Keep My Secrets Page 24

  ‘But you told the police and me that it was someone called Matthew Jarrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ She can’t look at him.

  The silence grows thicker. ‘So that was a lie. That was a lie to protect Martin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because you have feelings for him, is that it?’

  ‘No!’ Her head snaps up to look at him. His eyes are full of terrible, terrible pain.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me any of this?’ He tries to stop his voice cracking.

  ‘Because of what I did.’

  He frowns in query.

  ‘I left the baby.’

  There’s a moment where he can’t speak. ‘You left the baby? What do you mean, you left the baby? Where? How? Who with?’

  Frankie shifts uncomfortably. ‘It wasn’t that straightforward.’ She tucks her hands behind her thighs to stop them shaking. ‘I left her with some people. I thought they were good people. I was a child, Alex. I didn’t feel as though I had any choice.’

  He struggles to get the words out. ‘People? What people? But you were in care, Frankie… there would have been adoption. There was fostering. There’s a whole raft of support services…’

  She hangs her head. ‘I left the baby with the girl’s parents.’

  ‘The girl?’

  ‘The girl that died. The girl that was murdered.’

  It’s as though someone else is speaking. She cannot be saying these things. The words don’t have any meaning.

  Nothing moves. She can’t lift her head. She almost dare not breathe.

  ‘I didn’t feel I had a choice,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Yes, so you keep saying, but of course you had a choice.’ Alex’s voice goes up an octave. ‘You had choices, and you made a decision.’

  He’s angry, really angry. She can’t tell him about the drugs, she just can’t.

  ‘Where are these “people” now? Do you even know?’

  ‘Don’t you think I feel bad enough, Alex? Don’t you think the guilt and the shame of what I did has stayed with me? I’ve never forgotten the terrible thing I did, never! I’ve had to live with that.’

  ‘And I’ve had to live with a person I didn’t even fucking know.’ He glares at her. ‘So why couldn’t you have told me any of this, Frankie? What kind of ogre have I been all these years, eh? How terrible a person?’ His narrow eyes glare at her. ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? Not at all. The truth is, I’ve spent fifteen years of my life showering you with love, and support, and protection, and money’ – he spits the word – ‘trying desperately to make up for the appalling start you had in life. I alienated myself from my family to back you up. We moved miles away – miles – from family and friends who sneered at me for being with you. I gave up everything, and now—’ He breaks off. She can see he’s close to tears.

  ‘Because that’s not the whole truth is it, Frankie? There’s more. Even now at this eleventh hour, I know there’s more.’

  She falters for a split second and that’s all it takes.

  ‘See? And there we have it.’

  ‘No Martin, it’s not that—’

  ‘Oh, but it’s exactly that! What is it between you and this offender that’s so special that you’d lie to your husband for the whole of your marriage? You read in magazines about women like you, don’t you? Warped obsession – is that what this is?’

  ‘Alex—’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be supportive and understanding of your past “trauma”, aren’t I?’ he sneers. ‘I’m supposed to suggest we sit around in a circle doing bloody counselling and act like a saint – well, y’know what, Frankie? I’m sick of being a bloody saint. I’m sick of trailing around after you being supportive and waiting for you to drop some crumbs of affection. I’m sick of being the understanding good guy in the background while you run off for hours and days “finding yourself”. You’re a selfish bitch, Frankie, and the irony is, you’ve become the person my family said you were – a liar, and a user. Well, well…’ He begins to clap slowly. ‘Go figure.’

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Bravo, Frankie! What a performance it’s been! The performance of a bloody lifetime – literally.’ He smiles, chuckling horribly and then the smile falters as his eyes suddenly focus on the middle distance. ‘So… let me get this straight. Me meeting Martin Jarvis wasn’t by accident. This stranger who walked into the centre and presented himself as a vulnerable ex-offender has actually singled me out in order to get to you, is that right?’

  Everything she can think of to say just makes this all worse.

