Page 40 of The Tapes
Dina waits a moment and then clicks into action. She pulls out her phone and taps the screen, before squinting at it. ‘I think that’s…’ she says, before handing me the device.
There’s a photo of a group of footballers, some kneeling at the front, others standing behind. They’re sweaty and a couple look as if they’re on their last legs.
‘Do either of you know anyone?’ Cox asks.
And I do. Because one of Owen’s teammates is areallyfamiliar face.
NINETEEN
Faith emerges from the theatre, a folder under her arm, bag over her back, phone in her hand. She’s chatting to a guy I don’t recognise – but, as soon as she sees the car, she momentarily stops with surprise. My daughter says something to the boy and, as he heads in one direction, she strides towards me.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asks, as she slots onto the passenger seat. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’
I can’t tell her that I’m worried, because it’s hard to say why. Death suddenly feels close. Too close. My father could’ve been expected – but Owen wasn’t that much older than Faith. One evening, he was playing football with friends; the next he’s gone. When I left his flat, I had a look through his Instagram – and it’s full of photos from football, or with his friends. There are drinks with his mates, plus the pride at the gardens he worked on. A trip home to his mum for a Sunday roast the other week. Sitting on his brother’s sofa, watching a Wednesday night football match on TV. A normal young guy making his way through life.
And it’s hard to explain all that to Faith, because she’s so young.
‘It’s been a long day,’ I say instead. But she isn’t quite a child – I can tell her what happened. ‘A colleague at work killed himself.’
She’d been looking to her phone but Faith lowers it. ‘Oh. Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just figured I’d pick you up.’
Faith doesn’t question this and perhaps she has a better understanding of how I feel than I give her credit for. When we get home, she lets me cook for her, even though she usually likes making her own meals. We have a constant back and forth over whether she’s eating enough – but not tonight. She lets me be her mum and we eat from our laps, half watching the early evening quiz shows but not really. Instead, she tells me about her course and her friends; the prep for her overseas trip, and how everyone’s looking forward to it. The students on her course are going to visit the opera, plus they have group tickets for a play. They’re going to meet with a group of youngsters doing a similar course to collaborate on a joint drama piece.
I don’t have a lot to say – but perhaps that’s what I need. It’s Dad’s funeral tomorrow, which would be an issue even if it wasn’t for everything else going on. It’s good to hear somebody else talk excitedly and passionately about the things going on in their life.
We finish eating and Faith helps me unload and then reload the dishwasher. She asks if she can go to her room and I tell her of course.
That leaves me in the living room by myself, listening to the quiet, wondering how many of Owen’s football team have been spoken to.
Did Owenreallykill himself? I know depression is a chemical imbalance, that it’s unpredictable and can be hidden, yet wouldn’t there be a sign somewhere?
This is the real reason I picked up Faith, even if I’ve not been able to say it out loud.
What if Owen was killedforthe tape?
It’s hard to know who could’ve done it – but Mark overheard when I gave Owen the cassette yesterday. I also told Kieron about it, and he said he was going to talk to some of his old colleagues. Owen could’ve told anyone himself, plus I think I told my brother about it. That’s potentially a lot of people who knew.
It’s paranoia.
But what if it isn’t?
‘If they say I’m missing, I’m not. I’ve been killed – and I need you to know that I love you.’
I listen to my voice note recording of Mum’s tape but there’s a hiss and a scratchiness that makes it even harder to make out than the original.
I’ve still not even started to process Dad walking out at the exact same time as that first Earring Killer murder. Even Harriet said he’d disappeared for nights at a time. A few more hours and he’ll be ashes.
He was a long way from perfect but it was always reassuring to know he was on the other side of town. I could pop in, make him a cup of tea, listen to him talk about the day’s crossword clues. Hearing him complain about the nonsense he’d seen on Facebook was annoying a month ago but I’d crave it now.
What is the connection from my parents to the Earring Killer?
I’m so certain there’s something and find myself skimming through old articles. There’s not as much as I’d expect, though perhaps that’s because the most recent killing was thirteen yearsago. I sometimes have to remind myself that not everything ended up online in the late-nineties and noughties.
There’s a book by someone named Vivian Mallory that I don’t own and have never read. It was out ten years ago and I remember a debate online about whether it was in bad taste. There’s an article from her inTheGuardian, with an extract of the book. She explains how the first victim was someone named Carly. She worked at Prince Industries and left to walk home, and then?—
I stop because I recognise that business name.
