Tell Me Your Secret Read online

  ‘OK. Look, there’s something else that we’re not going to release to the press but I am telling you. We believe he’s not simply hunting down the women who survived last time and killing them – we now have reason to believe that he is searching for one particular woman and he is killing to get her attention.’

  ‘What?’ I’m trying to swallow but I can’t. My throat has closed over. My heart has stopped beating. ‘Why?’

  This room is too small. The air in here is stale, old, not fit for human consumption. I need to get out of here.

  ‘He left his DNA behind. This is the one and only time, as far as we can tell. He is meticulous, so careful never to leave a trace. But we think with this one woman, he left his DNA behind, we’re not sure why.’

  ‘How do you know he left his DNA behind?’ I really need to get out of here. Escape. Go somewhere I can breathe, can get my heart to start beating.

  ‘Because she had his child.’

  ‘He knows that?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I lift my hand to run it through my hair, which I’m wearing loose today, and realise I’m shaking, trembling, so I have to lower my arm again.

  ‘I think he’s looking for her and his child. And I think he’s going to kill as many women as necessary until he finds you.’

  My body stills, my mind stills, my blood stills.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it, Pieta? You’re the woman he’s looking for. You’re the woman who had his baby.’

  My fingers look odd, underlined as they are by the edge of my armwarmers. They peek out from the sleeves of my jacket. I originally started to wear armwarmers for the colours, for the warmth, but very soon, I wore them because they brought me comfort. I stare at my underlined hands, at their creases and bumps and scars. I stare into the chasm of my life, its triumphs and losses and complications.

  I don’t know what she expects me to say. How I’m supposed to react. Part of me wants to disintegrate into tears. To finally let go of the secret that has kept me frozen for over ten years. Part of me wants to swear at her, lie and tell her to stay away from me. Part of me wants to admit it and ask her how she can help me. Because things have become all the more terrifying now he is after one person. After me.

  ‘Why do you think it’s me?’

  ‘I worked it out. From the missing person’s report, the way you interviewed Callie, the way you react as though none of this is new – horrific, yes, but not new. And when I found out you’d had a son nine months after you disappeared for that weekend, I realised I was right. You’re one of The Blindfolder’s victims and you’re the one who had his child.’

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say,’ I reply.

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘What do you want, Detective?’

  ‘Your son’s DNA.’

  My laughter is like an explosion – short but loud. ‘You are hilarious,’ I reply. ‘You are absolutely hilarious.’

  She slams her hands down on the desk, leans forward in her seat. She is tired, the dark circles under her eyes are pronounced, exaggerated. She is angry, the lines around her mouth are stretched back as they form wrathful words. ‘You think murder is funny? You think the deaths of all these women, the brutalisation of more, is hilarious?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘You can stop all this. You can end all of this. You just need to let us DNA test your son.’

  My head is shaking and my body is moving, I am standing and I am leaving. ‘No. That’s all there is to it. No.’

  DI Foster darts out of her seat and is standing in front of the door before I have got very far.

  ‘You can stop any more women being killed.’ She points to the wall of faces, of women who I could have been. ‘You can get justice for what so many other women went through. For what you went through.’

  ‘Can you move please, Detective? I’d like to leave now.’

  ‘Pieta, Pieta, come on, just think about this,’ she says suddenly placatory. ‘Just think for a moment. It’s a non-invasive test. Really quick, easy. It won’t hurt him at all.’

  It won’t hurt him? Is she joking? ‘I’d like to leave now.’

  ‘This is the game-changer we need. We have nothing else. Nothing. He doesn’t leave anything behind. I don’t know why he didn’t use a condom with you. But this is his one mistake. And mistakes are how we catch people. I wouldn’t be asking if we weren’t desperate. But please. Please can you help us?’

  If it was anything else, I would. I honestly would. But not this. ‘I need to leave. I need to go home now. Can you please move?’

  ‘WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME?’ she screams at me. She isn’t merely angry and shouting, she is hurting, she is expelling all of that pain outwards at me. I can tell by the way every sinew in her neck, her face, her body is stretched to its limit. ‘WHY?’

  I take a step back. I can’t take this. I can’t take on this kind of fury. It’s more than just frustration, indignation and outrage – it is hurt, a very real, very deep soul wound. I take another step back and butt against the desk. I can’t take it and I can’t be around it. I need to get out of here.

  My sudden panic, my desperate need for flight, must filter through to her because she stops. Her body calms down, her face returns to normal and she puts distance between us, wheeling on her heels and moving to the other side of her small office.

  ‘He’s a rapist, he’s a murderer, why wouldn’t you do everything in your power to help us catch him? And it literally is within your power to help us identify him. Why wouldn’t you do that?’

  ‘Why?’ I reply. I want to scream at her. I want her to see that inside me rages the sea. Inside me is a gulf of confusion and terror and anger and agony and shock and sadness and fear and deep, deep sorrow. I never wanted any of this. I was dealt this hand and I have played it to the best of my abilities. ‘Why would I? That is the question you should be asking. If I come forward, if I allow you to do the DNA test and it comes out who he is, my life as I know it is over. Over.

