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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In this breathtakingly brutal and intensely topical psychological thriller, a man is accused of child sexual abuse, and his life and that of his actress girlfriend are thrown into turmoil… 'Malone is the master of twists, turns and the unexpected, with the skill to keep things grounded. So much so, that the reader can picture themselves in the very circumstances described. Superb storytelling from a master of his craft' Herald Scotland 'Beautiful, lyrical prose takes the reader through a perfectly constructed, often harrowing tale' Denzil Meyrick _________________ Film star Amelie Hart is the darling of the silver screen, appearing on the front pages of every newspaper. But at the peak of her fame she throws it all away for a regular guy with an ordinary job. The gossip columns are aghast: what happened to the woman who turned heads wherever she went? Any hope the furore will die down are crushed when Amelie's boyfriend Dave is arrested on charges of child sexual abuse. Dave strongly asserts his innocence, and when Amelie refuses to denounce him, the press witch hunt quickly turns into physical violence, and she has to flee the country. While Dave is locked up with the most depraved men in the country and Amelie is hiding on the continent, Damaris, the victim at the centre of the story, is isolated – a child trying to make sense of an adult world. Breathtakingly brutal, dark and immensely moving, A Song of Isolation looks beneath the magpie glimmer of celebrity to uncover a sinister world dominated by greed and lies, and the unfathomable destruction of innocent lives … in an instant. _________________ Praise for Michael J. Malone 'A beautifully written tale, original, engrossing and scary … a dark joy' The Times 'A complex and multilayered story – perfect for a wintry night' Sunday Express 'Vivid, visceral and compulsive' Ian Rankin 'A terrific read … I read it in one sitting' Martina Cole 'A deeply satisfying read' Sunday Times 'A fine, page-turning thriller' Daily Mail 'With each turn of the page, a more shocking detail is revealed and some of the people John thought might help him are not who they seem … The domestic noir tale is one that many families will be able to relate to … There is barely enough time to catch your' Scotsman 'Challenging and emotional … enthrals as it corkscrews to a shocking, yet ultimately rewarding end' LoveReading 'Malone's latest is an unsettling, multi-layered and expertly paced domestic noir drama that delves into one family's dark secrets, shame and lies' CultureFly 'Malone is a poet, there are wonderful lyrical passages here and very skilful storytelling. Some issues are not spoken about enough, Malone raises a couple of those issues and sensitively but realistically addresses them…' New Books Magazine 'Engrossing, hard-hitting – even shocking – with a light poetic frosting. Another superb read!' Douglas Skelton 'A dark and unnerving psychological thriller that draws you deep into the lives of the characters and refuses to let go. This is a brilliantly written book; I could not put it down' Caroline Mitchell 'A chilling tale of the unexpected that journeys right into the dark heart of domesticity' Marnie Riches
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Seitenzahl: 474
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Film star Amelie Hart is the darling of the silver screen, appearing on the front pages of every newspaper. But at the peak of her fame she throws it all away for a regular guy with an ordinary job. The gossip columns are aghast: what happened to the woman who turned heads wherever she went?
Any hope the furore will die down are crushed when Amelie’s boyfriend Dave is arrested on charges of child sexual abuse. Dave strongly asserts his innocence, and when Amelie refuses to denounce him, the press witch-hunt quickly turns into physical violence, and she has to flee the country.
While Dave is locked up with the most depraved men in the country and Amelie is hiding on the continent, Damaris, the victim at the centre of the story, is isolated – a child trying to make sense of an adult world.
Breathtakingly brutal, dark and immensely moving, A Song of Isolation looks beneath the magpie glimmer of celebrity to uncover a sinister world dominated by greed and lies, and the unfathomable destruction of innocent lives … in an instant.
A SONG OF ISOLATION
MICHAEL J. MALONE
Contents
Prologue
London, 2010
She sat in the back of the parked taxi, hand tight on the handle of the door, and looked around, scanning the street for strangers.
‘You okay, Miss Hart,’ the driver asked.
‘I’m…’ It always took her by surprise when people recognised her. She’d only been in three movies so far, two as a background character and one as the main character’s best friend. ‘…Fine. I’m fine, thanks.’ She met his gaze in the rear-view mirror. His expression was open, growing concern in the strip of face she could see as he read her lack of movement.
She felt her pulse thrum in her throat and forced a long, slow breath, hearing the quiver of it in the shell of the car. It’s fine. Everything will be fine. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked around herself again, cursing the poor light.
Then she thought of that morning, just a week ago, waking up and finding a small photo beside her on the pillow. A photograph of her own sleeping face, with just enough of her shoulders showing above the bedclothes to see the blue pyjama top she was wearing at that very moment.
She’d screamed, jumped out of bed and checked every window, every door, every cupboard. Looked under her bed, checked the shower, looked behind every door again. Then she called the police.
‘We’ll send someone round as soon as we can,’ the person said.
‘Just like you did the other nine times I called.’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice, and had hung up. There had been other strange happenings: letters in the post every day for a month, each one saying if she didn’t return his love he’d kill 1himself; panties missing from her washing line; small love hearts drawn in the corners of her windows with spray paint.
This was the first time she’d been back here since the photo mysteriously settled on her pillow.
‘Anything I can do?’ the driver asked. He hadn’t talked too much during the journey from the studios. Only to ask about the movie she was working on. And to say he’d read in a movie magazine that they thought this new one was going to be her breakout role. ‘Fancy being in a movie with Tom Hardy,’ he added. ‘My missus proper fancies him.’
He’d taken her low-key response as a cue not to ask anything more.
‘Can I book you in for noon tomorrow, please?’ she asked. She was due on set with Tom at 2.00 pm. That would give her time to get through make-up and wardrobe, and have a quick read through the scene.
