What You Left Behind (17 page)

“Details are vague at present,” Lorraine replied. She knew the importance of not allowing suicides to be visually re-created in other people’s minds, especially those vulnerable or close to the victims.

Sonia pulled away from Tony for a minute. “You haven’t told me who it was.” She took another tissue, blew her nose, and scrunched it up in her hand.

“It was Lenny Jackman, I’m afraid.” Lorraine let the news sink in. “It was also Lenny who stole your laptop.”

“Yes, Frank told Sonia the police knew it was him from the CCTV,” Tony said. “They couldn’t find evidence to actually pin it on him, though.”

“What did the note say?” Sonia asked.

“Love, don’t torture yourself,” Tony said, passing over a cup of tea from Jo. “I don’t care a jot about the computer. You know that, don’t you?”

Sonia nodded. “I’d have given him the money if only he’d asked. Anything.
Any
thing to stop this nightmare from happening again.”

“Apart from the New Hope connection, there’s nothing to indicate
that Lenny’s death was linked to Dean Watts in any way,” Lorraine said, wondering whether this was in fact the case, but not wishing to upset Sonia any more.

“You can’t rule out the possibility, though, can you?” Tony asked as Sonia sank back against him.

“That’s up to Detective Inspector Greg Burnley and his team to decide. He’s the officer in charge. I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon,” she added, wondering if Burnley would bother. If it was up to her she’d be all over New Hope by now.

“We can’t allow another suicide spate to happen again,” Tony said, allowing himself to fold down into a kitchen chair. Sonia sat in the one beside him. “The community hasn’t recovered.”

The confident man Lorraine had met in the pub only the night before seemed changed, as if he’d been successfully concealing his grief until this moment.

“I understand,” she said. “I’ll see if I can get DI Burnley to arrange a liaison officer to keep you informed.”

Then, suddenly, Jo announced it was time to go. “You know where I am if you need me, Son,” she said, giving her friend a hug. She glanced briefly at Tony and offered him a small smile.

“One last thing,” Lorraine said, stopping in the doorway. “It’s about Gil.” She felt a prod in the ribs from Jo but ignored it. “He seems rather preoccupied with the night Dean died. After what’s happened today, I’d keep a close eye on him.”

A
S
L
ORRAINE AND
Jo walked off down the drive, they saw Gil standing with his arms outstretched, staring up at the roof of his little cottage. There was a tile missing from the patchwork of clay squares and a white-and-gray cat was stalking along the ridge. It emitted a pitiful mew every few paces.

“Hello where is your daughter?” Gil said, staring at Lorraine, unnerving her slightly. His blinks were deliberate and slow, almost as if he were counting them.

“She’s back at Jo’s house, Gil,” Lorraine replied, wishing she hadn’t. “Is your cat stuck?”

“No,” said Gil. “I am watching to see if he jumps and dies.”

Jo shot Lorraine a look. They didn’t think the cat would leap to its death but both were unnerved by Gil’s lack of concern if it did.

“Would you like to see my drawings?” he asked. A grin spread across his face.

“We need to get going,” Jo said under her breath.

“I’ve got lots and lots,” he said, walking off toward the tack room.

The door to the little building was open and Lorraine could see that it looked quite cozy inside, if rather dark because of the ivy that had partially obscured the window. Gil stopped and turned, framed by the doorway.

“The motorbike helmet visor was in the grass where Dean’s girlfriend fell off the bike but now the helmet’s broken and nothing can be fixed anymore not anything not even Dean.” Gil was looking at Lorraine again, and she noticed how his pale blue eyes were transformed to navy in the shadow of a cedar tree.

“I’d love to see your drawings, Gil,” she said, ignoring Jo’s heavy sigh and following him inside.

It was nicer than Lorraine was expecting. Someone, no doubt Sonia, had gone to some trouble furnishing the place and making sure Gil had everything he needed to live comfortably. It reminded her of a place she’d once rented years ago.

“I draw everything,” Gil said.

He held out a glass of water to Lorraine, then poured another for Jo. They each drank some so as not to offend him.

“You have an amazing talent,” Lorraine said.

The table was covered with his work, ranging in size from small
scraps of paper with minute drawings to poster-sized creations and half-finished works that seemed almost life-sized.

“Do you only draw things that you’ve seen?”

For a moment, Gil appeared puzzled, but then a grin spread across his face. “Yes, but I see everything,” he said, shuffling through the stack of papers. He pulled out a drawing and handed it to Lorraine.

She gasped. Stella was staring back at her from a large sheet of drawing paper, peeking coyly out from behind a big tree. There were other trees and bushes all around her. If Lorraine hadn’t been slightly disturbed by this man having such an interest in her daughter, she’d have asked to keep it—or buy it. It was certainly worthy of framing and hanging on the wall.

“Why did you draw this?” Lorraine asked.

“Because she is my friend,” Gil said honestly. “Do you like the woods?” he asked. “I have drawn Stella in the woods because I like the woods and I’d like to take Stella there to play hide-and-seek but I would let her win so don’t worry.” He laughed before gulping down half a glass of water.

“What else do you like to draw?” Lorraine asked, aware that Jo was looking out the window as a car went off down the drive.

“I like drawing cars and trains and airplanes.” Gil knocked some of his drawings onto the floor before plucking out several others. “I go walking and I see things,” he said proudly.

