The Rumor, page 19
“Debbie.”
I don’t go into the business with Kay, either. There’s only so much you can cover in one phone call and I don’t want Tash to think I’ve landed in a nest of vipers. Besides, I have to pick Alfie up soon.
“I’d be tempted to bring it up next time you see them all at the coven,” Tash says. “See whose face goes red. Then you’ll know who it is and you can steer clear of them in future.”
“The fact is, Tash, it could be anyone. That’s what’s so horrible about it.”
40
NO SOONER HAVE I PUT the phone down on Tash than it rings again. This time it is Michael. About time. He’s probably just looked at his watch and remembered his promise to Alfie.
“Joey, listen. Can you get on a train and meet me downtown?”
“You’re kidding! What on earth for?”
“I need you to do me a big favor. I need you to speak to Liz with me.”
“Why would I need to get on a train to do that? She’s just around the corner.”
“No. She’s staying at a Holiday Inn here. She’s attending an artists’ convention. I’ve just watched her check in.”
“My God, Michael. Are you following her?”
He sighs. “Look, I didn’t tell you this, but she and I have been in touch. I was given her name by someone I know, that ex-hack I told you about.”
“Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”
He takes a deep breath. “I was given the name E. K. Blackthorne as a possible lead. She used to be an art therapist and she worked at Gray Willow Grange, the juvenile detention center where Sally McGowan was sent as a child.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night? Why did you pretend—”
“Please, Joey, just listen. I was told that she and McGowan had a good rapport, and that they’d kept in touch. I was told that…” He clears his throat. “I was told they were lovers.”
“What the hell!”
“As soon as you started talking about the self-portrait you’d found in your friend Liz’s studio, I had the strangest feeling that maybe she was the same woman I’d already interviewed. Then when you told me her last name was Blackthorne, I knew for sure. Up till then I knew her only as E. K. or Elizabeth Blackthorne. I got in touch with her via her blog. She agreed to do a short telephone interview about her work at Gray Willow Grange. What it was like. I didn’t mention anything about wanting to track McGowan down. That would have scared her off. I just made out I was interested in writing a piece about the rehabilitation of child offenders and how we only ever get to hear about the failures and never the successes. She lapped it up.”
“Go on,” I urge.
“We got along really well. I’d done a lot of research into art therapy and its use with damaged children. You know, kids without the language or emotional skills to talk about the shit they’ve been through, how art therapists can coax stuff out of them. We agreed to meet to talk some more. She suggested a café downtown, so I met her there last week. You know, when I went back to deal with the apartment? I told her what I really wanted to do was to see if I could get enough material to write a book. I still didn’t mention McGowan’s name. I talked about other, more recent cases.
“Amazingly, it was she who brought her up. She said she’d heard from someone she used to know that McGowan might be interested in talking at last. It’s always bothered her that the press never believed it was a game that went wrong. She told me McGowan wants to put her side of the story across in a way she couldn’t when she was a child. Half the stuff about the abuse she suffered was never fully explored during the trial. It’s no wonder the press savaged her. But McGowan’s only willing to speak out if her and her family’s anonymity is preserved.”
“Her family? She’s not still in touch with them, surely?”
“Her parents? I doubt it. No, I presume she meant the family she has now. Husband, if there is one. And she had a child. I didn’t ask Liz if she was still in touch with her, and she didn’t tell me, but I got the sense she knew that I knew. I felt like we were really getting somewhere and that, in time, if she trusted me enough, she might be willing to broker some kind of meeting.”
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“Because I didn’t realize she was your Liz until you told me about her last night. I didn’t even realize she lived in Flinstead. And then, as soon as you told me you’d mentioned my name in connection with Sonia Martins and that I wanted to interview her, I knew the game was up, and I was right. She contacted me this morning to say she was very sorry but she didn’t think she’d be able to help me anymore. She said she’d made a mistake and the whole idea of talking to McGowan was a non-starter, that she had no clue where she was anymore, and that I should concentrate on the other cases I’d mentioned.
“She knows who Sally McGowan is, Jo. I’m convinced of it. I think she probably moved to Flinstead so she could be near her. Please come, Joey. She’ll take one look at me and clam up, but if you’re there, too…”
“But what about Alfie? School gets out soon. Why on earth didn’t you tell me all this earlier, and I could have driven in with you?”
“Because I wasn’t sure if she’d definitely attend the convention. It might have been a wasted journey.”
“I can’t ask Mom to pick him up. She’s still feeling awful. You know she is.”
He sighs. “Shit. I didn’t think of that. Maybe you could get someone from your babysitting circle to look after him? Please, Joey. If I can find McGowan and talk to her, I know I’ll be able to tell her story the way she wants it told. I won’t do anything to jeopardize her anonymity.”
He pauses. “I’ll meet you at South Station,” he says. “If you catch the next train, you can be here by three thirty.”
There’s a desperation in his voice I can’t ignore. I feel myself wavering.
“Well, as long as I can find someone I trust to look after Alfie. Fatima, maybe, or Teri Monkton.”
“What about Kay? You said she was great with him.”
