Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  OK, new day, new start. I have to get my head straight. I have to salvage my life. When in doubt, make a list.

  1. I’ve disappointed Drew and I don’t want to do that. His good opinion is worth earning. I can’t change the past but I can change my future.

  2. He thinks I was wrong to take the laptop. Well, I agree. I even knew it at the time. If there is any fact behind Jacob’s accusations, then I’m also obstructing a murder enquiry. I’ve got to face up to that. I’ll take it with me when I go to the police for fingerprinting. I won’t excuse myself, well, not much, just enough to try and avoid arrest.

  3. I need to be open-minded about Michael. Things look bad for him but that doesn’t mean it all adds up.

  Usually when I make a list I include items I can already cross off, but unfortunately nothing comes to mind. That’s dispiriting. I’ve a tough few days ahead. Maybe I can do Point Two before the end of the day. I mentally shake hands with myself not to rabbit out on that deal.

  Drew has already gone to work when I emerge from the spare room. If he had breakfast he has removed all traces, not even a plate on the drainer. I don’t feel hungry but make myself drink a glass of orange juice. I’m not anticipating a pleasant time at the police station. I wash up the tumbler and put it back in the cupboard.

  ‘OK, Bridges,’ I tell myself. ‘Time to girl up.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist at Lewisham police station doesn’t smile as I report to the front desk. She is surrounded by posters advertising different police initiatives against burglary, vandalism, drugs and knife crime. The graphics all share a Banksy vibe, which is ironic if you think about it.

  Did you know you can use a mixture of orange juice and milk in a high-pressure hose to remove graffiti? Seems like a very motherly solution to a predominantly urban youth problem – almost cute.

  God, my brain is out to lunch again. Focus.

  ‘Hi. Sorry. I’m Jessica Bridges. Inspector Randall asked me to call in for fingerprinting.’

  She makes a couple of clicks of her mouse. ‘Yes, CID. Your name is on the list. Would you take a seat, please?’

  ‘Um,’ and here comes the difficult bit, ‘is he in today?’

  She gives me a pained smile as if to say he’d hardly be off on holiday at the start of a serious crime enquiry. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to speak to him. It’s rather urgent. I might have something, some evidence, concerning the case.’ And it’s slung over my shoulder.

  ‘OK, I’ll let him know. It won’t be him processing your fingerprints, though, so please still take a seat.’

  I sit on one of the chairs opposite the desk, waiting nervously. Then a pleasant young officer scoops me up to take me to a nearby room for the fingerprinting part of my visit. She is of British Asian appearance. I wonder how recruiting among minorities is going but decide it’s probably best not to ask. This is one of those times when I should not blurt out my first thoughts.

  ‘Ever had this done before?’ she asks me.

  ‘No, I can’t say I have.’ I wonder if she’s trying to trip me into confessing earlier brushes with authority but then I realise she’s just making conversation.

  ‘It’s very simple. I’ve a scanner here. Just press your right hand against the screen and try to keep still.’

  ‘What, no ink?’

  ‘No, we don’t do it that way anymore.’

  ‘And what happens to it?’

  ‘The image gets sent to the Scotland Yard database so that it can be compared with the fingerprints from the crime scene and we’ll know which ones are yours. Great. Now the left.’

  ‘Did you know fingerprinting was invented by Sir William Herchel in India in 1860 to stop his locally engaged staff cheating when drawing their wages?’ Maybe I shouldn’t have said that?

  ‘Um, no I did not. How do you know about him?’

  ‘I’m a bit of a magpie. Trivia seems to stick. Watch a lot of QI.’

  She smiles. ‘I see. Well, there’s not much else on worth watching, is there?’

  The door opens as we finish the procedure.

  ‘Miss Bridges, you asked to see Inspector Randall?’ says Sergeant Lloyd.

  ‘Yes, OK, right.’ I stand up, then sit down again. ‘Er, I need to tell him something.’

