Page 98 of One True Love

“Jesus,” I grunt.

That could so easily have been me.

“What do you want me to do? I can get someone I know to trace where the money goes.”

I take a deep breath. “Bobby, let me think and I’ll ring you in the morning. Thanks for this.”

“No worries, lovey. Sleep well and thank gawd you’re clever, eh?”

“I know, Bobs. I know.”

He ends the call and I take a moment to breathe.

There’s something I’ve been going over and over in my mind. It was the way he spoke about the woman who’s meant to be his mother. That part seemed true. I think if you’re acting all the time, there must be a moment or two when a kind of weakness creeps in and you let your true self come out. Plus, there’s that saying: something about a really good lie being based in truth somewhere, so it seems to the person or people you’re lying to as if there’s no way you could be deceiving them. The way he talked about her seemed real.

I pull up the Oxford University website and study the metaphysics faculty. Unfortunately, there are no women professors with current tenure. It’s all men who look like they never leave their burrows, year after year.

When he lied and said he was spending Easter Sunday with his mother, in Didcot, he was no doubt home with his family in Islington.

But what if his mother does live in Didcot? What if… they are estranged because his mother knows what her son really is?

I search online for “academic” and “Didcot” and “professor”.

It brings up one result, an article from an online journal. I read the heading quickly:

Celebrated professor of astrophysics Melanie Low, of Didcot, Oxfordshire talks about how she turned her grief into triumph. Her only child, a son named Adrian, went missing over six years ago on his twentieth birthday. As the date approaches when he will be officially declared dead…

Jeez, I check the date of the article. This was written ten years ago. So, he’s been missing for sixteen, almost seventeen years and will be thirty-six or seven now. I can believe that. He’s not just clever, but he’s been doing this for a long time. Aidan is close to his real name, too. He never truly forgot who he really is, did he?

But he was more like his father than he was ever like his mother. He couldn’t live up to her expectations, so he went a different route… and never came back.

I google Melanie Low and a lot more search results appear. She’s Oxford University’s darling. Nobel Prize Winner. Feminist icon. Foremost in her field. All these terms pop up repeatedly.

When I zoom in on a picture of her, sure enough, there are his eyes.

I imagine most girls Aidan screws over never want to think of him again after he dumps them. All they know is he fucked and chucked them after getting what he wanted. They never stop to think about the things he might have told them because they probably want to put him out of their head as fast as they can.

Digesting all of this, there’s one thing I can’t help but think:

Aidan wants to get found out. Or else, he’s been getting away with it for so long, dropping hints about who he really is—that’s what he really gets off on. The actual brazenness. How easy he lies. How stupid he must think people are, that they will believe anything.

I’ve still got the burner phone I used when I was working for Flawless and needed to make calls that were untraceable. I switch it on and plug it in to charge. Withholding the number, I call the office of Melanie Low. Her answerphone picks up and it’s her, sounding aged and incredibly intelligent, of course.

“This is the office of astrophysicist, Melanie Low. I’m not in right now but my office hours are Monday to Wednesday ten to noon, then Friday nine to noon. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

I’m so close to leaving a message, but I hang up before the beep.

If she already grieved and believes him to be dead, maybe that’s better. She sounds old so something like this could kill her for all I know.

I lie in bed wondering what would be kinder to his wife, kids… and the mother who believes him dead. At least I know that if he goes away, there will be a grandmother who would see her grandchildren right.

Then it clicks. Maybe he knows that, too. Maybe Aidan has no way out. That’s why he tells the story. A slight variation on the truth that someone clever could unpick. Hoping one day, someone might… put it all together.

***

A few days later, in daylight this time, I make sure I’m standing in the same alleyway where I hid previously. Last night, I gave Bobby the go ahead to drop some stuff into the police’s lap. Then he got a tipoff they’d be arresting Aidan this morning. Bobby told me that hardly any of the porn videos show the bloke’s face; the camera is always focused on the woman. Except this geezer known as Aidan has a distinctive tattoo on his rear end, so, it will be difficult to mistake him. Plus, Bobby traced the money the porn site is making… and it seems my old mate Chrissy’s husband is the one who runs the whole damn operation as a sideline. Itismoney-making revenge porn, if I had to make a guess. Probably women who turned him down and who he held a grudge against. Or women like me who screwed over his wife. At first, I reckon Aidan told them I wouldn’t be easy to work over. But then as Chrissy’s business folded, the desire to seek revenge quickened and he was told to try again.

I thought the PA salary “Linklater Investments” was offering seemed a bit low, but I was of the mindset that maybe they’d have increased their offer once I sold my skills and experience to them. With hindsight, the salary now suggests that their usual approach is only inexperienced young women. And perhaps not degree-educated women. Certainly not women with contacts all over London and a nose for crooks. Which would make me rather unique, though I bought in slightly with Aidan, I have to admit. I still think he realised early on that Chrissy and her husband had made a big mistake trying to mess with someone like me.

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