Someone To Save you (26 page)

Her husband was sobbing like a child.

Jody lay on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. The shelter room, with its bare, clinical white walls and lack of furniture, was far from homely, but it was the best place she had slept in for many years. Run by a Catholic charity, it offered board and lodgings for homeless young people, with the proviso that no drugs or alcohol were allowed on the premises. That wasn’t a problem for Jody. She’d never used drugs, and only drank alcohol for its numbing qualities, which had not been needed in the past year; not since she had made the deal with him – if she brought him girls, she would never have to suffer at the hands of those men. It was a deal that still haunted her.

But there was one rule she now had to break.

The night-time curfew.

She looked across at the clock that hung on the wall, just above the gold crucifix. It was coming up to eleven, and within minutes the front door would be locked.

She pulled herself up from the bed and ran through the plan one last time. Then grabbing her jacket, she left the room and walked down to the next door on the right. A young girl answered. Clara, a thirteen year old runaway from Scotland, nodded without the girls exchanging a word. She knew what she had to do. Clara was a good kid. And Jody hoped and prayed that she would never fall into the company she had.

Jody waited around the corner from the reception desk as Clara gave an impressive performance. She feigned illness, threatening to vomit, and the woman at reception, a stern but kindly nun, left her station to accompany her to the toilet.

Jody waited until they were out of sight, before edging around the corner, past the reception desk and out of the door into the cool London air. She turned back to look at the building. She had been so lucky after leaving Locky’s to find this place, this refuge from the grimness of what her life had become. For the first time in years, it seemed like somebody cared, and that maybe there was a way out of all this. What she had just done had jeopardised that. But she was willing to risk it all for Mel. She had been her friend, a lovely girl who had reminded her of her little sister. She would do whatever it took to make that man suffer for what he had done.

Jody travelled across London by night bus. She sat with her head resting against the window, ignoring the occasional glances of the sole fellow passenger on the bus’s bottom deck, a drunken man to her right. Watching the lights of London flash by, the fear rose, and the stop-go movement of the bus began to make her feel sick. She was going against Locky’s advice, travelling back into the lair, risking everything.

She reached the house after almost an hour, fighting the nauseating combination of travel sickness and nerves as she watched from across the road. The comfort of the refuge seemed a lifetime away. The building and its entrance looked so innocuous, but looks were definitely deceiving. She stepped back behind a parked van as the front door to the building opened and a man emerged. She recognised him as one of the regulars – one of the more pleasant ones, relatively speaking, but still not someone she wanted to see.

She waited behind the van until he was out of sight, before crossing the road, keeping a wide berth between her and the front entrance. With no-one else in sight, she hurried along the side of the building and up to a metal door, the emergency fire exit. Crouching down, she performing the act she had done many times before, running her fingers along the underside of the frame until she found the catch. One flick and the door popped outwards. Within a second she was inside with the door closed behind her.

Jody took a few seconds to gather her composure as she stood at the base of the stairs, running through things one more time. It was crucial that it all went to plan. Then, as quietly as she could, she ascended the metal staircase, reaching the next door. She was pretty confident that there would be no one in the linen room at this time of night, but still, she ensured that the door was opened with almost painful slowness. The room was in darkness, so it took time to make her way through the piles of sheets and boxes, being careful not to make any noise that might draw attention to her. She emerged into the corridor, on the upper level of the building. Again, thankfully, there was no one around, although she could her familiar sounds coming from the adjacent room. She longed to burst in there and spoil the bastard’s party, but now wasn’t the time.

Instead, she moved downstairs, avoiding the entrance where security would be on guard, and reached her destination. She knew that he was never in at this time of night – he would be in the casino by now – but still, as she put the stolen key to the lock, a sudden sense of fear gripped her. Fighting this off, she opened the door and closed it behind her – only then flicking on the desk lamp light.

Now she had to move fast.

She moved quickly, searching the room for something, anything that might explain what had happened to her friend - folders, papers on his desk, and the contents of the desk drawers. But there was nothing here. Then she moved on to the computer. But as she went to power up the device, she realised it was already in standby mode. She moved the mouse and an image appeared on the screen.

It changed everything.

So shocked was she by the image, Jody didn’t realise he was standing behind her. He had been hiding in the room.

Two powerful arms held her down at the shoulders, pushing her into the chair with considerable force.

‘Welcome back, Jody. What’s it like to see mummy after all these years?’

29

Sam sat there, stunned, just staring at the computer screen. He pressed the play button and, eyes closed, listened to the recording for a second time.

‘Please, God, no…look away! Look away, please.’

Someone had recorded the train crash. And there had been microphones in more than one location.

He put a hand to his head as he tried to absorb the revelation and what it meant.

The whole thing had been set up. Was that possible?

And if so, by who?

He went back to his email account and examined the message that had led him to the video.

[email protected]

Richard Friedman was dead. Yet there was someone still out there, goading him about Cathy. And now, the evidence that the events of the past week could somehow be all connected. He thought back to the terror on the railway track. The terrified young girl, those poor children strapped in the car and the baby in the boot, Jane Ainsley’s vacant stare and her death. And the girl’s suicide in the river.

Was all that for him?

And did this now link to Richard Friedman?

It was late at night, but not too late to take action. He pulled out his mobile and called Paul Cullen.

‘Sam, good to see you.’

