Tell Me Your Secret Read online

  The police believe that The Blindfolder may have escalated to murdering his past victims in recent months. DCI Nugent added: ‘It’s imperative that any women who have been abducted and abused by this man contact us. We are prepared to do whatever it takes to protect the women who have fallen victim to him, but we do need them to identify themselves.

  ‘If you recognise any of the details of this crime and believe yourself or someone you know to have been a victim of this man, do contact us.’

  The appeal is being made after six women, all believed to be previous victims of The Blindfolder, have been found murdered in London and Brighton.

  If you think you might have been a victim of The Blindfolder, contact Sussex Police on the numbers listed below.

  To read more about The Blindfolder, pick up a copy of our magazine BN Sussex this Thursday, where we have an exclusive interview with one of his most recent victims.

  I can tell which bits Pieta Rawlings wrote and which bits were added by an over-zealous editor. But it’s of no consequence. It will do the job. Which will, of course, bring me a whole new set of problems. Mainly, of course, too much information.

  Some officers like appeals and they go out of their way to get them done as soon as possible. I hate them. I always prefer to get as much info together as possible before we invite in a lot of leads, most of which will, ultimately, take us nowhere.

  I toss the paper onto the table before I grab my notebook and head out into the briefing room. Might as well get this done now before the phones start ringing relentlessly.

  Pieta

  Monday, 8 July

  Today is one of those days.

  I guess I was owed. I’ve had a good run recently, have been so fine and balanced and buoyant for weeks, no, months, that I’d almost forgotten what it was like.

  I know the moment I open my eyes that the coming hours are going to be the longest – stretched and overextended; the approaching minutes will be overburdened with an oppressive and crushing atmosphere; the impending seconds will be filled by the blinding, stark solitude of bright, white light.

  The bright colours won’t work; the grasping the strands of who I am and wrenching myself together won’t take; the keeping calm and carrying on will bounce off with barely a scratch.

  It’s Callie.

  It’s The During.

  It’s The After.

  It’s the hormones that are bringing me to menopause or keeping me mired in perimenopause.

  It’s the endometriosis that physically ravages different parts of my body and has come back twice despite being excised.

  It’s the article, the response to it, the emails from other women jamming up my inbox wanting to tell their story. I read them all and I am punctured by every one of them. I know how they feel. I know how they cope or they don’t cope. And it’s too much.

  It’s Lillian, wanting me to do a follow-up now the story is out there and being syndicated and getting BN Sussex the attention Lillian craves.

  It’s DI Foster asking me for Kobi’s DNA. It’s knowing that I can’t give it to her without her wrecking my life and Kobi’s life but at the same time knowing that if I don’t, other women could die. I’m already responsible if he really is killing to get my attention; my refusal to help via DNA will just add to my culpability.

  It’s knowing that it’s probably only a matter of time until The Blindfolder finds me. He has my name, it’s not that hard to find me in general. I leave work every day checking to see I am not being followed, on edge for every second of every moment.

  It’s knowing that I will have to leave everything behind and not knowing where Kobi and I will have to go next, not knowing if we’ll ever be able to settle again.

  It’s the perfect storm of my life that brings me here.

  For Kobi, I drag my unwilling, uncooperative body out of bed. I shower in water that feels like a hundred thousand spikes brutalising and penetrating my skin. I switch on the radio like normal, even though the sound of it is like sandpaper rasped across each nerve in my head. I flip an egg to make it the ideal combination of cooked and dippy, even though the stench of it keeps me on the very edge of vomiting.

  Every sense is heightened, over-sensitised, raw.

  For Kobi, I walk him to school, listening to and smiling at his re-enactments of every pass, tackle and goal from last Friday’s playground match; I nod and grin and say hi to the parents who are my friends and acquaintances and just familiar faces.

  For me, I walk home to pick up my car. I unlock the doors, climb in, then sit because I want to crawl back into bed. I want to hide from the world.

  For me, I sit in my car, I stare straight ahead and I claw at my forearms over my sleeves so no marks will show, while trying to swallow the sadness before it engulfs me.

  Claw, claw, claw.

  Every moment is agony.

  Each instant is a glimpse into the horror inside.

  Claw, claw, claw.

  I need to scream so loudly, so noisily, so piercingly, every millimetre of the world will hear and understand what this is.

  I long to curl up so tight, so tiny, that I disappear.

  Claw, claw, claw.

  I have to go out there and be the Pieta Rawlings everyone knows. I have to smile, I have to talk, I have to appease my boss, excel at my job, I have to come home to my son, I have to take care of my life like normal.

  Claw, claw, claw.

  It’s been deferred for a long time, but today is one of those days.

  I guess I was owed.

  Jody

  Wednesday, 10 July

  I have less than two weeks left. I have less than a fortnight until another body turns up in a Brighton park. We could get people to watch the parks, but what about the Downs? The countryside area that is slung around Sussex like a luscious green stole is vast and we don’t have enough officers to cover that. We actually don’t have enough officers to cover the other parks in Brighton.

