Don’t Trust Me Read online

  So what was Jacob’s motive in setting up the business in the first place? There doesn’t seem an angle on it where he benefits, or am I just not imaginative enough? Is the interest in missing girls genuine? If so, then he might be carrying on the same work somewhere without the overheads of an office. He obviously got his business plan catastrophically wrong.

  I tap the notepad with the end of my pen. It’s a habit that drives Michael mad.

  Then why add fraud to financial incompetence? Is this a pattern that Jacob repeats: hire someone so desperate for a job that they don’t ask questions, then run off and leave them carrying the can? Are there others like me out there? I can’t see the point but maybe I’m just not good at penetrating into the darker sides of human nature? I should be, what with the whole profiling thing, but I’d not liked the criminology part of my course, sticking instead with social and developmental psychology, the wider focus. Investigating my own motives for taking that path, I think I’d wanted to understand where my own dysfunctional family life came from, where it fitted, but it’s never a good idea to do a university degree to get personal enlightenment. I understand the runaway girls, though. I can ace that part of my professional life if I’m given the opportunity. I thought Jacob was that chance but that now seems just wishful thinking on top of something much more malign.

  Searches on Jacobs in the Swindon area are leading nowhere – too many and it might not even be his real name. I’m stupid even to try. I have to concentrate on the concrete clues I have. There was an office with case files, physical evidence of his existence in fingerprints and coffee mugs. The cleaner – Rita – where had she come from and how had he recruited her? And why go to the extra expense, if he wasn’t planning to stick around? The girls. Why these particular cases?

  I need to find the documents. I have to discover if Jacob moved everything out or if our stuff was just binned after the landlord took back control of the office. Only a week has passed. Jacob must’ve know he was in trouble before I left for my holiday because surely the landlord would have sent the usual warnings and final demand before taking the drastic step of repossessing the premises? Had Jacob been waiting for me to fly off to Minorca before hightailing it away from Soho, knowing Mr Khan was going to throw him out? Let’s assume that was the case – he left quickly and maybe didn’t take much. Counting back, if the super-fast makeover started last Monday, I might still be able to find something. What day was rubbish collection? It’s possible the stuff I need is sitting in the wheelie bin in the yard behind the office. Looks like I’m going back to Dean Street.

  Drew is not keen on my plan of rooting around in the bins behind the office. He’s changed out of his suit into black trousers and a T-shirt, accessorised with a tea towel tucked into his waistband as he gets started on the stir-fry.

  ‘Isn’t that trespassing? What if you’re caught?’

  ‘The bins should be out front by now for collection. Who’s going to care about a few bins on the public highway? Anyway, I can just say I’m looking for my personal stuff, dumped by mistake in my absence when the office was cleared. That’s sort of true – I had made my own notes. Do you always wear black?’

  He looks down at himself as if he hasn’t even noticed. ‘No…well, maybe, yes?’

  I smile. ‘You do.’ I bite into an apple. ‘It’s your camouflage. You feel comfortable being the brooding guy in the bar, belonging to the tribe of slightly Goth slash late punk. What do you feel about wearing, say, a blue flowered shirt?’

  He shudders histrionically. ‘Are you trying to mess with my head, Jess?’

  ‘It’s the anthropological psychologist in me. I can’t help seeing people in terms of their social groups.’

  ‘What are you then?’

  ‘God knows – pale, stale and female?’

  Drew chuckles, thinking I’m joking, but I do feel like that last slice of bread in the cellophane that’s too thick for the toaster. The one that lurks until it grows mould then gets put in the food bin. Being around Michael last week has done that to me.

  I nibble around the core until only a size-zero catwalk model of a piece remains. ‘Another question is what’s happened to the computer equipment? It wasn’t top of the range but I doubt that’s in the bins.’

  He slides some red peppers into the wok. ‘Look on eBay.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to fish in that ocean of possibilities. The memory will be wiped by now if it’s being sold on.’

  ‘Those police dramas always claim you can’t remove all traces.’

  ‘Possibly, but I’m hardly a computer geek. Like most of the population, I can use the things, not understand them.’ It crosses my mind that Jacob Wrath has done a Wrexit on me, leaving me to tidy up in the way unreliable men expect of responsibly-minded female politicians.

  My phone buzzes. I’ve blocked the calls from Khan’s lawyer and decided not to worry too much about triangulation – I mean, there’s no obvious link between me and an undertaker’s, so why come knocking on the door? With any luck, if they trace me here, they’ll assume I’m dead. I glance down to see who’s ringing. It’s Michael. So now he wants to talk to me.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ asks Drew.

  I really want to punish Michael for failing me last week and last night but I don’t have the self-control that would take. I pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jessica, it’s me. Lizzy’s rung – she couldn’t get hold of you. Our alarm is going off. Where are you?’ Each sentence is served like tennis balls from a too-fast opponent. I manage to get my racquet to the last one.

  ‘At Drew’s.’ Had I been right about someone watching the house? There was the noise last night, and now Khan’s men had to be added to the mix.

