Five Strangers Read online

  ‘I suppose that’s why I didn’t tell you,’ I say, taking a tissue from my pocket to wipe my face. ‘I was frightened of what you might do – to him and to me.’

  ‘To you?’ She sounds appalled at the idea. ‘Like I’ve said, you’re not the one to blame here. Did you think about going to the police – after it happened?’

  ‘I suppose so, but how would they have proved it? It would have been so messy. I was scared that the interrogation, the whole fucking process, might be more distressing than the … thing itself. Not that I can remember anything about it.’

  ‘So let me get this right, you got the taxi back with him, he invited you in, offered you a drink, and then …?’

  ‘Nothing. Apart from the next morning. It was obvious what had happened. I was in his bed. I had no clothes on.’

  ‘Did you say anything to him?’

  ‘No, I just got my things and left. I felt so dirty, so ashamed. I thought about telling you, like I said I really did, but then you seemed so keen on him. I kept waiting for the right moment, but then I started to question whether it was the right thing to do. I’d had a lot to drink, we all had, that night. Was it just a blackout? I’d had them before after a heavy night – both of us have, haven’t we, where we’ve drunk so much we can’t fill in the gaps of what happened? I’ve beaten myself up about it ever since, not telling you. But the reason I didn’t tell you was because I was … I was worried that I might lose you.’

  She hugs me closer to her again. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘You’re not mad at me then?’

  ‘Not with you. Of course not. But with him? If you’re asking whether I’m mad at him … I’m so fucking angry with him I could …’

  ‘Could what?’

  ‘You probably don’t want to know.’

  ‘You still want to give him a fright, then?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she mumbles, turning away from me. She goes to the fridge, gets out a bottle of white wine and fills two glasses. ‘I’d actually like to—’

  She cuts herself off, but I prompt her to continue. ‘Like to what?’

  ‘It’s best if you don’t know.’ She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  She starts to tell me about the interviews – she’s pleased she’s got everything she needs for the piece – but she never mentions Penelope. When I ask Jen about her she clams up. However, it takes a little more prompting before she explodes once more. She’s a nightmare, she says. She goes on to tell me about how Penelope enlisted the services of a private detective – something which is against the law – to find out that Ayesha Ahmed, the doctor, was heavily in debt and had a job at a lap-dancing club in the East End.

  ‘Of course, I didn’t use it against her – Ayesha’s been through enough without that, and who cares if her shopping habit’s got out of hand. We’ve all got things we’d rather keep to ourselves.’ She goes quiet, takes another sip of her drink. ‘And … I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this, but it seems Penelope’s taken it upon herself to try to find out stuff about you too.’

  ‘Me? Why would she want to go digging up anything about me? I mean, what’s there to unearth? She can ask me anything to my face. I’m an open book.’

  ‘Exactly. She tried to make me read this file about you that—’

  ‘You mean to say she’s got a whole file on me?’

  ‘That’s what she reckons. She was asking all sorts of stupid questions about how much I really knew about you. Anyway, she’s full of shit. Once this piece is over I don’t want anything more to do with her.’

  I can feel my heart begin to race in my chest, but I keep my composure calm and my voice steady.

  Jen digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out a couple of pieces of paper that she’s folded into squares. She looks at me and then down at the paper as she unfolds it, her cheeks colouring as she reads something. I take a sip of wine. I don’t know what she’s about to say, but it’s clear Jen has something. Something on me.

  ‘I hate to ask you this, and I’m sure it’s nothing, but—’

  ‘No – ask away. Honestly. I don’t mind.’ Even though I feel like I want to sink into a black pit, I try to make light of the situation. ‘If Penelope has dug up some dirt on me I’d love to know what it is.’

  She clears her throat. ‘It’s an interview that Penelope did with Karen Oliver, she’s the mother of Daniel.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And in it – honestly, it’s stupid, I’ll put it away,’ she says, folding the pages up. ‘Forget I ever said anything.’