In one of the sketches the train was modern and flashed diagonally across the page, as if it would burst from the paper with a blare of its horn. There were several other precise drawings of trains, all speeding through the countryside as if they’d been photographed from above.

“Oh, that’s my car,” Lorraine said in surprise, looking at another picture. “You can even see my registration number.”

“I like to draw cars but trains are my favorite,” Gil said, clapping his hands and snatching the pictures back from Lorraine. “But it’s a secret right? Just like Dean’s girlfriend and the helmet.” His face
was suddenly swept with a concerned expression. “You won’t tell, will you?”

Lorraine stared at him. Tiny beads of sweat had erupted on his forehead.

“No, Gil,” she said thoughtfully. “I won’t tell.”

15

Freddie was sweating. An uncomfortable layer of moisture coated his face as he helped Lana make the beds at New Hope. His muscles felt weak and his legs and back ached. He’d come to talk to her, not change sheets.

Lana stopped what she was doing, put her hands on her hips. “Have you heard a word I’ve said, Freddie?” She shoved a pillowcase at him.

He nodded weakly.

“Mum said to me, ‘You are not going and that’s final,’ as if I’m a little kid. We were grooming the horses first thing and she just put her foot down. It’s getting worse. She never lets me do anything anymore. Apart from work here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was. Lana deserved better.

He stared at her through aching eyes.

Two nights had passed since Lenny’s attack, and he’d not slept a wink. Instead he’d lain, fully clothed, on top of his bed, haunted by the memory of the
thud-thud
of footsteps behind him, the rasping breath of his assailant ringing in his ears as he’d run in terror, not caring where he ended up. Somehow, several hours later, he’d got back to Radcote, still clutching the laptop, but he hadn’t since dared go back to find his bike. It could rot wherever he’d left it for all he cared.

“So I guess I have to resign myself to a life of solitude,” Lana said, snapping out a fresh-smelling sheet.

“You’ll be off to university in September,” Freddie said. He’d no doubt still be stuck in Radcote, the void of his life stretching before him. “You’ll have a great time.”

Lana stared at him—Freddie couldn’t read the odd look she gave him—and then chucked a pillow at his chest.

“Mum thinks I’m going to die of a drug overdose if I go to Tammy’s party,” she continued. “
Any
party. She thinks all my friends are bad influences and will convert me into a crack addict before I know it. She’s completely paranoid about me falling in with the wrong people, getting myself a police record, making it impossible to go to med school when they CRB-check me.”

Freddie noticed a glint of tears in Lana’s eyes. He recognized her frustration, understood it completely. He suffered the same emotion every waking moment, even more so now. For a second he wondered if she would understand if he told her—told her everything, from the horror he’d seen the other night to the creeps that made every day of his life unbearable. There was a chance it would bring them closer.

His mouth opened, and Lana glanced at him expectantly, but he quickly closed it again. What was he thinking?

“I’ve got the computer,” he said instead. It was what he’d come to tell her, after all.

He looked around the big hall furtively.

Lana stopped tucking in the sheet, straightened up, and came round to his side of the bed. “You have?”

He could smell the zesty scent of her shampoo as she pulled back her hair.

“So now what do we do?”

Freddie shrugged. “I don’t know,” he whispered. It was the truth. Whatever else was going on in his life, however much he needed to tell someone about the wretched texts and shit online, he mustn’t tell her what he’d seen on Monday night. He could hardly bring himself to even think about it, let alone involve Lana. He’d texted Lenny just in case he was still alive somewhere, but there’d been no reply.

“Have you had a chance to look at it?”

Freddie shook his head. He’d stared at the laptop, certainly. Spent hours staring at its shiny lid, wondering what secrets it contained. Lana’s claims weren’t to be taken lightly—both their lives would be affected by this. It’s why they’d decided to take it in the first place. The only good thing, as far as Freddie could see, was that they’d been brought closer because of it.

“I will soon,” Freddie said quietly. “But you know, it’s going to be hard. I’ll have to do a bit of techie stuff. It takes time.”

Lana nodded. That was the thing about her. She was always so understanding, so accommodating.

Freddie felt the buzz of his phone in his back pocket. He slipped it out, read the message, shoved it away again.

“Are you OK?” Lana asked.

“Yeah,” he retorted, instantly regretting his tone. It was hardly her fault, the light-headedness the texts gave him, the feelings of sheer terror.

“I’ve been worried about you recently. You’ve not been yourself. I know what I told you about the computer is hard to swallow, but there’s something else. I feel—”

“Look, just shut up, will you?” Freddie wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. “I did what you wanted, got the laptop, so just, like, forget it, will you? I’ll call you if I find anything.”

Lana folded her arms. She stared at him, the camp bed like a mountain between them. “I don’t get you, Freddie Curzon. Not one bit.” She shook her head, waited a moment for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she gathered up an armful of dirty laundry and went off to the kitchen, leaving Freddie with an empty, sinking feeling deep in his chest.

He was a loser. Just like they’d said.

He slumped down onto the bunk and dropped his head into his hands.

Someone came out of the kitchen and walked up to him. He was going to apologize, tell her he was sorry, that there was loads of stuff on his mind, but when he looked up Frank was standing there. Freddie’s spine stiffened.

“You two planning on coming to Tammy’s gathering later?”

Freddie wasn’t sure if he was about to get a warning or if Frank was trying to be nice. He’d heard Lana speak about him once or twice in uncertain terms, as if she never knew which way to take him. He reckoned he’d be wary, stay on the safe side.