The Evil Beneath Page 18

  ‘Polytetrafluoroethylene,’ he said, articulating every syllable, like a child learning a new language. ‘I only remember it, because I was explaining it to the guys yesterday. It’s a waxy substance and the original properties stay the same, even after it’s been in water.’

  ‘What’s it used for?’

  ‘It’s in a number of products, but it’s often used in car polish - although, we’ve got nothing to match it with, yet.’

  ‘Car polish…well, that’s something.’

  ‘We need an absolute match. Could be the women got it in their hair, if they were pushed against the side of a car - or from the floor of a garage or shed.’

  ‘This business of matching evidence sounds incredibly hit and miss. I’m surprised anyone ever gets put behind bars - not unless you actually catch a criminal in the act.’

  He yawned. ‘It’s tedious and time-consuming.’ He checked his watch and I knew it was time to go. As he got to the door, he turned. ‘We got Charles Fin in again.’ ‘Mr Fin? Why?’

  ‘We had a query over one of his alibis. Said he was with his mother for all three dates, but his neighbour said she was in hospital.’

  ‘His mother?’ I said, rubbing my temples. ‘I’m sure he told me his mother had died. Not that long ago, I think. Hold on.’

  I rushed to find my counselling notes. Flipping through the pages, I found Mr Fin’s file and pulled out the sheets.

  ‘Yes, here it is,’ I said. ‘He said his mother had told him to “play hard and tough” if he wanted to attract women.’

  ‘Did she now?’ He folded his arms and smiled at the floor.

  ‘Then he said she’d passed away.’ I ran my finger down to the spot on the page. ‘He didn’t say when.’

  ‘Something weird going on there, then.’

  ‘Mr Fin certainly drives a car,’ I said, as Brad opened the flat door. ‘When I saw him at the park, he was getting into it.’

  He turned back, keeping his eyes lowered.

  ‘Andrew isn’t ruled out yet,’ he said evenly. ‘Still no alibis.’

  ‘Andrew is so vague about everything. He probably does have decent alibis, he just hasn’t thought it through. Surely, he’s a million miles away from the right profile. He’s too scatty and disorganised. He can only just about turn up on the right night for his prize-giving ceremony.’

  ‘It’s not just Andrew, we’re interviewing more people connected with the demonstration and anti-abortion groups.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Got to go.’

  He gave me a quick wave and left.

  I suddenly realised I’d been playing at being bright and breezy and now I was alone, tiredness made my body slump. I was tempted to go back to bed. I slipped off the dressing gown, slid under the duvet and was about to close my eyes when something we’d just talked about started niggling at me, like a finger prodding at my shoulder. Phrases began replaying in my mind like a stuck record. Then it hit me. I kicked off the duvet and reached for my private phone; the one Brad had lent me that wasn’t tapped.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell them?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know. They didn’t ask directly.’ Andrew’s voice was slow with sleep, but he didn’t sound like he had a hangover.

  ‘I’m going to tell the police. It’s not fair them hounding you.’

  ‘Do what you like, Jules, I’m going back to sleep.’

  I knew Brad was probably in the car on his way to the briefing, but at least I could leave a message. Ten minutes later, the Cagney and Lacey theme burst through the silence.

  ‘I realised something important after you left,’ I said.

  ‘Go ahead.’ I could hear the jangle of phones ringing in the background.

  ‘Andrew can’t drive.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘Well, it can’t be him, can it? He hasn’t got a car. And, he doesn’t drive.’

  ‘Yeah - but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t with someone who does. There could be two people in this together.’

  I heard my voice fall flat. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ There was an awkward hiatus. ‘There’s something else,’ I said, tightly. ‘You said the footprint you found at one of the bridges had no tread - so it can’t be Andrew. He lives in trainers. Even used to try and sleep in them.’

  He didn’t sound convinced.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and considered the fact that Charles Fin and Andrew were both back in the picture. In my view, neither of them fitted the profile which meant one thing. The real killer was still out there and the police hadn’t got anywhere near him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I saw the first name on my list of appointments that day, it sapped what little get-up-and-go I had left. The sessions with Lynn Jessop weren’t going anywhere and I was tempted to consider bringing them to a close.