  ‘Jen – it’s fine. Please, just tell me what it is.’

  She opens the papers again and her eyes scan over the words. ‘Look – I’m just going to ask you. I know it sounds ridiculous. In the interview, Karen said that her son Daniel got involved with this older woman, a woman she said was called Becky. She didn’t give a surname, but it’s obvious that Penelope showed her a photograph of the woman. I have to ask: did you used to know Daniel Oliver – in the past, I mean?’

  I know I’m a good liar, and I use every trick in the book, lowering my chin down to my neck and opening my eyes a little wider so that I look like an innocent child. ‘Him? No, why would I know him? The first I ever heard about Daniel Oliver was that day on the Heath.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she says quickly. ‘Sorry, I should never have asked you. It was stupid of me.’

  No, it wasn’t stupid of her, it was stupid of Penelope for telling Jen that she had compiled a dossier about me. She may as well have signed her own death warrant.

  71

  JEN

  I can’t bring myself to ask Bex to help me deal with Laurence. This is something I’m going to have to do by myself. However, I’m pleased I did ask her about whether she knew Daniel Oliver. At least I can put that out of my mind now. But I’m still annoyed with myself for allowing Penelope to inveigle her way back into my life.

  I should never have accepted the offer of her house as a base for the interviews. I was in danger of compromising myself. Not only are Penelope’s methods seriously off the wall, but her suggestions about Bex make me wonder whether she’s beginning to lose it. Since I left her house after the interview sessions she’s sent me nearly twenty messages, all of which I’ve deleted without opening. As I begin to transcribe the interviews I let her calls go straight to voicemail. I can’t be bothered to listen to the messages she leaves. When my phone rings I expect it to be her and I almost don’t look, but it’s Jamie Blackwood.

  ‘Jen – can you talk?’

  ‘Hi Jamie – is there something wrong?’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  It’s late at night. Bex is at the 24-hour gym. Exercise, she always says, is the best thing to get rid of stress, anxiety, and anger. As she left the flat, leggings and trainers paired with a big parka, she told me that she felt she needed to hit something. I’d joked about how a punchbag would have to serve as a substitute for Laurence.

  ‘Yes, why?’ I ask Jamie.

  ‘Listen – this is going to sound a bit … weird. But Penelope’s really worried about you and—’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about Penelope. You don’t need to know the details, but she’s proving to be a bit of a pain at the moment.’

  ‘She asked me to check on you just to make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit knackered, but apart from that—’

  ‘She thinks you might be about to do … something.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Something drastic. That’s what she said. She’s really worried about you. She says she’s tried to call you, she’s sent you some emails.’

  ‘Sorry that you had to get dragged into this Jamie, but to be honest it’s a load of shit.’

  There’s a pause on the line and I can hear him breathing. ‘Jen, you may not like what I’m going to say, but Penelope has shared with me some of the information she’s gathered – she didn’t know what e
lse to do – and there may be something in it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look – if you want an objective opinion, I think you should take her concerns seriously.’

  I can feel the rush of blood to my head, the sudden breathlessness that accompanies the onset of anger. ‘I don’t know what she’s told you, but—’

  ‘It’s about your friend, Rebecca – I think you call her Bex. I don’t know the background, but Penelope showed me some stuff. And some of it … well, it’s worrying. Just promise me one thing – if I send it over to you, will you take a look at it? That’s all I’m asking. That’s all that Penelope wants.’

  ‘Anything to shut her up,’ I say wearily. ‘But really, it will turn out to be nonsense.’

  We chat a little more about that day’s interviews before we end the call. A few seconds later an email pings into my inbox. It’s a scan of an old newspaper cutting from the East Anglian Daily Times, dated 28 April 1990.

  VALENTINE’S DAY MURDER–SUICIDE

  A Colchester woman in an abusive relationship killed her violent husband and then herself.

  Amanda Paterson, 34, cut the throat of her husband, Brian, 38, before killing herself. The couple, who lived in Maplestead Close, Colchester, was found dead by the police on 15 February this year. It’s thought the incident occurred the day before, on 14 February – Valentine’s Day.