  I have less than two weeks left, and every day for about a week or so now, I have been getting this little plastic bag out and staring at it. Staring at it, watching it, thinking on it. Ruminating, pondering, vacillating.

  The article has been positive, much more than I thought it would be. There have been many phone calls, and some are proper leads, but nothing that has led us right to his door. Nothing that has been forensic enough for us to link to any one individual – which is unusual as we usually have at least one suspect by now. But the reality is, everything is slow. Much slower than anyone wants it to be, but checking properly is always laborious and time-consuming.

  But even with the new potential leads and information about a series of break-ins that could point to where the hard-to-source Sux might have come from, there is nothing that will do what this little bag could do. This little bag of five individual hairs. They could be the key to all of this. It’s really unlikely such a prolific criminal will not be in the system. It’s highly unlikely that entering Kobi Rawlings’ genetic code into the national computer will not produce the name of The Blindfolder.

  I have to do it, don’t I?

  The clock is ticking, counting down until the sixth Monday when the next woman will be found.

  I look up, and catch a glimpse of them reflected in the glass of my office wall. Harlow, Shania, Freya, Bess, Gisele, Robyn, Sandy, Jolene standing together, smiling, laughing, sharing a joke. They could be a group of friends; they should be out there right now doing this with their actual friends. And soon another woman will be added to them.

  I don’t know what to do.

  The old me, the me who has been hunting this man for thirteen years, would have had this analysed and entered into the Police National Computer within hours of leaving Pieta’s house, no question. But I have got to know Callie, I have got to know Pieta Rawlings, kind of. And I have remembered the words of Jovie: open your eyes. Open your eyes and see how what you do can devastate another person’s life. Open your eyes and see how not doing this could en
d up killing someone.

  Laura comes to my door, knocking briefly before she opens it wider. I hide the bag away under a file. No one knows I have this, no one knows about Pieta Rawlings.

  ‘Come in . . .’ My voice dribbles away when I see her face. She’s pale, she’s trembling and she looks absolutely terrified. I’m on my feet before I have a chance to think about it. I am on my feet and grabbing my coat, grabbing my bag, ready to dash out. ‘What is it?’ I ask as I prepare to run out of the door. ‘What’s happened?’

  I know the answer, I know what she’s going to say: another body. Another woman found murdered. While I sat around being sensitive and thoughtful, he hasn’t stuck to his pattern and another woman has been killed.

  ‘Guv’ . . . it’s . . .’ She stops speaking. Laura can be maddening. Out of everyone out there, I like her the most. She’s empathetic and efficient and says the things no else would dare to. But she also favours dramatic pauses and theatrical retellings and letting her words drain away to create tension. ‘It’s bad. It’s really bad.’

  I drop my bag when she tells me. I have to sit heavily on my desk when she finally speaks. It’s almost as bad as another body. Almost.

  Pieta

  Friday, 12 July

  Pieta, Hello. Now that I don’t have a legitimate reason

  to see you, and you didn’t pick up on my other hints,

  can I ask you out officially? N x

  The Ned Factor.

  I genuinely thought he’d forget all about me once the article was published. He’d come into the office a couple of times before it was released and we’d ended up going around the corner for a coffee. Ashley had raised an eyebrow or two at that, but it was nothing. And I knew I would drop off his radar once he started a new story or assignment with a woman he had to spend time with, which would lead him to believe he had feelings for her. But no, here he is, asking me out officially. He’d hinted at it – asked me if I was around on certain dates, invited me to his boat – all of which I ignored because my head was back in the game of The Blindfolder.

  I really hadn’t prepared myself for the Ned Factor.

  ‘Pieta, two courier packages for you,’ Reggie says before I can tip forwards into untangling the Ned Factor mess along with everything else that is racing through my mind.

  ‘How come you always bring my packages up?’ I ask before he has a chance to scuttle away to his desk. I like Reggie and I want things to be normal between us again. We went straight back to being awkward with each other after he sent me the email about agreeing with what Ned had said about my photos.

  ‘Do you know how many things I get couriered every day? I’m always down in the post room so if something’s there for you, I pick it up.’

  ‘Yeah, but you don’t bring anyone else’s post up.’ I lower my voice to say this because I don’t want to alert the others to my preferential treatment, or encourage Tiffany in trying to get us together.

  He drops his volume to reply, ‘Cos no one else has got Lillian off my back like you have.’

  ‘Fair enough then. Thanks, Reggie.’

  He grins at me. ‘Not a problem.’

  The first package has familiar handwriting and is book-shaped. It’s a book from a publicist who always makes sure I’m on her first run list. I add it to the stack of books on the floor beside my chair. I really need to go through these, I think as I reach for the second package, a white, padded Jiffy bag. The plain label doesn’t have a company logo or anything remarkable to identify it. I almost add it to my to-be-opened pile, but decide against it. Seeing as it was couriered rather than posted, it might have time-sensitive information in it.

  I reach inside and I feel silk. I immediately snatch my hand away. Since . . . since then, the touch of silk makes me queasy, brings back hideous memories.

