Bleed for Me (36 page)

‘So if he didn’t cal and didn’t visit . . . ?’

I run through the events in my head again. When Ray Hegarty was found dead in Sienna’s room, the only thing missing was her laptop.

‘What about her email account?’

‘The police checked her service provider.’

‘So she used someone else’s computer . . .’

Even before I finish the sentence, I realise what I’ve missed.

‘Grab your coat,’ I tel Ruiz.

‘Where we going?’

‘To see Charlie.’

Julianne answers the door and kisses Ruiz on each cheek, tel ing him he needs to shave. Emma squeaks in surprise and demands the big man’s undivided attention like a jealous girlfriend.

Charlie is stil in bed. She won’t surface until at least eleven, citing mental fatigue and exhaustion from too much schoolwork. I send Emma upstairs to wake her.

‘What if she won’t wake up?’

‘Jump on her head,’ says Ruiz.

A few minutes later I can hear Charlie yel ing at Emma. Something is thrown. Something fal s with a bump.

Ruiz cal s from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Front and centre, young lady, you don’t want me coming in there to get you.’

Charlie goes silent.

Ruiz resumes his seat at the kitchen table. Julianne has offered to make him breakfast and he’s going to eat a second one.

‘So I hear you’re getting a divorce,’ he says, making it sound like she’s buying a new car.

The statement lands like a rock in a stil pond. Julianne looks at him suspiciously and continues cracking eggs into a bowl. ‘We’ve been separated for more than two years.’

‘You both have to consent.’

Julianne switches her gaze to me. Accusingly. ‘It’s real y none of your business, Vincent,’ she says.

‘If you’re too embarrassed to talk about it . . .’

‘I’m not embarrassed.’

‘Maybe you should change the subject,’ I tel Ruiz.

‘So you don’t love him any more?’ he asks her.

Julianne hesitates. ‘I don’t love him like I used to.’

‘Jesus Christ, there’s only one sort of love.’

‘No there’s not,’ she says angrily. ‘You don’t love a child the same way as you love a husband or you love a friend or you love a parent or you love a movie.’

‘So what is it you don’t love about him?’

Julianne is beating the eggs like she wants to bruise them.

‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

Ruiz isn’t going to let up. ‘He’s stil in love with you.’

‘Yes,’ says Julianne. ‘I know.’

‘And that doesn’t make any difference?’

‘It makes the world of difference. It makes it harder.’

‘I
am
in the room,’ I remind them.

‘Yes,’ replies Julianne. ‘Please tel Vincent to leave this alone.’

He raises his hands. ‘OK, but just answer me one thing - is it because he’s sick?’

I feel myself cringe. Julianne stiffens. It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the room and we’re sitting in a vacuum.

No longer beating the eggs, she whispers, ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Vincent, but I don’t need
you
to make me feel guilty. I feel guilty enough already. What sort of wife abandons her husband when he’s sick? I know that’s what people are saying behind my back. I’m a hard-hearted bitch. I’m the vil ain.’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Everyone loves Joe. He makes people feel special. He makes everyone feel as though they’re the only person in the room. I used to get so jealous - I used to wish someone would say something nasty or cruel about him. It was terrible. I hate myself for that.’

Julianne won’t look at me now.

‘You don’t know what it’s like - watching him crumble, knowing it’s going to get worse, knowing I can’t help him.’

‘You’re wrong,’ says Ruiz, softening his tone. ‘I watched my first wife die of cancer.’

‘And look what happened!’ says Julianne. ‘You ran off the rails. You abandoned the twins and went off to Bosnia. You’re stil trying to make it right with them.’

The hurt flashes in Ruiz’s eyes. I never met his first wife, but I know she died of breast cancer and that Ruiz nursed her through her final weeks and months. Days after her death, he quit his job and went to Bosnia as a UN peacekeeper, leaving the twins with family. He couldn’t bear to be around anything that reminded him of Laura, including his own children.

Julianne wants to take the comment back. ‘I’m sorry, Vincent,’ she says softly. ‘I’m just trying to hold myself together - for the sake of the girls.’

Charlie appears, stil in her pyjamas, her hair tousled and bed-worn.

‘Morning, Princess,’ says Ruiz. ‘Do I get a hug?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re not my girlfriend any more?’

