‘Didn’t you get the message? You need to stay away from me and my family,’ I snapped, reaching for the front door.
Harry put his hand on my arm. Unbidden and unwanted, a thrill of electricity pulsed through me. I shook him off, avoiding his gaze.
‘That was your dad talking,’ he said. ‘Listen, please, I just came to apologise again, properly.’
‘I’m not int—’
‘And to tell you that though your dad had me arrested, I did not talk to the police about him. And that I absolutely meant it when I said I wouldn’t pursue my story, that I’ll do whatever you want me to.’
I stared at him.
‘I also came to give you this.’ He picked up a slim black bag. ‘It’s got my laptop, the password is written down. All my work is on there. And there’s a memory stick too, which pulls together all the research I did on your dad.’
‘I don’t want it,’ I snapped. ‘All I want is for you to go away and leave me alone.’
‘I understand,’ Harry said. ‘But I want you to see I had good reason to investigate your father and your husband’s death.’ He set the bag down inside the hall.
‘Do you really mean it about dropping your story?’ I asked. Not that it mattered how he answered. I wouldn’t trust him, whatever answer he gave.
‘If that’s what you want.’ Harry’s voice was soft, almost pleading. His eyes were fixed on mine: dark and soulful.
My heart gave a little skip. ‘Go away!’
‘Okay.’ He hesitated. ‘Call me when you’ve looked at it all. Please.’ He hurried off along the path.
I shut the front door and picked up the computer bag. A slim laptop was inside plus, as Harry had said, a USB stick. I took them into the living room and sat, staring at them as the darkness in the room grew thicker and heavier.
I spent the next hour or so making the kids’ tea but all the time I kept thinking about what might be on the laptop. Could there really be more information about Caspian’s death? In the end I had to look. It was impossible not to.
A quick scan showed me that the computer was crammed with stuff, though much of it was clearly unrelated to Harry’s investigation. There were news stories he’d written going back years, the opening of a sci-fi novel which he seemed to have abandoned about ten months ago, plus pics of his family and friends.
I wondered at him giving me the thing. He must know I was angry. Of course everything would be backed up, but I could easily destroy the laptop itself. It was an act of trust. Which meant what? That he cared about hurting me, as he’d said? That he wanted to convince me he had been sincere about his investigation into Dad, if not honest in his methods? That he really was prepared to drop the whole thing?
I plugged in the USB stick. There was one file. It had my name on it.
My throat felt tight as I opened it to find a video showing Harry leaning forward in a chair. His face filled the screen. I pressed play.
Hi Fran, he said, firstly thank you for watching this. His eyes burned through the screen; he looked so handsome in his sweater and stubble. Secondly, please feel free to read everything that’s on my laptop. I promise it’s all there, every bit of work I’ve done looking into your husband’s death and your father’s potential involvement.
I peered more closely. He seemed sincere. He was certainly photogenic, though there were lines around his eyes and his expression was strained. I understand why you’re angry with me. It was wrong to lie about meeting your husband. Harry ran his hand through his hair. Worse than wrong. It was cruel. But I did it because I had a lot of information and I thought that if I just presented it as my own research you would dismiss it out of hand.
So, here it is . . . I’m certain and I have been for weeks now that PAAUL began a secret crusade against abortion doctors in the UK soon after your father ended his official involvement with Shield. I know you think this happened because his second, his current, wife – Jacqueline – influenced him to change direction, but it’s a big coincidence, don’t you think? Because that same time is when the rumours began about your father going underground to lead PAAUL UK from Lanagh House.
So what is PAAUL’s precise UK strategy?
Harry cleared his throat.
It comes down to this:
PAAUL’s aim is to assassinate doctors who perform late abortions.
Starting in 2012, one abortion doctor has died every autumn for the past four years, your own husband being the third in 2014. Each of these four doctors regularly performed abortions after twenty weeks. Simon Pinner’s death last week fits the same bill as the rest but, of course, represents an escalation of the attacks.