‘Noon tomorrow.’ The driver took his phone from its holder on the dashboard and scrolled onto another page. ‘That’s fine, I’m available.’
‘And … can you wait until I’m inside before driving off?’ She almost asked him to go into the house and check it for her, but she hated appearing so weak.
‘Course, mate,’ the driver replied, his eyes crinkling in a manner he probably thought reassuring, but it just looked creepy when all she could see was the back of his head and his eyes in a strip of mirror. ‘I always do for my ladies.’
‘Thanks,’ Amelie said. Then she read the price on the meter, found a note in her handbag and handed it to him. ‘Keep the change.’
She braced herself, and opened the door. Staying at Lisa’s had been a welcome retreat, but she couldn’t continue to impose on her friend, and she couldn’t let this freak, whoever he was, run her life.
On the pavement, she scanned the house. The creep of the ivy 3over the large sandstone blocks, handsome bay windows either side of the oak door, the lion-head brass knocker. It looked exactly the same as when she’d left. Just as it was the first time she’d seen it and fell in love and couldn’t not take over the rental. But that simple image had tarnished what had once been her haven.
Like most of the homes in this part of London the house was set back from the street by a small front garden. Six paces and she was up her garden path and at the door. As she walked she rummaged in her bag for her keys.
With a start she realised they weren’t in the little zipped compartment in the side wall of the bag. Nor in the middle section. She pushed aside her purse, her diary, her phone, fingers scrabbling for the tell-tale solid metal. Where were they?
She became aware of movement in her peripheral vision. To her right. Coming up from behind the still-waiting taxi.
Jesus. Where were her keys? She remembered checking on them when she’d left Lisa’s that afternoon.
A cough. Her head whipped round. A man. Head bowed, wearing a flat cap, walking slowly.
Mouth dry, she dug furiously through her bag. Where were they? How many times had she told herself to get a smaller bag?
She tried the zipped compartment again. There they were. She exhaled in relief. How had she missed them?
Key now in hand, she thrust it into the lock, but before she opened the door she turned. The man was at the top of her path. The streetlight just above cast him in a jaundiced glow.
He grunted. ‘Evening, sweetheart.’
‘Oh, hi, Mr Denby.’ She almost sagged with relief against the door. It was only the old man from three doors down.
‘Told ya,’ he chuckled, ‘it’s Larry.’
‘Course it is. Larry,’ she said and worked a smile into her expression.
‘Lovely evening.’ And with a tip of his hat he continued on his way.
4Waiting for a moment till her heart slowed, Amelie turned the key in the lock, opened the door and stepped inside. Before she shut it, she waved at the driver. He returned the gesture and drove off.
Inside, back against the door, she listened as the car moved away, then she strained to hear if there was any other noise in the house.
Silence.
The familiar sounds of the area registered. A dog barked from somewhere behind her. A door slammed next door. A car, then another, drove past. Someone, a child, called out to a friend as they ran past. Life, moving on, completely unmindful of her troubles.
She put the chain on and clutched the keys in her fist, one pointing out from between two fingers like a makeshift knuckle-duster. A stunt guy on her last movie had shown her this little trick when weird things first started to happen in her life. She suspected it wouldn’t cause much damage, but she felt reassured by it. If anyone came at her she’d aim for the eyes. Make as much of a mess as she could before running to safety.
Keeping her footfall as light as she could she made her way down the long hall, past the dining-room door and through into the kitchen. The back door was locked, just as she left it, and all of the windows were closed.
Retracing her steps, she went back down the hall and edged into the living room. All the seats were vacant, the windows shut.
But the curtains were open. Meaning if he was out there he could see everything.
On her hands and knees, she crawled over the carpet to the large bay windows, and eventually, with a lot of tugging and some heavy breathing she managed to close them. Then she made her way onto the sofa, where she collapsed.
What are you doing, she asked herself?
Who crawls along their living-room floor to shut their curtains? 5
She looked down at her hands, they were shaking. Wine would help; she could almost hear Lisa’s voice. And smiled. And felt that smile loosen the muscles in her neck, in her back, all the way down to her feet.
She was safe. There was no need to worry.
A noise.
A creak as someone moved above her head.
In her bedroom.
Without thought, barely breathing, she made her way towards the door as silently as she could. From the creak of the old floor-boards she could tell whoever was up there was also on the move.
At the living-room door she paused. Thought about her phone. Would she have time to call? No, her best plan was to get the hell out of this house.
Now.
Folding herself into a crouch she stuck her head beyond the doorway and looked up. There, as if inhabiting the shadows at the top of the stairs, stood a man.
Cursing her decision to put the chain on she charged at the door. The man thundered down the stairs. Fumbling with the chain, she managed to release it. Hand on the snib lock, she turned.
The door was open. Just.
He was right behind her.
He slammed her into the door and it closed.
She tried to scream, but a hand clasped over her mouth. There was some sort of cloth in his hand. With a sweet, chemical scent. She felt the weight of him crush her against the door. His hardness at her hip. Hot breath, and beard bristles scratching her ear as he whispered:
‘Do as I say and you’ll get out of this alive.’
Chapter 1
Lanarkshire, Scotland, 2015
There was a knock at the door.
Loud and firm.
‘You going to get that?’ Amelie looked at her boyfriend, beside her on the sofa, thought about the bottle of champagne she’d found hidden at the back of the cupboard under the sink, and was relieved there might be some sort of a distraction.
Was he really going to do it? Now? Today?
Shit.
How was she going to respond?
She shifted in her seat, and, plucking a cushion from the pile at her side, placed it over her tummy.
‘Wish you’d stop that,’ said Dave. It may have been her imagination responding to the champagne sighting, but he seemed a little on edge. ‘You’re not fat.’