  ‘Then you’d better get back home and sort it out. You must’ve left the door to the kitchen open again. You know Colette sets off the alarm if she goes out of her designated zone.’

  I can’t return serves at 147 miles per hour. I decide to have the conversation I would like to be having with him, the equivalent of gentle Sunday afternoon lawn tennis – long rallies where each plays so the other can reach the ball. We might’ve had that conversation five years ago. ‘Please, don’t worry about me. Fortunately I was out so I’m not having to face the burglars alone. Yes, yes, I’m fine – apart from finding out my job was bogus and my boss is a crook. How’s your conference?’

  Michael sighs. ‘OK, I see what mood you’re in.’

  ‘I’m glad it’s going well with lots of admiring Frau doctors, police experts and grad students to polish your ego. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow so you can ask about my day.’

  ‘Jesus, Jessica, this is petty, even from you. You need to act like an adult for once.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you. Yes, Drew’s fine. He says “hi”, by the way.’

  Drew grimaces, holding the chopping knife over a carrot like a Tudor executioner. I imagine it as Michael’s… well, not his head.

  ‘I’ll ask Lizzy to go in and switch it off.’

  Concern for our blameless neighbour sweeps me. ‘Michael, tell Lizzy not to go alone. It might be an actual break-in – not the cat. Things are happening that you don’t know.’

  ‘I never know with you. Always it has to be a drama, never a simple mistake of forgetting to shut the bloody door.’

  God, he’s turning into an irate Michael Caine. If I’m beginning to find his rants amusing, does that mean I’m getting over his rejection? Consciously decoupling, isn’t that the phrase? ‘It’s probably my fault, usually is, but I can’t get there for at least an hour. Tell her to be careful, OK? I’ll go over as soon as we’ve finished dinner.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can trust you.’

  ‘No, you don’t, do you?’ I end the call.

  Drew raises his brows.

  ‘Michael. The alarm’s going off at our house – his house.’

  ‘How bad has it got – you and him?’ He sweeps the carrot matchsticks i
nto the pan.

  ‘Are you going to add any meat to that?’

  ‘I’ll add grilled halloumi at the end. I’ve gone vegetarian. Trust me: it’ll be great.’

  My spirits sink – no chocolate and now no meat. ‘Our basic problem is that he doesn’t like me anymore. The things I do – well, you know me…?’

  Drew nods.

  ‘I can’t help them sometimes. It’s part of my condition. He used to find them amusing but now he’s embarrassed. He’d prefer me just to go but I haven’t got the money to rent somewhere, so…’ I catch a glimpse of Drew’s expression. ‘I’m not asking to stay here more than a night, don’t worry.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried about that.’

  ‘You should be. I’d drive you crazy if you had to live with me. I drive everyone crazy after a time. Michael’s up for a sainthood, having survived five years.’

  ‘Jess, really, it’s not a problem how long you stay. I’m worried that you are in an unhealthy relationship which is destroying your belief in your own self-worth.’ Drew is into self-help books. There’s a whole shelf of them in his living room.

  I laugh. As far as self-worth goes, I’ve always been an atheist.

  ‘Why are you with him again?’

  ‘I don’t know really. It made sense at the beginning. We met at his college. He was supportive when I did teacher training.’ I curled a carrot peeling around my ring finger. ‘He found it unthreatening. He was just beginning to really take off in his career as the media’s go-to psychologist on socially deviant behaviour, and my job was always going to be second fiddle. He liked that. What he didn’t like was the development where I needed more from him than he was prepared to give. He only wanted a witty and amusing girlfriend, not a partner, and certainly not a partner with problems.’

  Drew is silent while he tosses the vegetables. I can imagine what he’s thinking. She sees it so clearly, so why is she so feeble as to stay? I don’t want to admit it to him but, apart from new friend Drew, I don’t really have anyone of my own. My relationship with Michael cut me off from my old friendship groups as I moved in his circle rather than keeping mine. The colleagues I made at Eastfields – well, they went with the job. I am disgusted by myself. I’ve lost all confidence in my ability to make decisions, and that’s with good reason, as the ones I’ve made tend to be impulsive and end up as disasters. Michael had got accomplished at sweeping in to rectify them for me. He was the one who persuaded me to resign from Eastfields before I was dismissed – that was sound advice in retrospect, though it felt like I was surrendering. He sorted out the counselling when I had my breakdown. I’m not convinced I’d survive on my own.

  ‘I’ve always thought he was a bit of a prick,’ announces Drew, plating up the stir-fry and adding the grilled cheese on top.

  ‘Funny, he thinks the same about you.’ I laugh. ‘Though he would give it a posh term.’

  ‘I’m pleased he classes me as one of his social deviants. Might get that put on a T-shirt.’

