Tell Me Your Secret Page 26

  None of this stuff says survivor, it says victim. It says inevitable end.

  ‘Over there,’ the officer says and points at the glass box office at the back of the room where DI Foster is on her phone, pacing.

  ‘Can I just—’ The officer is gone. Dashing back to her desk, picking up her receiver and punching in digits before my sentence is finished.

  I weave my way through the desks. Everyone seems frenzied, almost anxious. Have they had a breakthrough? Has something happened?

  DI Foster and I lock eyes as I cross the threshold. She hangs up her mobile without saying goodbye.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask her.

  She stares at me, her face set in a way that makes me think, for a moment, she’s going to be completely honest with me; she’s going to tell me everything – not just the stuff she needs to reveal to get me to do what she wants.

  DI Foster folds her arms across her chest. ‘How can I help you?’ she replies. Answering a question with a question, my favourite thing to do when I want to avoid telling someone something.

  I reach into my bag and my fingers close around the envelope. Just before I pull it free, I look around again. There is something unnaturally overwrought about the people in here; panicked, scared. What is going on?

  ‘The . . . The Blindfolder,’ I say. I hate his name. That he gave me his name and I’ve used it. That he still gets to define so much of what happened and happens to me.

  My saying his name has an odd effect on DI Foster – she becomes immobile while terror bolts across her features.

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ I ask. ‘He’s done something. Has he killed someone else?’

  ‘What about him?’ she says, another question to answer a question.

  ‘He’s found me. He’s found Kobi. He’s going to come after me. Us.’ I go to hand her the envelope but she inhales deeply, steps back then falls into her chair. She sits staring into the mid-distance. I’ve never seen her like this, except when she was talking about her infertility. Other than that, she’s always been focused and slightly cold; aloof and professional.

  ‘Detective Foster!’ I snap when she doesn’t respond or move for long seconds.

  She comes out of her reverie and stares at me as though seeing me for the first time. She shakes her head, clearing her mind. She stands up again. ‘It’s Detective Inspector,’ she says. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s Detective Inspector Foster.’

  ‘And that’s important right now?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not. Tell me what makes you think The Blindfolder has found you?’ As she speaks, she keeps looking over my shoulder, outside to the office, as though expecting someone to come running in at any second.

  I hand over the envelope. ‘He sent me this. To my work. I don’t know if that’s because he doesn’t know where I live precisely.’

  She doesn’t take the envelope. ‘Put it on the desk, the less people who touch it the better. Which is probably why he sent it to your work – more people will handle it, skewing the chance to get positive fingerprints or DNA from it.’

  She stares at the package as she asks, ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘A picture of me and Kobi at his school and . . . and a blindfold. And a note about seeing me soon.’

  ‘Where’s your son now?’

  ‘At school.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have someone go and pick him up, and we’ll put you both into witness protection.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I show up and tell you that he’s sent me a note and you’re not even going to investigate, it’s straight into witness protection? Since when have the police just acted on the word of someone? You haven’t even had a chance to look in the envelope. What’s going on? I mean, what’s really going on?’

  She sighs, puts her head on one side, assessing my ability to deal with what she’s about to say.

  ‘Try not to panic,’ she says, which immediately sets everything on edge. ‘He’s taken Callie.’

  Jody

  Friday, 12 July

  I knew I shouldn’t have told her.

  I was trying to avoid it for as long as possible because I knew she would get that exact look of panic and horror on her face, and I knew she’d look around for an exit from my office as well as the situation – and she’d start to back away from me.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ I say to reassure her. Obviously that might be more effective if I hadn’t lost it a minute ago and practically collapsed in my seat like I did. I don’t panic – you know I don’t panic – but this case has got so far under my skin, I’ve been feeling far too much and I can’t seem to keep myself together sometimes.

  And I have been thinking far too much of others before the case. That is near fatal when it comes to police work. You can’t be effective if you can’t at any given moment step back and see the bigger picture; can’t do whatever is needed despite others.

  Those other women are here, in the room with me. Watching me, judging me, making sure I don’t mess up. Callie’s going to be with them soon – she’ll take their place beside them to condemn me.

  I focus on Pieta Rawlings. ‘We’re all working flat out to find her and it shouldn’t be too long before we do and have her safe again. In the meantime, we’ll take care of you and your son.’

  ‘How did he find her?’ she asks.

  I can’t answer that, I just can’t. ‘Where does your son go to school?’

  ‘You don’t know how he found her, do you? You don’t know if he’s one of your officers, if one of them out there is working with him, if someone is leaking info. Hell, it could be that Callie called him herself.’

  ‘There’s no evidence—’

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Whether it’s been confirmed or not, you think she called him, told him where she is so he can come get her.’

  ‘I think she got scared and she called someone she knows, despite being told not to, and The Blindfolder has used that information to find her.’

  ‘I don’t even want to think what he’s doing to her right now,’ Pieta Rawlings says dejectedly, voicing my thoughts.

  ‘Look, we can talk more about this once you and your son are safe.’