  He nods to his colleague who exits with the scanner. ‘So the receptionist told me. Inspector Randall is caught up, I’m afraid, briefing the homicide team.’

  I almost flee on hearing that, as it sounds as if they’ve decided it is murder. Biting my lip, I put the laptop bag on the table. ‘I’d better tell you, then. You need to know something about me first. I suffer from something called ADHD. Have you heard of it?’

  His gaze goes to the buckle on the bag, realising it is significant. ‘Of course, I’ve heard of it in children.’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s an adult form that makes the person with the condition very impulsive. That’s me. If you need any more corroboration of the problem, you can talk to my doctor, er, ex-therapist. The person who was treating me until recently. Anyway, what I want to say… look, yesterday I gave in to a really stupid impulse. I knew that Jacob was hiding something from me and while I was waiting to speak to you I saw our office laptop. I took a quick peek inside and noticed that he had some things belonging to me.’

  ‘What things?’

  I move to open the bag but he holds up a hand.

  ‘It’s better if you just tell me.’

  ‘A photo belonging to my ex-partner, a diary belonging to his wife, and a set of my house keys. Michael accused me of taking the photo but you’ll see from what’s on the laptop that it was Jacob. I don’t know what happened to the wedding rings – they also went missing when we were broken into.’

  Lloyd looks at me for a long time. ‘What’s going on, Miss Bridges?’

  I try to tell him the best I can. ‘I know it all sounds very strange, and I’ve not helped, have I, taking this yesterday?’

  ‘It was very unwise, messing with the evidence. Who’s to say you didn’t put those things in the bag yourself?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But the entries in the laptop – can’t your computer people check the dates on them?’

  ‘But you said this was the office laptop and you were able to access the files yourself.’

  ‘Only after I guessed the password. It’s Jacob’s computer really. I don’t know what he did with mine when he cleared out the office.’

  Lloyd doesn’t like the way my story keeps shifting – nor do I, but so often the truth is less plausible than neat lies. ‘How did you guess the password?’

  ‘Inspector Randall gave it to me yesterday by accident. He mentioned Jacob’s daughter, whom I’d never heard of before. It’s “kaitlin”, no capital.’ I look at my hands squeezed together in my lap. I’m not doing a very good job of appearing innocent. ‘For a secretive man, he didn’t try very hard with his security.’

  Lloyd reaches for the bag. ‘Stay here, please. I need to take this to the inspector. Would you like another coffee?’

  It’s not quite handcuffs but neither is it ‘you’re free to go’. ‘No thank you. I’d better not have any more caffeine.’ I rotate the empty canteen cup that the fingerprint officer had brought me.

  ‘Right. I won’t be long.’

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t have anywhere I need to be.’

  He leaves.

  I’ve done it now. I only hope that Drew is proud of me because I realise my truth-telling has just put me back in the frame for murder, as far as the police are concerned.

  An hour elapses and I’m bursting to go to the loo. That’s not something they cover on those cop shows on TV, is it? Everyone in them has bladders of infinite capacity. Would it be OK just to walk out and find one or will that set off an alarm? Before I can resolve that issue, Lloyd comes back in with Inspector Randall.

  ‘Miss Bridges,’ the inspector begins.

  ‘I’m really sorry – all that coffee – is there…?’
/>
  He nods to Lloyd, who escorts me to the nearest Ladies’ and stands outside the door while I go in. Washing my hands, I stare at my reflection. What am I getting myself into here?

  Back in the interview room, Randall has laid out printed copies of Jacob’s case notes. There are a lot of them, going back beyond where I looked in the files.

  ‘Have you read these?’ he asks.

  ‘Not all of them. I started with the more recent ones that mentioned me. I didn’t get that far back before I realised I should hand them over. There are loads of entries. He doesn’t seem to have done much else than plot against Michael.’

  ‘Taking these at face value, what do you think they tell us?’

