The Evil Beneath (13 page)

‘Billy’s been quiet. Withdrawn. He goes to his room and plays with his transformers.’

‘Transformers?’

‘Those cars and animals that you turn into robots.’

It sounded terribly old-fashioned in an age when every kid’s world was dominated by Xbox and Wii.

‘Does he have many friends?’

‘Not really. It’s hard for him. He doesn’t join in, doesn’t mix much. The other kids…if they’re not bullying him or laughing at him, they just ignore him.’ An unfortunate whine was ever-present in her voice. It didn’t make me warm to her, but I did feel a well of compassion towards her unfortunate son.

‘What else does he do?’

‘He draws and paints pictures. He’s into Power Rangers and he likes collecting things. He wants to know how things work. Like engines and electricity…’ She paused. ‘He’s good at science,’ she said, out of the blue.

‘That’s excellent.’ Something positive, at last. ‘Have you met the science teacher?’

‘Yes. Mr Slade. He seems okay. He seems to be able to relate to Billy.’

‘Any chance Billy might be persuaded to talk to Mr Slade about the bullying, do you think?’

She was straight down on me like a ton of bricks.

‘No, No! He won’t involve anyone at the school. The teachers…the headmaster…nobody!’

Why wouldn’t she just consider it? Try talking to the boy about it, again? Keep gently prodding away at him, to get him to see sense?

I was forced to find another way. I wasn’t convinced she had much of a support network, but I asked the question anyway. ‘Have you talked to any of your own friends about this situation?’

She looked down. ‘I don’t really have anyone.’ It sounded like both mother and son were awkward types who didn’t mix well or make friends easily.

‘How long have you been in the area?’

‘Only since the beginning of the year. I don’t go out much, except to work. I’m a part-time secretary in a company in the city. And I drive a mini-bus for Billy’s school. To try to keep close to him. I’m not good at socialising.’

That much was obvious. Lynn’s whining tone and dejected body-language smacked of being a victim. People didn’t find that attractive. I tried something else.

‘Do you go to a gym or a club?’

‘I go swimming,’ she said.

‘Do you know people there? Anyone you get on with?’

‘Not really.’

‘It might be worth talking to other people you can trust, other mothers, about this kind of thing. Parents’ groups, perhaps. I can find some websites for you about coping with bullying. There will be other people who’ve been through situations like yours.’

‘I thought
you
were going to help me.’

‘It’s very hard, Lynn.’ I set my pen down on the table beside me. ‘The person who needs most help is your son and you tell me that he won’t accept any intervention at the moment. It’s hard for me to do anything constructive.’

‘He won’t come to these sessions.’

‘That isn’t how this works I’m afraid. Anyway, I’m not trained to work with children. How old is Billy again?’

I knew I had it in my notes somewhere, but I didn’t want to look away.

‘He’s fourteen.’

‘There should be an educational psychologist attached to your son’s school. You could see if they could help him. Which school does he go to?’

‘He doesn’t want the school involved. I thought I’d made that clear.’

We were going round in circles and I couldn’t find a way out.

As I was turning things over in my mind, she asked to leave the room to use the toilet. When she had gone I looked through my notes again. Was there anything here I could use as a lever to make some progress?

I was scanning the first page, when I came across Billy’s age. I’d written it down in our first session. Lynn had said he was thirteen. Today, she’d said he was fourteen. That was odd at first, until I realised there was a simple explanation. He must have had a birthday during the last few weeks. No real mystery there. As I continued to read, however, I noticed another inconsistency. Lynn had said the head of her son’s school was a woman, but today she had referred to
the headmaster
.

A strange thought suddenly struck me;
Was this some sort of Münchausen by proxy - some attention-seeking syndrome? Was Lynn fabricating the whole story? Did Billy even exist?

As I read further, I realised places, dates and names seemed to have changed over the weeks I’d been seeing her. Before I could decide what to do, she was back in the room.

Right from the start, I’d had an odd feeling about this woman. I couldn’t work it out; all I knew was that something about the whole story didn’t ring true.

I asked for the date of Billy’s birthday.

She answered immediately. ‘April 12
^th
. He’s thirteen.’

Right. No recent birthday.

Lynn cleared her throat. ‘He’ll be fourteen in six months’ time.’ Her arms were now folded. She was on the defensive. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

‘I’m sorry.’
Make it my fault - claim to be baffled. Make it seem like I am the one messing up.
‘I thought you said he was fourteen. I was starting to get a bit lost.’

