Just My Luck Page 32

  “I pressed the buzzer, why didn’t you let me in? I had to climb over the fence. I ripped my trousers.” Then, almost an afterthought, he demands, “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  “Because we’ve had a power cut.”

  “A power cut or has a fuse flipped?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t check?”

  “I don’t know where the fuse box is,” I mutter. Jake laughs at this, as though it’s amusing rather than what it is: humiliating or frustrating. I should know where the fuse box is in my own house. “Anyway, I think it’s bigger than a fuse because everything is out,” I mutter defensively.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I hesitate. “My phone was dead.” How do I explain that I called Toma first and that we chatted all evening, until the battery of my phone drained to almost nothing and I could only make the two calls pertinent to the kids’ arrangements? I told Toma about the kidnapping, walked through every moment of horror; it felt good to talk about it, almost like therapy.

  “Why did you let your friends bully you?” Toma asked. “You should have called the police. You know it was the right thing to do.”

  “I was weak. I regret it. I let Emily down. I just thought, as they all believed one thing and I was the only one to believe another, I had to be wrong. I was scared I’d make things worse.”

  “I would think this Jennifer, she is your friend, yes? I would think she would support you, not your husband’s decision.” And so I told him about the fact Jake is having an affair with Jennifer. “Or, at least, he was. I don’t know if it’s still going on, but maybe that complicated things on the night. Maybe that’s why Jennifer agreed with Jake. I can’t quite explain it.”

  Toma went silent. I could almost hear his brain ticking over through the telephone.

  “You don’t have to stay with him, Lexi.”

  I felt suddenly ashamed. As though I had betrayed someone. Jake, perhaps, for telling Toma about his torrid affair. “People have affairs, Toma, they make mistakes. We’ve been together for so long. I’m not throwing in the towel on my marriage after just one mistake.”

  I do believe that, so I’m not sure why—now that Jake is finally home—I seem to be picking a fight with him. “It was really scary. At first, I thought it was an intruder and then I felt trapped. I couldn’t get the car out of the garage because the garage has an electric door and our gate is an electric gate. You know we are overly dependent on our gadgets, I didn’t know what to do with myself without the computer or TV.”

  “You could have had a swim,” points out Jake. “Our pool is not electricity dependent.” This is not actually correct—the heater and filter are both dependent on electricity—but I know what he means. The truth is it hadn’t crossed my mind to have a swim. I haven’t quite taken on board the fact we have a pool—or a gym or a cinema room, come to think of it.

  “So what did you do all night?”

  “I read a book,” I mutter sulkily. The truth is, I didn’t miss the computer or TV—I had Toma. I feel guilty lying to my husband. I almost ask him what he’s been doing all night, but I guess he’ll just deliver up a lie, too.

  Jake picks up his phone and calls the electrician or, at least, he calls the property manager, who I assume will call the electrician. It only takes fifteen minutes before the electricity is restored; it’s managed remotely. I feel like an idiot for sitting shivering in the dark for so long.

  “The police have a lead,” Jake announces.

  “They do?” I sit up, excited. “Who? Have they said?”

  “Yes, it came off the back of Emily describing the kidnappers’ voices. And something to do with suspicious movement in our bank account. They didn’t really explain it to me, but they are looking for a man called Toma Albu.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Lexi

  Wednesday, June 12

  I call the police station at the crack of dawn and ask to speak to Detective Inspector Owens. They tell me I can come to the station at once. As I dress, Jake asks where I am going; when I tell him, he says he wants to come with me. I shrug. He can if he wants. I just want to get there as quickly as possible and put the record straight.

  We are shown into a room that has a small, chipped Formica table and three plastic chairs in the center of it, nothing else. There is no window and so the air feels stale, as though it has been inhaled and exhaled too many times. I can’t help but think of who else might have sat in this room: hardened criminals, vicious or desperate types, the guilty and innocent. I think I can smell their fear, and maybe remorse, that has to have dripped onto the tiled floor. The chairs are arranged so that there is one chair on one side of the tatty table and two on the other. The setup is stark and intimidating. I’m glad Jake is with me as we sit side by side. My previous interview took place at our home; this one feels much more serious. The inspector comes into the room with a junior policeman. Presumably, two police officers generally interview one person, so the younger policeman has nowhere to sit. He stands against the wall, close to the door. Admirably, he resists the temptation to slouch.

  “Do you mind if I record the interview?” asks DI Owens. I am instantly reminded of the inquiry held by the lottery company a few weeks back, a lifetime ago. Now, as then, I agree. “And you want your husband to attend this interview?” I nod. “And you don’t want to call a solicitor?”

