‘That’s him.’
46 was in fact 49. Rita had probably misread it when she glanced at the address upside down. ‘Thank you. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him today?’
‘No, dear. Not seen him for a few days, actually. Not that I watch the street all the time, but I do often sit in my window to catch the light, you know?’
‘Yes, I’d do the same.’
‘What day is it now? I think I saw him Monday.’ He chuckles. ‘But don’t put much store by me. All the days merge into one now.’
‘You’ve been so helpful. Thank you.’
A car draws up behind me.
‘Ah, there’s lunch.’
‘I’d better get out of your way then. Thank you.’
The lady delivering the meal gives me a hard look as she passes me on the path.
‘It’s perfectly all right, Mrs Bishop, she was just asking about a neighbour across the way,’ calls the elderly man.
I turn out of the gate and cross the road to 49. The front garden has been stripped of any living thing, leaving maintenance at zero. Little white stones like they use in graveyards crunch underfoot. The curtains are still closed. What exactly am I going to say to him? I take a deep breath and ring on the bell. No response. I press again, and make sure I can hear it sounding inside the house. I then rap on the frosted-glass panel.
‘Jacob? Jacob?’ Nothing. ‘Mr West? It’s Jessica Bridges.’ I remember that I’ve been here before but that was Monday outside an empty office. Has he also fled from his home? I crouch down and push open the letterbox to peer inside. A grill covers the slot so the letters don’t drop to the floor but, when I move a pizza delivery brochure aside, I can see through the mesh. It takes a little while for my eyes to adjust.
There’s someone lying at the bottom of the stairs.
I shove at the door but it’s firmly locked. The meals lady has stopped by her car to watch me.
‘There’s been an accident! Call an ambulance!’ I shout. Using a half brick that had been weighing down the lid of the food bin, I smash the panel and reach in to undo locks. The woman is hurrying over, already talking to the emergency services.
‘Yes, number 49. Not sure yet. Oh, I think he’s fallen down the stairs.’
I crouch beside Jacob Wrath – West – whoever he is. He lies face down; blood from a gash on his head has trickled down his neck but is dry now. I touch his wrist, hoping for a pulse, but he’s cold. ‘I … I think he’s dead.’
Chapter 21
It doesn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive. The police draw up at almost the same moment. I can hear them talking as I sit in Jacob’s front room with a metallic blanket wrapped around my shoulders, ‘to help with the shock’, says the kindly paramedic when he realises his services aren’t needed elsewhere. The meals lady, as the one who called 999, is giving her version of what we saw first. She’s in a hurry, she explains, as she has elderly clients waiting. I take a couple of my pills to help clear my thoughts before they interview me. I’m feeling shaky and sick and the medicated hit shoves me past that.
What a horrible, terrible coincidence. I’ve been blaming Jacob for leaving me in the lurch when maybe it has all just been because he was dead?
But the old man across the road saw him on Monday, or so he thought. That meant Jacob had not taken steps to prevent me turning up to an empty office.
Jacob’s motives and thoughts remain a mystery.
I gaze around the room, trying to get a sense of my former boss. He hasn’t bothered to do much by way of personalising, but there is one A4-sized photo on the side table. I pick it up to take a closer look. Jacob is with a woman and baby in a forest clearing. It’s a lovely shot of the three of them on a picnic blanket. The woman’s face is slightly turned away; she’s looking down at her child.
But I know that face even in half profile like this. It’s Michael’s Emma – that, or she has an identical twin. I guess that it was taken around the time of the photo that Michael used to have in his bedside table.
Oh my God, did Jacob know Emma? My mind leapfrogs a few theories to settle on what is possibly the most obvious: were they having an affair? Is this the link that I’ve been missing?
Stop jumping to conclusions, Jessica. Could she be a relative? I stare at the photo, willing it to spill its secrets. No, I really don’t think so. The pose looks loving – they seem to be a family. The little girl – could that be Katy, the two-year-old from Emma’s diary?