  The inquest in Colchester today heard evidence from pathologist Dr Bruce Robinson, who said that mother-of-one, Amanda, suffered severe burns to her hand during the incident. A frying pan was found by the bodies, which were discovered in the kitchen at the couple’s semi-detached home, and it was suggested that Brian Paterson held his wife’s hand down in the hot fat for some time before Amanda could take no more. Police said that it’s likely that this was the factor that drove Amanda to pick up a kitchen knife and murder her husband, a local painter and decorator. After slashing his throat, she then used the same knife to kill herself.

  Neighbours submitted evidence to the inquest to say that they were worried that Amanda was a victim of domestic abuse. ‘It was difficult because although we suspected all was not well within the house, Mandy didn’t want to alert the authorities,’ confessed one concerned neighbour who did not want to be named. ‘I wish now I’d said something – if I had, perhaps things would have turned out differently.’

  Neighbours say that the dead couple are survived by a young daughter, Rebecca, 13, who was at the house at the time of the incident, but was uninjured. She has since been placed with a foster family.

  The name, Rebecca, sears itself into my consciousness. That, and the fact that the murder–suicide occurred on Valentine’s Day. I feel a wave of nausea work its way up from my stomach, but I force myself to swallow it down. The text begins to blur and swim across the screen. This can’t be happening. I tell myself that it’s the wrong surname. This is about a Mr and Mrs Paterson. Bex’s last name is Shaw. But then I realise that she could have taken the name of the family she went on to live with. I look at the date of the newspaper – 28 April 1990 – and the age of the young daughter left behind, thirteen. If she was alive today that would make her forty-two – the same age as Bex.

  72

  BEX

  I’m standing outside the old lady’s house, waiting for the darkness. Through the open curtains that frame the front I can see a weak light that looks like it’s coming from the top floor. I wonder what she’s doing. I picture her sitting at her mahogany desk, working her way through that file of documents she’s compiled on me. I need to know what she’s unearthed so I can understand how to deal with the situation, how to deal with her.

  The feel of Penelope’s key in my hand is comforting. I enjoy running my fingers up and down its indentations and ridges. My plan is balanced on a knife edge, I realise that. I’m not sure how much Penelope knows about me, how much she has shared with Jen. My assumption, based on Jen’s recent behaviour, is that she knows relatively little: only that a woman called Becky once knew Daniel Oliver, and that Steven Walker saw me talking to Laurence before the murder–suicide on Hampstead Heath.

  I was pleased at how I managed not only to explain that but to spin it to my advantage. Jen had been primed in such a way I could hardly dare imagine. I’d laid the foundations of the scheme with the precision of an architect. I’d drawn Jen in by sending her those mysterious messages, suggesting that Daniel Oliver hadn’t really killed Vicky Da Silva. I knew that her curiosity would get the better of her and that she wouldn’t be able to resist investigating. I’d made the messages more threatening, so by the time of the attack on the Heath – and her discovery of that mask in Laurence’s house – she was as malleable as a piece of wet clay in my hands. All it would take would be a few final turns of the wheel and it would all be over. I smile as I think about what is going to happen to Laurence, before I turn my attention back to the job in hand.

  Penelope.

  I need to find out what she’s got on me, that’s a given. But what else? Although it would be tempting to snuff out the old lady’s life, I know enough about leaving traces of one’s DNA at the scene of a crime, information I’ve picked up from watching too many thrillers on TV, that it would be unwise to do that. Despite this, I could still have a little fun.

