‘Right, okay. So, let’s go back to the start.’ DS Hope lays her pen down on her notepad. ‘You were walking around the garden centre and you saw an adult man kissing a teenage girl?’
I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. Being in this windowless beige room is bringing back memories I’d rather forget and it’s taking all my willpower not to run from the room.
‘Yes, as I said. He went into a summer house. She was already in there, like she was waiting for him. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then he kissed her.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘Nearly six o’clock.’
‘And this …’ she glances down, ‘Michael Hughes. Does he work at Greensleeves Garden Centre too?’
‘No. He’s got a delivery company. But I think he does some of their deliveries.’
‘You know him then?’
‘I …’
I can’t tell her the truth. I told the duty sergeant that my name was Lou Smith, not Lou Wandsworth. I don’t want to talk about what happened between me and Mike. I just want the police to stop it from happening again.
‘Lou? Are you okay?’ DS Hope sits forward in her seat, her eyes scanning my face.
‘I’m just a bit hot.’ I grab a tissue from the box on the table and wipe it over my forehead. Mike kissing that girl is all my fault. If I’d testified against him, he might have been given a longer sentence. He might still be in jail. I’ve spent the last eighteen years telling myself that what happened was a one-off, that it was because of me. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – let myself believe he’d do that to anyone else.
‘What is it you’re not telling me, Lou?’ DS Hope asks. ‘What’s your relationship with this man?’
‘I haven’t got a relationship with him. I came here to report what looked like grooming. That’s all. I thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘How do you know his name then, and what he does for a living?’
‘Because I’ve used his company for removals before.’ The lies are coming thick and fast now. Why did I think this was a good idea? I didn’t think it through properly. I never should have stepped foot in here.
‘And you recognised him, when you saw him in the summer house?’
‘Yes. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘I’m just trying to establish what happened.’ Her gaze doesn’t waver. She doesn’t say anything for several seconds. She’s trying to get me to talk but I’ve said too much already. ‘The thing is, Lou, we need evidence to arrest someone and if there’s something you’re not telling me you’re going to make my job more difficult.’
‘He’s a paedophile. He’s served time for abducting …’ I pause. My heart’s beating so quickly I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack, ‘… another girl.’
DS Hope raises her eyebrows as she scribbles in her notepad. ‘When was this? Do you know?’
‘A long time ago. Look, I’ve told you everything I know. I was just trying to do the right thing, coming here and telling you what I saw.’
She gives me a lingering look then stands up.
‘All right, Lou. I’ve got enough to go on for now. I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 7
Wendy
Tuesday 24th April 2007
Wendy stiffens as two young men glance her way as they walk into the café. Her preferred table, a single-seater in the window, was occupied when she came in and she had no choice but to take a four-seater in the corner. It’s a quarter past one and the café is filling up. Sooner or later someone’s going to ask if they can share her table. What if Louise Wandsworth herself took one of the seats opposite her? Wendy’s stomach clenches with a mixture of fear and excitement.
But there’s no sign of her. When Lou came into the café yesterday just after one, she went straight up to the counter and ordered a black coffee, a chicken roll and a tub of fruit salad. Wendy watched discreetly from behind her paperwork as Lou frowned over her mobile phone and picked at her food.
It was the first time she’d seen Lou up close and she was dumbstruck. It reminded her of the evening she’d been having drinks in the Royal Malvern hotel with Angela when Michael Ball had walked in. Wendy had raised a hand, waved and flashed him a smile. Michael Ball didn’t even acknowledge her. Instead his gaze swivelled across the room, to a large, raucous group of lovies by the bar. Wendy was mortified. Angela told her that she wasn’t the first person to mistake a celebrity for a friend but Wendy insisted they leave immediately. It had been the same when she’d first seen Lou – the surprise and the hollowing in her stomach – only that time she’d managed to grip the table rather than thrusting her arm into the air.