The murders (and you’ll find details of all of them in the folder marked CASE FILES) all look like random attacks, they all happened outdoors and all involved knives or beatings.
The police refuse to see the connection for several reasons: Firstly, the deaths are all different, not the pattern of a serial killer. Also, the men were killed in different parts of the country and had different ages and backgrounds. And finally, it is very unusual for a terrorist organisation to commit atrocities and not want everyone to know they are responsible.
I nodded to myself. These were all points DS Smart had made.
On that last aspect I’d say PAAUL is being clever. All the organisation cares about is saving those unborn lives. Making sure the deaths look like accidents is a way of staying under the radar. As for the differences in the deaths: the head of a prison rehabilitation charity meets a lot of ex-convicts, some of them violent . . .
Which brings me to your father.
Harry’s gaze was fixed on the camera, but it felt now that those dark brown eyes were looking straight into mine.
I may have lied when I told you that I spoke with your husband – but I have talked to plenty of other people. Nobody is prepared to go on the record – another reason for the police not believing me – but all those anonymous interviews (in the file marked SOURCES) on my laptop amount to the same thing: Jayson Carr is in charge of PAAUL and ‘cleansing’ the UK of doctors prepared to kill unborn life. He is probably using a roster of different criminals to carry out the crimes, but I’m certain he’s behind every one.
I stopped reading, feeling sick to my stomach.
All the doubts about Dad which uncovering Harry’s lies had blasted away now surged back, stronger than ever. Could Dad be the head of PAAUL UK after all? On the one hand Harry’s research amounted to a huge pile of data that spoke against him. On the other, it was still all supposition. Anyway, how could I trust anything Harry said or did any more?
I turned back to the closing seconds of the video:
You are free to do what you want with this information, including destroying it all. I have wiped all my back-ups including in the Cloud, so this is, truly, everything.
Harry leaned forward again, his eyes intense.
What I want more than anything, Fran, is to see you again. To keep on getting to know you. To hopefully have you some day forgive me for my behaviour and . . . and my lies.
Call me when you’ve thought about all this. I’ll be waiting.
Harry’s hand reached forward and a second later, the video ended.
I stared at the frozen screen for a few seconds then went back to the laptop and read the CASE FILE and SOURCES files. They were exactly as Harry had said. More, the research was thorough, far more extensive than the scant few reports he had led me to on the net earlier in the week. I pored over the files on the other doctors who had been killed: John Paterson, Rashid Ali, Christopher Carson and, of course, Caspian Hoffman.
It was easy to see why Harry had connected their deaths. And yet the police hadn’t done so – were clearly still refusing to do so. Which meant what? That PAAUL – and therefore Dad – weren’t behind the murders after all? Or that they had covered their tracks so well that they’d fooled almost everybody?
It was almost four in the morning before I fell asleep and past ten when the kids woke me s
houting about whose turn it was to use the iPad. By the time I’d sorted them out – my head still going over and over Harry’s files – another hour had passed.
My mobile rang. Auntie Sheila calling. Shit, I had completely forgotten that it was Sunday, my regular day to visit her.
‘Sorry, Sheila,’ I said, snatching up the phone.
‘I thought perhaps you wouldn’t come as you were here on Tuesday.’ Auntie Sheila sounded wounded. ‘But I baked macaroons in case you’d been too busy to buy any.’
I groaned inwardly. Going to visit her was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do, but Sheila seemed upset. Mum’s voice echoed in my head: ‘Be kind to those in pain and trouble, try and put yourself in their place, feel their fear and misery.’
‘I was just leaving,’ I lied. ‘Be with you in twenty minutes.’ Bundling two complaining children into the car I hurried off. Harry rang as we drove. The last thing I needed was to talk to him. I ignored the call.
Traffic was mercifully light all the way to Fulham. Once we were at Sheila’s Ruby and Rufus settled themselves down in the living room, as usual, while Sheila and I headed into her kitchen. Sheila was full of horror at the news about Harry’s infiltration into my life.