  ‘Martin Jarvis… Matthew Jarrow…’ Alex pauses for several seconds as a whole raft of realisations flood across his face. ‘You let me sit in that police station, worrying myself sick for your safety. You wasted their time chasing some newly-released offender that didn’t even exist! Oh my god! Oh my god!’ The glass swings wildly as he levers himself up to confront her. ‘You and him… It’s been you and him all along… Why the fuck didn’t I get it? Christ, you and Martin must have laughed together this evening. It must’ve been like old times!’

  ‘Stop it, Alex. Stop it. It’s nothing like that. You don’t understand—’

  ‘Oh, I understand only too well, Frankie. That’s the whole problem,’ he growls. ‘The ridiculous rose-tinted veil of loving you has well and truly dropped from my eyes. I see you for what you are, now. Finally… Finally.’

  ‘No, Alex listen, you’re right to hate me but you don’t understand that the child, my daughter is—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ His eyes flash with fury. ‘That’s why you wouldn’t talk about having kids with me, isn’t it?’ He starts to laugh, a low bubbling stream of hatred. She watches his face with growing horror; she’s never seen him like this. ‘That’s why – because you had one already. Jesus… You know what? Go on, get out. Go and have a life with some murdering sex-offender if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Alex, I don’t want—’ She takes a step towards him and puts a hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t you dare!’ He swings her off.

  ‘If you’d only let me explain—’

  ‘Get off me, Frankie!’ He’s really shouting now, pushing her away. She staggers back, shocked.

  ‘Alex—’

  ‘No!’

  She doesn’t feel it, but she hears the whistle of the glass tumbler as it skims through the air past her head. She instantly ducks, hands pressed to her ears as it hits the far wall and shatters. Shards of scattered diamonds shower her feet.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ he roars, his footsteps crunching behind her and then suddenly the kitchen door crashes against its frame. Running along the hallway, she grabs her bag, lurching to the front door and yanks it open. A tiny piece of paper flutters in the draught. She glances down. There, in the pool of moonlight, is the little folded rectangle. Bending swiftly, she picks it up, striding quickly to her car. Alex doesn’t come after her. Sitting behind the wheel, she stares at the writing in the muted interior light. She looks up. The house sits there in a pool of bitter, grey shadows, closed-down and grim. She deliberately keeps her mind blank. She doesn’t dare let herself think, but what she now knows keeps coming back to her: Martin didn’t send those letters… He couldn’t have had anything to do with the necklace… Things begin to piece together, and she begins to make sense of it.

  Starting the engine, she backs off the drive in a scree of gravel. Punching the phone icon on the screen, she holds up the bit of paper into the passing streetlights and repeats the digits slowly. The phone bleeps loudly into the silence as it tries to make the connection. Her mind is empty of everything but Chloe. She knows what she’s done to Alex. Her betrayal is enormous, but protecting Chloe overrides everything.

  ‘Hello?’ says the familiar voice.

  ‘I’m coming to get you,’ she says. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where I’ve always been.’ She can hear the smile in his voic
e. ‘Waiting for you to find me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The flat looks like a kind of wartime bunker. She pulls up to find Martin standing in the doorway, jacket already on and zipped. He runs over, scrambling to get into the car. He’s excited and breathless. She knows what she’s about to tell him will change his life forever.

  ‘I never really thought you’d ring.’

  She pulls out of the shabby, run-down estate and onto the main road.

  ‘It was my one and only chance to persuade you to talk to me, but I never thought you’d agree, I thought—’

  ‘Stop talking,’ she says abruptly. ‘Stop talking, Martin, and listen.’

  She hauls the wheel round to the kerb, rams on the brakes with a jerk and kills the engine.

  ‘This isn’t about you or us. This isn’t about Charlotte Vale, or Alex, it’s about Chloe.’

  He looks puzzled at the name.

  ‘Our daughter.’

  His eyes quicken with surprise but also fear.

  ‘She wasn’t put up for adoption.’

  He turns his head slightly towards her. His cheek flinches, unsure.

  ‘She wasn’t?’