  “No. Why? Should I?”

  “Entirely your decision.” DI Owens has a very dour face, the sort it’s hard to imagine ever breaking into a smile. When I first met him, I liked his no-nonsense approach, thinking he might be the person to get results. Now I feel his face is daunting, almost threatening. Dour people rarely like admitting to making mistakes. If he is spending time pursuing Toma, he is wasting time, time that should be spent pursuing the real kidnappers.

  “It wasn’t Toma Albu who kidnapped Emily. He has nothing to do with it,” I state firmly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, firstly, I was with him at the time of the kidnapping so he has a watertight alibi.”

  DI Owens sits up a little straighter, looking excited. “He was at your party?” Placing Toma at my party would strengthen their case against him.

  “No, I was at his. The other side of town. There are a lot of people who can vouch for that.” I don’t look at Jake. “Toma is my friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yes.” I pause. I understand the inference and decide to take it full on. “Just a friend. We met through work. The night of my party happened to be the night Toma threw a leaving party so I left mine to go along to his for a bit.”

  “Where is he going?”

  “He’s gone. He went the next day, very early, back to Moldova.”

  “He’s skipped the country!” shouts Jake, banging his fist on the table.

  I turn to him. “No, don’t be stupid, he’s just gone home.”

  “He’s from Moldova? Emily’s captors were foreign.”

  “That’s quite a broad range. Toma wasn’t in the country most of the time she was captured.”

  “He didn’t have to be there in person, he could have masterminded it from a distance,” insists Jake.

  “He didn’t! He wouldn’t.” I lose patience with Jake and turn back to the DI. “I have Toma’s telephone number. You can speak to him yourself if it helps clear this up.”

  “Oh, we will be, don’t you worry. We have his number already. In fact, we knew you were—” the DI pauses “—friends. We have your phone records.”

  I blush and hate myself for it. “He knew nothing of the kidnapping until I told him about it last night. He was horrified by it.”

  “You spoke to him last night?” demands Jake. “Why?”

  I don’t answer his question but press on. “Secondly, the money he has, that came from our bank accou
nt—there’s nothing suspicious about that. I gifted it to him.”

  “You gifted 2.976 million pounds to your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you give it to him?”

  “It was his share.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I squirm uncomfortably. Jake throws me a complex look: anger, warning, anguish? I answer carefully, hoping he’ll understand. “If the lottery numbers had come up a week before they did, my friends would each have been entitled to a share of the win. Each couple would have got just under six million pounds or each individual would have got 2.976 million pounds.”

  “Of course that didn’t happen, on account of them dropping out of the syndicate,” adds Jake.

  “What has any of this got to do with Toma Albu?” asks DI Owens.

  “I gave him Patrick Pearson’s share.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Patrick Pearson murdered Toma’s wife and son.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Tuesday, December 23, 2014

  Reveka carefully handed Benke the glittery star that they had made together earlier that afternoon. Then she hoisted him onto her hip. He was getting heavier, but still fitted quite comfortably into the side of her body, like two jigsaw pieces snapping together. Benke hooked one chubby toddler arm behind her neck and then confidently lunged forward toward the tree, excited to be placing the final ornament, trusting she would hold him steady, keep him safe. He propped the star up against a branch, but couldn’t manage to secure it in place with the ribbon. He turned to his mother, eyes wide and gleaming with pride and excitement. She kissed his face enthusiastically, breathing him in. The star was fashioned from tinfoil and cardboard from a cereal box, things they had in the house. Reveka had bought glitter glue, which Benke had joyfully and inexpertly smeared everywhere: the star, the tiny kitchen table, his clothes. There was more glitter on his hands than on the decoration, and that had delighted him. He clapped and repeatedly yelled, “Me have kissmas magic, me have kissmas magic.”

  “You have indeed!” laughed Reveka. She gently lowered Benke down to the floor. They both took a step back to admire their handiwork. “Beautiful!” she enthused. Reveka had brought about half a dozen Christmas ornaments with her from home. Benke had been besotted with the jewel-colored glass trinkets. He’d teetered on the verge of a tantrum when she wouldn’t allow him to handle them. The tantrum had only been diverted because she persuaded him that he could instruct her as to exactly where they ought to go, that he was in control overall. All six decorations were currently huddled at Benke’s eye level, and the rest of the tree looked a little Spartan. She’d rearrange them tonight, spread them about a little, after he was in bed. Reveka had bought colored Christmas lights from the pound shop. They cost two pounds, not one, but still. She knew a lot of people only ever bought white twinkling lights, but Reveka liked color. She’d also bought tinsel. Five streamers, all different colors, they filled up the tree nicely. It looked wonderful. Reveka loved the pound shop. She had once watched an old film called Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The beautiful actress was supposed to be poor and she felt happiest, safest, at the jewel shop Tiffany’s. Reveka didn’t think the actress seemed very poor. Although she was very thin, she was beautiful thin, not penniless thin. Still, Reveka understood the film, liked it even. The pound shop was her Tiffany’s. Tonight, when Benke was in bed, she would wrap up his Christmas presents in the paper she had bought there. It had cheerful little reindeers on it. She’d taken ages deciding which wrapping was the most perfect. She had not bought ribbons. Ribbons were lovely, but even at Christmas Reveka had to make choices and she didn’t need to spend the extra pound.

