The Good Samaritan
Page 68
In an autopsy, the contents of her stomach would reveal she’d been drugged, but she ate so much and so frequently it’d be hard to tell how they’d got into her system. And as everyone knew, she refused to eat my glutinous pastries. So I’d be safe.
Outside in the yard, they’d find a screwed-up photograph of me that I’d torn from the walls the night I went to ‘Steven’s’ cottage. In a panic, I’d stuffed some into my pockets before he confronted me. I hoped it might be covered in Ryan’s fingerprints and an invisible tracking code linked to the serial number of his printer – or, even better, his prints on the adhesive tape. It wouldn’t contain mine, though. I’d worn gloves.
Ryan’s vendettas against me, End of the Line and Effie were already on record with the police and the school. Judging by the number of Facebook likes and shares my posts had received, hundreds of people across the community had watched the video of him breaking into my house and witnessed how violent he was. And there was proof in the diary that he’d made an appointment to see Janine this afternoon.
Ryan and Janine. Two birds killed with the same stone. Well, the same hammer.
I became excited when my phone began to vibrate, but it was Effie’s name that appeared on the screen.
‘Hi, darling, I’m expecting an important call. Can I give you a ring later?’
‘How could you, Mum?’ she sobbed. ‘Everyone at school knows I made that recording. They all hate me and say I had sex with Mr Smith. They’re calling me a slag and saying I led him on.’
‘Ignore them, darling. In situations like this, it’s always the woman who gets the blame.’
‘But I am to blame, aren’t I?’
‘It’s not as simple as that, Effie. There are things you’re too young to understand, things that he’s done that we can’t let him get away with.’
‘I don’t care!’ she cried. ‘You’ve ruined my life. I don’t ever want to see you again.’
‘Effie, please don’t be like that. Why don’t I meet you for a coffee tomorrow and—’
‘No! I’m going to tell Dad what you made me do.’
‘Before you do that, remember one thing,’ I replied calmly. ‘You started all of this. Your silly schoolgirl crush began this chain of events. Your precious father is already embarrassed by the trouble you’ve caused him, so I can only imagine what this will do to him. And when the police and the school find out how you lied, you’ll have to move schools again and probably face criminal charges for your false accusations. There’s not much your dad can do to protect you from that. But you’re old enough now to be put into a young offenders institute, aren’t you? God knows how you’ll survive that. So ahead of telling your father about my involvement, I’d think long and hard about the repercussions first.’
She fell silent. ‘You have to remember, Effie – you and I are cut from the same cloth. You are your mother’s daughter. There is so much you can learn from me.’
I was so angry with her that I didn’t give her the opportunity to reply. Instead, I hung up and knocked back my glass of wine. All this I had done for her, for all of us, but she was too self-centred to appreciate it. The more I thought about it, the more my blood boiled.
Whether Effie liked it or not, nothing was going to stop me from getting my whole family back under one roof again. Nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RYAN
The wind howled through the slats in the car’s grille and under the dented bonnet, making it vibrate. It also blew up and under the wheel arches and along the undercarriage. At times, the car felt as if it was about to be picked up and tossed into the air.
From the early evening onwards, I’d remained in the driver’s seat, draining every last drop from the vodka bottle. Now daylight was breaking through the thick veil of night and I was sobering up. But nothing was going to change for me with the dawn of a new day. No amount of alcohol could ever blot out what had become of my life.
I tried to imagine how it could have been, had I not tried to gain a greater understanding of Charlotte’s depression; if I’d just accepted that I’d lost my wife to it, then learned to move on.
Every now and again another car appeared in the car park and I’d watch as their drivers exited in running gear or with dogs on leads, all making the most of the early-morning quiet. The wind aside, it was as tranquil a location as I’d imagined it to be.
I’d driven for almost two hours in near silence to reach Birling Gap in East Sussex, the place where Charlotte had killed herself. Several times since her death, I’d mulled over whether I should go and see why she’d chosen that location, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to until now.