  ‘A black T-shirt?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Chapter 9

  To: [email protected]

  August 8

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Jessica again

  Dear Charles,

  I apologise for interrupting your long weekend in Edinburgh but Jessica’s behaviour is causing me deep concern. After a relatively quiet few months during which she occupied herself with a range of new hobbies, she appears to have gone wildly off track. The new crisis centres on her claim to have a job as a ‘psychological profiler’. I did wonder, as I told you at the time when she announced she had got this position, whether this was a shot at me and my career? I thought then that she was disguising some office temp job, but I increasingly have begun to suspect that she is inventing the whole thing. This has been worrying me, so I followed her to her place of work the week before we went away and discovered she spent most of her time in a local cafe, drinking coffee and scribbling in one of her many notebooks. The writing in these is still as you will remember: obsessional, full of lists, underlinings and highlightings, writing from various points of view as if she is that person. It’s very hard to decipher but I can see that I don’t come out very well in any of her entries.

  I tested her on a number of occasions as to the nature of her work but her attempts to introduce me to her employer all conveniently failed. You warned me that her fantasies are real to her and there will always be a good excuse for her inability to make them concrete. Just in case, I searched for evidence of her boss’s existence and found no trace of the man and just the barest front door of a website that Jessica admitted while we were on holiday that she had constructed herself. That caused a particularly spectacular row between us. Now she claims to have lost said job, and mislaid her employer, marking the start of a second paranoid phase to the job fantasy.

  We’ve seen this pattern before over the Eastfields debacle. She barely escaped prosecution then and I’m not clear where this current fantasy is leading her. To give me peace of mind, I would be eternally grateful if you would persuade Jessica to come in for another inpatient stay at your clinic. I know we’ve discussed this before but it’s far more than adult ADHD with her; there is something profoundly out of kilter in her psyche and I think she needs rest and a controlled environment if there’s any hope of her recovering. At least this time there doesn’t appear to be a sexual element to her fantasy, not like when she turned on me and that poor student at Eastfields – you can see that I’m reduced to being grateful for small mercies.

  I would also be most appreciative if you would reconsider her medication. As before, I’m happy to pay for this and any other costs of treatment. I will suggest she contacts you when I return from my Berlin conference. I’m due in Washington in two weeks and I really don’t feel safe leaving her on her own again. Her only friend appears to be drawn from the shadier fringes of society, picked up at a bar, no less. Her talent for charming people on first acquaintance hasn’t faded and she’s extremely engaging to begin with, knowing how to deploy her good looks and vulnerable air. She claims her new friend is an undertaker, which again shows how rampant her imagination has become. I’ve met him and he is far more likely to be living on benefits with a pitbull named Spike, but you can’t stop Jessica once she gets inventing.

  On a happier note, I send greetings from Miles and Tariq. We are all sorry you were unable to make the symposium this year and just about forgive you for putting your daughter’s wedding first.

  Many thanks in advance.

  Michael

  Chapter 10

  Jessica

  I am expecting to have to face dealing with the alarm and bins on my own but Drew insists on driving me over there. He has a moped with lots of shiny accessories, so we set off like Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, except this is West London and it’s raining, but I have a good imagination.

  We reach my home to find the light on the alarm flashing, indicating that it has indeed been tripped. Leaving Drew on the scooter, I knock on Lizzy’s door. She opens it, penning in her excitable spaniel, Flossie, behind bars of denim. As usual she’s looking very together, tawny hair neatly styled, make-up perfect even though she’s having a day in. I wouldn’t have bothered if I were her.

  I give her a hug, made awkward by the fact that she was trying to stop Flossie escaping. We laugh as we bump heads. ‘Michael rang me. So, so sorry about the alarm, Lizzy. What am I like?’

  ‘No problem, Jessica. First time it’s happened in weeks.’

  ‘So, no break-in?’

  ‘Not unless you count your live-in cat burglar.’

  I think I’m relieved, but part of me wanted to discover it wasn’t my fault. ‘Well, OK, sorry once again.’ I turn to go.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jessica. We all have our moments.’ She looks past me and raises a brow. ‘Hi, Drew.’

  ‘Hello, Jessica,’ he calls. ‘Sweet-peas are looking goo
d.’

  ‘Thanks. Grew them from seed. Do you want to come in? I can make coffee.’

  ‘Another time. We’ve got plans. Jess is just going to do a quick walk-through.’

  ‘Right, I’d better put Flossie in the garden before she keels over with the excitement of visitors.’ She closes the door and I hear her shooing Flossie out the back.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ I tell Drew, secretly pleased that he has turned down the chance to be with Lizzy to stick with my agenda for the night.

  I let myself in the front door. The entry to the kitchen is now firmly closed. Had I really forgotten to shut it? I thought I’d stopped doing that. When I’m inside, I like to be able to see through from the front to the back of the house, it helps me not to feel trapped, but I’d trained myself to leave in a certain order: keys, phone, kitchen door, alarm, front door. I can see myself doing that this morning but evidently it’s a false memory.

  I go into the kitchen. Colette isn’t there. There’s a second alarm pad in case we want to go out the side entrance. No sign of any break-in at the back. It must’ve been me. I don’t linger, thinking of those bins waiting for the dustmen. I don’t want to stay here anymore. The place no longer feels like home.