Killing a Stranger Page 14

  ‘Or clichés.’

  ‘Or anything else you don’t want to hear. No, I suggest we go home, log on and try out Angela’s web site. You can do the description part, just like you said.’

  Twenty-Seven

  The day had dragged for Patrick and his friends, knowing that they had Rob’s files to look at and hoping for some miraculous breakthrough. They had gone straight to Patrick’s place after school, hoping to grab a couple of hours to get on with things, though both Charlie and Becks had mock exams this week and knew they couldn’t spare much time. Revision, onerous as it was, had to be done.

  They had been expecting … what? None of them was quite prepared to say, but the reality of it was disappointing. Rob seemed to have kept his schoolwork on the machine from the year dot.

  ‘I remember doing that essay,’ Becky said. ‘I think we were in year eight. What’s he doing keeping that?’

  They tried to be methodical, opening files and skimming them, but most proved as boring as the essay questions had been when they were first set, and the emails that Alec had managed to obtain were of the ‘When’s the math’s homework due in?’ or ‘I’ve lost my question sheet, can you scan yours and send it otherwise I’m in deep shit’ type.

  ‘He really should have a clear out every now and again,’ Charlie said. ‘How can anyone keep so much dross?’

  Patrick didn’t like to point out that Charlie had used the present tense.

  In the middle of all this, his machine chimed happily and a box popped up saying that one of his MSN contacts had signed it.

  Patrick saw who it was and hesitated. His machine was set to sign him in automatically and he’d forgotten about Jennifer.

  ‘Um, I’ll just tell her I can’t talk,’ he said and opened a window. Jen was saying hi, sending smileys with googly eyes.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Becky wanted to know. She frowned. ‘You’re talking to that bitch from the other night?’

  ‘She isn’t a bitch,’ Patrick objected. ‘Becks, you don’t even know her.’

  ‘I know she was part of what got Rob killed.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Look, I’m telling her I can’t talk now, OK. I just felt sorry for her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … I don’t know why.’ Patrick signed off and closed down his messenger. He could tell from her expression that Becky was still up for a fight. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘she was on the other side of things. She might be able to find out stuff we can’t. We don’t know anything about this Adam Hensel, I thought I might be able to get her to talk.’

  ‘You said you felt sorry for her,’ Becky challenged, unconvinced.

  ‘That too, I guess.’

  ‘And have you found out anything?’ Charlie wanted to know.

  ‘Give me a chance. I’ve only spoken to her twice.’ This was not exactly the truth. Twice implied maybe brief conversations. In fact the second one had lasted a couple of hours and, to Patrick’s discomfort, neither Rob nor Adam had been mentioned much. It had been as though both he and Jennifer danced around the subject, avoiding it consciously whenever anything impinged. They’d talked about college and music and films and even Jen’s baby and how scared she was. Patrick found that part hard to get his head around. He’d found himself saying all the comforting and reasonable things he knew his nan or Naomi would say under the same circumstances and it had been weird, recycling good advice that was only nominally his. Jennifer had seemed to appreciate it though and, to his surprise, he had warmed to her. ‘If I get to talk later on I’ll find out what’s happening their end,’ he promised.

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Any intel is useful,’ he said.

  ‘Intel!’ Becky was scornful. ‘What the hell are you? Some sort of spook?’ She cast Patrick another suspicious look. ‘Don’t feel too sorry,’ she warned. ‘It’s Rob we’re interested in, not some girl stupid enough to get herself pregnant.’

  Patrick shrugged, unsure of what to say. They left soon after, revision demands and the knowledge that they were maybe not as prepared as they should have been pressing down on them. Patrick was left alone. Harry still not home and the house creaking as the central heating warmed its joints unnerved him, even though he knew the source.

  He glanced at the time, Harry wouldn’t be long. He raced downstairs to the kitchen and filled the kettle, leaving the lights on in the hall and living room even though he had no plan to be there. He and Harry usually shared the cooking once his father was home and, though Patrick might grumble, he actually enjoyed that bit of winding down time and the idle chat that usually accompanied it. Harry would complain about his boring day in the accounts department and talk about the oddities of the staff he worked with. Patrick would complain about his teachers, the homework they’d set, the petty injustices of school and what they’d watch on television that night.

  Not overwhelmingly exciting, perhaps, but it was secure and ordinary and Patrick liked it. Comparing his home life to that of Becky – her mother and him – or even Charlie, with three siblings to compete with, Patrick counted himself luckier than most. Not that he was always keen on telling Harry that.

  Leaving the kettle to boil, he went back upstairs to see if Jennifer was still online. She had already gone. He thought about the conversation he had overheard between Alec and Naomi and the mysterious informant in Pinsent. He’d tackle his dad about that later tonight, make out he knew more than he did and tease Harry into filling in the gaps – a game Harry was more adept at winning these days, Patrick noted wryly.

  He wondered about telling Jennifer. It was obvious from what he could piece together that Adam had been seeing someone disreputable and that someone was probably a prostitute. Should he mention it to her, ask her to find out more?