And for so long, I’d asked myself what could be so awful about a person’s life that they’d feel driven to end it. Now I understood that whether it’s a chemical imbalance in your head, a past that haunts you or other people making your world unmanageable, everyone can reach a point where it all becomes too much. It had for me.
Everything I’d once held so close to my heart, I’d lost. There was no coming back from the things I had done, the things I was being accused of doing and the things I was innocent of. I had no wife, no son, no job, no parents, no brother . . . absolutely nothing to live for.
I’d parked in the exact same place Charlotte had, according to the dashboard-cam footage. I opened the car door, grabbed an old coat from the back and slipped it on. I’d looked online at photographs and footage of the area so many times that it felt familiar – comforting, even – despite me never having been there in person.
I took my phone off airplane mode, and message after message flashed across the screen. Missed texts, missed emails, missed calls. Suddenly it started vibrating, and Johnny’s picture flashed up on the screen. I hesitated before answering, but I didn’t speak.
‘Ry?’ he asked. ‘Ryan? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where the hell are you? The police are looking for you.’
‘I thought they might.’
‘They’ve been to the flat and then Mum and Dad’s. What the hell has happened?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Ry? What the fuck? They’re saying you might have killed some woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘She volunteered at the End of the Line.’
‘Laura?’
‘No, Janine Thomson. Was she the one you left the Dictaphone with?’
‘Yes.’
‘You left her a threatening voicemail saying you were coming to see her and then she was found dead.’
I looked up at the sky, closed my eyes and laughed. She’d beaten me again. Time and time again I had underestimated Laura, and time and time again she had proved me wrong. Whatever she had done now, she had well and truly got me. My name meant nothing, so there was no point in trying to clear it.
‘In a moment, I’m going to email you something,’ I replied. ‘Look after Mum and Dad for me and tell them I’m sorry. I love you, bro.’
‘Ry, what are you—’
I hung up, sent Johnny the email I’d spent much of the night composing, turned off my phone and slipped it back inside my jacket.
I’d begun my search for Laura because I’d wanted answers as to why my wife had killed herself. But in my three confrontations with Laura, I’d been too busy trying to get revenge to actually ask her. I made my peace with the fact that I was never going to know.
Outside in the yard, they’d find a screwed-up photograph of me that I’d torn from the walls the night I went to ‘Steven’s’ cottage. In a panic, I’d stuffed some into my pockets before he confronted me. I hoped it might be covered in Ryan’s fingerprints and an invisible tracking code linked to the serial number of his printer – or, even better, his prints on the adhesive tape. It wouldn’t contain mine, though. I’d worn gloves.
Ryan’s vendettas against me, End of the Line and Effie were already on record with the police and the school. Judging by the number of Facebook likes and shares my posts had received, hundreds of people across the community had watched the video of him breaking into my house and witnessed how violent he was. And there was proof in the diary that he’d made an appointment to see Janine this afternoon.
Ryan and Janine. Two birds killed with the same stone. Well, the same hammer.
I became excited when my phone began to vibrate, but it was Effie’s name that appeared on the screen.
‘Hi, darling, I’m expecting an important call. Can I give you a ring later?’
‘How could you, Mum?’ she sobbed. ‘Everyone at school knows I made that recording. They all hate me and say I had sex with Mr Smith. They’re calling me a slag and saying I led him on.’
‘Ignore them, darling. In situations like this, it’s always the woman who gets the blame.’
‘But I am to blame, aren’t I?’
‘It’s not as simple as that, Effie. There are things you’re too young to understand, things that he’s done that we can’t let him get away with.’
‘I don’t care!’ she cried. ‘You’ve ruined my life. I don’t ever want to see you again.’
‘Effie, please don’t be like that. Why don’t I meet you for a coffee tomorrow and—’
‘No! I’m going to tell Dad what you made me do.’