  ‘That he set up the office to entrap me. I accepted the job on good faith but he made it up to drag me into his feud. He added a twist to get me in further trouble when he made a fraudulent signature on the lease to implicate me in his business.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘I can only guess that he did these things because he wanted to find out more about Michael and me, and he hated us both – anything that messed us up was good in his eyes. He clearly had a longstanding grudge against Michael.’

  ‘More than a grudge.’

  ‘Yes… yes, an elaborate theory that Michael has done away with four girls, perhaps more if you count Kaitlin and Ali, who I know as Emma, Michael’s wife. Emma mentions a Katy in the diary who might be Kaitlin, I just don’t know. She died about five years ago, shortly before I met Michael. Cancer, he said, but he doesn’t talk about her much so I’m not sure of the details.’

  ‘And when you read these accusations, what did you think?’ Randall sits back. I can feel him studying my body language but I can’t picture what a completely innocent person would do in this circumstance, so I sit hunched up.

  ‘I was shocked. None of what he wrote about me is true.’

  ‘Jacob West alludes to some incident in Eastfields – that’s a school, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I had some trouble there and it caused a kind of breakdown. The job with Jacob was the first I’ve had since then. I’ve mostly recovered.’

  ‘So that part was true?’

  Clenching my hand, I dig my nails into my palm. ‘Yes. I meant the rest. I had no idea Michael knew any of the girls in the cases Jacob gave me.’

  ‘So, it is possible he did know them?’

  ‘Well, their paths could’ve crossed, I suppose. The dates work out. To be honest I’ve no idea what to make of it, which is why I brought you the computer. When I took it, I thought I’d just find the reason why I was being pursued for rent I did not owe. Instead, I found my boss thought I was living with a serial killer.’ I give a strained laugh that no one else joins in with.

  Lloyd, who has been standing to one side during this interrogation, takes a seat across the table. ‘Did you write these case notes, Miss Bridges?’

  ‘God, no. No, I didn’t. And I’m sorry if my actions make it a question you now have to ask. Can you get someone to analyse when they were written? I didn’t meet Jacob until the end of April – Michael will remember that. If there are entries made before that, then I can’t have done them.’

  ‘We will check, so if there is anything you need to tell us, it’s better if you do so now.’

  I hold his gaze. ‘I did not tamper with the entries on Jacob’s laptop, I promise.’

  Randall folds his arms. ‘Miss Bridges, why haven’t you asked for a lawyer?’

  This catches me out. ‘Do I need one?’

  He smiles slightly. ‘Perhaps not. The fact that you haven’t called for one, or considered you might require one, speaks of your own conviction of your innocence in this. But still, you’ve committed an offence, taking the computer from the house.’

  ‘I saw it as taking back what was mine, mainly – you know, the picture, and the keys?’ That sounded lame and we all knew it. ‘Will you press charges?’ I quickly calculate how much money I have access to, who I’m going to call.

  Now I’ve got the Ghostbusters theme going around in my head. Dammit, I can’t even control my thoughts when my freedom is on the line.

  ‘If everything is as you claim – and we’re getting the results of your fingerprint scan any moment now – then perhaps not. Not if you cooperate fully with us on the matter of Mr West’s suspicious death. Tell me, is there any reason why Michael Harrison might want to kill Jacob West?’

  ‘Only what Jacob claims – that they loved the same woman, that there’s a child missing somehow, and that maybe he has some connection to the four girls Jacob asked me to investigate.’

  ‘And from your own experience of Dr Harrison… You’ve lived with him for five years, I understand?’

  I nod.

  ‘Have you noticed any unexplained absences or odd behaviours?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Such as clothes disappearing from his wardrobe or exchanging his car for a new one unexpectedly?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s had the current car about a year – he leases them and swaps them for a new model after a while, but that’s normal, isn’t it? I think you could say that he prefers new things to old. He buys a lot of clothes, and chucks out the stuff he no longer wears after a few months. When he’s had a clear-out, I usually bag things up for charity as they’re hardly worn. But all that is standard practice for him. He’s image conscious.’