  True to form, Lynn launched into another diatribe about how bad the week had been and how upset she was about Billy, before I’d even closed the door. Maybe the most useful part for her was being able to off-load. Sometimes that was enough for people, especially when they’d exhausted all their friends, having repeated the same woes, time and time again. Not that Lynn seemed to have many friends. Strange woman.

  Since our last session, I’d done some homework and consulted Richard, my supervisor. He’d been overseeing my work at Holistica since I came to London and I trusted him completely. Every therapist has to have a supervisor, no matter how experienced you are, but Richard never met my clients. He was an invisible presence overseeing my work; a gate-keeper, a third eye making sure I was working ethically and not missing anything obvious.

  He told me more about Münchausen by proxy: a syndrome whereby an adult carer fabricates symptoms or actually causes harm to their child in order to convince others, including medical practitioners, that their child needs medical intervention. He explained how the behaviour was designed to gain sympathy and often a sense of empowerment at maintaining the deception. He warned me that Lynn could be abusing Billy as part of the condition. If that was the case, Lynn’s GP and social services would have to be involved immediately.

  Richard advised me to start suggesting to Lynn that we might need to get other professionals on board and if she refused, the last resort was to breach confidentiality and speak to her GP. In line with common practice, I’d taken down her doctor’s details when we started our sessions, so I knew where to start. I just wasn’t sure yet if I was dealing with compulsive lying, Münchausen by proxy or whether Lynn, in her distress, had simply got her dates mixed up. It was too soon to say and Richard advised me to tread carefully.

  Lynn was still waving her arms around, spittle forming at the corner of her mouth as she ranted about the latest episode of Billy’s bullying.

  ‘I wondered if you had a photograph of Billy, Lynn. I’d like to get more of a sense of him. Perhaps something in your purse?’

  She folded her arms and looked wary. Richard had suggested Lynn’s response might indicate whether Billy actually existed or not. At least we could start ruling things out.

  ‘Why?’ She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘To see who he is. Feel a bit closer to him. A school photo, perhaps?’

  ‘You won’t take them away?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  She reached down to her bag and pulled out a folder. She tipped it out and a bundle of pictures spilled on to the low table between us. I tried not to look surprised.

  ‘How many do you want?’

  I leaned forward and shuffled through them, handling them carefully, respectfully. There must have been about twenty photographs, many of Lynn holding or standing beside a young boy, others of the boy on his own, at different stages from baby age upwards.

  ‘This is a comprehensive collection,’ I said. ‘Which one is the most recent?’

  She moved straight to a six by four portrait showing the boy wearing a blazer and stripy school tie. ‘This one was about two months ago,’ she said. The boy had thin wispy hair just like Lynn’s and looked
awkward posing for the camera. He was averting his eyes away from the lens, but making a brave attempt at a smile. I thought I saw traces of Lynn’s features in his broad nose, wide-set eyes, bulky chin.

  ‘He looks proud, here,’ I said, handing back the photo. ‘When did the bullying start?’

  ‘About six months ago,’ she said. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she added, as if I’d indicated otherwise. One thing was for sure. The boy existed and he certainly looked like he was Lynn’s son. She had a full record of his life in pictures and as she was in so many of the shots herself, it was hard to imagine she’d got hold of pictures belonging to another family.

  ‘Has Billy seen a doctor recently at all? About his injuries from the bullying?’ I wanted to steer us towards the medical side of things. Find out if the boy was fit and well. He certainly looked okay in the latest photo. She sniffed as if I’d started talking about something offensive.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Has he seen a doctor lately, Lynn? It’s quite important.’

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped. She scooped the pictures possessively back into her folder. ‘He had a bad throat a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Would you mind if I had an informal chat with your GP? You gave me his details.’ I was on the edge of my seat, again watching for her response. If she stalled at this point it could indicate she had something to hide.