  Instead, I shake the contents out onto the desk. Out tumble two pieces of paper, and a blue-and-white tie-dyed silk scarf that sits in front of me like a partially coiled deadly snake. I reach first for the small rectangle that is clearly a photograph. I turn it over knowing without knowing who is going to be on the other side: a young boy, about nine or so. He has curly black hair that would be big and wild if his mother didn’t regularly use clippers on it; he has large, brown eyes that most likely came from his mother; he has a small nose that doesn’t match hers; he has a chin shape that probably came from his father; and pink-red lips that his mother has convinced herself come from her.

  I take a deep breath, then another, then another, then another but no air seems to be able to get in; no oxygen seems to be entering my body as I stare at the photo of my son. His hat is askew but his tie is in place, he is staring intently at his mother as she tries to reason with him. Another breath, another breath, trying to get air down past my fast-hurtling heart.

  This can’t be happening.

  Not so soon. I thought I’d have more time, that I’d be able to formulate a plan.

  I swallow hard against the boulder of terror that has blocked up my throat, and stare at the silk scarf. The silk blindfold.

  Slowly, I reach for the thick, white rectangle that also came in the package. I drop it the second after I turn it over, before I even register fully what the four words say:

  See you soon, Pieta.

  Pieta

  Friday, 12 July

  The last time I was here, Detective Inspector Foster shouted at me.

  She wanted my son’s DNA and it enraged her that I wouldn’t let her have it. I’m pretty sure on my way out I’d sworn never to return here; I was never going to set foot here, never going to put myself in the situation where I needed to speak to her. She embodied – whether she could see it or not – the very reasons why I couldn’t tell. I needed to protect Kobi from the world who wouldn’t see my son, but what he stood for. He is the product of rape. That is all anyone would see.

  Some people would think he was something that I shouldn’t have even contemplated giving birth to. How could you do that? they’d ask. When your body was so abused and damaged, how could you consider continuing with the ultimate reminder of that ?

  Some would think that they should have the right, the power to stop me aborting and then disappear into thin air while I had to live with the consequences of bringing up a daily reminder that twice other people have had dominion over what I did with my body.

  Some people would think that I should be willing to do whatever it takes – even using a child – to catch a criminal.

  And some people, people like me, knew that one day I’d have to have that conversation about who his father is, and that I’d rather tell him I had an unwise one-night stand with someone whose name I didn’t even remember, than admit he shares the same bloodline as someone capable of evil.

  I don’t know how finding out his father is a criminal will impact Kobi. He used to talk all the time about becoming a police officer. Originally in the fanciful way of a boy who didn’t understand what the job might entail, then in the specific style of a child who had a strong sense of right and wrong and justice, who wanted to uphold the fairness he found lacking in society.

  When Kobi talked about the punishments the sporty kids were spared at school because their abilities earned them a blind eye being turned, when he saw people parked on double yellows even though it wasn’t allowed, when he commented on people throwing recyclable items in the normal bin, it reminded me that he found bad behaviour, criminal activity, intolerable. Yes, he’d probably find as he grew older that things were never as simple as they seemed, but in the present, I can’t really imagine what finding out he is only here because of a crime would do to his mental balance. Because I’d have to tell him. If I gave DI Foster, the police, his DNA, other people would know. Other people would find out. He, The Blindfolder, would find out. And I would have to have that conversation with my nine-year-old, twenty years before I’d be ready because I couldn’t have everyone else know and him not.

  How would I find the words to do that to my son? The age-
appropriate words are there to explain an absent father, to elucidate a non-existent one, but not to rationalise a rapist, a killer.

  The last time I left here, I swore I would never come here again, and I didn’t think I’d need to. I have no choice now, though. I have to be here, I need to be here to protect Kobi and me. I’ve called the school: Kobi is there, Kobi is safe, they’re not going to release him to anyone except me.

  After I moved to Hove, I didn’t change my name, but I did my best to keep it off everything I could. I told the various people I worked for that I was keeping a low profile from a dangerous ex, so my name was either altered on articles, or listed as ‘staff reporter’. I often took my name off mastheads, and I avoided being public on the electoral roll, haven’t updated my driving licence address, had no social media presence in my name. I basically became as invisible as possible for many years and it was only really when I was promoted at BN Sussex that I allowed them to use my name. Many years had passed and I thought it was over. I thought he wouldn’t still be looking for me. But now . . .

  The incident room is a frenetic, frantic hub of people when I arrive. There are more people than desks, they are talking loudly at each other, some are standing at desks using the phone while another person works on that desk’s computer. I didn’t realise it would be like this in here. It was deserted last time, yes, but now it is over-full, rammed. I’ve been ushered in by a blonde police officer who came out to collect me when the person on reception called her.

  The busy-ness of the place does nothing to alleviate the creeps it gives me. It’s the whole idea of it, all the information about the end of the lives of a group of women is concentrated in this place. All the clues and hints and truths and theories about the rape and torture of a group of women is here. There is stuff about me here. She hasn’t put up my photo or Kobi’s photo, but that doesn’t mean it’s not here somewhere. Once she had that information, I know she would have shared it with these people. She would have made me the victim she believed me to be.