  ‘I’ll have to tell my family, my friends, my colleagues before the news leaks out. I have to tell them that . . . tell them what happened to me.’ My fingers tremble at the thought of it. ‘That I was . . . And then, I know what will happen. I will become the poster child for the anti-choicers. They’ll use my story to further their ideas that abortion is wrong under any circumstances. “Look,” they’ll say, “he was a murderer, a rapist, a torturer and she still had his baby.” They won’t listen or try to understand that I was too terrified to get help. That I didn’t even know I was pregnant because my periods have been so messed up pretty much all my life. That I was so scared that if I tried to get an abortion, I’d have to tell someone even a fraction of what had happened, and I couldn’t stand to even think the words let alone say them. They’ll say that women can’t get pregnant from real rape. They’ll say – whether I knew it or not – I am one of them. I don’t want those people to use me or Kobi to control and diminish other women. I don’t even want my name in their mouths.’

  ‘We would protect you, conceal your identity, no one would ever have to know.’

  ‘And how do I protect my identity from my son?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I do this, and then it’s out there that my son’s father is a killer. And he will find that out. I can’t stand the thought of him knowing. Of him knowing that half the blood that flows through his veins comes from someone like the man who did that to me.’

  ‘You can’t protect him forever.’

  ‘No, I can’t. But what about protecting him now?’ I point my finger at her. ‘Because once you type that DNA into your computer, if it gives you a name, you’ll have to tell him how you found him, won’t you?’

  From the look on her face, I can see that DI Foster has got there. She’s finally got there, where I have been for ten years. She steps back and rests lightly against the glass wall, her face haughty and haunted.

  ‘And on
ce you tell him, once he knows, that means he’ll have definite proof of paternity. That means he’ll be able to demand contact with my son. Because the courts won’t care what he did to me, what he did to those other women, they will just say my child has a right to a relationship with his father. And, besides, they’ll say, if he’s in prison, he won’t be able to harm anyone but he will be able to get visits from my child. And if the court decrees it, that means the police – you – will have to make sure I comply.’

  She has deflated a little with every word. This is the bit that she can understand, all the other things that have kept me trapped and frozen don’t matter to her, but this, this shows she and the rest of the police will have to side with a murderer so he can get what he wants.

  ‘You don’t know he’d want contact,’ she eventually mumbles.

  ‘The man tortures, controls and kills people, how else is he going to get his kicks from prison? Legally, too.

  ‘DI Foster, I have thought about it. It’s always on my mind. For ten years this has been on my mind – what if he finds out and comes for my baby? I’m not as worried for me as I have always been for Kobi.’

  ‘I can understand all that. I honestly can. But Pieta, he’s coming for you, either way. He is looking for you. He’s looking for his son.’

  ‘Kobi is not his son. He is mine.’

  ‘Yes, yes, sorry, I’m sorry. But you know what I mean. He is coming for you, Pieta. And on the sixth Monday, there will either be another victim of The Blindfolder dead, or he will have you. If you don’t help me, I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect you.’

  ‘I don’t need your protection. Not if it comes with conditions.’

  ‘It doesn’t, it absolutely doesn’t. Look, let me take you both into protective custody—’

  ‘I don’t think so. We’re fine.’ I strengthen my voice. ‘I’d like to leave now.’

  Reluctantly, she steps aside, allows me access to the only escape route in this room. ‘Pieta, I don’t want you to end up on my board.’

  I turn to her before I completely leave. ‘Neither do I, Detective. And I can promise you, there is no one on Earth more focused on making sure that doesn’t happen than me.’

  Jody

  Saturday, 29 June

  I’ve come to apologise. See? I can do the right thing.

  I knock on her door and wait for her to answer.

  ‘I’ve come to apologise,’ I state before she can speak.

  ‘There’s no need,’ she replies. Her colours are off the scale today. Most of them fluorescent and not a match. Looking at her for too long could probably cause a headache, it’ll definitely make everything swim. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if this was the point of how she’s dressed – she wants to deter people from looking at her, become anonymous, hide right before your eyes.

  ‘Yes, there is. I behaved appallingly. Especially since I know what you went through.’ I produce the bunch of flowers I bought. I had them specially combined, as many colours as possible. Her face wrinkles into a smile; I did the right thing bringing her a floral rainbow. ‘I brought these for you, to apologise.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I know your editor wants your article to go ASAP, so I’m here to discuss with you the appeal bit. How we can make it more comprehensive than the one we’re going to put out tomorrow. I was also hoping you wouldn’t mind giving me a sneak peek of your article?’

  ‘I can’t do that. You might decide to censor it or pull it.’

  ‘I thought you might say something like that, but I was hoping to win you round. Ho-hum. Can we discuss the appeal bit? We’re doing it first thing on Monday morning, and then your article will come out a few days after.’

  She is still wary of me, despite taking the flowers. I don’t blame her. I did behave appallingly. I couldn’t keep it in any longer, though. There is so much inside, so much bubbling and broiling that I couldn’t control it.

  ‘It won’t take long. And I’m aware I delayed the article last week, so I don’t want to hold you up any longer.’