I notice now that Jacob has left his messenger bag beside the sofa, tucked in by the wall. Checking the police are still busy outside, I reach down and gather it onto my lap. I flip it open. A laptop, paperwork, black moleskin diary and a framed photo are inside. I can’t examine the picture properly now but I am sure it is the same as the photograph that went missing from home.
So Jacob was the one who broke in? And did that to the bed? But why?
Think quickly, Jessica: what to do? I’m only carrying a light handbag. Would anyone notice if I took this bag and pretended it is mine? Maybe not. Probably not. And if someone does, I can say it was what I’d called round to collect as I’m pretty sure it’s the office laptop – Jacob’s, not mine, but it’s relevant to the missing persons cases. Right, finders keepers.
Oh God, is this me being my usual reckless, impulsive self, or is this a stroke of sleuthing genius?
I cuddle the bag on my lap and decide to let fate dictate if I walk out with it. If the policemen query it, I’ll hand it over immediately. If not, then it’s mine to investigate.
‘So, Miss, can I have your name?’ asks the sergeant, entering the room. He’s wearing a suit rather than uniform and has the polished crown of the prematurely bald. He carries it off well, having an attractive dark-brown tone to his skin.
‘Jessica Bridges.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Lloyd, CID. And your connection to the deceased?’
‘I used to work for him.’
‘Recently?’
‘Yes, I mean I thought I still did until I got back from holiday on Monday and discovered he’d closed the office.’
‘And you waited until Thursday to track him down?’
‘I wasn’t sure where he lived.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘He was a very private man. In fact he told me his name was Jacob Wrath. It wasn’t until today that I learned his real name from the office cleaner.’
‘I see.’ The policeman looks at me speculatively. ‘What was it that you did for him?’
‘He ran a small investigative agency looking into missing persons cases. I was his part-time researcher.’
‘And what does that entail?’
‘Profiling runaways and trying to work out where they might end up.’
The policeman makes a note.
‘So what happened to him? Did he fall down the stairs?’
‘That’s the problem, Miss; no, we don’t think he did.’
‘What?’
‘The early indications are, he took or was administered a sedative, then collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. He could have hit his head then or been struck – the medical examiner will verify.’
‘Maybe he was trying to get help – trying to get to the door?’ My voice is a desperate squeak. God, I sound guilty even though I’ve done nothing.
‘Maybe. Do you know if he was on any medication?’
I’m still shaken by the ‘took or was administered’. Are they implying it could be murder? I can hardly waltz off with Jacob’s bag if that’s the situation. But now my prints are all over it. Oh God, this is getting terribly muddled.
‘Miss?’
‘Er, medication? No, not that I’ve noticed in the office. I’ve not been to his home before.’
‘Yes, so you said. Have you been anywhere else in the house other than the hall and this room?’
Here was a question with a straightforward answer. ‘No.’
Another man enters the room and the police officer springs to
attention. The newcomer is below average height and has an everyman vibe to him. I wonder if that makes him more formidable? You are more likely to make mistakes in front of someone who appears harmless.
‘Detective Inspector Randall,’ says the sergeant, ‘this is Miss Jessica Bridges, a work colleague of the deceased. She found the body and is responsible for the broken window in the front door. The property was secure until that point, no sign of any earlier break-in.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Lloyd. May I have a word?’
The two go outside to confer. Irrationally, I’m beginning to feel guilty about more than just hugging the bag. Police are arriving in greater numbers and tape is appearing outside, fluttering like grim bunting.
Inspector Randall re-enters to take over the questioning, Lloyd now hovering by the door to intercept messages. ‘I’m from Lewisham CID, Miss Bridges. We are called in to investigate any death where there is the possibility that a crime has been committed.’
‘Who are all these people?’ I ask. I’ve seen enough TV dramas but somehow this calm invasion doesn’t fit the pattern. The only sign that anything is wrong is the flashing blue lights and the traffic jam of emergency vehicles. There are no sirens and nobody seems in a hurry.