‘And you’re still not going to the door,’ she replied with an inner grimace. She hated it when he did that. Read her movements and got them spot on. ‘Anyway, it’s nearly dinner time. Why are you snacking?’ she asked, looking at the giant packet of crisps beside him on the sofa. Another giveaway, she thought. He always ate when he was nervous.
‘Starving,’ he said. ‘Doing the garden’s hungry work.’ Then he laughed, leaned forward and snuffled at her neck.
Despite herself she laughed, but then pushed him away. Then felt guilty for doing so. She’d been doing a lot of that lately. Feeling guilty. About how she was treating him.
‘You okay?’ he asked, his tone all honest concern as he leaned back into his cushion. 8
‘Door?’ she repeated,
‘It’s probably someone trying to sell us something. Ignore it … they’ll go away,’ Dave said, brushing crisp crumbs from his jeans.
‘It’s Good Friday and nearly dinner time. Who’s going to be selling stuff at this hour?’
‘Someone who’s desperate.’ He sat back in his seat and regarded her. ‘You okay, honey? Something bothering you?’
She crossed her arms, thinking she wasn’t ready to unburden herself in case she said something she would later regret. When they’d met she was Amelie Hart, movie star. One-hit wonder, to be precise. Against all the odds, and after a few flops, her fourth movie had hit the public consciousness and the great unwashed couldn’t get enough of her.
Her dream came true.
Except the dream came with a whole lot of baggage she couldn’t deal with. Most of which Dave knew nothing about, and that was why he couldn’t understand why she was always reluctant to answer the door.
It sounded again. Amelie turned away from it and pulled her knees up to her chest as if that might form some kind of protection.
‘Jesus, they’re not for giving up, are they?’ Dave looked over his shoulder in the direction of the front of the house. He got to his feet as if it was a huge effort. ‘I’ll get it then, will I?’
‘Please?’
Whoever it was, Amelie hoped it was something important. Something big enough to distract Dave from asking a question she wasn’t sure how to answer.
Chapter 2
Dave walked to the door, checking the little box was still in his pocket, aware he was possibly about to make a huge mistake, but unable to step aside from the path he had decided upon.
A marriage proposal would do it, right? Clarify Amelie’s mind as to what she wanted. He couldn’t bear the thought of life without her, and he was all but certain she only needed a nudge to settle things in her own mind once and for all. And he needed to risk that nudge because the uncertainty was driving him mad.
To be fair, he was lucky to have her.
The Amelie Hart shared a home with him. They’d met in the north of Scotland, up by Loch Morlich. He’d been there on holiday on his own. Nearing the end of a week he’d devoted to learning about forestry in an estate nearby. It was a job he’d long wanted to do, but Dad insisted he go to university and get the required qualification to join the family accountancy firm. It hadn’t stopped his longing to be in among the other, more important to the planet, green stuff, so he’d jumped at the chance he was offered while attending a stuffy champagne reception for some equally stuffy law firm. One of the partners had just invested in an estate ‘up there’ – he’d waved his hand lazily, struggling to remember the name of the place, as if the entirety of the Highlands of Scotland hung in the air just above his head. Dave perked up at the mention of it and said he’d always wanted to work on the land, and it was arranged. A week’s work experience. He remembered the feeling of elation, and the lawyer’s look of incredulity.
Amelie had been walking between one of the lodges on the estate and the local shop, at a time when she had disappeared from public view. Romantic cliché alert, they would always say as they 10recounted this to new acquaintances: she’d dropped one of her gloves, he raced after her to return the errant item.
Their eyes met.
And hearts collided.
It helped that he had no idea who she was. Most of his time was spent at work, and what free time he did have he was countering the effects of sitting hunched over a computer by training down at the local rugby club, so the world of film and TV celebrity completely passed him by.
Must have been all that fresh air. Why else would he have taken one look at this amazing woman and asked her if she wanted to go and see – the first thing he thought of – the local reindeer herd? Amazingly, she said yes, and the rest was history.
But the most recent part of that history was worrying. There were too many times when he entered a room and she’d hurriedly finish the conversation she was having on her phone. A phone that was more than ever stuck to the side of her head. The way she covered up whenever she came out of the shower, whereas nudity had never bothered her before. Then there were the long silences, when the air between them had always been filled with words and laughter.
He’d asked her if she needed to get back into that world.
‘It’s not all glamour, you know,’ she’d said as she tucked a strand of flaxen hair behind a perfect ear. Dave could watch her all day, just doing simple things like that. He’d joke with her; it was because she was half French – full breeds just don’t have that exoticism he’d say. There was an effortless grace to her that ordinary humans lacked; there was a good reason the camera loved her.
‘It’s beyond boring. And stressful. Worrying whether people will like your hair, your dress or even the bloody shade of lipstick you’re wearing. It’s exhausting.’ No, she went on to say, her charity work and her yoga were where her life was at, for the foreseeable.
Exhausting it may have been, but Dave knew Amelie well enough to see that whatever she had in her life at this point, no matter how much she protested, wasn’t enough for her. 11
And worryingly, he was no longer sure that he was enough for her anymore.
The letterbox creaked open and a voice boomed, ‘Mr Robbins. It’s the police. Will you please open up?’
Chapter 3
Amelie’s phone rang. She watched Dave’s back as he walked towards the front door. Read the tension in it as he moved away. He deserved more than this from her. He deserved a woman who would be every bit as kind, gentle and considerate as he was.
She pushed a breath through her pursed lips and heard a note of frustration in that small expulsion of air.
The screen on her phone displayed a name. Lisa. The one friend who remained from her time in the limelight. She’d played her best friend in Amelie’s first movie, and happily their on-screen chemistry had been real. The only thing about that movie that actually worked, she remembered ruefully. From the moment they met they’d sensed the other was on the exact same wavelength. Now, though, they rarely got together, as Lisa’s career had rocketed, meaning she had her own team of paparazzi who followed her about, but the two women spent hours on the phone. It seemed that Lisa’s function, other than to listen to her complaints, was to alert her to any news stories that were about to break about her.