  ‘Safe? With you? You think I’m going to entrust our lives to you? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Pieta, we can protect you. Better than anyone else.’

  ‘Tell that to Callie,’ she replies.

  I don’t blame her. If I was her, I wouldn’t trust me right now, either. I’d be taking my child and running as far and fast as I can while The Blindfolder is distracted. No, I would not be allowing the people who so catastrophically messed up to do it again with me.

  ‘We will look after you,’ I tell her. ‘Please, we won’t mess up again.’

  We won’t end up with another officer in the hospital, so badly beaten he’s only a little way from being in a coma. We won’t misjudge and minimise the obvious Stockholm-type connection Callie has to her former abuser.

  ‘Nope, not going to happen,’ Pieta says.

  She practically runs out of the incident room. I can’t stop her because I don’t blame her. I’d be doing exactly the same if I was her. And anyway, the best way to keep her and her son safe is to find The Blindfolder and get Callie back.

  Pieta

  Friday, 12 July

  By the time the taxi pulls up in Chickham, near Chichester, it is nearly dark and Kobi has his head on my shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep. He’s been napping on and off for the last leg of the train journey here and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, too.

  The sun is about to disappear over the horizon so it seems a lot later than it is, the air is cooler than it has been most of today. I take our bags from the boot of the car, then pay the taxi driver.

  ‘Are you sure you want to be dropped off here?’ he asks. I know what he means: it’s mainly grass and greenery around here, the only buildings and houses are out i
n the distance.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. I suppress my usual urge to explain, to let him know that we’ll be all right out here in the almost dark – I have to make sure we leave as obscure a trail as possible. He may be able to tell the police at a later date that yes, he picked up the woman and her child, but he won’t be able to tell them where we went to after that.

  After his lights have disappeared into the distance, Kobi snuggles into me, using my body to prop himself upright, closes his eyes and tries to sleep again. I take a deep breath in and then hold it, suspend myself in time. We really are out here alone. Anxiety stirs at the bottom of my stomach. I know what it’s like to be around a serial killer, I know what it’s like to be his victim, I remind myself. It’s unlikely one will be lurking out here waiting for hapless prey to pass by. Besides, I would have noticed if someone had followed our convoluted route.

  The lights of an approaching vehicle almost blind me, and Kobi growls a little, turning his face into my side to get away from it.

  The car slows down as it nears our position, then comes to a complete stop.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Ned says when he climbs out of the car. He was the only person I could call, the only person I knew who would help me at short notice.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I say, nodding towards Kobi. ‘But later. I think Kobi and I could do with a sit down and something to eat.’

  Ned’s face softens when he looks at my boy. He does look especially cute with his curly hair squashed under his baseball cap, and his barely open eyes (although he would scowl in the utmost displeasure at being told that). ‘Ah, the famous Kobi,’ Ned says. ‘Cool hat, mate. I have one just like it.’

  Kobi’s suddenly able to stand upright, open his eyes and speak. ‘You support Liverpool?’

  ‘And Arsenal, mate. I am a Londoner after all.’

  ‘Me too! Cos my mum’s a Londoner and all my cousins are Arsenal supporters. Apart from the ones in Liverpool.’

  ‘My cousins are in the ’Pool, too,’ Ned replies.

  ‘Maaate,’ Kobi says, like he and Ned are the same age, have the same life experiences and are regularly going down the pub together.

  ‘Maaate,’ Ned replies.

  ‘Can we get in the car before I fall over?’ I interject.

  ‘Sure, sure. Mate, are you going to sit up front? You need to tell me your dream team cos I know it’s all up there in your brain.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Kobi replies. ‘It’s all up there.’

  I left the police station in a panic. By the time I reached the end of the road, though, I’d formulated a plan. I didn’t have time to panic, I had to sort things out or Kobi and I would be dead. It was that simple. I went to the bank and withdrew £1000 in cash, which was the most I could get in one go. Then I stopped off on London Road and bought a pay-as-you-go phone with cash. It was cheap and functional and would do me for the interim.

  I then drove home, packed as much as I could fit into two rucksacks, put them in the boot of my car, which I drove to a road parallel to the school. I had to take a few minutes, calm myself down, force myself to focus on behaving normally when I walked into the school to pick up Kobi. I focused on playing the part of Pieta Rawlings, mother. I’d had so much experience of it, so many years of pretending I was like everyone else, so I was able to engage with the other parents, wish people a good weekend, say we’d arrange reciprocal playdates soon. All the while I was saying goodbye to them in my mind. I didn’t know when – if – I would see them again. We were leaving and we wouldn’t be back until the danger had passed. Whenever that may be.

  As we went to collect our rucksacks, I told Kobi we were going to stay with a friend of mine for the night, possibly the weekend. He’d been fine with that until I told him the journey there entailed a train ride to London and then a train ride to Chickham.

  When we arrived in Victoria to change trains, I’d made him change his jacket and cap and I did the same, to throw off the CCTV. I also pushed our rucksacks into holdalls I’d brought with me for the same reason.