‘You do think bullying is wrong, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You do think bullies should be punished?’

‘I think everyone involved needs to know exactly what’s going on first, but yes, I agree that bullying is entirely wrong.’

She looked smug, like she’d won an unexpected victory.

When she left, I had to admit it: I hadn’t a clue what was going on. My only conclusion was that I was going to have my work cut out reading up on both Münchausen syndrome and compulsive lying.

Chapter Fourteen

Cheryl didn’t own a mobile phone and when I called her home number there was no reply. I knew she lived in Chelsea, but I didn’t have her address so I couldn’t even turn up unannounced on her doorstep.

I knew Holistica was open in the evenings, but I wasn’t sure if Cheryl would be working there that day. I rang and spoke to Clive. He said Cheryl had already left. I knew it was policy not to give out home addresses even to colleagues so I lied. I said I’d left something at her place - in Chelsea - when I’d last visited and I’d forgotten to write down her address. Half-an-hour later, I was standing at the entrance to her apartment block.

A smart man was just leaving and held the door for me, so I didn’t need Cheryl to buzz me inside.

‘Fancy see you here?’ she said, as she opened the door, although didn’t look the least bit surprised to see me. Perhaps her psychic sense had already told her I was on my way. She led me to a small sitting room that smelt of incense and contained heavy blocks of Egyptian-style furniture. A mosque-shaped mirror hung over a huge chest and the compact space was over-stocked with soft furnishings and silk cushions; everything in the room appeared to have a tassel attached to its corners.

There was an awkward silence between us. She knew why I was there.

She noticed I’d spotted a photograph of an aeroplane beside the door.

‘I used to be a pilot,’ she said. ‘Squadron Officer in the Women’s Royal Air Force, before it merged with the RAF in 1994.’ She must have seen my eyes stretch wide. ‘Loved it. The freedom up in the skies. I highly recommend it if you’ve never tried it.’

I told her I hadn’t - and that it wasn’t top of my list of new hobbies right now.

‘I’m a “feet firmly on the ground” sort of girl,’ I said, ‘unless you count trampolining.’

She invited me to sit. She looked pensive. ‘I’m more of a head in the clouds sort, but I imagine you’ve already worked that one out.’

I decided to cut to the chase. ‘Your psychic gifts, you mean?’

She didn’t answer. ‘I’m glad you’ve come – I knew you would, eventually.’

‘I wanted to hear what you had to say.’

‘It’s not always easy,’ she said softly, ‘because sometimes I have information that could be useful for someone and yet, it could also be upsetting for them.’

Her eyes moved away from mine too quickly and instantly I knew this was going to hurt.

‘You mean, my brother…what you said…about it not being an accident.’

‘It could stir up a hornet’s nest. Are you the sort of girl who prefers to paper over the cracks?’

My stomach churned. My eyes met hers. ‘I need to know.’

‘I thought so.’ She made a bridge with her fingers. ‘I’m certain it wasn’t an accident.’ Her words were slow and deliberate.

I decided to tell her about visiting the archives of
The Norwich Echo
. I explained how the newspaper report mentioned an ongoing investigation and then hadn’t printed anything further.

‘What did the reports say, exactly?’

‘That the police were concerned about how quickly the fire had spread and they didn’t know the cause.’

‘I’ll tell you what I see. Is that what you want?’

‘Yes, yes, please.’

My mouth went dry.

‘I’ve been getting images, when I’m with you, of a family home. It had a yellow front door, right? Detached house, with a garage on the right side, big tree on the left?’

I gulped. She was spot on. Those details had never been mentioned in the newspaper reports.

‘There was someone else in that house. I can see someone opening windows downstairs. It was winter, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, January.’

‘Why would someone open windows if it was cold?’ she asked, running her finger along the hieroglyph design on the chair arm.

Why indeed, I asked myself, wondering where this was going.

‘Do you remember much about that night?’ she said.

I nipped my lips together. ‘I was twelve. It was nearly twenty years ago.’

‘What do you recall?’

‘It’s a blur. My memories are mixed up with what other people have told me and my own nightmares, so it’s hard to be clear.’

‘Have a go.’

‘I remember we’d been out somewhere. All of us as a family, earlier that evening. I do remember it being cold. I was wearing a thick coat and gloves.’ I closed my eyes and felt the prickly wool of the scarf tickling my neck. ‘The lights were all out. I didn’t know why that was. I remember Dad had a torch and I couldn’t read my book that night because none of the lights worked.’