Even four years after walking away from it all, the press, and by extension the public, were still fascinated about why she had abandoned the opportunity to live the life that most people wanted. Lisa had lots of media contacts so she was happy to alert Amelie that a fresh batch of paps might be beating their way to her door. ‘Get the wide-brimmed hat and the large sunglasses out, darling,’ she’d say. ‘The vultures are about to come calling.’
Looking at the screen for a moment, Amelie cancelled the call. She couldn’t even be bothered speaking to her best friend.
‘Have you told him yet?’ Lisa had demanded, the last time they spoke. 13
‘Oh, Leece,’ she replied, and sank back into the sofa.
‘Don’t oh Leece me, Amelie. You need to put the poor schmuck out of his misery.’
‘But I don’t know if I want to dump him. I’m not even sure he’s the problem.’
‘What is the problem?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m calling bullshit on that, honey. You know.’ Lisa’s tone weighted the word know with a burden of importance. ‘You just don’t want to face up to it.’
‘But what if I’m wrong and I lose out on one of the best things that has happened to me?’
‘What’s meant to be, is meant to be.’ Lisa had a strange relationship with the notion of fate. When it suited her, something was meant to be. When it was an inconvenient notion, she railed against it. She was as capricious as the weather on a mountain top, and Amelie loved her for it. Life was never dull with Lisa wittering in her ear. ‘He came along at the right time, honey. That’s how life works. Just when you needed something – someone – solid in your life, he appeared. Now you’re going through another transition and you need to face up to that. If he’s still there at the other side, great. If not, he’ll hopefully find someone as amazing as you.’
Amelie snorted, mentally retreating from the compliment. ‘Me? Amazing? I’m a witch.’
‘You’re being too harsh on yourself, babes. Relationships change. People move on. We have to move on, or it just gets too…’
‘What about you and Pretty Boy?’ Amelie interrupted. She’d already had enough of talking about herself. Pretty Boy was what she called Lisa’s latest lover. He was a hot young actor, famous for taking his shirt off in TV period dramas, and for not having too much between the ears.
‘Oh, I dumped his scrawny ass,’ Lisa cackled. ‘Haven’t you been keeping up to date with the goss?’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I forgot you have no access to the wider world in that little haven of yours.’ 14Don’t you even have satellite TV? Lisa had asked her, incredulous, when she first moved in.
Her haven was an estate in the Lanarkshire countryside. It offered them the best of both worlds. A manageable daily commute for Dave into Glasgow, and for Amelie, spirit-reviving time in the heart of nature. The family who had owned it for generations had hit on hard times and sold the whole lot to a development company. The big house had been converted into luxury flats, and the stable block renovated into a row of quaint mews cottages. She owned the largest, end cottage and fell in love with it the moment she stepped inside.
It even came with its own cat, a tortoiseshell named George. The previous owners had tried a number of times to take him to their new place, but each time they’d carted him off in the back of their car to their new home five miles away, he’d turned up a week or so later, licking a paw as if to say, Well, that was a bit of a walk.
Never was a cat person, or so she thought, but George managed to worm his way into her heart – that purr of content as he lay on her lap became part of the music of the cottage, and the last time the previous owners turned up to collect him again, she suggested, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate, that he stay with her.
Said cat padded into the room. Sat in the middle of the floor. Curled his tail around his feet and stared at her.
‘Needing fed, George? she asked him. He opened his mouth and let out a long, low noise. Amelie had counted a ‘vocabulary’ of about ten different sounds that George used to communicate. She hadn’t managed to work out which noise equated to which need, as he seemed to change them at his own whim.
She heard a rumble from the front door. Two different male voices. A long silence and then a high-pitched, in-panic Dave as he shouted, ‘Amelie?’
Chapter 4
Dave made out two tall figures through the small marbled-glass insert on the front door. They looked as if they were in uniform and they were both wearing hats. The police?
His first worry was for his father. He was in his early sixties, still spent long hours at the office, and had a large paunch and a ruddy complexion thanks to a career of liquid lunches. He was a heart attack in waiting as far as Dave was concerned, so with a charge of worry in his stomach, he reached for the door and pulled it open.
There were two policemen and one policewoman. Behind them like a squat reminder of officialdom was their police car. None of the officers was smiling.
It takes three cops to tell me that Dad’s ill? Or dead? Dave became aware of a tremble in his thighs and steeled himself. He thought of his mother. She was the most fragile being he’d ever met. Shit, how must his mum be feeling? He had to go to her.
‘Mr Robbins? Mr David Robbins?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?’ His voice was a squeak. He cleared his throat. ‘Is my dad okay?’ His mind was racing away from him. He should ask them all in. They were working on a public holiday, poor bastards, he should at least offer them a coffee. Then he dismissed the thought as silly, processed the correct movements to place a smile on his face, while bracing himself against the side edge of the door.
‘We’ve received a complaint from your neighbours, Mr Robbins, that you touched their daughter, Damaris, inappropriately.’
‘Wait. Damaris? Next door? Me?’
The policeman on the right stepped forward. Metal glinting in 16his hands. Handcuffs. Dave felt his face flush. Watched as the cop continued his movement: hand on his shoulder, pulling him round and out of the doorway onto the path. He felt his arms being held behind his back and the pinch of steel on his wrists as his arms were secured in position.
Later on as he reflected over events he’d hear himself shouting for Amelie. Think it was pathetic, but wondered what else he could have done.