‘As if!’

‘Maybe if I were twenty-five years younger?’

‘Try fifty.’

Everybody laughs - even Charlie, who slouches on a chair and puts her elbows on the table. ‘Why is everyone shouting?

‘We’re not shouting,’ replies Julianne. ‘We’re having a discussion. ’

Julianne asks if she wants some eggs. Charlie shakes her head.

‘Did Sienna ever use your computer?’ I ask.

‘I guess. Sometimes.’

‘Do you know what sort of stuff she was doing?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m trying to find out what sites she visited or if she sent any messages to people.’

Charlie puts two slices of bread into the toaster.

‘So you want to look at my computer?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not spying on me?’

‘No.’

Then she shrugs. ‘I got nothing to hide.’

After she butters her toast, I fol ow her upstairs to her room where she munches noisily in my ear as the laptop boots up. She once described her bedroom as being ‘designer messy’, as though she dropped clothes with artistic intent.

‘Do you remember the last time Sienna used it?’

‘When she slept over.’

It was probably a week night. I search through the history directory, going back to before Sienna’s arrest. I recognise some of the sites - Facebook, Bebo and YouTube. There are some music pages and Google searches.

‘Are these
your
searches?’ I ask.

‘I think so.’

‘Can you see anything unusual? Something you wouldn’t have cal ed up.’

Scrol ing through the history directory, she runs her finger down the screen. One site comes up regularly: Teenbuzz.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a chat room. Loads of my friends use it.’

‘Sienna?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s your username?’

She looks at me sheepishly. ‘Madforyou.’

‘What about Sienna’s?’

‘She’s Hippychick.’

The site has a variety of different chat rooms with names like ‘Just Friends’, ‘Young at Heart’ and the ‘Chil out Room’. Some are forums on music, movies or relationships, but al come with a list of warnings, advising users not to give out personal contact details, addresses or to use their real names.

• You are strongly advised to NEVER meet anyone that you know just from the Internet.

• Predatory, threatening, harassing and il egal behaviour wil not be tolerated. The police wil be contacted and offenders prosecuted.

‘How often did Sienna use the chat room?’

‘Pretty much every day.’

Charlie can see where I’m going with this. ‘It’s real y safe, Dad. We’re not stupid - we’re not going to tel people where we live. We just chat.’

‘Did Sienna have any favourite people she chatted with?’

Charlie falters. ‘I guess.’

‘Who?’

‘There was this one guy, Rockaboy.’

‘What do you know about him?’

She shrugs. ‘They used to meet.’

‘Where?’

‘In a private chat room.’

‘They were alone?’

‘Chil out, Dad, it’s not like you can get pregnant typing messages to someone.’

‘Did you ever chat to this Rockaboy?’

Charlie brushes hair away from her eyes. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Did he say anything about himself?’

‘You’re not supposed to do that.’

‘He must have given some clues.’

She sits cross-legged on her bed, balancing her plate on her knee. ‘He likes some of the indie bands like Arctic Monkeys and The Kooks. He doesn’t like school very much.’

‘Did he like the same music as Sienna?’

Charlie frowns. ‘How did you know that?’

‘What about his favourite subject at school?’

‘Drama.’

Feeling uncomfortable, Charlie changes the subject. ‘Are you coming Tuesday night?’

‘Where?’

‘To the school musical.’

‘I thought it was postponed.’

‘Mr El is has decided to go ahead. We’re giving one performance only. Jodie Marks is going to play Sienna’s role. Do you think Sienna is going to mind?’

Charlie doesn’t know about the suicide attempt and I’m not going to tel her. It can be something else she blames me for later.

‘Can I go see her?’ she asks.

‘Not today.’

Side by side we walk up the hil , fil ing the silence with our breathing. Ruiz limps slightly on his shorter leg - the legacy of a high-velocity bul et that tore through his upper thigh leaving a four-inch exit hole. A second bul et amputated his wedding finger. That was five years ago when he was found floating in the Thames, bleeding out, without any memory of the shooting.

