and grabbed her necklace again, its beads like a loop of red lifebuoys against her chest. ‘The first I knew something was wrong was when I got a call from the after-school club. I’d picked up Jayden at five forty-five. Matteo, Cassie’s little boy, was still there. But that wasn’t unusual. Cassie often cut it fine. She couldn’t help it, rushing there after work. She was always at the mercy of the Tube.’

  Her words and the order in which she chose to reveal things felt practised. No doubt she’d had to give this same account many times before.

  ‘The club closes every day at six on the dot. They’re pretty strict. When it got to five past and there was still no sign of Cassie they called her. But they couldn’t track her down at work or on her mobile and tried her husband, Luca. He didn’t answer his phone either so finally they rang me. I’m on her in-case-of-emergency list.’ Jessamine noted the hint of pride in this last piece of information. ‘I wasn’t worried. I figured Cassie must have got stuck in a tunnel and that any second I’d get a call from her in a panic. Jayden and I put our coats back on and returned to the school for Matteo. He was a bit upset at being the last one there but other than that he seemed fine. I sent Cassie a text to let her know Matteo was at our house and then I made the boys a snack.’ She stopped at the memory and smiled, wistful. ‘They’re so cute together.’ She continued, ‘It was going on for nearly seven o’clock and I still hadn’t heard anything from her when I got a call from Luca.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’d been at Army Cadets – he’s a volunteer – and had only just picked up the voicemail from the school. He hadn’t heard from Cassie either and said he’d be right over.’

  The residential road they had been driving on started to widen and Jessamine soon found herself at the mouth of Loughton high street. A mix of coffee shops and chain stores, the street was punctuated by the odd flash of Essex sparkle: a glitzy baby shop called Ba-Ba-Boom, the chrome and black of a nightclub called Minx, and a furniture store called Bella Sorella.

  ‘And how was Luca when he arrived?’

  ‘His hair was wet and he smelt fresh, as though he’d just showered.’ She shook her head as though that disappointed her. ‘He’d stopped to change.’ She stalled, lost in thought.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He arrived, we exchanged pleasantries.’ She paused, apologetic. ‘Knowing what he does to Cassie, I find it hard to be in the same room. He said there’d be a simple explanation, told me not to worry and took Matteo home.’

  ‘And did you, not worry?’

  ‘I still hoped she was stuck on a broken-down Tube in a tunnel somewhere but when I checked the TfL website there were no reported delays or breakdowns. Then I wondered if maybe she’d been in a road accident. She was always in a hurry. I kept calling her phone but it remained turned off. Later that night I called Luca for an update but he didn’t answer. I went to bed and hoped I’d hear from her in the morning. When I didn’t, I tried Luca again. There was still no answer so I decided to go round. The police were just leaving. Luca told me that Cassie still hadn’t come home so he’d reported her as missing. I got upset and asked if he’d hurt her. He got nasty, accused Cassie of having an affair.’

  ‘Was she having an affair?’

  ‘No. At least, not that I know of.’

  ‘You think she would have told you, if she was?’

  Marnie shrugged. ‘Cassie was secretive about lots of things. Private. It’s possible.’

  Jessamine wondered about the nature of Cassie and Marnie’s friendship. Marnie obviously cared about Cassie or she wouldn’t have sought out Jessamine’s help, but for someone who had gone to such great lengths she seemed to know little about the woman she purported to be so close to. Was the friendship more one-sided than Marnie understood or was Cassie a genuinely secretive person?

  ‘How was Cassie in the weeks building up to her disappearance?’

  ‘Up and down. She seemed distracted, but also excited. It’s hard to describe, but it felt like she was preparing for something.’

  ‘To run away?’

  ‘No. Oh, look, I don’t know. It was just a feeling.’

  ‘In the file you sent me there was a diary. Cassie’s date diary.’

  Marnie shifted in her seat. ‘The day before she disappeared I saw her in the playground. We were waiting for the bell when Matteo complained of being thirsty. She got him a juice-box out of her bag but he took one sip and said he didn’t want it. Instead of giving it to her he shoved it into her bag. It went everywhere. We tried to get the worst of it off with some wet wipes but her bag was light brown suede and the blackcurrant drink had left purple stains all over the outside. She had no time to rush back home and swap it for a dry one so I offered her mine. She emptied her stuff into my bag and promised to return it later. I thought nothing more of it. Then, a few days after she’d gone missing, I came across her bag at home. I was about to take it round to Luca and that’s when I felt something hard. There was a small zip pocket that Cassie hadn’t remembered to empty. Inside was the date diary.’