When she’d read on Facebook that Lou was going to start a new job at Consol eLearning, she’d immediately checked out the company online. According to the website, they developed eLearning solutions for the public and private sector, whatever that meant. Lou’s friends seemed to be as surprised as Wendy by her proposed move from London to Malvern. There were lots of ridiculously effusive comments begging her not to go and several ‘we’ll miss you soooooo much.’ When asked by one friend why she was making the move, Lou had replied, ‘I’ll DM you.’ That had frustrated Wendy almost as much as her initial attempt to add Lou as a friend. Wendy didn’t comment. She never did. Instead she lurked, reading and analysing everything she found.
She hadn’t planned to sit in the café directly opposite Consol eLearning on Lou’s first day but she’d woken up at 5.30 a.m. and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. With her car in the garage, Monty walked, and no meetings until that afternoon, she had found herself at a bit of a loose end.
I probably won’t see her, she told herself as she settled herself into the single window seat at 8.15 a.m. with a pot of tea. And if I don’t, that’s fine. I have work I can catch up on before I meet up with Judith.
But Wendy’s briefcase of paperwork sat untouched by her feet for an hour. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the window and the people walking past. And then she saw her, Lou, walking down the street. She’d watched, her heart pounding in her chest as Lou had pulled at the door to Consol eLearning, then slumped back in her seat, exhausted and spent, as the door closed behind her and she disappeared from view. Wendy made a snap decision. She would stay in the café until lunchtime to see where Lou went. No one could have been more surprised than her when she actually came in.
Now, she looks at her watch – 1.32 p.m. Lou’s late. Yesterday she came in at 1.05 p.m. But there’s no way Wendy can hold on for another second. She really must use the toilet. She grabs her handbag, snatches up her coat and speeds across the café.
When she walks back out again, Lou Wandsworth is standing less than five metres away from her. Shock almost propels Wendy straight back into the ladies’. Across the room, her table has already been snapped up by a family of three and there are no free seats available. She has two choices – leave without paying the bill or join the queue behind Lou?
She moves closer. She has never run off without paying a bill in her life and she’s not about to do so now.
Lou doesn’t so much as glance round as Wendy silently slips behind her and rests a quivering hand on the top of the glass cake display. Up close, Wendy is able to measure herself against the other woman. Louise Wandsworth is tall, at least five inches taller than her, and her hips – swimming in a too large skirt – are narrower than Wendy’s waist. There is mud on the heels of Lou’s shoes and the ends of her hair are split and tangled. The compulsion to reach into her bag and pull out a comb is almost more than Wendy can bear. She never leaves the house without checking that her shoes are clean and her hair is neat.
‘Order to go, please,’ Lou says as the café owner, a smiley woman about Wendy’s age in a blue and white striped apron, gives her a nod. ‘Black coffee, chicken roll and a fruit salad pot.’
‘Not stopping today?’
‘No, I need to prepare for a client meeting at three. Well, it’s more of a pitch for new business.’
‘Sounds important.’
‘It is. The boss wants me to bring in more money.’
‘Well, fingers crossed it goes well.’
Wendy stands very still, her eyes fixed to the floor as the café owner bustles about, putting the order together, and Lou stands silently beside her, waiting. After an interminable five or six minutes, she hears the clink of money changing hands, the dry rustle of a paper bag being handed over and a soft, breathy ‘thank you’.
‘Yes?’ the café owner says. ‘Hello, yes. How can I help you?’
Wendy tears her eyes away from the thin figure sprinting across the road and fixes the other woman with a big smile. She’s just had the most wonderful idea.
Chapter 8
Lou
I can’t believe I get to spend a whole weekend with Mike in France. First stop, a hotel room just outside Calais. I’ve been in hotel rooms before, mostly on holiday with Mum and Dad, but this is only the second time I’ve been to one with Mike. The first time was to a Travelodge in Birmingham. The carpet was blue and there were stripy curtains but they weren’t what caught my attention – it was the double bed in the middle of the room. It was finally going to happen. Mike and I were going to have sex for the first time and I was utterly terrified, despite him reassuring me that we’d take our time and he’d be ever so gentle.