  This makes her step aside to allow me to enter. ‘I really am sorry,’ I say to her as I lead the way down the corridor. ‘I was about to say I don’t know what came over me, but I do. It’s the utter frustration. None of which is your fault or problem.’

  She shows me into the living room and says she’ll get her laptop. The TV is on mute, and a large, shaded standing lamp in the corner casts an amber glow throughout the room. I stand there, feeling uncomfortable, making the place look messy.

  I wonder what she was doing before I knocked. The TV is showing a drama that I had been trying to follow a couple of weeks ago, a half-drunk glass of water sits on the side table by the sofa. I’m purposefully not looking at the photos on the windowsill. I feel wretched that I asked her. I do not need to be reminded that the little boy I was trying to get DNA from is a real person. One whose whole life could be wrecked by me.

  ‘Here we go,’ she says on her return. She seems taken aback that I’m still standing. ‘You can sit down.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t like to presume.’

  ‘Did you think I’d make you stand while I type or something? Is that how I come off to you?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. No. I suppose I wouldn’t like it if someone did it to me, so I’m mindful of doing it to other people.’

  A look flitters across her face, as though she is taken aback by this. ‘I see.’ She waves her hand around her seating. ‘Well, take a seat. Anywhere you fancy.’

  I sit on the part of the sofa furthest from the windowsill of happy memories and she places her laptop on the coffee table. ‘Do you want a glass of wine or something?’

  ‘No, no, despite how it might seem, I’m still on duty. I just need to get this done and then I can get off home. Wouldn’t say no to a coffee, though.’

  ‘Coffee it is. How do you take it?’

  ‘Black, two sugars.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  I sit in this seat for as long as I can. I can’t stay here, in her cocoon-like home, which smells and looks and feels like my idea of heaven. This is what I thought Winston and I would have: comfy home, child asleep somewhere in the house. I leave the living room and stand in the corridor. It really is huge. As well as the pictures and artwork on display, there’s a bank of cupboards, which houses coats, I assume, and a shoe rack that holds their shoes. I’m guessing, since going right leads to the cupboards and the front door, going left is towards the kitchen. I head back towards the front door and kick off my shoes, which I should have done when I arrived. I expect everyone to do it in my house so I’m not sure why I didn’t do it this time.

  ‘Actually,’ I say to Pieta in the kitchen, making her jump.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ she says, clinging on to the worktop.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I was just coming to say, do you have herbal tea? I shouldn’t drink coffee. It’s bad for me. I love it, but it’s bad for me.’

  ‘Peppermint, OK?’

  ‘Perfect. Well, not perfect. I’d rather the coffee but it’ll do in the face of trying to do things that are good for me. For once.’

  I sip the tea while I give her the appeal information she needs to add to her article. It doesn’t take long, but by the end of it, I feel like staying. I feel like sitting back, curling my feet up under me and asking for that glass of wine.

  At the door, I’m about to leave when I stop and say to her, ‘I really am sorry for the way I behaved yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you for saying that,’ she says. She doesn’t say it’s OK, I notice that. She doesn’t give me a pass, but she is gracious in accepting the apology.

  Honestly, I’m sure if the universe hadn’t messed up with putting us together in this way we could have been friends. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll have any reason to be in touch after this,’ I say. ‘Unless, of course, you change your mind about what we were talking about yesterday. I mean, the appeal is for women to come forward.’

  �
��Let me know if you want me to write a follow-up piece after the appeal goes out,’ she replies, formal and cold now.

  ‘I will. I will.’

  Yes, all right, I shouldn’t have done it.

  But you know what I went there for. I’m sure she’ll have known, too. I mean, we all know I could have given her the appeal specifics over the phone so we all know I was there to get her son’s DNA.

  I found a few hairs, a couple with their white bulbs attached, snagged into the shiny black lining of his school hat.

  I’m not saying I’m going to get them tested. Yet. I just need to see how this appeal pans out. I’m hoping it will get women who were taken by The Blindfolder to reveal themselves before the next sixth Monday. Before 22nd July. Otherwise, another one of them is going to end up dead in a Brighton park.

  But if the appeal and article don’t work then I’ll have to get the DNA tested. I’ll have to. It could be the only way to save other women’s lives. And I know that, deep down, saving lives is what Pieta Rawlings wants, too.

  Jody

  Monday, 1 July

  Serial Rapist & Killer: London and Sussex

  Police Appeal for Help

  By Pieta Rawlings

  Sussex Police are appealing for anyone who may have been the victim of a serial rapist who calls himself The Blindfolder to come forward. The detectives in charge of the case say they believe the man has been operating in the London area for over twelve years but has recently moved his focus to Brighton.

  The man is known to snatch women from outside late-night bars and clubs in various areas of London, blindfold them and hold them for 48 hours, during which time he sexually assaults and tortures them.

  The lead detective in the case, Detective Chief Inspector Nugent, said, ‘We know this man has been attacking women since at least 2006, but we have reason to believe he may have started before that. We’re appealing for those who think they may have encountered this individual or who were subject to an attempted abduction to contact us as a matter of urgency.’