Never Close Your Eyes (51 page)

Becca gasped. ‘Where did you get that?'

‘I found it on the floor of your study,' Tom replied.

Becca swallowed. It must have fallen out of the filing cabinet when she got her passport. She never used to be so careless.

‘I knew it was you as soon as I saw it,' Tom went on. ‘The hair's different, of course, but your face hasn't changed much. Not to me, anyway.'

Becca shuffled away from him into a corner of the sofa. She didn't want to touch him, to feel his sense of contamination, revulsion.

Tom didn't seem to notice that she'd moved. ‘It was Patrick who told me,' he continued, still staring at the photo as if trying to unravel a code. Patrick was Tom's best friend, a journalist also. ‘I rang as soon as I found your note. I didn't know what to do. He came immediately.

‘I'd left the photo on the kitchen table. He recognised these two little girls from old newspaper articles.' Tom turned to his wife. A look of infinite sadness washed over his face. ‘He told me who they were, Becca, told me the whole story. He didn't realise that one of them was you.'

Becca sat completely motionless, her hands in her lap. ‘So why are you here?' she whispered. ‘I don't understand. Why didn't you let me go?'

Tom ran his hands through his curly, greying hair. ‘I think you're the one who owes
me
the explanation.'

Becca jumped up. She couldn't stay still any longer. ‘Why do you think?' she cried. ‘Because you'd hate me, of course.' She clenched her fists. It was so cruel, making her spell it out.

‘Sit down,' he said quietly. ‘I can't talk to you when you're standing up.'

She did as she was told. She was gazing at a point on the wall beside the fireplace, staring but not seeing.

‘Whatever you've done,' he said fiercely, ‘whatever you've concealed from me all these years, you're still my wife.'

She turned and looked into his dark-brown eyes. She felt as if he were delving into her mind and seeking out her very soul.

‘I killed her,' she said, her own eyes filling with tears. ‘My own sister. I got a stick and beat her around the head and body until she was dead.' So there it was, the truth at last. ‘I'm not who you think I am,' she went on. ‘I'm not the woman you thought you married. I'm Dawn from Newcastle, Dawn the murderer.' She covered her face with her hands. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It was a long time ago,' Tom said fiercely, ‘a lifetime. You were a child. You've created two beautiful children, a home, a family. We can move on from this.'

She shook her head. ‘I can never get away from it. I thought I could, but I can't.'

He opened his mouth to speak but she ignored him.

‘At first, when I was locked away, I wanted to die like Jude. I thought that was the only fair thing to do, the only way to make amends. Then, as the years went by, I began to think that maybe my life wasn't over and I could start again in some way. I couldn't erase what I'd done but I could sort of parcel it up and pack it away. It was a part of my life that had been and gone and there was nothing I could do to change what happened. But I did feel that I'd changed as a person, that I wasn't the same schoolgirl who'd had so much anger in her. I decided rather than throw my life away, I might as well try to make something of what was left.

‘I worked so hard,' she said, ‘I worked and worked. I wanted to prove that I wasn't just Dawn the murderer, that there was some good in me, something worthwhile. I almost made myself believe it. Then I met you and we had the children and, well . . .' She lowered her eyes. ‘I suppose I always felt at the back of my mind that it was too good to be true, that it wouldn't last. Then when Gary got in touch—'

‘Gary?'

Becca realised with a jolt that of course Tom knew nothing about him. Well, there was no point hiding it now. Everything else had come out. She told him about the emails, their first meeting in the pub, the fact that she was strongly attracted to him – Tom flinched at that, but he didn't interrupt.

She explained how he'd somehow got hold of her mobile number and started calling.

‘Did you leave your bag at any point?' Tom asked.

She racked her brains. She remembered going to the loo and asking him to look after her bag. She felt such a fool.

She described the evening in Kew when he'd called her ‘Dawn' for the first time and she'd started to feel so afraid.

Tom shook his head. ‘If only you'd told me then.'

Finally, she told him about the way that Gary had followed her back from the pub after the last writing group and how, when he'd kissed her, she'd felt as if she were being raped.

‘I was terrified that I'd try to kill him, Tom,' she said. She realised that her teeth were chattering. ‘I thought it would happen all over again. That I'd lose control, lash out, just as I did with Jude.'

Tom frowned. ‘You were only a girl. There were reasons . . .'

‘And now he'll ring the papers,' she went on. ‘It'll be a huge story. Everyone will know. There'll be reporters camped outside our house, I'll lose my job, it'll be terrible for the kids and for you. It would be much better if I just disappeared. At least then you can say you knew nothing. You'll be spared at least some of the shame.'

Tom was resting his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked deep in thought. Suddenly he leaped up and punched the palm of his hand with his fist.

‘I don't believe he's interested in money,' he said. ‘From what you tell me about him – his charity job, his manner, his clothes, everything – I don't think it's money that motivates him at all. I think what he wants is power over you. He's got some sort of sick crush on you. It's an obsession. If we tell him that I know everything and that you're giving up your job and we're going to walk off with the children into the sunset, he won't have any power over you any more. I think he'll just evaporate.'

Becca looked doubtful. ‘Won't he tell the papers anyway, just to get revenge?'

‘I don't think so,' Tom said. He stroked his chin. There was quite a lot of stubble. ‘But what do we care,' he went on, ‘so long as we've got each other and the children? Sod the papers. We know the truth – it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.'

Becca's body felt light suddenly. It was as if the weight of the world were being lifted from her shoulders. She thought that if she stood up she might float away.