“She is, but…oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s happening with Kay at the moment. I think she’s been lying to me. Lying to all of us. I’d rather ask one of the others, to be honest. I’ll figure something out. I’ll shoot you a text in a little while and let you know if I can make it. Otherwise…otherwise, you’re just going to have to try and talk to her yourself.”
* * *
—
I KEEP MY finger on the bell for the third time. Fatima must be out. I glance over at Kay’s house. She’s said before that she’d be happy to look after Alfie at short notice and I know she’d say yes, so what’s stopping me? Before this morning, I’d have had no qualms about asking her. Alfie would be more than happy to spend time with Kay and her tropical fish. And she’d probably spoil him rotten.
But something tells me it isn’t a good idea. A vague sense of foreboding. There’s something weird going on with her and her daughter. There must be. Why else would all Kay’s letters be sent back? And why does Kay feel she has to lie about Skyping her grandchildren? It doesn’t make sense. I’ll have to give someone from the babysitting circle a call, see if they can help me out. I don’t want to ask Debbie, though.
Just then, Karen walks by. She’s on the opposite side of the street, and at first she doesn’t see me. When she does, she crosses immediately.
“Hi. You recovered from that god-awful party yet?”
“Just about.”
Why don’t I ask her? Alfie’s already familiar with her apartment. He seemed really at home there the other night, watching Frozen with Hayley. Although she does have her mother to look after at the moment.
“What’s up?” Karen says.
“I was just wondering whether you could do me a huge favor and pick Alfie up from school this afternoon and look after him for a few hours. But I’m worried it’s asking too much of you. You must have your hands full, taking care of your mom.”
“Of course I’ll pick him up. Actually, it’s easier for us both when Hayley’s occupied with a friend. She can be a little demanding otherwise, and Mom’s always too nice not to play with her, even when I can see she’s too tired and would rather not.”
“You are a lifesaver! I hate to ask last minute, but I’ve got to do something in the city. I’ll be back before seven. Seven thirty at the latest.”
“Take as long as you like,” Karen says. “Hayley will be thrilled. Did I tell you she thinks Alfie’s her boyfriend? It’s ever since they watched Frozen together.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure Alfie realizes that.”
“We’re having hot dogs and beans for supper. Will he eat that? I can make something different if he won’t.”
“No, that would be perfect. Thanks, Karen. I’ll phone the school and let them know. Let me give you my number.”
Karen pulls out her phone and adds my name to her contacts. “I’ll send you a text,” she says. “Then you’ll have mine.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. I’ll send you my mom’s number, too, just in case of an emergency. She’s not feeling well at the moment, or I’d have asked her.”
“There won’t be any emergency,” Karen says. “Although Hayley will probably insist he watches Frozen again, so Alfie might think he needs rescuing.” She glances over my shoulder and smiles. “Hi, Kay. How’s things?”
I turn around to see Kay standing on her doorstep. She’s rubbing at the exterior of her front door with a cloth. Oh no. Her face. She must have heard every word and be wondering why I didn’t ask her. She’ll see it as a deliberate snub. I know she will.
She waves the cloth at us and says hello. I open my mouth to give some sort of explanation, but she’s already gone inside and closed her door. Oh well, there’s nothing I can do about it right now.
41
SOUTH STATION IS JAMMED AND it isn’t even rush hour. Up until four months ago, I’d lived in this city for almost fifteen years. It felt like home. Now it’s as if I’m a visitor. I’m stunned by the number of people and the speed at which they walk, the cacophony of voices and sounds that bombards my ears. I feel like a country bumpkin, dazzled by the bright lights of the big city.
I gasp as Michael touches my arm. He’s wearing his gray wool coat and looks suave and rugged at the same time. I think of what Kay said this morning, about him looking like Idris Elba, and smile. Then I remember that awkward moment earlier on, and the embarrassment that she heard me asking someone else to look after Alfie settles over me once again.
Michael kisses me lightly on the lips, then takes hold of my arm and gently steers me toward the subway.
“So where are we going again?”
“Kenmore Square. She’s at the Holiday Inn. Her convention ends at four, so I thought we could have a drink in the bar and then wait for her in the lobby. Maybe it’s best if you approach her first.”
“What shall I say?” I’m not looking forward to surprising Liz like this. Not after what happened in her house yesterday. How is she going to react when she sees me?
“Let’s figure it out when we get there. I just want you to reassure her of my intentions. Let her know she can trust me, and that Sally can, too.”
“But why couldn’t we have waited till she got home? Why do we have to stalk her like this?”
“Because it’s easier for her to shut the door in our face if we doorstep her. Meeting her in a public place is better. Even if she walks away, we can walk alongside her. She might not talk to us, but she’ll have to listen.”
I suppose this is the dogged reporter in him coming out. The determination to make someone talk. To get his story at all costs.
We take the T and then, blinking in the early-November sunshine, walk to the hotel. It’s as much as I can do to keep up with Michael’s long strides. Within a few minutes, we’re passing through the entrance of the Holiday Inn. I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to be talked into all this, although I have to admit it’s exciting. I feel like a private eye. No wonder Michael’s so cloak-and-dagger sometimes, if this is the sort of thing he has to do to find things out.