  Jessamine thought the story odd. Would Cassie have been so concerned about a few stains that she’d feel the need to swap bags with someone in a playground? But, then, who knew what Cassie had planned that day? Maybe she’d been especially concerned about her appearance. Still, it jarred.

  ‘On the date Cassie went missing there’s a single entry, the letter M, with a question mark next to it. I thought it might refer to you. Was it your birthday or had you guys maybe made plans for that night?’

  ‘No plans, and my birthday is in Janu
ary.’

  ‘Has she got any other friends with that initial?’

  ‘She doesn’t have many.’

  Again, Jessamine wondered if this was true or if Marnie just wished that were the case. ‘We need to hand the diary in to the police. It could be important.’

  ‘I know. It’s just I don’t trust them to do anything with it. It’s obvious they’ve given up on her, that they think she killed herself.’

  They reached the end of the high street. Jessamine stopped at the traffic lights and looked to Marnie for a prompt.

  ‘Turn right at the roundabout, then take the first left.’ Jessamine did as she said. ‘Stop over there,’ said Marnie, once they were halfway down the street, ‘next to that tree.’

  Jessamine pulled up outside a new-build block of four maisonettes. Tall and thin, each maisonette was two storeys high and had a front door that opened onto its own drive.

  ‘They’ve lived here how long?’

  ‘Since just before Matteo was born.’ There it was again, that smile. Bittersweet. ‘A little over nine years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Cassie had a flat-share in Buckhurst Hill. Luca had a place in Leytonstone. I only got to know Cassie once the boys started school. We were the youngest mums at the school gates by miles so we sort of gravitated towards each other.’

  Jessamine squinted at the window on the ground floor, trying to see if any lights were on. ‘Do you think Luca will talk to me?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Jessamine got out of the car and knocked on the door. No answer. She peered through the letterbox. A week or so’s worth of post was piled on the floor.

  Marnie joined her.

  ‘They gone away?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  Jessamine cupped her hands over her face and peered through the living-room window. There was no tree or Christmas decoration to speak of. ‘What kind of mum was Cassie?’

  For the first time since they’d started talking, Marnie hesitated before answering. It was a tiny moment, maybe half a second or so, but Jessamine clocked it. For some reason Marnie was trying to decide how best to censor her response, to convert it into something other than what she really thought and felt.

  ‘You have to remember, Matteo is an only child. It was only natural she spoil him every now and again.’

  ‘Spoil him how?’

  ‘He got whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. Sweets, toys, you name it. It was like she didn’t know how to say no.’ Marnie fiddled with her necklace obviously uncomfortable. Did she think that, by saying these things, she was betraying her friend? ‘He could do no wrong. Last year he bit another boy in the playground and Cassie was called into the school. Matteo denied the whole thing and, although a teacher had seen him do it, Cassie wouldn’t accept it and took Matteo’s side.’

  Marnie’s picture of Cassie as a parent echoed what O’Brien had said. Jessamine tried to imagine going against the teachers and other parents like that, how it would feel to believe and then defend your child so resolutely. ‘Why do you think she’s like that?’

  ‘I guess a lot of it is to do with feeling guilty about staying with Luca, about what Matteo sees and hears, so she tries to make up for it in other ways.’

  ‘Did Cassie tell you Luca was violent?’

  The women Jessamine spoke to in her volunteer work rarely confided in others about the abuse they experienced. They were too ashamed.

  Marnie shifted from foot to foot. ‘Not exactly. She’d say the odd thing and I’d see the bruises. I put two and two together.’

  ‘So what do you think happened? You know her, you know her husband, what’s your theory?’

  At this Marnie perked up: the question she’d been waiting for all along, perhaps. ‘I think Luca was worried that Cassie had had enough and that she was going to leave him. He wanted to make sure it didn’t happen. You said on your show that seventy-five per cent of domestic-violence homicides happen at the point of separation or after the victim has already left her abuser.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She nodded, vindicated. ‘I think he found out what she was up to, that she was planning to leave. I think he was the one who called her at work that day, that he came to pick her up and then maybe he took her somewhere, they argued and he killed her.’

  ‘Did Cassie ever tell you she was planning to leave?’ asked Jessamine, thinking of the Colombia Street address she’d recognised in Cassie’s diary. ‘Maybe go to a refuge?’

  Marnie shook her head, unhappy that her theory should be called into question.

  ‘You said you’re worried Luca might flee the country?’

  ‘With Matteo. He’s Italian. Cassie has no family – she’s an only child and her mum and dad are dead. I think he wants to get away before they can find Cassie’s body.’ She looked at the empty maisonette. ‘That is, if he hasn’t left already.’

  Jessamine went back to the car and got out the CCTV images of Cassie walking down the Strand. She held one up in front of her, looking from it to the front door, trying to imagine her here. What type of a woman was she? What type of employee, friend, wife, mother?