  He rejected the notion almost as the thought completed. He didn’t now her that well, did he. What could he say? Hey, was your uncle paying for sex? Maybe you could ask your mum or dad, see if they know. Yeah. Right. Besides, he actually quite liked Jennifer and had no wish to crush the embryonic friendship before it began.

  The sound of Harry’s key in the door and his father’s shout put it all from his mind. He raced downstairs into the brightly lighted hall.

  Jennifer had been disappointed when Patrick had cried off. Life at her grandfather’s house was quiet. Too quiet and she was seriously bored. She’d waited all day for someone to talk to and when Patrick had appeared online, earlier than usual, it had seemed like a Godsend.

  Then he’d made some excuse and logged off. It didn’t seem fair.

  She almost wished she was back at school. She was due to go to that centre thing next week, she remembered. The place for pregnant teens that was supposed to keep them on track with their lessons.

  ‘Some hope,’ Jennifer muttered, half wishing she had actually done the work her form tutor kept sending her. After all, she could access all the handouts through the college intranet and get essay advice too should she need it. It had all seemed like too much stress and a big waste of time, but now, she began to wonder what she was actually going to do. A seventeen-year-old with a baby in tow. She’d kind of hoped her mother would take over but Beth had made it clear that, while they would be supportive, she was the mother and had to make the decisions regarding the baby. Her family wanted her to finish her education. The support worker she had seen had told her this was perfectly possible. Patrick, in their last conversation, had pointed out that it might be a good idea … and she was coming round to the thought that it might just be.

  She flopped down on the bed and stared up at the elaborately corniced and moulded ceiling, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Would parental support be withdrawn, now she was persona non grata in her own house? The surge of resentment she felt towards her mother was tempered only by the reluctant acknowledgement that she’d screamed just as loud and that Grandfather Ernst was right. She should have waited for a better, more opportune moment to reveal her little secret.

  If her mother hadn’t been so picky
that morning – Jennifer could no longer recall exactly what about – she would never have reacted in that way. So, it was her mother’s fault. And, she obviously didn’t care. She hadn’t phoned or anything.

  OK, so her dad had called and Jennifer refused to speak to him and Ernst had told him best to let her stew – Jennifer wasn’t supposed to have heard that part. She’d stormed out of the room, but not completely out of earshot. He hadn’t, to her knowledge, called back again.

  Privately, Jennifer had to admit she’d stewed enough. She waned to go home, to have her own things around her and her mother fussing, her father looking bemused, the baby things organized.

  Patrick, she thought, he might understand, if he could find the time to actually talk to her! Rob would have understood. So would Uncle Adam. She missed them both and felt traitorous for doing so.

  Or did she? Did she really miss Uncle Adam? While a big part of her said yes to that, terrible as it might sound, there was just a little niggling doubt in her mind, some small element that said ‘no’; it was, almost, a relief that he was no longer there.

  Twenty-Eight

  Ernst had returned to his son’s flat. The echoing emptiness of the place struck him as soon as he walked through the door. The furnishings might still be in place, the personal effects still intact, but the spirit that inhabited it had gone. It was just a series of rooms and no longer made pretence at being a home.

  He switched the computer on and entered the password at the prompt. Suzanne was right, he thought as he noted which version of Windows Adam was running. Although the case might be the same, the innards of the machine had almost certainly been upgraded. It surprised him. It was the kind of thing his son would have told him about, probably finding some reason for complaint regarding the service or the cost when he obtained the parts. It was the sort of random, unimportant, factual information that Adam would have felt safe and found easy to exchange.

  Had their relationship so diminished, Ernst wondered, that now they only discussed the technical, the abstract, the impersonal? With a jolt he realized that on this occasion Adam had chosen not even to share in that.

  Surely there had been more to it? Reprising the last few conversations they had shared, Ernst had been forced to acknowledge that there was probably not. The meetings had been enjoyable enough, but had been gatherings of the family, not chat between father and son. The talk had been of family in general terms and then turned on to politics and film and the soap operas Beth liked to watch and Adam ridiculed.

  Was that what family life was like?

  Ernst thought about his time with Lisle. They had been able to talk about anything, but, he reflected, there had also been many hours spent in silence, comfortable and comforting or in chat about nothing at all. Perhaps he was sifting though his bank of memories looking for problems that did not exist; absences that were in fact not even that. After all, what did he and Adam really have in common bar the accident of birth and fatherhood, and didn’t Adam make a point of attending family gatherings? Keeping the contacts and connections alive and active?

  After all, Ernst told himself irritably, life does not comprise only of deep and meaningful experiences; much of it is quite banal. Why should conversation and interaction between father and son differ from that?

  Reluctantly, feeling that he was intruding into his dead son’s privacy, he began to examine the folders and files. Adam was meticulous here as well. In a folder marked ‘Correspondence’ were letters of complaint to his bank; to his credit card company querying a payment; to his solicitor; his ex-wife; random colleagues … going back roughly five years. Each had been subdivided into separate nested folders complete with headings. Ernst scanned them. Nothing that stood out.