  ‘I was staying with Peter and Vanessa Vale when I had her. Jack – you remember Jack at that party? – He’s their son. He got involved with drug dealers, and I helped him – only Vanessa and Peter caught me. I lied to cover for him, and they took Chloe.’

  Martin is staring as though she’s fantasising.

  ‘It’s all true. What were my choices? I was seventeen and living in a care home. I’d just been caught with three kilos of cocaine; what chance do you think I would’ve had of keeping a baby?’

  He looks back at her in disbelief.

  ‘The answer you’re looking for is none. So I lied. I told Jude I was still living there. Once I was eighteen no one bothered checking. Kids like me usually end up on the streets or worse. There’s no safety net, no one cares. I knew Chloe would have a good life with them. Jack sent me photographs and little videos. I got to see her at first. If they’d taken her into the system I would never have seen her again.’

  ‘Peter Vale had our daughter?’

  Something terrible is happening to Martin’s face. It doesn’t look human. His mouth contorts as though he might scream or roar or…

  ‘Peter Vale has our daughter now?’

  Frankie puts her hand on his wrist. The feel of his skin beneath her fingers makes something inside her give way.

  ‘I’m back in contact with Jack. He’s always been on my side. He was the one who went to the police about the images he found on Peter’s computer. It was Jack who got him put away. But Peter’s out now, and Jack’s worried that Vanessa will let him back into that house. He’s lurking around. I went to the school today – Chloe’s school. I saw her.’

  ‘You actually laid eyes on her?’

  Frankie nods emphatically. ‘All grown up and gorgeous. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since she was a little baby. She’s fifteen, Martin. She really is beautiful…’ She smiles, but then swallows it. ‘But I saw Peter Vale too. He was hanging around by the school gates. Vanessa doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong. Jack says we have to get Peter Vale put away again. It’s the only sure way of stopping him.’

  ‘We can maybe do that.’ Martin looks quickly at her. ‘The notes, the necklace: we have those. You remember at the court there were unexplained marks around Charlotte’s neck? That was from the necklace they never found. The one you were wearing.’

  Frankie’s hand comes up to touch her throat where the pendant used to be.

  ‘If you want to hide something, do it in plain sight, remember? I’m telling you, it’s Peter Vale. He’s the one.’

  ‘And the hairband?’

  ‘If that’s got his DNA on it, it could be vital… Jesus, Frankie, it’s like he’s taunting you, like he wants you to know these things.’

  She doesn’t say anything, but she can guess why. He’s getting off on it. She thinks back to how Peter made her feel: the way he looked at her, the way he made her skin crawl. He’d killed Charlotte and got away with it. He wanted her to know as a kind of sick torture. He’d been at the school gates in full view: provoking and gloating, not caring if she saw him.

  A dawning of some terrible realisation slides into her stomach. The stalking, the notes, the phone calls had all started when Martin was released. She and Martin were the only two people who could possibly work out what he did – He was enjoying the fact that they knew.

  The hand on her back.

  The finger on her neck.

  The whispering in the darkness.

  ‘I really believe that he’s…’ She can only just say the words. ‘… He’s out of control. He’s got away with it once. He thinks he’s untouchable.’ The disgust in her throat tightens. ‘He’s sick, he’s dangerous and he’s free. He wants us to see him, he wants us to work out what he did, Martin.’ She swallows thickly. ‘He wants us to know he’s after Chloe.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  She parks a little way down the road. From here they have a good view of Vanessa’s house. A light is burning behind the living room curtains. Every so often there’s a flicker that tells them whoever’s inside is watching TV.

  ‘You know the layout of the rooms, yes?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘And you’ll know exactly how to get in?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve already thought it through.’

  They look at each other in the gauzy interior darkness. She feels seventeen again. Martin is twenty-one. For those few seconds, they’re the people they used to be. She looks down into her lap. Her hand lies flat on her thigh, her wedding ring glinting dully in the street light. She isn’t free to have these feelings. They are not hers to have.

  ‘I understand,’ he says simply. ‘I know it’s too late for us, but not for our daughter.’