‘I can’t believe the audacity,’ she said, sitting very upright and nibbling on the edge of a macaroon.
I looked around, desperate to change the subject. The surfaces were clear, no sign of any lunch being cooked. I remembered the roast – and Graham’s arrival – from earlier in the week.
‘Not expecting anyone for lunch?’ I asked.
‘No, dear.’ Sheila blushed.
‘Not even Uncle Graham?’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing so much of him. You never said.’
‘I never lied about it.’ Sheila bristled. ‘And he is the father of my son.’
‘He’s not treated you very well in the past,’ I pointed out.
Sheila set down her macaroon, two bright red spots appearing on her cheeks.
‘I don’t think, Francesca dear, after the way that wretched journalist tricked you, you are really in a position to lecture me about being poorly treated by anyone. Believe me, I’m well aware Graham is no angel, but he is my husband.’
Wow, I’d never heard her sound so snippy.
‘Was your husband.’ I couldn’t resist making the point.
Sheila looked wounded and immediately I felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I know it’s none of my business, I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you getting hurt again.’
Sheila pursed her lips. ‘Graham’s a good man, when he’s not drinking. All the Carrs are basically good men.’ She tutted. ‘Talking of which . . . I hope you haven’t let that journalist influence you against your own father. I know that’s how they work: all lies and manipulation.’
‘Are you really so sure everything he was claiming is untrue?’ I couldn’t stop myself from asking. ‘I’ve seen a lot of stuff that suggests otherwise.’
‘It’s just rumours and ranting on . . . on the interweb . . . and people with an axe to grind,’ Sheila said, her voice suddenly shrill. ‘For goodness’ sake, Francesca, your father is one of the best men I’ve ever met. He looked after me when Graham left, when I had days when I couldn’t get out of bed.’ She was almost shaking with emotion now. I stared, horrified. I hadn’t seen her this upset since Mum died. ‘Your father is a saint. Do you hear me? A saint!’
‘Sheila, I’m sorry, I just—’
‘Your mother would be ashamed of you, thinking your father could be capable . . . where’s your faith, Francesca? You need to back off this whole thing with PAAUL, it’s crazy.’
I left soon after, reeling from Sheila’s vehemence – and more confused than ever.
Lucy called mid-afternoon to ask if we wanted to go to St Cecilia’s for a concert of sacred music that evening. I braced myself for her to start crying again, but she sounded much less emotional than she had earlier and didn’t mention Harry once. I was used to her mood swings but even so I was surprised. She sounded almost chipper, though of course – I reflected – she might just be putting a brave face on her emotions.
‘I’m meeting Dad and Jacqueline for an early supper first,’ she said. ‘They’d love it if you came along.’
She often asked me and the kids along to events like this. Maybe she was just being nice – she certainly never pushed her Catholicism at us – but it still felt like a subtle pressure to get more involved with the religion I’d rejected years before. Sometimes I went, mostly to be polite, though Ruby always grumbled and Rufus had started, in the past few months, to point-blank refuse to engage in any kind of church-based family get-together.
Today I’d cried off citing the fact that both Ruby and Rufus had school in the morning and we all needed an early night. Truth was I didn’t really want to see Lucy. More, I couldn’t face Dad with all the unanswered questions about his relationship with PAAUL still bouncing around my head.
Harry himself tried me again, twice – though he left no message when I didn’t answer. And then, fifteen minutes before four, with Rufus grumpily holed up in his room and Ruby helping me bake some football-themed fairy cakes, my phone trilled with a text.
‘I’ll get it.’ Ruby picked up my phone. A moment later she looked up from the text with a frown. ‘I don’t get it.’
Wiping my floury hands I took the mobile and read:
REPENT AND DESIST. 1 Corinthians 3:17
I stared at the screen in shock.
‘What does “dess-est” mean?’ Ruby asked, looking up at me with wide, curious eyes. ‘And what’s Cor . . . corint . . . ans?’