We wander through to the bar and Michael pulls out his wallet. “What do you want to drink?”
What do I want to drink? I’m running on adrenaline now. I can’t think straight. The last thing I need is alcohol.
“A Coke, please.”
Michael orders a Coke for me and a lager for him.
He gestures to a menu on the counter. “Do you want anything to eat?”
I shake my head. I feel nauseous and apprehensive now that I’m actually here. Michael pays for the drinks and we find a table in a quiet corner in sight of the large wall clock and the glass doors to the lobby.
“While I was waiting for you at the station,” Michael says, “I started wondering why Liz shut down on me so fast. I was really getting somewhere with her.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? When she thought you were just some journalist interested in the rehabilitation of child offenders, it was different. But now that she knows you’re my partner and you want to interview Sonia Martins about the false-accusation thing, it’s all a bit close to home.”
Michael takes a swig of beer. “But maybe there’s more to it than that.”
“How do you mean?”
“What if I’m right and Liz knows exactly where McGowan is? What if she’s somebody you both know and that’s why she doesn’t want to speak to me anymore? Because she’s frightened you’ll find out.”
Something bad bumps around in my head. If Michael’s right, then she and McGowan must have been scared out of their wits. Right from the start, when I first mentioned the rumor. Scared enough to want to stop it before it did any more damage? Scared enough to send me threatening tweets as Sally Mac? To digitally alter a school photo?
I don’t know how computer literate Liz is, but she has a blog, so she must be reasonably savvy. But how would she have gotten into the school to leave a photo under the principal’s door? Didn’t Mr. Matthews say that Mrs. Haynes found it there when she came in? And how would Liz have known about the photo in the first place? She doesn’t have anything to do with Perrydale Elementary. No, whoever left that photo must have had access to the school first thing in the morning, and except for the people who work there, that only leaves…
Something drops into my brain and sets off a ripple effect. When Teri Monkton found me waiting for Mr. Matthews and fuming with anger, I’m sure she said she was about to go into a PTA meeting. Could someone involved in the PTA have left the photo there when no one was looking?
Michael narrows his eyes. “What? What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to suspect just about everyone I know. It’s stupid.”
He pulls out his phone. “Here, take a look at these. I managed to get hold of some photos from one of my contacts. They’re of Sally when she was a young woman.”
He shows me three black-and-white pictures. Photos of old photos, so the quality isn’t great. I study the first one. It’s not an image I recognize from all my googling. She’s holding a child in her arms, a toddler, and mouthing something at the person who’s taking the photograph. Her face is contorted with anger. The toddler looks scared. She’s clinging to the lapels of her mother’s coat, her head tucked into the dip of her neck.
The second picture looks like it was taken at a farmers’ market. Lots of stalls heaped with fruits and vegetables and handcrafts. A woman with dark hair in a bun is studying some apples. You can only see her profile, but I’m assuming this must be McGowan, too. She’s holding the mittened hand of a young child. The same child who’s in the first photo.
The third one is of a house at night. Now, this one I have seen before. The front window is smashed and a policeman is standing on the front path, his back to the house. The words CHILD MURDERER have been daubed on the door in paint. An involuntary shudder travels the length of my spine.
I look at them all again—the one of McGowan’s profile as she reaches for an apple. Something about the bridge of her nose is vaguely familiar. I’ve never seen a photo of her from this particular angle. She does remind me of someone. But who? I press my fingertips to my temples. Maybe if I press hard enough I’ll remember.
My eyes return to the toddler. A new thought is swirling around in my head, trying to make itself known. When it does, it’s like a jolt of electricity. “Oh my God, Michael. Maybe it’s the daughter I know. Sally McGowan’s daughter!”
Michael looks thoughtful. “Well, that certainly widens the field.”
“And if Liz knows McGowan, she’ll know the daughter, too!”
A series of images like scenes from a movie flash before my eyes: the look on Liz’s face when I first mentioned the rumor. Those wide, inquisitive eyes. The way she casually reached for an olive. Too casually, I see that now. The astonished expression on Karen’s face and the way she stared at me at the babysitting circle when Cathy told me to tell everyone what I’d heard.
My spine slowly straightens. Another image presents itself. Karen and her mother peering in at me through Pegton’s window. The mother’s head turning to look back as they walked away. That peculiar expression on her face. Karen desperate to volunteer for doing the Hot Potato music. Deliberately letting Alfie win the main prize. Inviting us back to her home to meet her mother. She and her husband run a computer-graphics company. She’d have known exactly how to alter that photo, wouldn’t she? And—oh my God!—she’s the secretary of the PTA! If anyone could have left that photo before Mrs. Haynes arrived, it was her!
I think of Alfie in Karen’s home right now and dread writhes in my gut. What did Karen say when I asked her why she was walking so fast with him that time? She said she was in a rush to take her mother to the doctor’s. What if she was lying? What if she was trying to abduct him all along? What if Karen’s mother is Sally McGowan and Karen told her it was me who passed the rumor on? They’d hate me for that, wouldn’t they? For putting them at such risk?