We’ve had sex loads of times since then, sometimes in the dojo changing rooms but mostly in his car after class. When Mike offered to start dropping me home, Dad couldn’t say yes fast enough. He said it would give him more time to get some work done but we both knew he meant more time at the pub.
When we reach our hotel room, Mike opens the door, chucks the bags in, then holds up a hand when I try to enter.
‘No, no. I need to carry you in!’
I laugh. ‘We’re not married!’
‘We will be one day!’
I try to wriggle away as he reaches for me. I’m far too heavy and I’d die of embarrassment if he drops me. But Mike scoops me up and into his arms as though I’m as light as a feather. He kicks the door closed behind me and half-drops, half-throws me onto the bed. I land on my side and twist round to pull him close for a kiss. He pecks me on the lips, then flips me onto my stomach and pulls me towards him so I’m bent over the bed.
‘Mike!’ I laugh, as he starts unbuttoning my jeans. ‘Let’s at least go out for dinner first. I thought this weekend was supposed to be romantic.’
He looks at me but it’s as though he doesn’t really see me. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes have this weird glassy sheen to them. He’s got this jubilant expression on his face, like he’s climbed a mountain or won a race.
‘It will be,’ he says as he yanks my jeans and knickers down to my ankles.
A couple of minutes later he slumps on top of me, roaring as he comes. It’s the first time we’ve had sex and haven’t looked each other in the eye.
Saturday 28th April 2007
Three days ago I caved and texted Ben. Mostly because I still feel so awful about what happened and partly because my friend Alice encouraged me to. She rang me on my mobile as I was walking to my car after work. Just for a chat, she said, but we both knew she was fishing for gossip. First she chastised me for not updating Facebook since I left London, then she told me she’d bumped into Ben in the pub. Apparently he was frosty when she asked how he was.
‘He said, I’ve been better. Those were his exact words. I think he still likes you, Lou. Are you sure you can’t sort things out with him?’
I haven’t told Alice the truth about what happened in Dover. I said we’d had an argument and decided to end things. She doesn’t know about Mike. None of my friends do.
‘I’ve told you, I’m a screw-up when it comes to men. I can’t even become a mad old cat lady because I’m allergic to them. Cats, not old ladies, although I’ve never had one rub themselves up and down my leg.’
Alice laughed. ‘Okay, well, first off, we’re all screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Secondly, what you and Ben had was pretty intense. I barely saw you when you were with him. Maybe you both just need a bit of a breather. Has he texted you since you split up? Have you texted him?’
No, I told her. I haven’t heard from him. And I haven’t texted him either. But I still feel really bad about what happened.
‘Text him then. Say sorry. You obviously like him. If you didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Anyway, what’s it like being back? How’s the farmhouse?’
She listened as I told her how I’d almost driven straight past my old family home, it had changed so much. That the neatly clipped hedges, gnarly apple trees and bright daffodils that lined the lane up to our house had been replaced by a tangle of green foliage and weeds. The trees dipped so low, their branches so tightly tangled, it was like driving through a dark tunnel. I told her how my heart had caught in my throat as I’d pulled into the driveway and spotted Dad’s parked Volvo.
‘For a second, I thought he was still alive,’ I said.
I didn’t tell her how freaked out I was when I walked into the living room and saw his old chair.
‘Bloody hell, Lou,’ she said when I finally stopped talking. ‘Sounds traumatic. Oh mate, I knew I should have come with you, at least for your first weekend.’
By the end of the phone call I felt calmer than I had done in days. I hadn’t realised how much I was bottling up my emotions or how isolated I was. Alice was the first person I’d spoken to in a week. Properly spoken to, I mean. Superficial conversations with my new colleagues at work didn’t count.
I took Alice’s advice and texted Ben before I got into my car.
I’m sorry for what happened in Dover. There are reasons why I reacted the way I did that I can’t explain right now. You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you afterwards. I hope you’re okay. X
I read the message again, deleted the kiss at the end and then sent it. Ben had twenty minutes to reply before I reached the countryside and the technology dead zone that is Dad’s house. There’s no reception, no Wi-Fi and no neighbours for at least a quarter of a mile. If someone bludgeoned me in my bed, no one would hear me scream. There’s a landline phone downstairs that works, but that’s it.