‘A power-cut?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, pensively.

‘What else?’

‘The next thing I knew we were all outside and I saw the flames ripping through the kitchen window. Other windows had been blown out. Then the firemen arrived. We were huddled together, all four of us. They gave us blankets.’ I ground to a halt. ‘The next bit is difficult.’

‘About Luke?’

Cheryl put her hand over mine.

‘Yes. I don’t remember seeing him go. One minute he was there with us and the next minute he’d disappeared. My Mum was screaming and people were shouting and pointing to the front door. The firemen were angry.’ I felt tears roll into the crease beside my nose. ‘I didn’t see him again.’

‘Why did he go back inside?’

‘For the dog. Pippin died as well.’

I thought about Pippin; the scruffy mutt that Luke cuddled all the time. He never barked at anyone and always smelt of sweaty trainers left out in the rain.

I looked up. My tears made Cheryl’s face look like she was behind frosted glass.

‘The images that keep coming to me, Juliet, are to do with the kitchen. I see boxes beside the oven. Boxes that shouldn’t be there.’

‘Boxes?’

‘Boxes, crates, containers of some kind.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The lights being out. I’ve seen that too. The house was in total darkness one minute and up in flames the next.’

‘Perhaps there was a power-cut, like you say. Why, otherwise, would my dad be using a torch inside the house?’ An image from that night suddenly came to me. ‘And candles. Yes. Dad went into the cellar and brought up a box of candles. I remember now. We lit them in the sitting room before we all went to bed.’

A sharp pain ran up my throat. ‘It wasn’t the candles, was it?’ Cheryl took hold of my hand with a firm grip. ‘Was it our fault?’

‘I honestly don’t think so. Really. That’s not what I’m getting at all. It’s something else…something disconcerting. About the boxes in the kitchen and someone else having been in the house. The windows being open.’ She placed her hand on her chest and nodded. ‘That’s what’s been coming through to me. That’s all, I’m afraid.’

I let out a heavy breath.

‘Thanks for telling me. It makes me want to look into it more. I knew there were pieces missing and I want to find the answers.’ I got up, ready to go. ‘Can I ask you one more thing?’ I said. She nodded and I perched on the chair arm.

‘I’m not sure where to start,’ I said. ‘You know that picture of Battersea Bridge I asked you to look at last week?’

She stiffened. ‘I’ve been keeping up to date with the murders. Dreadful.’

‘You don’t pick up anything about…me…at all, do you?’

She hesitated. Bowed her head. ‘No.’

‘Only, obviously, I’m nervous about the whole thing. Terrified, actually.’ I tried to smile, but my chin started to wobble instead. ‘I’ve been targeted…receiving these awful messages and I feel…helpless.’

She put her hand on my shoulder.

‘I don’t pick up anything negative around you,’ she said. ‘I’m not getting much coming through about it at all, to be honest.’

‘I know I mentioned it before, but the day after the first woman was found, you said you knew she hadn’t drowned. You were right. She’d been strangled. They all were. I wondered if perhaps you knew…more than —’

‘I had a feeling, that’s all - but it wasn’t connected to you. I’m sorry if I scared you.’

‘But, you’d
know
, wouldn’t you - if I was in danger?’

‘I can’t say. It’s not an exact science, Juliet. I’m sorry.’

I was grateful for her sincerity. She could easily have claimed to be more certain in order to look impressive. Cheryl’s stare was fixed on the floor. ‘I haven’t picked up anything at all to suggest you’re…at risk.’ She paused. ‘Not yet, certainly.’

After I’d left, I had a sudden pang of doubt. Was Cheryl really psychic? Was it all a well-crafted show? Did she know certain facts because she was involved in some way? And if she
was
genuine, was she holding something back? I’d watched her body-language and met her eyes when we said goodbye. Her gaze didn’t waver, but I still wasn’t entirely convinced. Neither did I feel filled with reassurance at Cheryl’s choice of words. When I’d asked whether she thought I was in danger, her caveat ‘not yet’ had sent a chilly tingle, like an icicle, down the back of my neck.

***

When I got back to the flat, there was an envelope on my doormat. It was from Andrew; an invitation to a prize-giving ceremony the following evening, in Holland Park. One of his paintings had won first prize. As I read his untidy handwriting, I felt a wave of sadness. He wanted me to be there.