  After I left the police station, I’d also texted Ned and asked him for his help. I said I was in danger because of the story and would he be able to meet me somewhere with his boat as I knew it’d be harder for them to find us on it. He’d called me back a while later and said to meet him near Chickham where he could get moorings at short notice.

  Kobi is finally asleep.

  He and Ned took to each other as though they had been friends for a lifetime. While Ned baked pizza and put together a salad, they had talked non-stop about football. Their chatter had been a pleasant, soporific backdrop to my racing mind. I was trying to think of what to do next, and trying not to think about what was happening to Callie and trying to stay calm and normal so Kobi wouldn’t be any more suspicious than he was.

  My child was fizzing with excitement when we rolled up to Chickham Marina. ‘You really live on a boat?’ he kept asking Ned. ‘All the time? That is so cool.’

  He’d inspected every part of the boat, and had been impressed with everything, but when he saw his cabin, he’d almost backflipped with joy. For a child who has a bedroom four times the size of a cabin that is only really big enough for a wooden bed, a flip down table and hanging rail, I was surprised at how happy he was.

  He’d saluted Ned before he went to get changed for bed. ‘I don’t mind the long journey now, Mum,’ he told me in the hollow of a huge yawn. ‘It was worth it.’

  Ned is outside on the upper deck, leaning over the railings, staring off into the distance when I approach. I bring up the video baby monitor that I packed – I wanted my eyes on Kobi at all times and this was the best way to do it without sitting over him, especially while he slept.

  It’s dark now but you can still make out the outline of the estuary and the sea beyond. This area is only thirty miles from where we live, I could have driven it in under an hour, but I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to follow us and for the police to locate us.

  Chickham Marina is nothing like Brighton Marina, which seems to keep buzzing late into the night. Here, things are a little more sedate. There is a large brown, wooden-slatted building with an orange tiled roof right on the jetty. The boats are berthed in a trident shape that looks out onto the large estuary where the sea comes in, and we’re surrounded on three sides by lush, green countryside.

  It’s so quiet: as close to silence as I think you can get in a place teeming with people. I make my way across the deck of the boat until I am standing beside Ned. He’s holding a beer bottle in his hand and he offers it without looking at me.

  Without thinking, I take it. The brown bottle is heavy since it is almost full. I’m tempted to gulp it down in one go, to feel the warm buzz of alcohol as it spreads out through my veins and numbs everything away. I need a clear head, though. I need to be able to think. I swig a couple of times and hand it back.

  ‘I’ve berthed here a couple of times,’ he says. ‘It’s not really me, though. Plus it’s a pain trying to get to London quickly if I’ve got a job.’

  ‘Well, thank you for coming here at such short notice,’ I reply.

  I lean beside him and stare at the coastline. Apart from the view, you can hardly tell you’re on a boat: it doesn’t move much, the water doesn’t make that much noise.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  Where do I start? What do I say? How do I explain the inexplicable?

  He turns his head to look at me, waiting for an answer.

  It’s not warm, so I’ve wrapped my large, grey cardigan around me. I shed it, ignoring the way it pools at my feet. I lift my pink T-shirt and drop that onto my cardigan.

  His face asks what I’m doing, but his mouth doesn’t. He just watches as though I am speaking. If he suspects, he doesn’t show it. I’m not like Callie; I am not defiant and angry and trying to make a point. I am scared and ashamed and using this because it’s quicker than words.

  I
don’t take off my vest. I always wear thigh-length vests no matter the weather because I don’t want anyone to even accidentally see my scar. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never shown someone the way I have been marked; physically as well as mentally altered. Slowly, I lift the vest to my middle and then even slower, because I have to order my legs several times to move, I rotate my body until I have my back to him.

  Until I show him.

  In that moment, I reveal The Blindfolder’s work on the canvas of my skin. What he did to me to make sure I would be for ever his.

  ‘Oh, Pieta,’ Ned breathes.

  Number 25.

  My designation, my place in The Blindfolder’s story.

  I hardly ever look at it, even though I’m always aware that it’s there. It is a mottling of light brown and beige against the dark brown of my skin. It is shiny, and uneven and painful-looking. It is clear and defined and I hate it. I hate it more than anything else.

  Everything else I can pretend away. But not this. Not this aberration. I have other scars: from my shoulder surgery, from my keyhole surgery, from falling over, from accidentally burning myself. I have other marks and disfigurements and every single one of them is fine – a part of who I am, part of the physical biography of how I relate to the world. This scar, this brand, was done to me. This was forced on me. And whenever it tugs, whenever it twinges, whenever I suddenly remember it’s there, it hurts. Not the pain of the metal melting my skin, not the inerasable, pungent smell of my burning flesh, but the unrelenting, searing agony of remembering.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ned says, his voice catching on the last word. ‘I’m so very, very sorry. I had no idea.’

  I pull down my vest, put my T-shirt back on, re-swathe myself in my cardigan. I take the beer out of Ned’s hand and put it to my lips. ‘So now you know,’ I state and gulp down half the bottle in one go.