  The light at the top of the house goes out and I wait for another twenty minutes before I make a move. I walk down the path and listen at the front door. Nothing. I take the key and ease it into the lock. I slowly turn it and hear the lock click. I hesitate for a moment, before I push the door open. I step inside – the house is dark, quiet – and quickly close the door. The smell of cooking – something rich and meaty – lingers in the air. I slip my trainers off so I can move through the house as quietly as a ghost. I take out my torch and use it to guide me through the blackness. I go into the kitchen, straight to the long, wooden table, but despite there being a few papers, there’s no sign of the file. I check a few drawers, but I only find what I’d expect: pots, pans, cutlery, and in the rest the detritus of living: Sellotape, old postcards, stamps, glue, playing cards, biros, string, discarded phone chargers. I move to the sitting room, scan the shelves, the side tables and sofas, but again nothing. I make my way back to the hallway and listen up the stairwell for any signs of life. It’s quiet apart from the distant scream of a fox outside. With a delicate step I begin to climb the marble stairs.

  I decide to bypass the first floor and head straight for the top. If the file is to be found anywhere it’s most likely to be in her study or bedroom. When I reach the third storey I stop on the landing. Although I’m fit, I can hear myself breathing. Of course, I’ve had to address what I would do if Penelope were to step out of her bedroom. There are a few scenarios I’ve dreamed up, most of which involve pushing her down the stairs. She’s a frail old lady. The steps are hard. She would hit her head. The chances of death would be high. When the forensic team came to do their DNA analysis they might find traces of me, but of course this could be explained by the fact that I had paid a number of visits to the house when Jen lived there. The main thing was to avoid her scratching me as I knew I wouldn’t be able to explain my DNA under her fingernails. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

  From the landing I move into her study. I use the torch to search her desk, its surface and drawers. There are papers relating to a future talk at a journalism college, a few books for review, along with notes from adoring commissioning editors, and a chequebook from Coutts. There are packets of staples, blank postcards, a ring punch, stacks of A4 paper, printer cartridges, and ink for a fountain pen. But there’s no sign of anything relating to me. Gently I ease open the filing cabinet that sits in the corner. I’ve searched this cabinet before and I’m convinced there’s nothing new in here. I scan the shelves and look under the printer. Her laptop is not here and neither is the bag that she carries it in. Fuck. The bitch must have taken everything to bed with her.

  As silently and stealthily as I can, I inch my way forward to her bedroom
. I wrap the torch inside the end of my sleeve so it only gives out the dimmest of lights. I stand outside the door, which I notice is slightly ajar. I steady myself before pushing the door forward a fraction. I’m relieved when it doesn’t squeak. I press my foot against the door to ease it open a little more.

  Through the gap I can see a double bed, at the far end of which lies the outline of a dark shape. Penelope. I step into the room and, as I move closer, I can hear the sound of gentle breathing with only the faintest hint of a snore. I come to stand by the bedside table. I lift the edge of my sleeve higher so that the torch can illuminate what’s on the surface: a stack of hardback books, a pot of expensive-looking night cream, a copy of the New Yorker.

  I move the light across the floor, but there’s nothing I can see that looks like a file or that would contain a file. With small, silent steps I shuffle my way around the bottom of the bed to the side that is nearest the window. In the dim light I see Penelope’s lined, unmade-up face, so different to the one she presents to the world. As I move the torch across the bed I see it. The file is there, on top of the duvet, enclosed by an arm.

  I step forward and take another, closer look. Her hand is fixed like a claw around the file; presumably she must have fallen asleep reading. It would be easy to wrench it from her, dash down the stairs, and run out of the house. But in doing so I would wake her up and alert her. Even easing open the file to peer inside at its contents would be too much of a risk. I wait in the shadows, hoping that she will turn over and in doing so release her grip. But she does not move. I wonder for a moment whether she’s asleep at all. Does she know that I’m here, watching her? Is she playing some kind of game with me? As I observe her, part of me thinks about taking a pillow, pressing it over her face, and squeezing the life out of her. But again, I know too much from TV: such a death could not be dismissed as the result of natural causes, and it would be investigated. Even though it’s tempting – so tempting – I resist. Finally, with a heavy heart, I retreat. I slip out of the bedroom, casting one last look at the file on the bed. I will have to leave Penelope until later. She won’t escape unscathed from this, I promise myself.