‘We could buy a bar in Spain or something,' Tom said. He seemed to be speaking as much to himself as to her. ‘Or a small hotel in Greece or Italy.'

Becca wrung her hands. It sounded too good to be true. ‘But what about your job?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I'm bored with it. Have been for ages. If we get a hotel, I could run it while you write your kids' book or whatever it is you're doing.'

So he did know about the writing, then. He had been paying attention.

‘A series of children's stories eventually, I hope,' she said.

She was high on drugs, suspended in a pink bubble, surrounded by ridiculously happy, technicolor thoughts. The bubble burst. ‘But can you really forgive me?' she asked. She thought she might wake up at any moment.

‘Grab your bag and let's go to Calais,' he replied. ‘We need to get home as quickly as possible and sort that bastard out. We'll leave the Mercedes and take my car. We can pick it up later. We can do this on our own. We'll talk about our plans during the drive.'

‘Becca! Where are you?'

Gary sounded gobsmacked. This made Becca glow with pleasure; up to now, she'd been the one on her back foot, constantly dumbfounded by the things he did and said. She almost wanted to laugh – if only he knew! – but she knew she mustn't. She needed to appear desperate.

They'd just got off the shuttle near Folkestone and Tom had parked the car and was hovering while she ran to the call-box. It was after nine now and dark outside, but there was plenty of light in the waiting area.

‘I'm in Kent,' she stammered. ‘I've been driving around for the past couple of days thinking about what to do about Tom, the kids – you know. I think I've made up my mind. I really need to see you, Gary.'

‘Of course,' said Gary. He sounded worried. Becca thought she could hear a woman's voice in the background. His wife? ‘It's work,' he muttered. ‘I'll take it in the other room.'

She could hear his breathing as he walked. It made her shudder.

‘I'm running out of money,' she hissed. She needed him to hurry. She wanted to get this over and done with.

‘Right, I can talk now,' he replied at last. ‘I couldn't speak in front of Michelle.'

‘Can you meet me in front of the National Gallery in, say, two hours?' Becca blurted. She thought she could hear his brain whirring. He wouldn't like the suspense, the not knowing. Ha!

‘Yes,' he said, ‘but tell me what—?'

‘I can't say any more now. I have to go. See you there at eleven p.m.'

Chapter Forty-Six

The coffee tasted vile – watery and bitter. Evie wished that she could spit it out, but the family liaison officer had scarcely left her side since they'd arrived at the police station. Evie had taken painkillers so that her head was no longer throbbing. She needed to think clearly. Every scrap of information was important as it might provide a vital clue as to where Alan and Freya had gone.

‘Tell me about your family: siblings, grandparents. Is there any way Freya might try to contact any of them?'

The family liaison officer was sitting beside her on an easy chair next to a low coffee table. She had a pleasant face, shoulder-length blond hair and black, rectangular glasses. She was probably in her mid-thirties. She was wearing plain clothes – black trousers and a cream blouse – and had taken her jacket off and hung it on the back of the seat. Every now and again she jotted something down in a notebook.

Evie put her plastic cup on the table and shook her head. ‘I'm an only child,' she said. The inside of her mouth felt gluey and clogged. Her tongue was sticking to her cheeks. ‘Adopted. I've never got on particularly well with my parents and Freya hasn't seen them for months. They live in Devon. It's highly unlikely she'd ring them.'

‘What about friends?' the woman said. ‘Does she have a best mate?'

‘Lucy,' Evie replied wearily. ‘They were at primary school together and now they're in the same class at the comprehensive.' She thought for a moment. ‘Lucy hasn't been to our house for a while.' She started to fiddle with the silver chain around her neck. It had a heart on it; Neil had given it to her years ago.

The policewoman crossed one leg over the other. ‘Had they fallen out, the two girls?'

Evie rubbed her eyes. ‘I don't think so . . . I don't know.' She thought again how little she really knew about what was going on in Freya's life and cursed herself for not asking more questions. She put her head in her hands. ‘I feel so bad. I should have protected her . . .'

The police officer touched her knee. ‘Try to keep calm. You need to hold it together for Freya's sake. We need a number for Lucy, and can you tell me about her other friends? Who did she hang out with, other than Lucy? Was she having any problems at school?'

In another room at a separate police station, Nic was talking to a different police officer, also a woman. ‘Were there any other indications that he liked young girls, before you discovered the magazines?'

Nic's hands were trembling. A slideshow was playing over and over in her mind: she saw Evie's face screwed up in anguish – she couldn't begin to imagine how she must be feeling; Freya's bony little shoulders and peaky chin; Alan's brown eyes, preying on her. Where were they? What were they doing? They must be found. She'd kill herself if they didn't catch Alan, if he did anything to harm Freya.

Nic wanted a drink so badly. She'd cut off her right arm for a glass of wine, the whole bottle. ‘Please may I have some water?' she asked.

The woman police officer walked over to the water dispenser in the corner of the room and poured her a cup. It made a loud gurgling noise. Nic shivered. She handed Nic the cup and checked her watch. ‘You must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?'

Nic started. It seemed extraordinary even to think about food. ‘What time is it?' She had no idea.

‘Two fifteen. I can ask them to bring some sandwiches?'

Nic couldn't remember when she last ate. Last night? That seemed like aeons ago. She shook her head. ‘I'm not hungry.'

The police officer sat down again on the other side of the table and scratched her head. She was an attractive woman with a narrow face and short, slightly spiky brown hair. She might be quite a laugh when she was off duty. ‘I know what you mean,' she said.