Page 62 of The Stranger in Her House

‘Yes,’ he says without hesitation.

I start at the beginning and am completely honest as to how and why I met Gwen and what my intentions were. I recount how Paul weaved his way into her life and was responsible for her death. I tell Jon how three other women have died and how I tried to blackmail Paul into giving me what I wanted before I planned to report him to the police. And I explain how my evidence was stolen from under my nose, blowing my opportunity to get justice.

‘You don’t have to believe any of this,’ I conclude. ‘You don’t know if I’m a fantasist or if I’m trying to scam you too. And I don’t blame you if that’s what you’re thinking. All I can add is that I have no reason to lie because everything I have to lose has already gone.’

Finally, I offer him my apology. ‘I’m so sorry, Jon,’ I add. ‘If I’d given my evidence to the police when I had it, I might’ve saved your mum.’

I sit back in my chair, relieved to have got it off my chest, but nervous of how he’s going to react. It’s a hell of a lot to take in.

‘I think I need some air,’ he says eventually and rises to his feet. We make our way to the back door and step outside. I light up a cigarette and he asks if I have one to spare. I light his too.

‘Mum hated it when I smoked,’ he recalls. ‘Years ago, when I came back from a day trip to the French hypermarkets, I’d stocked up on a dozen cartons of Marlboro Lights. She found them in the shed and turned the hosepipe on them all. She’d be doing the same to me if she could see me now.’

I try, but fail, to imagine what it must have been like to have a parent who cared.

‘What would you do if you were me?’ he asks suddenly. ‘You know this man, I don’t. From what you’ve told me, he’s holding all the cards.’

‘But he doesn’t, not anymore,’ I say. ‘Because your mum is still alive and he didn’t plan for that. If it were me, I’d persuade your doctor friend to organise a toxicology report to discover what’s inyour mum’s system. I’m sure they’ve already done routine bloodwork, but because it’s assumed her fall was an accident, they won’t have tested her for everything. If Paul’s used the same drugs on her as he did with the others, they will find traces of a drug called Omixinol. It’s a psychoactive that she had no reason to take. Get the results fast-tracked, and if they find it in her blood, it might be enough to prompt a police investigation.’ I find the direct line for DS Krisha Ahuja and he stores it in his phone. ‘Don’t tell her we’ve spoken, as I have zero credibility with her and I want your accusations to be taken seriously.’

Jon thanks me, we stub out our cigarettes and I walk him to the front door.

‘I also think Paul was presumptuous when it came to your mum,’ I conclude. ‘He assumed with you living abroad, there was no one to look out for her. I hope it’ll be his undoing.’

‘I hope so too,’ Jon adds quietly, and makes his way up the garden path before he stops and turns. ‘You could be right when you say you might’ve saved Mum if you’d gone to the police sooner.’ My eyes sink to the floor like a scolded dog’s. ‘However, I should have listened to you when you called me and done something about it. Instead, I dismissed you. Just because we let her down once doesn’t mean we’ll do it again.’

I hope not. I really do.

CHAPTER 51

CONNIE

I don’t think it’s possible to find a more characterless office than the one I am sitting in. There are about a dozen booths in here in the open-plan layout of Jobcentre Plus, all separated by clear plastic screens. They each contain a desk, a chair either side of it, and a computer. It’s the kind of workplace that would have sent me and Caz running to the hills. But now I can only dream of being employed somewhere like here instead of in the unskilled manual labour roles I’m destined for.

According to his name badge, the young man sitting opposite me is called Harry. His red hair is scraped up into a man-bun and he wears two sleeves of tattoos, several of which contain clock faces. It’s ironic, as people his age have no concept of how quickly time passes. And I wonder if someone his age should really be deciding if I’m deserving of the weekly £84.40 of the government’s Jobseeker’s Allowance I’m trying to claim?

It doesn’t take long for his computer to tell him that no, I’m entitled to sod all, as I haven’t paid any National Insurance for more than a decade. To his credit, Harry is sympathetic, and I getthe impression that he really wants to help me back into work. But there are many objects standing in my way, like my age, my criminal record and my lack of qualifications. There are slim pickings out there for someone like me.

‘Do you have any hobbies that might be able to help you find work?’ Harry asks.

‘No, not really.’

He’s not ready to give up, bless him. ‘Is there any training we could point you in the direction of, something you always wanted to do but were never in a position to explore until now?’

His question brings to the surface long-buried ambitions. As a teen, I decided beauty therapy was going to be the career that carried me away from my and Caz’s grubby little world to somewhere clean. I loved looking at models like Kate Moss, Linda Evangelista and Claudia Schiffer in shopliftedVogueandThe Facemagazines. I taught myself how to do my fingernails and make-up like they did theirs. I discovered how to make myself look older simply with a bit of shading or contouring. It was also how I caught the attention of unsuitable, older men. Now you’d call them paedophiles, but back then, I’d have been blamed for leading them on. The plan was to enrol in college as far away from East London as possible. And I found one some three hundred miles away in Sunderland, which, by some miracle, accepted me.

The curriculum included everything I’d need to help me become a well-rounded, highly employable therapist. I had it all planned out. Once I graduated, I’d land myself a placement at a salon or spa, and then, with practical experience under my belt, I’d find work on luxury cruise ships and liners. I’d travel the world doing a job I loved and seeing places I’d only ever watched on television. Just a few months separated me from the better life I deserved.

‘I need your help.’

Caz was gasping for air when she burst through the front door of my flat, slamming it behind her. There’d been no contact between us for the best part of a month before this sudden reappearance.

‘What have you done?’ I asked.

I spotted a backpack under her coat as she turned. She unzipped it and removed two transparent, flour-sized bags, each containing white powder, and then a handgun. I swallowed hard.

‘You’ve got to look after them for me,’ she informed me. ‘It’s only for tonight. I’ll be back in the morning to pick them up.’

‘No, Caz,’ I said. ‘A stolen Nintendo or counterfeit cash is one thing, but drugs and a weapon? No. Absolutely not.’

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