Ruiz survived the bul et and the memories coming back. Some people are meant to prevail. They stay calm and col ected under extreme pressure, while others panic and unravel. We each have a crisis personality - a mindset that kicks in when things go badly wrong. True survivors know when to act and when to hold back, choosing the right moment and making the right choice. Psychologists cal it ‘active passiveness’ - when doing something can mean doing nothing. Action can mean inaction. This is the paradox that can save your life.

‘El is used an Internet chat room to reach Sienna,’ I say.

‘How did she get access to a computer?’

‘She must have borrowed one at Oakham House. It could also explain why her laptop was stolen that night.’

‘He’s covering his tracks.’

Above us the sun radiates through thin gauze-like cloud, but stil seems bright enough to snap me in half. Even before I reach the house I notice the unmarked police car. DS Abbott and Safari Roy are sitting on a low brick wal , eating sandwiches from grease-stained paper bags.

Monk chews slowly, making us wait.

‘We had a complaint,’ he says. ‘Natasha El is says you turned up at her house on Friday. Is that true?’

Before I can answer, Ruiz interrupts. ‘It was my fault, Detective. I went to see Gordon El is.’

Monk looks at him doubtful y. ‘Why was that?’

‘Sienna Hegarty had taken an overdose and was in hospital. She said that Gordon El is had taken liberties with her.’

‘Liberties?’

Ruiz can make a lie sound noble. ‘Yes, sir. Liberties. I was angry. I may have done something I regretted if it weren’t for Joe. He stopped me and calmed me down.’

Monk’s not buying a word of it. He turns his gaze to mine. ‘So let me get this straight, Professor. The only reason you were outside Gordon El is’s house was to prevent a disturbance?’

Monk wants me to agree with the statement.

Ruiz pipes up, ‘That’s what happened.’

‘I’m asking the Professor,’ says the DS, waiting.

I look at Ruiz and then at Safari Roy, who is nodding his head up and down slowly.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s what happened.’

Monk opens the lid of a rubbish bin on the footpath and drops his sandwich wrapper inside.

‘Mrs El is must have been mistaken.’ He lets the statement hang in the air. ‘If she’d been correct we would have had to arrest you, Professor, for breaching a protection order.’

I don’t reply.

‘Sienna Hegarty is being interviewed tomorrow and we’re going to investigate her al egations. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to impede or jeopardise our inquiries.’

‘No.’

Monk seems satisfied, and signals to Safari Roy, who has dripped egg yolk on to his tie and is trying to wipe it off with a handkerchief.

An electric window glides lower.

‘Have a good day, gentlemen,’ says Monk. ‘Mind how you go.’

40

Annie Robinson isn’t answering. I press the intercom again and give her another few seconds before walking back to my car. A horn toots. Annie is pul ing into a space. She has bags of groceries.

‘If you’re busy . . .’

‘No, you can help me carry these.’

She drapes me in plastic bags and I fol ow her inside. She’s wearing shrunk-tight jeans, leather boots and a concho belt that dangles below a fitted black shirt. My eyes are fixed on her denim-clad thighs as she walks ahead of me. I remember them wrapped around me and I get that feeling again.

Annie unlocks the door and leads me through to the kitchen, where she begins unpacking the bags, talking constantly.

‘I know I said I was sorry about the other night, but I real y mean it. I
never
do things like that.’

Does she mean she never gets drunk or never knocks on a man’s door and abuses him for ignoring her?

‘It’s a little blonde of me, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe just your roots showing.’

She smiles back at me. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sit down. Have lunch.’

She heats up two smal quiches and opens a plastic bag of washed salad leaves. She’s used to cooking for one, buying prepackaged, ready-made meals.

I look around the flat.

‘This is a nice place.’

‘Rented. I couldn’t afford it otherwise. I can’t real y afford it now, but I’ve spent my entire life waiting for things. I don’t do that any more. The only point of waiting is if you have something worth waiting for. That’s a
good
kind of waiting.’

‘I didn’t know there were different sorts of waiting.’

‘Oh, there are. That’s the mystery.’ She laughs and her thin blonde hair sways.

‘Let’s eat in the garden.’ She points through the glass doors to a smal round table inlaid with blue and white tiles. She sets out two forks and knives, two plates and two napkins.

‘Do you ever think about your ex-husband?’ I ask.

She’s drizzling dressing on the salad. ‘No.’