  She shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Billy’s mostly traumatised, scared, confused - he gets a few bruises, his school bag gets trashed, but he isn’t injured or anything.’

  ‘So, he’s more psychologically affected, than physically?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not unhinged. He’s very bright and he’s got a brilliant memory; he can tell you the half-time score of a football match played two years ago,’ Lynn said. ‘Unlike my daughter who’d forget her own name even if it was pinned to her t-shirt.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ This was new. I’d never heard Lynn mention a daughter before.

  Lynn stiffened, as if she’d said something she wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Yes. I have her pictures in another folder.’ She was about to reach for her bag again, but I put out my hand to stop her.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ I said. I couldn’t help wondering why her daughter hadn’t appeared in any of the other pictures she’d shown me. Perhaps this woman had a fixation on compartmentalising things. It would explain why she hadn’t mentioned her daughter earlier.

  ‘Angela. She’s older.’

  ‘And does Angela have any problems at all?’

  She laughed in a mocking tone, but didn’t answer.

  Our time was up and when she stood up to leave, I had the beginnings of a pounding headache. She came towards me and rested her hand on my shoulder. For a woman who exuded no warmth whatsoever, it took me by surprise.

  ‘You’re looking tired, dear - having a bad week?’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. I’m fine,’ I lied. I couldn’t work out if she was being friendly or sarcastic.

  Her hand lingered a moment. She muttered something about our sessions being helpful. Another thing I found hard to believe. In fact, nothing Lynn had said had dispelled the feeling that she’d led me into a complex maze and left me there not knowing which way to turn. It was hard to feel anything but depleted with an edgy sense of disquiet.

  Jackie came up the path just as I was shutting the front door.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ she said. ‘Have they arrested anyone?’ I shook my head. ‘No more messages, no more attacks?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ I crossed all my fingers. ‘I really hope it’s over.’

  ‘It won’t be, you know, not until they catch him,’ she said, turning away.

  I sighed and returned upstairs.

  The time had come. I took a deep breath and decided I’d put off phoning my parents long enough.

  ‘Listen, I know it’s painful digging up the past, but —’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re fooling around with, Juliet,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not fooling around, Mum.’ For once, I wasn’t going to back down. ‘I’ve been looking into the fire and spoken to the neighbours…and the police —’

  ‘The police?’ She said the word the way most people say paedophile.

  ‘There are unanswered questions. It might not have been an accident.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ I could hear the rubbery thud of water running into a washing-up bowl. ‘I’m getting your father.’ She said it as if I was five and would end up with a sore backside.

  ‘What’s going on?’ His tone was tired, but gentle.

  ‘I just want the truth, Dad. I’ve been looking into the fire again.’

  ‘It’s difficult for your mother.’

  ‘I know, but I need to know. I think we all do.’ He didn’t say anything so I carried on. ‘I managed to get hold of the original police report and there are serious questions. About why the fire spread so quickly and how it started. You remember I asked you over the phone if you’d left the windows open?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. And I remember that night in great detail and I know for certain that I didn’t open any. None of us did.’

  ‘Mr Knightly from next door - he said the windows were open.’

  ‘Did he?’ I heard him take a wheezy breath. ‘Just hold on a minute.’

  A few quiet words were exchanged and then what sounded like a door was closed. He came back. ‘There was a power-cut,’ he said. ‘We’d been over at Aunt Libby’s that afternoon. Got back around sixish. Your mum was in the middle of cooking and everything went off: the lights, the kitchen appliances…the heating, too, as the gas boiler needed electricity to keep it going.’ He sounded out of breath. ‘I reset the trip switch, but it went off again, so I called the emergency number. They couldn’t get anyone out to us until the next day. It was Luke’s idea to go to the cinema - Back to the Future, I think it was.’

  The words DeLorean and flux capacitor popped into my head. Yes - he was right.

  ‘Your mother thinks it was all her fault. A police officer came to the house a few days after the fire and told us that a tea-towel had been left on the oven. He said that oven rings had been left on overnight and that it was the most likely cause.’