Just twenty-five minutes after the phone call, Sam led Paul Cullen through to the living room. ‘I didn’t expect you to get here so quickly.’

‘I’m only staying just down the road,’ he revealed, ‘in a hotel just near Euston station - while I sort out some personal problems.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Sam said, as they entered the lounge. ‘I didn’t realise.’

Paul Cullen shrugged. ‘It’s a long story. But I’m hoping for a happy ending.’

Sam didn’t want to probe any further. ‘Well, thanks for coming so late at night, even if you are nearby.’

‘No problem. I was glad to get out of that hotel room - expensive but grubby as hell. So, what’s this about? You said it’s something very important.’

‘Take a seat,’ Sam gestured to the chair in front of the laptop.

Paul Cullen did as requested, with just a flash of something resembling anticipation. Sam sat on the chair next to him and worked the mouse, clicking through to his email account.

‘I got this email about fifteen minutes before I called you,’ Sam said, opening up the message. ‘The sender has used the name of my sister.’

‘Catherine Becker,’ Cullen thought out loud.

‘The link takes you to this,’ Sam said, as the webpage loaded. He clicked on the play button and sat back as it started up, switching his focus between the monitor and Paul Cullen, gauging his reaction.

‘What am I watching here?’ Cullen asked, not taking his attention away from the screen.

‘Just listen,’ Sam replied. He went to turn up the volume but it was already on maximum.

‘Please, help Jessica! She’s in the back! Jessica’s in the back!’

Paul Cullen turned to Sam as the screen went black and the video ended. ‘I don’t understand Sam, what is this?’

Sam was disappointed by his reaction. ‘Don’t you recognise my voice?’

‘It’s difficult to hear,’ he replied. ‘I can just about make out some words, bits of sentences.’

‘It’s an audio recording of the train crash.’

Cullen looked more confused than shocked. ‘What?’

Sam gestured towards the screen. ‘Someone had microphones there, and recorded everything.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Sam should have realised that this would take time to sink in. ‘I know it sounds crazy, but someone set this up, recorded it and posted it on the Internet for me to find.’

Cullen’s face was a picture of scepticism, but his mind was whirring. Sam had certainly got his attention. ‘Play it again.’

The recording began to play through again. This time Sam added his commentary, explained who was saying what, filling in the words when it was difficult to hear.

When the audio ended, Cullen sat there in contemplation, kneading his chin.

‘Someone recorded the whole thing,’ Sam repeated. ‘And just under an hour ago, they sent me the link on that email, using my sister’s name.’

Cullen turned to face him. ‘You really believe that this is a recording from that night?’

‘Definitely,’ Sam replied. ‘You’re not convinced?’

‘It’s pretty poor quality.’

‘But you can pick out the voices,’ Sam said. ‘And I know what was said.’

‘It could be a hoax,’ he suggested. ‘Someone playing games with you. They could have re-enacted the events.’

Sam didn’t buy that explanation, although he understood it was a logical and necessary one for Cullen to voice. ‘But how would they know what happened?’

‘From what they’ve heard in the media.’

Sam shook his head. ‘As far as I remember, it’s word-for-word what was said - no-one else apart from me and the girl knew that. And that voice is definitely mine.’

Cullen gave that a few moments of thought. He was coming around to the idea, Sam could tell. ‘Say this is a recording of the train crash. What do you think this means?’

‘Like I said, it was a set up.’ Sam knew it sounded unbelievable, but it was what he believed.

‘Who was set up? Jane Ainsley?’

‘Me.’

Paul Cullen looked intrigued. ‘You think this was set up for you?’

‘Yes. But maybe it was just chance, that I was driving down that particular road when the girl ran out in front of my car. It could have been a set up for anybody, but I became part of it.’

‘You said maybe,’ Cullen replied, picking up on Sam’s choice of words.

‘Or maybe it was always meant for me.’

Cullen’s forehead creased. ‘You really think that – that all this could have been set up for you? Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sam admitted. ‘But what I do know is that someone taped everything that happened, someone else was involved in this. Maybe they were there watching, I don’t know.’

‘You’re talking about murder here.’

‘Shirley Ainsley doesn’t believe that her daughter committed suicide.’

Cullen couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘You’ve spoken to Shirley Ainsley?’

‘She came to see me.’

He shook his head with barely concealed anger. ‘What did she say?’

Sam felt uncomfortable under Cullen’s glare. ‘That she didn’t think her daughter was capable of doing something like that, especially taking her children with her.’

‘Nobody wants to think their child would be capable of something like that.’

Sam decided to add one last bit of information. ‘She thought it might have something to do with her ex-boyfriend.’

‘Did she,’ he replied flatly. ‘Sam, what are you trying to do here?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You shouldn’t be talking to Shirley Ainsley about the case, or to anyone else for that matter.’

Sam knew he was right, but he hadn’t gone looking for her. ‘She came to see me.’

‘Then you should have refused to talk to her,’ he responded. ‘Shirley Ainsley is a very upset and confused lady. She’s grieving and looking for answers. Surely you can empathise with that.’

Sam nodded. Maybe he should have done that, but it would have been difficult and cruel under the circumstances to just have shown her the door, not to mention fuelling Shirley’s suspicions about him.

‘Shirley Ainsley was adamant until a few days ago that you were somehow responsible for her daughter’s death.’