‘I’ve called in the Homicide Assessment Team, as there are enough questions as to how Mr West met his end to raise a red flag. First we have to eliminate other possibilities. Do you know any reason why Mr West might end his life by his own hand?’
I find his calm tone reassuring. I get the sense that nothing would surprise Randall. ‘No, other than his money troubles. But I really didn’t know him well. I know next to nothing about his personal life. I think he might’ve come from Swindon but that’s about it.’
‘Do you know anyone who has a reason to harm Mr West?’
‘He owes our old landlord rent – that’s the money trouble I mentioned. I found out that he even forged my signature on the lease, so I think his affairs must be in dire straits.’
‘So you were angry with him?’
Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, but it would come out once they phoned Khan. ‘Honestly? I don’t know what I was. Disappointed and confused, maybe? I came round today to ask him why he put my name on the lease and if he could straighten it out for me, as I’ve been left in an awkward situation. I didn’t kill him, though, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t seen him for almost two weeks. I was on holiday until Sunday night and then he didn’t come to work on Monday, as I explained.’
‘Can anyone confirm where you were last week?’
‘Yes, my boyfriend, um, ex-boyfriend. We just split up. What a great holiday that was.’ I grimace. ‘Sorry, too much information. My passport details should be at Immigration at Heathrow. I went through that automatic gate check where it scans your passport and your face. I’m guessing that goes to a database somewhere, doesn’t it?’
The policeman stands up. ‘Thank you, Miss Bridges. Here’s my card so you know who you talked to this morning. I’ll just take down your contact details and then you can go. We’ve got to process the scene. Once we’ve got a better picture of what happened here, we’ll be back in touch. I’d be grateful if you would make yourself available for further questioning.’
‘Of course.’
‘Will it be all right with you if we contact your ex-boyfriend to confirm your movements last week?’
I choke back a laugh. ‘Fine. But you should know we’ve just gone through a stormy break-up and he’s not happy with me at the moment. You might like to mention that Mr West really exists – existed – as Michael didn’t believe in him.’
The policeman looks at me curiously.
‘We have a difficult relationship – that’s why we split.’ I give him Michael’s details.
The inspector taps his notepad. ‘Dr Michael Harrison? Is that the same man who’s the expert in deviant behaviour?’
‘The one and only.’
‘I’ve heard him talk at Hendon Police College.’
‘Good for you.’ It’s depressing to find his fan club everywhere I go. Michael loves scattering his pearls of wisdom in front of the senior officers and boasts about his regular date at Hendon at dinner parties.
‘He’s very impressive.’
‘Yes, he is; just hell to live with.’
I escape with the bag still in my clutches. This is a bad idea, isn’t it, removing evidence? I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve left the top of the waterslide and am letting impulse carry me along. After whisking myself north across the Thames, away from police cars and incident tape, I splash down in the National Portrait Gallery café. It’s the most harmless, innocent place I can think of round here. I set up at a table with an overpriced pot of tea and go through the contents of the bag. There’s not much in it: the laptop, diary and photo, of course, some bills and receipts, and at the bottom a set of keys. They look familiar – a Yale and a deadlock. I can’t be certain without my own set but I think they are identical to the ones I had for Michael’s house. No wonder there was no sign of a break-in: Jacob had copies of my keys.
I don’t understand what’s going on. Jacob destroyed Michael’s side of the room but carefully removed the photo, glass intact. Emma is the only one in it, taken at her graduation. It has to have meant something to Jacob.
I open the laptop and find it left on standby. The prompt for the password comes up. Jacob was a careful man; he’s not likely to have used an easily guessed word. I try some obvious ones but know it’s hopeless.
Think, Jessica, think.
My phone pings with a message from the policeman asking for a call back as soon as convenient. Guiltily I close the computer – not that he can see what I’m doing but it just feels better that way. ‘Hello? Inspector Randall?’
‘Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Miss Bridges. We’ve been conducting a search of the house and found a message addressed to you.’
‘What? You mean a suicide note?’