It’s Saturday now and I still haven’t heard back from Ben. I haven’t heard anything from DS Hope either. When I rang for an update, she told me to ring back this afternoon. The wait has been torturous. I can’t stop thinking about Chloe, and the look on her face as she ran out of the garden centre. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. I remember how that felt – the adrenaline rush of an illicit meeting, the warmth of the kiss, the wretchedness of saying goodbye. I thought I was so grown up. That my life was a romantic movie. That I was in control. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chloe looked so damned joyful that it makes me feel sick. Sick with guilt. She should have been smiling because she’d just been kissed by a boy her own age, not a man old enough to be her father. I just pray things haven’t progressed any further. If he’s put her through what he put me through I’ll never forgive myself.
This morning I decided to try and distract myself by getting on with some of the jobs I’ve been putting off. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom and sorted through Dad’s wardrobe and chest of drawers, bundling jumpers, jeans and suits into black plastic bags for the charity shop. I had a bit of a cry when I found a framed photo of me face down in the bottom of a drawer. There was nothing else that shed any light on who he was or the life he’d lived. Just a few piles of change, some painkillers, half a tube of Deep Heat, betting slips, newspapers, an alarm clock, a radio.
I was fourteen the last time I saw him. It was the weekend before Mike’s court case. Mum waited in the car at the bottom of the track while I walked up to the house that I hadn’t called home for nearly a year. I dumped the cardboard box I was carrying outside the garage, then knocked on the side door. When no one answered, I turned the handle and let myself in. I found Dad slumped in a chair in front of the television, horse racing blaring and an empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He didn’t open his eyes when I said his name and he didn’t stir as I shook his shoulder. Only when I turned off the TV and slapped him, hard, on the back of his hand did he open his eyes.
‘I’m going, Dad,’ I said. ‘To London, with Mum. We’re not coming back. I’ve left a box of my things by the garage. Can you keep it here? Mum says there won’t be enough space in our flat in London.’
His eyes swivelled towards me. They were red-rimmed and puffy, dark pinpricks in a rough, doughy face. He was only forty-seven but he looked twenty years older. ‘Have fun,’ he murmured, then he closed his eyes again.
Now, I push open the door to my old room and throw the bin bags on the growing pile on the floor. Other than the piles of Dad’s crap, it’s exactly as I left it eighteen years ago. I hate this room. Mike never came to the house but he’s in here. He’s ingrained in the fabric of the faded yellow curtains, the peeling wallpaper and the bleached faces of the popstars I pinned to the wall. The number of nights I’d lie in bed, staring into the darkness, losing myself in my imagination. A smile during a kata, trouble finding my things as I got changed, coming out of the changing rooms to discover that I was the only one left in the dojo. Mike appearing behind me and lifting my hair from my neck and—
I back sharply out of the room and slam the door shut. I need to make the call. I can’t wait anymore.
My hand shakes as I pick up the landline and dial the station. If Mike’s been arrested and charged I’ll need to tell the truth about who I really am. And if he hasn’t … No, I’m not even going to go there.
‘Hello,’ says a male voice I don’t recognise. ‘This is DS Walters.’
‘Oh, I was expecting to speak to DS Hope.’
‘DS Hope’s not in until later. I’m her colleague. How can I help?’
He listens as I tell him my fake name and summarise what I told DS Hope, then asks me to hold the line. I can barely breathe as I wait.
‘Right, well,’ he says. ‘It looks like the CPS haven’t authorised the charges.’
‘What?’
‘We carried out a thorough investigation and referred it to the CPS, but I’m afraid there won’t be a prosecution.’
‘But he’s a paedophile! He’s abusing a young girl. I saw him!’
DS Walters sighs heavily. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Well, I can’t actually tell you anything because of data protection rules, but let’s just say that the CPS can be a strange beast sometimes.’
‘Can I speak to them? Tell them what I saw?’
He laughs dryly. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So that’s it? He just carries on doing what he’s doing?’