‘We are placing you under arrest, Mr Robbins,’ the policeman continued, his tone polite. Might have been remarking that this was nice weather for an April Easter, for all the threat in his voice. But there was a threat, thought Dave as his stomach grew heavy. His vision narrowed. Pressure on his sphincter. And he was aware of all of this as if from a distance.
The policeman was still talking. His voice coming to him through a fog of confusion. Under the something-something act he was being taken to the local police station for questioning.
A neighbour from the stables opposite opened her door, stepped outside, took one look at the tableau in front of her and, face white, went back inside.
‘It’s all a mistake,’ he shouted at her. Mrs Wallace. She was a nice old dear. With a bad heart, she was fond of saying. She wouldn’t be able to handle all this excitement.
He was guided over to the police car. The back door on the near side was pulled open. Pressure on his head. He ducked and sat inside. Almost before he had his feet positioned in the footwell, the door was slammed shut.
Amelie was at the door of the cottage, her face pale and long. She shouted. Her voice reached his ears as if through a time delay.
‘Dave? Dave? What the hell’s going on?’
She approached the car and knocked on the window. Her face loomed before him, her expression twisted with fear and worry. Lawyer, she was saying. I’ll get you a lawyer.
‘S’okay,’ he shouted, determined to display a stoic front. He 17could handle this. Everything would be okay. Except it wasn’t. They claimed he’d touched her inappropriately. What did that even mean? What did Damaris say to her mother that made her phone the police?
Mentally, he ran through the encounter that afternoon. It was just like many other occasions in the garden. The girl was bored. There were no other kids on the estate to play with. He’d given her the time of day loads of times. She would circle him on her bike, judging if he would be up for some fun. Then he’d feel sorry for her, giving in and giving her half an hour of his time. Throwing a ball, or playing with a hula hoop, willing to look like an idiot for a few seconds to win the prize of her laughter.
Today was a little different from the usual. He had work to do and he had his tools around him on the lawn. And he did warn her she might fall off.
As if at some silent signal two of the police officers and Amelie disappeared inside the cottage, leaving Dave alone in the car. He looked around and saw his neighbours around the little square, one by one, look out of their window or front door, and take in the sight of him in the backseat of a police car.
‘It’s all been a mistake. A huge mistake,’ he shouted. But no one could hear him, and they all ducked their heads and retreated back into their houses. He imagined them all pinking a little at the shame he’d brought into their little enclave. It was just not the done thing to be seen in the back of a police car. Whatever would we have next? People shooting up heroin?
‘Shit,’ Dave whispered, feeling fear claw at his gut. He studied the door handles, but with his hands behind his back they were unreachable. In any case, the central locking was sure to be activated and the doors could only be opened from the outside.
The car was facing the exit, so he tried to twist round in order to look back at number six – the Browns’ door. He’d maybe catch their eye, get them over to the car and ask them to tell the police that it was all a big mistake. Sure, he maybe manhandled Damaris 18to keep her safe – he could remember picking her up, one hand under each oxter – but he’d never do anything dodgy.
There was no one there.
If he could just speak to Roger and Claire. Clear this misunderstanding up.
As if by magic, Roger appeared and marched towards the police car. His red face and clenched fists were not a good sign. He pushed the cop who was by the car so hard he fell onto his back, then he wrenched the door open and dived in.
‘This is a terrible misunderstanding, Rodge,’ Dave shouted.
‘Don’t fucking, Rodge me, you evil prick. When I’m done with you…’ The rest of what he was saying was lost in a snarl as Roger began to punch at Dave. The confined space meant he couldn’t get much purchase on his swings, but he still managed to connect a couple of times, once on the bottom lip, before the cop got back to his feet and pulled Roger away.
The door slammed shut and Dave was alone once again. Head bowed, ignoring the physical pain. But what did that matter, really? That would fade – but Roger’s fury…? The man truly and deeply believed that Dave had harmed his little girl.
‘But it’s not true,’ he shouted. ‘It’s all a mistake.’
A horrible mistake. The police would come to see it. The Browns would come to see it, and he’d be allowed back inside and everyone could get on with their lives as if it never happened.
Chapter 5
‘Name, please?’ one of the police officers asked her, as they stood in an awkward clump of human flesh in her narrow hallway.
‘Amelie Hart,’ she said, feeling that was all a bit unnecessary. Judging by the way he was staring at her he knew exactly who she was, and couldn’t wait to phone all his mates later to say whose house he’d been in.
Then she felt a stab of resentment. Her hard-won sanctuary was lost, thanks to that stupid little girl – she’d heard that much from the exchange at her door. But with a cringe of guilt she forced that down. How could she be so selfish? This was about Dave and how his life was going to be affected, because not for a second did she believe the allegation.
‘May we come in?’ the policeman said.
‘You are in,’ she replied, crossing her arms.
It’s like that is it? the man’s expression read.
‘We’ve had a complaint of sexual contact between a man named Dave Robbins and a child under the age of thirteen. We’ll expect you down the station…’
At that Amelie almost detected a smile. This was clearly the most exciting thing that had happened to this guy in years. His eyes roamed over the cottage, and then over her.
The policewoman took over, sending her colleague a look of admonishment. ‘We’d like you to come down and give a statement, please, Miss Hart. In the meantime what can you tell us about this afternoon’s events?’
‘Nothing, really. I’m mystified as to what’s supposed to have happened.’
‘Were you in the house this afternoon?’ the policewoman asked, undeterred by Amelie’s brevity. 20
‘I had yoga class this lunchtime, stopped off at Tesco for some shopping and was home from about two pm onwards.’
‘And what did you do from two till now?’
‘Sat on the sofa and read. One of Maggie O’Farrell’s … What’s going to happen here?’
Bloody hell.
How could a normal day turn into a nightmare so quickly?