  ‘That’s what it said in the police report. Poor Mum.’

  ‘She swears she didn’t do it, but when the power goes off, you forget what’s been left switched on…’

  ‘It’s an easy mistake - it explains why she’s been so cagey about my enquiries.’

  ‘She didn’t want it to be common knowledge that it was her fault. She’s felt bad enough as it is.’ He paused. ‘There’s something, though, that she doesn’t know…’

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘Your mother needed to get away from the house for a few days, so she went to stay with Aunt Libby. The police came back when your mother was away and said they’d found traces of kerosene barbecue firelighters and camping stove fuel, both highly flammable substances, right beside the oven.’

  ‘Really?’ Cheryl’s words leapt into my mind.

  ‘I didn’t put them there of course, but we certainly kept those substances…in the shed. I asked you at the time if you’d brought them into the kitchen for any reason.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’ I was trying to recall what it was like being twelve and having that dazed foggy feeling that hung around me after the fire.

  ‘You said you hadn’t.’ I bit my lip. ‘Luke and I had been hoping to take the campervan over to the Lake District for a few days. Crazy at that time of year, but Luke wanted to climb Scafell Pike in the snow…’ There was a long gap and I wondered if he was fighting back tears. ‘I didn’t ever want Luke to be blamed, but he must have been the one who brought the flammable containers into the kitchen. Silly boy…’ He blew his nose. ‘I didn’t ever tell your mother,’ he said. ‘She never knew.’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘You mustn’t tell her. It would break her heart. She knows the facts point to the fire starting because of her
absentmindedness. She doesn’t need to know her son compounded it by leaving dangerous substances nearby.’

  ‘I won’t say anything.’ I took a moment. ‘But it still doesn’t explain the open windows…’

  ‘Mr Knightly must be a doddery old chap by now. He must have got it wrong.’

  It wasn’t only Mr Knightly, though, I thought. I didn’t want to mention how convinced Cheryl had been about it. I wasn’t sure that would hold any sway with my father.

  I heard my mother’s voice call him. ‘Hold on…’ he said.

  I still wasn’t convinced. Call it that sixth sense again, but it still didn’t feel right. Mum was always so careful and Dad said she didn’t remember leaving the cooker on or draping a tea-towel over it. The thing is, I’d never ever known her do such a thing. It’s like suggesting that a resolute vegetarian popped into the butchers one morning for a tasty piece of steak.

  No one knew for certain, either, whether it was Luke who had brought the containers in from the shed. Surely, Luke, even at sixteen, had more nous than to leave flammable substances by the oven?

  When my father came back on the phone, I asked him one final question.

  ‘Was the shed always kept locked?’

  He took his time and that in itself was the answer I needed.

  ‘Mostly,’ he said. ‘There was a padlock, but if I was going in and out a lot; getting tools, tidying up and so on, I used to leave the padlock in place, but not snap it shut. That day? I don’t know.’

  I heard his breathing quicken.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘Luke wasn’t…he wasn’t perfect…’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ He made a little whining sound. It made me think he wasn’t simply making a general comment; he was referring to something specific. Was it about the fire? Was it about something else?

  ‘What do you mean, Dad?’

  ‘Luke…he…’

  I waited. There was a crackle on the line.

  ‘What did you say?’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  I didn’t move, hoping he’d change his mind, but he said his farewells and rang off. I didn’t want to burden him by saying just how much I missed them both. Especially the familiar comfort of my father’s hugs, the dusty smell of his pullovers. But, thinking about it then, I realised that more than that I missed how it used to be before Luke died. There was a deep gully carved in my mind separating the days with Luke and the days without him. Like two parallel motorways that could never join up. Two different lifetimes. When Luke suddenly left us, it stole a huge slice of my father’s sense of fun and made my mother edgy and tight. I don’t know how that happened. I did, though, know one thing for sure. I wasn’t going to let this drop until I’d got to the bottom of it.