There’s a pause then, ‘Our hands are tied, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, there’s nothing else.’
I end the call and stare at the phone in my hand. How can this have happened? Mike was sent to jail for five years for what he did to me. Why haven’t they locked him up again? It’s my fault. I screwed up again when I didn’t tell the police who I really am. But it’s not too late to put things right.
A tall man with hollow cheeks, thinning hair and an angular face opens the blue door at 29 Missingham Road. He looks me up and down, sighs and rests against the door frame.
‘Yes?’ He doesn’t say ‘what do you want?’ but it’s written all over his face.
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you and your wife. It’s about Chloe.’
His expression darkens. ‘What’s this about?’
‘If I could just come in I’ll tell you. It’s … quite sensitive.’
‘We’ve already spoken to the police and if you’re a journalist you can fuck right off.’
‘Alan!’ a woman calls from the back of the house. ‘Who is it?’
‘No one!’
‘Please, I’m not a journalist or police. Maybe I could talk to your wife?’
‘She’s ill.’
A curtain twitches at an upstairs window.
‘Please,’ I say as Alan moves to shut the door. ‘A man called Mike Hughes is having an inappropriate relationship with your daughter and I’m worried about her.’
‘Who the fuck are you? If you’re not police or journalist …’ His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. ‘Are you the one that reported him?’
‘I … I … yes, I am.’
‘Are you now?’ He shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. ‘Got a soft spot for him have you, love? You wouldn’t be the first bored housewife to try it on. Turn you down, did he? Is that why you thought you’d get your revenge by spinning a little story?’
‘It’s not a story. I saw Mike and Chloe—’
‘You disgust me!’ He lurches towards me, forcing me to step back. ‘That man’s like a dad to my girl. I’d trust him with my life. And hers. And I’ve had it up to here,’ he jabs at his throat with a flat hand, ‘with gossips, do-gooders and shit-spreaders.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Mike Hughes is a good man. He spent five years in jail because he tried to keep one of the kids at his club safe when she ran away to France. The stupid bitch was so scared of her alky dad that she lied to the police about what had happened and I won’t let you,’ he jabs a finger at me, ‘or anyone else put him through that kind of hell again. If you ever come back here again I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you hear me? Now piss off.’
The door slams in my face. As the heavy stomp, stomp, stomp of feet on stairs rattles the house, the curtain at the upstairs window twitches again. This time I catch a glimpse of a face. It’s Chloe and she looks scared.
Chapter 9
Chloe
Monday 30th April 2007
Chloe walks with her head down and her book bag gripped to her chest. Normally she’d drag her feet as she walked from the bus stop to school, but today she can’t get there quickly enough. Anything is better than being at home with her arsehole of a dad, anything. He went spare after that stupid woman turned up at the door. She tried to listen to their conversation but all she could hear was the woman pleading to come in. The second the front door slammed shut, her dad stormed up to her room. She threw herself onto her bed just as he flung open the door.
‘Is this down to you? Have you been talking shit about Mike at school?’
‘No.’ She grabbed her pillow and hugged it close. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Because she looked like a teacher. Sounded like one too.’ He crossed the room in four strides and yanked open the curtains. ‘She’s gone.’ He turned back to look at Chloe. ‘Who was she? I know you were eavesdropping.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.’
Chloe hugged her pillow tighter. Could it be the police again? Her dad hadn’t met the woman who’d knocked on the door the other day. She was wearing normal clothes but she said her name was DS Anna Hope, from West Mercia police. Chloe felt sick with fear when DS Hope asked if her parents were in. She hadn’t taken anything big from the garden centre – just a few small ornaments she thought were cute and a packet of fairy lights. They were hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, wrapped in an old dressing gown. But that wasn’t what DS Hope wanted to talk to her about, she wanted to talk about Mike. Was there somewhere they could have a little chat? Just a few questions. It wasn’t a formal interview. She said that Mum was welcome to join them if that was something Chloe wanted. It wasn’t, but her mum insisted she sit in on the conversation before she could say a word.