‘What exactly is Dave supposed to have done?’ she demanded, looking at each of the officers. ‘And are three of you really required? By all means come through…’ she said, and moved into the open-plan living and dining space, thinking, Let them see how modestly we live.
A large sofa sat in the space in front of the patio doors. It had red, plump, velvety cushions, was a little worn, but looked much loved. She sat in the middle of that, legs crossed, arms wide resting along the back of the settee, hoping she was presenting an image of a strong, capable woman. One who would never allow herself to be caught up in something as tawdry as a child-molestation claim.
The novel she had been reading was on the long, low coffee table in front of her.
‘Can you tell us, as far as you know, what Mr Robbins was doing this afternoon?’ The older male officer was back in charge, the tilt of his chin telling her he wasn’t impressed by her theatrics. Oh, but you are, she thought, as she uncrossed and crossed her legs, from left over right to right over left. Since a very young age she’d been aware of the power her unusual beauty conferred on her, and however shallow it might be, she was prepared to use it to her advantage if the need arose.
‘Dave loves his little patch of garden. He was out there most of the afternoon, taking advantage of the dry weather…’ She smiled at each of the officers in turn. This is how much I feel I have to worry about this nonsense charge, she was telling them. ‘I heard Damaris singing at one point as she went past the doors and further into 21the garden. She popped her head in first. Said hi, and then went off to annoy … sorry, find Dave.’
‘That suggests habit?’ The female’s tone made this a question. Amelie noticed a small notebook in her hand. Pen scratching over the page.
Amelie paused before answering. Could she be hinting at some kind of grooming practice? Didn’t paedophiles do that? They thought Dave was a paedophile? Jesus. She had been about to say that Damaris’s parents ignored her and she practically brought herself up, but she edited that. ‘There are no other kids on the estate.’ Shrug. And she knew there was an elegance to that movement that could captivate. After all she’d seen herself do it on the big screen. ‘Now and again she pops in, asks me a lot of questions about being in the movies…’ See, it wasn’t just Dave. ‘Then goes off to find him. Most times he fobs her off. What does a grown man have in common with a little girl, after all? But occasionally he feels bad and gives her a moment or two.’
‘And today?’ the female asked.
‘I heard and saw nothing until Dave came back in complaining that Damaris was extra annoying. He said she caught her bike on the flex of the lawn mower, fell off and hurt herself.’
‘You saw and heard nothing more?’
Amelie gestured towards the novel on her coffee table.
‘Mind if we take a look in the back garden?’ the male cop asked.
‘Please. Be my guest.’ Amelie shot a look over her shoulder. ‘The door’s open.’
Before he made for the door, his head cocked as if he’d heard something that concerned him and instead he went back the way he’d come in.
As he moved away Amelie looked at the only cop now in the room. ‘PC…?’
‘Talbot.’
‘PC Talbot, don’t tell me you’re taking this claim seriously?’ asked Amelie. 22
Talbot’s brow furrowed. ‘We take all claims seriously, Miss Hart.’
‘Of course you do,’ Amelie agreed, allowing her features to soften. ‘People who suffer from this kind of thing have to feel safe enough to come forward. I can’t imagine…’ She shuddered. ‘But Dave. He’s one of the good guys.’
‘If that’s the case then you’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘We both know miscarriages of justice happen, don’t we?’ And she cringed as she thought of how the media would spin this. Hollywood star hiding out with paedo. Then the talking heads would get involved. Opinions as rancid as their so-called personalities, wearing hair extensions and Botox stares as they demand, how could she not know? And then they’d wonder if she was actually involved in some way. Before they knew it they’d be painted as the twenty-first-century version of Brady and Hindley.
Jesus.
You can jump off that bridge when you come to it, Amelie, she told herself. First, she needed to make sure Dave was okay.
‘We’ll need access to Mr Robbins’ laptop, please,’ PC Talbot said.
‘Sorry?’ Amelie was so lost in her doomsday scenario – media darling to media demon – she didn’t catch what the constable said.
‘Often we find that perpetrators of such crimes have a multitude of illegal images on their personal technology…’ Oh, laptop, thought Amelie. ‘I’m sure a quick look by our people will cross off that particular box.’
Amelie hugged herself, dipped her head. Dave was in real trouble here. ‘He has an office at the top of the stairs. Two laptops. A company one and a personal one. His iPhone will probably be up there as well, on the charger. Don’t know why he bothers, barely uses the thing.’
‘Is it okay if I…?’ The officer looked back towards the stairs.
‘We have nothing … Dave has nothing to hide.’ A bitter smile. 23‘Please. Do what you need to do.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wondered if this was the right thing to do. Didn’t they need a warrant or something?
PC Talbot gave her a polite little bow and left the room, just as the cop who’d gone out the front returned.
‘Mr Brown has been ordered to stay indoors until we have taken Mr Robbins from the premises.’
She jumped to her feet. ‘Why, what happened?’
‘It’s all under control now, Miss Hart.’
‘Dave was in your custody. If he’s been hurt because of your mistreatment I will sue your arse.’ Roger was fat and lazy, could barely fit through his own front door, but he would have enough heft to cause some damage.
The policeman was unfazed. He held up a hand. ‘Mr Robbins is fine.’
It occurred to her the policeman didn’t much care if he was or not.
Then the thought hit that, given a supposedly vulnerable child was living right next door, Dave wouldn’t be allowed back until this had all been settled.
Perhaps, not even then.
Chapter 6
Dave had no idea how long it took to get from his home to the police station. Could have been the twenty minutes it should have taken, or it could have been ten days for all the sense his brain was making of things.
Surreal didn’t cover it.
This kind of thing happened to other people. Thieves and murderers and actual real paedophiles, not guys like him. The closest he’d ever come to being arrested prior to this moment was while taking a leak up a town-centre lane in Blackpool during a stag weekend. The cop who’d seen him was right at the end of his shift. Gave him a bit of a dressing down and mumbled something along the lines of bugger that paperwork, and let him go.