  They both look up at the house, lost in their own thoughts. A light comes on in the hallway: it spreads up the stairs and then moves to the front bedroom. A figure appears, cruciform for a moment as it tugs at the curtains.

  ‘Probably Vanessa,’ Frankie whispers. ‘That’s her room, there.’

  ‘Does Jack know where Peter is?’ Martin whispers back.

  ‘I don’t know, but I can find out.’

  She pulls out her phone and sends a brief text. It instantly buzzes back.

  ‘He says he can find out. He’s asking what we’re planning?’

  ‘Very good question, I’d say.’ He gives her a sideways look. ‘You’ll need to share it with me, at least.’

  Frankie checks the clock. ‘Chloe has Charlotte’s old room. Peter’s office used to be right next to it. There may be still stuff of Peter’s there. We just need to find a connection to tie him to those notes: a sample of his handwriting, maybe? I don’t know. This is Peter’s home, this is where he feels safe. He knows Vanessa is on his side. If he’s going to leave evidence anywhere, it’ll be here.’

  There’s a movement at one of the windows and Martin dips his head to see clearer.

  ‘The light in the front bedroom has just gone off.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And we think Chloe will definitely be in bed by now?’

  Frankie checks the time. ‘She’s fifteen and it’s gone midnight. I would think so.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Her phone buzzes.

  ‘Jack’s checked. Peter’s at home in his bed-sit. That means we’ll have stacks of time.’

  ‘Right.’

  She can feel the anxiety coming off Martin in waves. He stares out of the windscreen as ten minutes pass, then twenty. In the quiet, she hears him take a breath.

  ‘My daughter’s in there.’ It comes out in a choked rasp, as though he can’t believe it.

  Frankie holds on to her own feelings, tight and hard. She feels her neck flex with tension.

  ‘Shall we do this?’ She looks across.

&
nbsp; He looks back at her. ‘Let’s.’

  They get out of the car. Softly clicking the doors closed, they walk quickly across the road. She tries to clear her mind.

  This is a house, like all the other houses they’d broken into, nothing more, and nothing less.

  Checking up and down the street and keeping close to the shadows, they make their way around the back. She looks up. The curtains at Chloe’s window are closed. The ones in the next room are open. Her guess was right then. The bare pane stares down like a blank eye. She points upward and Martin nods in agreement. There’s the small bathroom window. Even from here she can see that the catch on the fanlight is still faulty, its edge standing a little proud from the frame.

  ‘Use this.’ Martin whispers, pulling a Swiss Army knife from his pocket.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The soil pipe makes it an easy ascent, but the last fifteen years doesn’t. Her muscles and joints object loudly, creaking and groaning and refusing to flex in quite the way they used to. Ignoring the pain, she crams the tips of her trainers into the back of the iron brackets, and hoists her way up, foot by foot. Panting, she reaches the sill and takes a look down. Martin is standing there with his arms folded. He gazes up at her with an expression she remembers so well. Her heart folds a little. Running her fingertips around the edge of the window frame, she feels gently, looking for the loose catch and then levers the knife into the gap to flip it open. Reaching inside, she pats around for the latch and unhooks the larger window.

  Within seconds, she’s inside.

  It’s a very odd feeling. For a moment the familiarity of everything makes her falter, but she gathers herself, listening for any sign of movement. The house stays silent. Creeping from the bathroom, she pauses again on the landing, aware that the bedroom doors are shut tight. Soundlessly, she makes her way down the stairs to the front door where she can see Martin’s shadow weaving through the glass. Leaning her weight against the door, she turns the catch, easing it open without even a creak. He slips inside. They meet each other’s eyes, and she signals for them to make a start.

  Peter’s office.

  Frankie leads the way. She prays that the door won’t stick. Putting her hand on the handle, she looks back. Martin has stopped by Chloe’s bedroom door, his head slightly cocked and listening. She watches as he lifts a hand. With all five fingertips balanced gently, he wordlessly presses the wood as though feeling for his daughter on the other side. The look on his face tells her more than words ever could. He nods quickly.