  ‘That’s why I don’t think she was going to meet someone,’ said Marnie, peering over her shoulder. She motioned to the CCTV printouts. ‘You don’t look like that if you’re off to meet your lover.’

  Jessamine stopped. ‘She didn’t normally look like this?’

  ‘Cassie’s the kind of woman who contours just to go to the shop for a pint of milk. She’s always immaculate.’

  Jessamine couldn’t decide if that filled Marnie with envy or pride. ‘But not that day?’

  ‘Not a scrap of makeup, not even lip-gloss. And look at her hair.’ She tapped at the picture with her nail. ‘Scraped back. It was almost as though she was deliberately trying to make herself as unattractive as possible.’

  Or, thought Jessamine, she was having some kind of breakdown and had gone past the point of caring.

  Marnie got out her phone and pulled up what seemed to be one of many pictures of Cassie. ‘This is her usual look.’

  Jessamine studied the photo. Marnie was right. Cassie was perfectly put together. With smooth hair, tonged into soft waves that framed her face, her lipstick and mascara were expertly applied, her foundation flawless. In the picture she wore a navy V-neck over a crisp white shirt. A delicate gold chain rested against her collarbone.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Marnie. ‘Can you help? Can you find out what happened to my friend?’

  On the face of it, Cassie’s disappearance was as the police had said, a simple but tragic case of suicide. It was an entirely plausible scenario, yet the more Jessamine learned about Cassie and the people who surrounded her, the longer her list of questions grew about how and why she’d got up and walked away from her desk that day. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said, motioning for Marnie to get back into the car. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  2003

  Rowena

  I lie hidden under a picnic rug in the back seat of the car, a pile of papers slipping around beneath my head. It’s always the same. Leo makes sure of it. ‘Just in case,’ he says, every time he gets the rug out of the boot. I don’t mind but it does mean that all I can see is the sky and tall buildings going by and that whenever he turns a corner I’m poked by one of the random bits of crap that clutter his car.

  We turn right and stop. Leo reaches inside his trouser pocket for a slip of paper, opens the window and taps whatever code is written there into something outside I can’t see. Ahead, the barrier lifts and, with a grunt of satisfaction, he drives down into an underground car park.

  A few minutes of circling under strip lights and he finds a space, parks and comes round to open my door.

  ‘Out you get. Come on, Shortie.’

  That’s his nickname for me. He thinks it’s funny. He once asked if everyone else in my family was my height. I laughed and made some joke about the Seven D
warfs. I didn’t want to tell him the truth. That my social worker said I’d stopped growing a while back, before I went into care.

  We walk over to the lift. The car park is lined with row upon row of neatly arranged cars. They are all like Leo’s. Shiny. Big. Expensive.

  Inside the lift he checks the scrap of paper again, then chooses which button to press. Floor Six. He seems nervous and keeps twisting the ring on his little finger and checking to make sure his cufflinks haven’t come loose.

  It’s been nearly a year since we first met. A year since he promised to protect me from Sunny and his friends. And he has stayed true to that promise, kind of. I no longer worry about Sunny even though, whenever I see him around town, he does this pretend gun thing. Holding his finger up in my direction, his thumb cocked, he squints, as though he’s taking aim. And then he fires. Bang.

  In exchange, though, Leo wants things.

  At first it was just me and him, either at his house or in some country lay-by. Then we started with the parties. Now it’s much the same as it was before. The houses are nicer, true, and the beds. With Leo there are always beds. Although that seems to be more about the comfort of the men involved than me.

  The lift opens and we walk down a corridor past a series of numbered doors until we reach Flat 673. Leo knocks and we go inside.

  The flat is small. A kitchen leads off the living room and there seem to be two, maybe three bedrooms branching away from the hall. The decor is plain: a glass coffee-table, beige sofa and armchairs. Two of those wheelie suitcases, one large and one small, are lined up next to each other in the corner. A number of other girls are already here and, for the first time since I’ve started going places with Leo, a selection of boys.

  He leaves me in the living room and goes to greet the men in the kitchen.

  The others are looking at me. I ignore them and go over to the open window. I see a huge garden square, almost as big as a park, filled with trees and flowers. Directly below is a pond. In the middle of it three bronze dolphins are arranged one on top of another, as though they’re playing together in the ocean. A fountain pushes up through the middle of them, covering their backs with pretend sea-spray. On the grass next to the fountain, people drink wine and laze around in the evening sun. I look around. There must be hundreds of flats in the complex, maybe thousands. All the windows cut into the reddy-brown brick are the same design as the one I look out of: white frames divided into waffle-like squares of glass.