Once they arrived at the station, he was taken into a room to be ‘booked in’. It had to be the custody sergeant who did it, and he was currently doing something else and then he was having his tea, so get comfortable, buddy, he was told, this could take a while.
The bucket seat made his backside ache after about half an hour, other than that he barely registered a thing. He was in shock and completely unable to process anything with any degree of sense.
They thought he molested a child.
Him.
A molester of children?
Didn’t they know how ridiculous that was? He was good with kids. Enjoyed their honesty and energy. He even volunteered in a befriending project recently. One of those where young men from chaotic backgrounds are given a positive role model. Lee was the young fella he’d been put in touch with. His father had died two years previously in a car accident, and his mother couldn’t cope with the combination of Lee, his five siblings and her dependency 25on alcohol. He’d thrown a rugby ball about with Lee a couple of times, gone to the cinema and eaten a couple of illicit burgers at McDonalds.
Shit.
Lee. What would he think? Another adult male had let him down.
No. This is all a mistake. Any minute now a camera crew would come marching in and say this was all part of some documentary. A documentary about what, he wasn’t sure. How to mess up someone’s life? Because that was what was going to happen to him.
Life ruined.
At least he was employed by family. Surely his own father would believe him? They might lose a few clients, but most of them had been with them for decades, and you don’t change accountants just for the sake of it.
He became aware of someone in the space and he summoned the wherewithal to look around. It was like a waiting area that had been designed by someone with only one colour in their pallet. Grey walls, grey linoleum on the floor and grey chairs. The lights on the ceiling had bars in front of them. Who’d try and steal them?
He wondered what he should do and say. Don’t they ask for a lawyer in the movies? Why didn’t they have him in a cell or something? How was he supposed to act in this situation?
‘What’s this guy’s story then?’ another officer asked.
‘Molesting a wee lassie.’
‘Oh, shit. Right.’
The man gave him a hard look. Scrutiny that was like a scouring of his soul. With the wrong word and a cursory examination, he had been found wanting in the worst way possible.
More people came and went. And more scrutiny. He was beginning to read the signs. Clenched fists, hard eyes and thin lips. Say it and it was so. Guilty until proven innocent. Be accused of something like this and everyone looked like they wanted to punch the last blood cell out of him. 26
Time passed in a slow torment of worry before his name was read out, like a klaxon into a heavy silence.
‘Mr Robbins, if you would come this way?’ The skin on the guy’s scalp refracted the light almost like a disco ball, and he looked like he had half of one at his midriff, under his white shirt. Shoulders that had seen a few rugby scrums no doubt, so he was not to be messed with.
It was strange how his assessment of people had changed so quickly. Rather than assessing people for a potential pleasant social experience, he was instantly measuring them up as a source of risk.
He was guided through to a small room, which was every bit as grey as the space he’d just left.
‘I’m the custody officer,’ the man said in a bass that reverberated almost to Dave’s toes. ‘You are now being processed. Do you understand?’
Dave nodded.
‘Please speak.’
He coughed. ‘Yes.’
‘Your rights, while you are in my custody are…’
Shit, thought Dave, this was as real as it gets. The man continued speaking, Dave doing his best to listen, but only able to concentrate on the odd word. Noises about free legal advice, medical help if he was feeling ill. Something about regular breaks for the toilet and food was written on a card.
The police officer, with a matter-of-fact expression, pushed his great mitts into blue gloves. ‘Now I need to search you. Please stand.’ At this, Dave’s chest began to thrum so hard he had no idea how he had the energy to get to his feet. ‘Arms out, please.’
Every part of him was touched. Every part. Almost enough for the man to make an educated guess as to whether or not he was circumcised. The swabs were taken from his hands and arms, inside his mouth and then his prints were taken, just before he was asked to stand in front of a camera. 27
There was a loud knock on the door, it was pushed open and a man in a suit walked in. A black pinstripe. His face was lean, his dark hair streaked with grey and his eyes scanned the room like a laser.
‘Mr Robbins, my name is Joseph Bain.’ He stood feet shoulder-width apart, briefcase hanging in one hand. ‘Do you require legal representation?’
Dave nodded.
‘Please speak.’
‘I think I do.’ Dave looked from the policeman to the lawyer, neither giving anything away. ‘I do,’ Dave asserted. ‘Not sure I can afford you though,’ he said and gave Bain the once over. Saw a suit worth hundreds of pounds.
‘My fee has been taken care of, Mr Robbins,’ said Bain. Then he looked at the custody officer. ‘May I have a word with my client in private, please?’ His tone brooked no dissent. Not that he would get any, Dave was sure. This was a man who was clearly all about the theatre, and Dave was strangely reassured by it.
The officer left the room. Bain took a seat, across the table from him where the policeman had been. Looked at Dave. ‘Bloody hell, that was close. I was three gins into a supper party when the call came.’ He glanced around. ‘I’m a solicitor advocate, would you believe? Don’t normally do house calls.’ He sucked in some air. ‘Good news or bad news?’
‘Wait a moment. How can I afford you?’
‘Your father pulled in a favour.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Few people in Glasgow don’t know who Peter Robbins is.’
‘I know Dad is well connected but…’
‘Let’s keep the conversation to pertinent matters, Dave. May I call you Dave?’
Dave nodded. ‘But how did Dad get to hear about it?’
‘Your lady friend, Miss Hart, called him.’
Shit. Dave wanted to be the one to do that. His father was big on ‘avoiding avoidance’. All through his childhood the mantra 28was: a man squares his shoulders and faces life’s problems. Never forget that and you will do well, my son.