‘Not exactly. It doesn’t read that way. It’s more a note to tell you something left among a pile of things on the kitchen table. It could be old, of course, from before your holiday.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Not much. Just says “Ask Bridges if she knows a Kaitlin Morris”, then a question mark. That’s Kaitlin spelt with a K. Does that mean anything to you?’
I rub the bridge of my nose. ‘Nothing obvious. We worked together on a number of missing persons cases but that’s not one of them. It might be a new one he had in mind.’
‘OK, I’ll run the name and see what comes up. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’ He ends the call and I lift the lid of the computer. Why not? I type in ‘kaitlinmorris’. Then ‘KaitlinMorris’. Finally, just ‘kaitlin’.
Oh my God, it works! The desktop loads and I find myself inside Jacob’s secrets. Is this the point where I call Inspector Randall back and explain that I have the office laptop and Emma’s diary? I can fudge exactly how they came into my hands.
But then I’d never find out the connection between Jacob and Michael’s dead wife, Emma. I know, I know, I should stop, but I can’t. Fortunately for my curiosity, no saner people are on hand to prevent me.
Tea is forgotten as I begin to dig.
Chapter 22
Emma, 11th November 2009
I can’t stand this situation any longer. I’ve decided to leave him. He’s getting suspicious, asking where I go with Katy on my trips up to town. I can hardly tell him I’m seeing Biff as he doesn’t even know that I know her so well, though we’ve seen each other from time to time across group meetings and exchanged a few rolls of the eyes as the others get more carried away than normal. It would be good timing because Biff has broken off her relationship with Milo, saying that was getting too intense. I know how she feels. He acts as though we’re his, all part of some great crusade to achieve the perfect lifestyle. It’s like he’s Noah and we’re Noah’s wife and daughter shut up in the ark with him. God, if I ever see anothe
r wood burner again it will be too soon. I’m longing for a fillet steak, nice clothes, killer heels on expensive shoes, pavements instead of fricking bark chippings, disposable nappies and central heating, not necessarily in that order. This little cottage in the woods is no rural idyll but neither is it the centre of the revolution, as he would like me to believe.
‘We change the world one step at a time,’ he told me last week when I called him on it.
Yeah, but it’s not him scraping baby poo off cloth nappies and washing them in the tub by the back door. I feel like I’ve travelled back in time to the Victorian era. When he gets home from his work for the Forestry Commission, he makes a great show of saying, ‘Hey, Ali, let me do that. You can make a start on dinner.’ He takes the basket and hangs the washed cloths around the fireguard as if that’s the hard part. No, you idiot, that’s the easy bit. You missed all the backbreaking, disgusting work while you were out tree-hugging. And does he care that the nappies give Katy a rash and I can never get them dry quick enough at this time of year? No, Mr Save-the-world-but-not-his-own-family is unmoved by any of that.
I’ve done all I can here and, more to the point, we’re never going to see eye to eye on Katy’s upbringing. He wants all this back-to-nature stuff with which I’ve rapidly fallen out of love since Katy: no inoculations, no records, no health visitors, no contamination with the modern world. Forget that. Back to nature meant half of under-fives dying of what are now preventable diseases. My daughter is getting the best that the NHS can offer. I’m not playing Russian roulette with measles and mumps. Plus inoculation only works if a high enough proportion of the population participates; it’s a parent’s social duty to see their children get their vaccinations. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, mate. It’ll do you a great deal more good than the weed you grow.
OK, decision made. I’m out of here. I don’t need much. I left most of my stuff in London in the flat. Fortunately, he has no idea about that. I’ll just grab Katy’s things and then I’ll be on the train to civilisation. She’s too young to miss him and he has never taken that much interest in her, as he is on fire for the world, not one little citizen of the planet. He’ll probably be relieved to see the back of us once he gets used to the idea. We will significantly reduce his carbon footprint by leaving. I’ll get a decent childminder and report back to the office. There’s a training conference in a few weeks’ time that my line manager wants me to attend, so that can be my new start. I’ll put in for a post near home, rather than out in the field. Sanity will be restored to my life.
Don’t Trust Me Page 11