  ‘And absences?’

  ‘He travels a lot.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Frequently. At least once a month.’

  ‘Does he drink whisky?’

  I look down at my knees, noticing I’ve picked up a scratch from somewhere on my shin. ‘Yes, but a lot of people do. I suppose that’s the one exception to not liking old stuff: he’s big on his aged malts.’

  ‘What’s your opinion on West’s speculations about Dr Harrison?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. He has to be wrong, doesn’t he? People don’t just get murdered without anyone noticing.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ murmurs Lloyd.

  Way to unsettle me, detective. ‘But I don’t like that there’s a connection between Michael and Jacob that I knew nothing about. If Jacob did have something on him, then I suppose it’s not totally inconceivable that Michael might’ve done something – he does have a temper. He… He can be violent when he loses it.’

  ‘And your evidence of this?’ asks Randall.

  ‘We quarrelled a couple of nights back just before I left for the last time. He hit me. Just the once, but he did hit me. To be fair, I think he was as shocked by it as I was, but he just looked really ugly when he did it, like a man capable of anything.’

  ‘And you didn’t report it?’

  ‘No, I just left. He’s on good terms with the police. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I couldn’t see the point.’

  ‘The point is that we would have a record of that now to help substantiate your claim that Michael has violent tendencies.’

  ‘I’m not claiming that. I’m just trying to answer your questions truthfully. I don’t want to blow things out of proportion, but you did ask.’

  The female officer who did my scan returns and passes a piece of paper to Randall. She gives me a smile as she leaves.

  Randall reads the report and hands it to Lloyd. ‘I’m pleased to say the computer matching system has good news for you, Miss Bridges. This rules you out as having touched any objects in the kitchen, including the glasses and whisky bottle. That, taken with your decision to come forward this morning, means you may go for now. Thank you for your cooperation. Please keep yourself available for further questioning and tell us if you are planning to leave London.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m flat broke.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘At the Feltham address I gave you. At least for the next few days.’ If I haven’t frozen to death in Drew’s Arctic chill of disapproval.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll have to
speak again but, for the moment, I have no further questions.’ Randall opens the door for me. ‘Sergeant, see Miss Bridges back to reception.’

  Chapter 26

  Michael, 13th August

  The house feels empty without Jessica. She drove me crazy when she was here but at least she was a distraction. Without her, I find myself looking for Emma. I thought I had kicked that habit. She spent much of her last months on the sofa in the kitchen during our quiet weekday mornings, preferring to be near me than lying in the bed up in our room. I took to working at the table facing her rather than retreating to my study. I did this so our eyes could meet from time to time, each checking the other was still there. They were some of the best moments we had together in that final year, soothing classical music on the stereo, sunlight coming through the conservatory windows, the gentle rustle of the pages of her book. Even thin as she became, pure sculptural form with her bald head which she chose not to hide under a wig, missing lashes and eyebrows, she looked so beautiful to me, every moment of just the two of us so precious. I would’ve given anything to take on the illness for her and set her free. The hardest, bitterest thing I’ve ever had to face was the knowledge that I couldn’t.

  Perhaps I should sell this house? It’s too full of memories. My failure. Her failure to beat off the disease – not that she ever had a choice. Failure is the wrong word. Bulldozed – cheated – by liver cancer.

  I feed Colette, eat a solitary breakfast, and try to decide what to do with my day. I’d promised myself that I’d use August to get on with some research in the British Library, but I can’t seem to get my act together. I wander around the kitchen, gathering up Jessica’s stuff, and pile it in the corner. How has she accumulated so much crap? Books on art. Question: how many coffee-table books on Impressionism are too many? Answer: one. I’ve some corrections to the copy edit of my latest manuscript to complete – that seems about all my brain can cope with at the moment.