‘Before you do that, remember one thing,’ I replied calmly. ‘You started all of this. Your silly schoolgirl crush began this chain of events. Your precious father is already embarrassed by the trouble you’ve caused him, so I can only imagine what this will do to him. And when the police and the school find out how you lied, you’ll have to move schools again and probably face criminal charges for your false accusations. There’s not much your dad can do to protect you from that. But you’re old enough now to be put into a young offenders institute, aren’t you? God knows how you’ll survive that. So ahead of telling your father about my involvement, I’d think long and hard about the repercussions first.’
She fell silent. ‘You have to remember, Effie – you and I are cut from the same cloth. You are your mother’s daughter. There is so much you can learn from me.’
I was so angry with her that I didn’t give her the opportunity to reply. Instead, I hung up and knocked back my glass of wine. All this I had done for her, for all of us, but she was too self-centred to appreciate it. The more I thought about it, the more my blood boiled.
Whether Effie liked it or not, nothing was going to stop me from getting my whole family back under one roof again. Nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RYAN
The wind howled through the slats in the car’s grille and under the dented bonnet, making it vibrate. It also blew up and under the wheel arches and along the undercarriage. At times, the car felt as if it was about to be picked up and tossed into the air.
From the early evening onwards, I’d remained in the driver’s seat, draining every last drop from the vodka bottle. Now daylight was breaking through the thick veil of night and I was sobering up. But nothing was going to change for me with the dawn of a new day. No amount of alcohol could ever blot out what had become of my life.
I tried to imagine how it could have been, had I not tried to gain a greater understanding of Charlotte’s depression; if I’d just accepted that I’d lost my wife to it, then learned to move on.
Every now and again another car appeared in the car park and I’d watch as their drivers exited in running gear or with dogs on leads, all making the most of the early-morning quiet. The wind aside, it was as tranquil a location as I’d imagined it to be.
I’d driven for almost two hours in near silence to reach Birling Gap in East Sussex, the place where Charlotte had killed herself. Several times since her death, I’d mulled over whether I should go and see why she’d chosen that location, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to until now.
And for so long, I’d asked myself what could be so awful about a person’s life that they’d feel driven to end it. Now I understood that whether it’s a chemical imbalance in your head, a past that haunts you or other people making your world unmanageable, everyone can reach a point where it all becomes too much. It had for me.
Everything I’d once held so close to my heart, I’d lost. There was no coming back from the things I had done, the things I was being accused of doing and the things I was innocent of. I had no wife, no son, no job, no parents, no brother . . . absolutely nothing to live for.
I’d parked in the exact same place Charlotte had, according to the dashboard-cam footage. I opened the car door, grabbed an old coat from the back and slipped it on. I’d looked online at photographs and footage of the area so many times that it felt familiar – comforting, even – despite me never having been there in person.
I took my phone off airplane mode, and message after message flashed across the screen. Missed texts, missed emails, missed calls. Suddenly it started vibrating, and Johnny’s picture flashed up on the screen. I hesitated before answering, but I didn’t speak.
‘Ry?’ he asked. ‘Ryan? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where the hell are you? The police are looking for you.’
‘I thought they might.’
‘They’ve been to the flat and then Mum and Dad’s. What the hell has happened?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Ry? What the fuck? They’re saying you might have killed some woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘She volunteered at the End of the Line.’
‘Laura?’
‘No, Janine Thomson. Was she the one you left the Dictaphone with?’
‘Yes.’
‘You left her a threatening voicemail saying you were coming to see her and then she was found dead.’
I looked up at the sky, closed my eyes and laughed. She’d beaten me again. Time and time again I had underestimated Laura, and time and time again she had proved me wrong. Whatever she had done now, she had well and truly got me. My name meant nothing, so there was no point in trying to clear it.
‘In a moment, I’m going to email you something,’ I replied. ‘Look after Mum and Dad for me and tell them I’m sorry. I love you, bro.’
‘Ry, what are you—’
I hung up, sent Johnny the email I’d spent much of the night composing, turned off my phone and slipped it back inside my jacket.
I’d begun my search for Laura because I’d wanted answers as to why my wife had killed herself. But in my three confrontations with Laura, I’d been too busy trying to get revenge to actually ask her. I made my peace with the fact that I was never going to know.