Dad was big on advice, and problems were like numbers in a spreadsheet, to be analysed and dealt with. Emotion at a remove. He’d seen his father cry exactly once in his life. When his own father died. Other than that he misted up when athletes were awarded gold medals at the Olympics and then he’d walk/run away from the TV as if he’d just been caught with a urine stain on the front of his trousers.
‘So, good news or bad news?’ Bain repeated.
‘What I don’t feel like is drama, so just tell me, for fuckssake.’
Bain’s smile was genuine for the first time since they’d met. ‘Good. A backbone. You’ll need it for what you are about to go through.’ He placed his briefcase on the table. ‘Good news: the evidence I’ve seen so far is weak. The bad news is that Roger Brown’s uncle is a senior-ranked police officer, with a lot of pull.’
Dave had forgotten this. And then recalled the local gossip that Claire and Roger’s family ties to both sides of the law had created a lot of tension in their lives. He searched his memory for a possible uncle who might have come visiting. Remembered a man of whom Damaris appeared to be fond. Heard her singing ‘Uncle Jack’ from the garden. Then, he caught an image in his mind of them strolling side by side. The low rumble of the man’s voice as he pointed out which were flowers and which were weeds.
‘And,’ continued Bain, ‘Great Uncle, Chief Superintendent Brown is baying for blood.’
Chapter 7
As soon as the police left with Dave, Amelie ran to the parking bay at the side of the cottage and jumped in her car.
Driving into town she realised with a start that she wasn’t quite sure where the police station was. Near the library perhaps? Should be quite central, she reasoned and aimed for the road that sliced through the heart of East Kilbride.
An approaching driver flashed his lights at her and as she drew close, she could see an old man. He was waving at her. What the hell was his problem? Then she realised all the parked cars either side of the street were facing in the one direction, towards her.
She was driving the wrong way down a one way. Idiot.
Feeling her face heat with embarrassment, she held a hand up in apology. Then she stopped the car, stuck it in reverse and manoeuvred to the end of the street. She parked. Held a hand to her forehead and realised she was trembling.
Emotion demanded a release and she started to cry. Great heaving sobs.
Get a grip, she told herself. This wasn’t about her. Dave. Poor man. What must he be going through?
She heard a knock at her window, turned, and saw the man who’d been waving her down. On automatic pilot she located the window switch and opened it a little.
‘You okay, hen?’ the man asked in a tremulous voice. Nothing to do with his emotion, more to do with his great age, she thought as she looked at the deep wrinkles around his rheumy eyes.
She nodded. Sniffed. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Even managed a bit of a smile.
He reached a hand through the window and patted her shoulder, his concern for her a reminder that there were decent 30people about. ‘A large whisky,’ he said. ‘Always works for me.’ And with a sad, but supportive smile, he straightened his back with a little groan and ambled off.
Her phone sounded an alert. She fished it out of her pocket and read her manager’s name. Had he heard about this already? Bernard Mosley had come into her life just at the right time. Camp as a fortnight in Butlins, was how he described himself. He loved nothing more than a fresh orange and champagne for breakfast, was rarely seen without a cravat and fob watch. He found her her first role and took the place of the father who’d run out on her and her family and returned to his native France when she was around eleven years old.
About the same age as Damaris Brown.
She stuffed the phone back in her pocket with the thought; not now, Bernard.
Amelie forced a deep breath. Right. Where was she? She stepped out of the car and straining her neck, looked down the street. A part of a sign caught her view; blue background and white lettering, edging out from beyond a building further down. ICE she read.
When she started walking towards it she realised she was still wearing her slippers, a shapeless brown cardigan over a baggy T-shirt and black leggings.
She reached the glass double door of the police station, pushed it open and walked into a reception area. Facing her was a desk area. On the wall behind it a plethora of community-service posters. Drug abuse and suicide helplines. Something about how the local police were there for you.
Right.
Pulling her cardigan tight around her, she moved closer to the desk and noticed a buzzer. She pressed it and a few seconds later, a door opened and a female entered. Pretty, middle-aged, ample-bosomed, matronly type.
Of course the woman recognised her. Her look said, oh dear,31you look a mess, but that quickly passed and she switched into polite and professional mode. ‘How can I help you?’
‘My … friend has just been brought in.’ Part of her mind paused and wondered why she’d left the ‘boy’ out of that statement. ‘And I was wondering who I should speak to about what was going on.’
‘Name, please?’
‘Amelie Hart.’
‘No, your friend’s name, Miss Hart. I know who you are. Of course I do.’ The woman’s eyes brightened and she looked like she was about to go into full-on fan mode, but she stiffened her stance as if she had just reminded herself of their situation.
‘Dave. Sorry, David Robbins.’
‘You just have a seat over there, Miss Hart,’ she pointed to an area behind Amelie, ‘and I’ll go check.’
Amelie turned and saw a row of four plastic chairs in front of a panel of wood-coloured Formica. Tall plastic ficus plants had been placed at either end of the row, probably in an effort to make the place appear friendlier.
She sat down, crossed her legs and, leaning forward, became aware of the weight of her mobile phone in her cardigan pocket. Before she left the house she’d made a couple of phone calls. Lisa made her regret the call to her. She screeched and went into full drama-queen mode. Said ‘ohmygod’ at least a dozen times on the one breath.
Then she phoned Dave’s father and got a response at the other end of the drama spectrum. When she’d told him what had happened, there was a long silence.
‘Mr Robbins,’ she asked. ‘Are you still there?’ They’d met only a handful of times. Christmas and birthdays, and never had the chance to build any sort of relationship, so the man was effectively a stranger.
‘Sorry.’ He roused himself. ‘Ah … I … does he have access to a lawyer?’
‘My lawyer was going to be my next call. She’s an entertainment 32lawyer, but I’m sure she’ll have a few contacts in the criminal side of things.’