My heart thudded, loud in my ears.
‘It’s a bible verse,’ I said, a dread rising in my throat. I checked the sender: number with held. ‘Just religious fruitcakes sending out junk texts.’
‘But what does it mean?’ Ruby persisted, her little face screwed into a worried frown.
‘Nothing,’ I said, deleting the message. ‘Look, it’s gone. It’s a mistake. Get the eggs out of the fridge.’
I left Ruby carefully cracking and beating the eggs and hurried next door to look up the Corinthians verse on my phone. My fingers trembled as I read:
If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person; for God’s temple is sacred and you together are that temple.
I’d seen this verse before. It was one of the main bible quotes featured on the PAAUL forums Harry had led me to.
It was used by PAAUL followers to explain their certainty of the bible’s – and therefore God’s – justification of the use of violence against abortionists.
Panic swirled in my chest.
This was a threat. A threat to me from PAAUL.
HARRY
Harry waited for Fran to call but she didn’t. He tried her himself several times but she didn’t answer. He would have left a message, but he had already said and done everything he could think of to persuade her to talk to him. The afternoon wore on. His phone rang twice. Both times Harry rushed to answer, hoping it was her and, both times, wished he hadn’t.
The first call was from his sister Kayleigh. As he’d told Fran, Kayleigh – a single mother with three kids by three different fathers – was depressed. Indeed, since their mum had been taken ill last year she’d occasionally seemed suicidal. Harry was worried about her. Though he was more worried about his mother, who bore the brunt of Kayleigh’s ‘bad days’ and wore herself out looking after the kids.
Despite the fact that he’d only just left Manchester, Kayleigh wanted to know how soon he’d be able to come back. Apparently little Aaron, her middle child, kept asking when he would see Harry again. Aaron was a sweet kid but what he really needed was a dad. And with Harry based in London there was no way he could properly substitute for one of those. Kayleigh sounded down again and Harry felt guiltily relieved when she said she had to go after a few minutes.
Alexandra Spencer called almost immediately afterwards.
Harry’s heart sank as soon as he heard the clipped tones of the Record’s news editor.
‘What the fuck, Harry? I’ve only had the bloody police on the phone. Arrested? For harassment? You’re supposed to be investigating a story, not sexually assaulting your contacts.’
With a sigh, Harry explained how his cover story had been exposed.
‘It was when you called me on Friday, actually,’ he said, hoping she might soften when she understood it was her call that had, inadvertently, revealed his true identity.
But Alexandra didn’t take the bait. ‘So your cover is blown and you’re no closer to any proof about Jayson Carr being a terrorist than you were before I approved you starting down this path?’
Harry frowned. Anything he said was likely to aggravate her. The woman was hard as nails, completely ruthless – especially when it came to celebrity exposés – and had a voice that oozed contempt, whatever she was saying and whoever she was talking to.
He needed to close the investigation down. If Alexandra Spencer thought there was a chance of a story she was perfectly capable of turning him off the case and putting another reporter onto it.
‘I don’t think the evidence against Carr stacks up to anything,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Alexandra sounded sceptical. ‘The fact that Carr’s gone bonkers, chucking injunctions and whatever threats out of his pram says he’s guilty to me.’
‘Or maybe it just says he’s very protective of his daughters,’ Harry suggested.
‘Ah, yes, the daughters,’ Alexandra sneered. ‘I understand from the extremely unpleasant police officer who called me, you’ve been attempting to shag one of them.’ She sniffed. ‘Nice, by the way.’
‘Whatever Carr is doing, I’m certain there isn’t a story,’ Harry said, ignoring this.
‘Useless fucking incompetent.’ There was a click as Alexandra rang off.
Harry sighed. Life as a freelancer was hard enough without senior news editors thinking you were a liability. He knew Alexandra Spencer well enough to be sure she was unlikely to be discreet about his failings.
Was he going to end up without either his reputation or his girl?