It was tempting to allow nostalgia to bend the truth, to usher the good memories to one side and pretend that was all there was. I pulled myself up short, however, and remembered the harsh reality of the matter. Andrew couldn’t control his drinking and had been physically abusive towards me. Nothing had changed in that regard; my experiences during the last week ago had told me that. I couldn’t afford to let nostalgia colour my judgement. Especially now that there was the smallest chance Andrew could be capable of far worse.

Nevertheless, I weighed up the idea of an evening of glamour with flowing champagne, versus a night in, watching
Dumb and Dumber
. It didn’t take me long. What harm would there be, turning up for an hour or two in a crowded room full of well-wishers? Andrew couldn’t do anything with all those people around. Maybe I’d find out something useful.

Leighton House was now a museum, situated in a leafy area of West Kensington. As I entered, there was a strong smell of lilies and beeswax. My heels clacked across the polished floor and I was half-expecting one of the attendants to ask me to take off my shoes.

It was an amazing place: huge galleries full of large pre-Raphaelite oil paintings and gilded ceilings. I was taken aback by a sunken pond at the centre of the ground floor surrounded entirely by turquoise Islamic tiles and marble columns. Breath-taking.

I was escorted upstairs to a large hall where the ceremony was to take place. Chairs were laid out in rows and there were three easels at the front, each one holding a picture covered with a cloth, set up for the grand unveiling of the prize-winners.

It wasn’t long before I saw Andrew. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with puffed sleeves and a wide open collar, framing a scarlet cravat. His shirt was hanging loose over a pair of dark red velvet trousers. He looked like a Renaissance prince. Just like Andrew: overstated and romantic. I watched him explain something to a couple, waving his arms around and scooping back his floppy fringe and I knew I still hadn’t got him out of my system.

Someone tapped the side of a glass and we took our seats.

From the start, it was clear the proceedings were going to drag on well into the evening. Various chairmen of sponsoring companies took their turn to pontificate, followed by top-bods in the art world bootlicking them in return. I stifled a yawn and started looking around at the other people who had turned up tonight, entertaining myself by trying to imagine what they did for a living. There was a woman with long blonde hair that reached her lower back. I wondered if she was as attractive from the front. A model? Too obvious. A Personal Assistant in a fashion company? Maybe. I moved along the line, missing out the bald head and the middle-aged permanent wave. Suddenly I gasped. The woman sitting in front of me turned round with a disapproving stare. I stared right past her, my eyes latched on to someone far more interesting.

I recognised the chiselled face, the reddish skin-tone, the long side-burns and mousy hair. The guy who had threatened me at the demonstration was sitting two rows in front of me. I slid my hand into my bag for my phone. I had to get a message through to the police station to let them know he was here. I fumbled about trying not to look conspicuous and then it hit me. I’d swapped my usual handbag tonight for something light and sassy. My phone was probably sitting on the kitchen table. I could have kicked myself.

The ceremony was reaching its climax and the audience broke into applause, as the cloth on the picture in third prize was pulled free, revealing the canvas beneath. I’d hesitate to call it a painting. It was what I could only describe as
loud
; splashes of bright orange and crimson with black lines carved through it. A woman in a tie-dyed tunic walked forward and shook the hand of a man in a suit.

I kept my eyes on ‘demo-man’, hoping he wouldn’t turn round. If he did, would he recognise me? Did he have a personal interest in targeting me or was I simply a face representing Fairways?

I missed most of the rest of the ceremony. My mind was on overdrive trying to work out why ‘demo-man’ was here and whether I could find out who he was. The next minute, Andrew was taking the applause and holding an envelope in his hand. I was so busy staring at the back of the mystery man’s head, that I hadn’t seen the unveiling of Andrew’s prize-winning picture. All of a sudden, people were turning in their seats applauding, some smiling, others looking me up and down.
What was going on?
I squirmed in my seat, trying to work out why I had suddenly become the centre of attention and then I saw it. Andrew’s painting. It was a nude portrait of a woman. I felt my bottom lip go slack and the room suddenly went blurred as though we were all underwater. It was me. Naked.

I wanted to stride over and land a sharp slap across Andrew’s face, but that would have drawn even more attention to myself. Being in the spotlight was the last thing I needed right now; I certainly didn’t want ‘demo-man’ singling me out.