  There was a folder marked ‘Accounts’ which contained just that. Adam, in addition to his day job as a surveyor, did some consultancy work and declared it for tax separate from his normal work. There was a folder relating to work and another containing random articles he seemed to have downloaded.

  Downloaded? Ernst examined the physical machine more closely. Plugged into a port at the rear was a cable he had not seen. It was coiled and bound with a metal twist tie to keep it tidy, then tucked beneath the tower unit out of the way. Adam had always hated dangling cables.

  On the wall behind, hidden behind the table was an extension socket for the phone.

  Adam used the Internet? Of course he did, at work, but Ernst had always been under the impression that work was where it ended. He supposed, as Adam did some of his consultancy work from the flat, it made sense to have at least dial up for email, but he had never mentioned it and none of the bills Ernst had seen seemed to relate – though, of course, he’d not looked that closely and a dial up service would be recorded as a number not necessarily listed as an ISP.

  Ernst turned his attention back to the folders, skimming through the articles all of which seemed related to surveying, architecture or design. Then on to the next one which contained family photos. Adam had bought a digital camera a year or so before, Ernst recalled and now he took to recording every gathering for posterity. Weddings and Christmases and summer picnics. Some of the better pictures he had printed out at the local supermarket – he said it was hardly worth buying a dedicated printer – and now rested in albums, some in Ernst’s own.

  He had expected the next folder to be more of the same and so it seemed at first, with a file marked ‘Jennifer’ nested inside. And one bearing the designation Angel. Curious, Ernst opened that first.

  Angel could be termed an attractive woman, Ernst supposed. She certainly seemed eager to show off her attributes, some of which Ernst guessed had been artificially enhanced. The images were no more explicit that those you could find in a daily paper, but Ernst was still astonished by their presence.

  Hesitantly, he clicked on the other file, then shut it down. The background told him that the shots of Jennifer had been taken here, in this room and there was no doubt either that she had seen the images of Angel, the poses copied shot for shot.

  Ernst felt shaken to the core.

  Patrick had returned to the files from Rob’s computer but, frankly, he was bored. Nothing exceptional had yet appeared and nothing terribly interesting either. Patrick could remember doing a lot of these essays himself and the fact that Rob had completed the tasks at greater length and with more accomplished spelling really didn’t add to their attractiveness.

  Tenacious though, he continued to work methodically through the files. Slowly, he began to realize that not all was as it seemed. Rob, as Charlie had commented earlier, certainly was in need of a good clear out. The GCSE syllabus had been roughly the same when he had taken it as when Patrick had the following year. From Patrick’s point of view, one of the saving graces of the exam board the college used was that it allowed a percentage of the marks to be derived from coursework. A folder of work was marked alongside the formal exam and it was this that had enabled Patrick to just scrape a bare pass. His folder, written and rewritten under Naomi’s guidance, had been better than he either expected or deserved. He’d actually been quite proud of it and, clearing his own computer ready for the new academic year, it had been one of the few things he had chosen to keep.

  Rob’s folder, of course, was there alongside all the other detritus and Patrick, who had struggled to make the minimum word count with his own compositions, was surprised at how much Rob had crammed inside. Then he looked more closely, examining the titles of the individual compositions, and he knew he was on to something.

  True, the syllabus and demands for the work in the folder changed a little year on year, but the basic framework remained the same: the Shakespeare essay, the one comparing poets, the free composition about a place you’d visited … Patrick was familiar with these and the random assortment of other work he’d polished up as makeweights. Rob, even allowing for the fact that he found this easy and generally wrote more than Patrick ever could, nevertheless had articles in his folder that had no logical
right to be there.

  Patrick began to open the unfamiliar ones. One began:

  A girl called Jennifer lived until she was seventeen never knowing that she had a brother. They had been separated soon after birth, just like the characters in the fairy tales, and brought up in different parts of the tiny kingdom. Jennifer was rich while her brother was poor and the woman who raised him as her son worked all hours to scrape a living. And all the time they were growing up, although they didn’t know about each other, each one had the strangest feeling that there was something missing. It was like knowing you should have an extra hand, even though everyone else told you how stupid that would be when you mentioned anything about it.

  Patrick stared, understanding what Rob had been about in writing this. What Rob did with words Patrick did with his drawings: he tried hard to make some kind of sense of the world; to beat it into submission with paint or pen and make it manageable. Solvable.

  Patrick checked the date this had been written, closing the file and holding his mouse over it. July. Rob had added this to the folder in July.

  Twenty-Nine

  It had been agreed that Jennifer should go home. The atmosphere in the house that morning when Ernst had visited his daughter was such that a rime of frost covered the dust free furniture. But she was calming down. Ernst had told her the full story as he knew it, of Rob and Clara and the circumstances of Jennifer’s meeting.

  He left, feeling that she was likely to be quicker forgiving Jennifer than him. Jennifer, she could classify as young and stupid – and with plentiful evidence, in Beth’s eyes, to support that belief – and she would be more likely to blame herself for her daughter’s mistakes than Jennifer herself. Ernst had no illusions that this was a healthy state of affairs, but he figured it was inevitable and therefore neither worth his time nor effort to fight.