  She drew the bath, tested the temperature and lowered her chattering son into the warm water. It was always the same; a busy, full day did not make him tired, just more excitable, more buoyant. He babbled on nonsensically, happy in his make-believe world where an empty washing-up liquid bottle passed as a rocket, a rocket that could whoosh to the sky and land on a star.

  “Do you think you might want to be an astronaut when you grow up, Benke?” Reveka asked her son, knowing perfectly well that he had no idea what an astronaut was. He nodded enthusiastically. “Or maybe an engineer?” He nodded again, compliant. Happy to see his mother smile. “You can be anything and everything you want to be, Benke,” Reveka whispered. The emotion caught in her voice. She believed this, but she also believed that the more often she said it, the truer it was. “This is why we are here, Benke. For the education. For the chances. You can be anything and everything.”

  And for the first time in a long time, it seemed possible that this was true. Now the flat was usually warm. Thank God the landlord had finally had the boiler fixed. For the first two years of Benke’s life, the only heating they’d had was from one small electric fire that they moved from room to room, depending where the baby was sleeping. It was expensive to heat a flat, even one this compact, with an electric fire. Every time the orange bars glowed Reveka was torn, partially relieved that the icy air would thaw, mostly anxious about the money they were burning. More often she would put on another layer, another jumper, a second pair of tights under her trousers. During last winter the baby wore so many layers he looked like a little boiled egg! She put the fire on when they were all at home; when it was just her and the baby, she tried to save money by walking the streets to keep warm. She pushed the stroller from shop to shop, where she would wander round with no intention of buying until a security guard started to follow her, or the fourth, fifth, sixth stiff inquiry from a shop assistant, “Can I help you with anything?” embarrassed her into leaving. Then she would walk to the library, her favorite place! Free books, comfortable chairs, warm air, but crying babies were not welcome in libraries for sustained periods of time. Her feet often felt like blocks of ice. She was sometimes so desperate to warm up that she’d stand in the public toilets at the Civic Centre, where she’d learned to ignore the smell. A flat as cold as theirs had been was not a home.

  But this year there was Christmas magic! Benke was right! Now the boiler was mended, the air was warm, the water was hot. This winter, since the heating had been fixed, they stayed at home more. Today they had not had to venture out at all. Better to stay snug and safe than walk the streets. The man who fixed the boiler had been very young, not much more than a boy, really. No overalls, no badge. He had drunk the tea she offered, eaten three biscuits off the plate. She had only put three biscuits on the plate, so she and Benke went without. The boy talked a lot. She didn’t understand everything he said. Maybe he said he was still in college. Still training. Maybe he said something about cash in hand. Beer money. He did jobs for Mr. Pearson often. “Anything really, I can turn my hand to anything,” he said confidently. Reveka had no idea who Mr. Pearson was. She didn’t care. Her flat was warm.

  The glitter had loosened from Benke’s hands and floated on the bathwater. Reveka yawned and Benke caught it, opening his mouth wide, flashing his tiny, pearly baby teeth. The bath seemed to have calmed him. She hauled him out, wrapped him in a towel. Her head hurt. Benke was pulling at his ear, something he did when he was in pain. Maybe a toothache. She hoped they hadn’t caught a cold or flu. No one wanted to be sick at Christmas.

  She dressed her boy in soft cotton pajamas, and he was almost asleep before his head touched the pillow. She leaned over the cot to kiss him good-night. He really ought to be in a bed. They might find one in a charity shop after Christmas. As she straightened up, the room slipped. She felt dizzy, a little nauseous. She had so much to do. Besides wrapping the gifts, she wanted to finish the ironing, make a dish for Toma’s return. It was important he came home to something good. He worked so hard. Double shifts at that factory were gruelling. Noisy, demanding, he was on his feet all day. He never complained.

  She went into the kitchen, picked up a knife. Onions, potatoes, carrots, they all needed chopping. But the pain in her head was so
fierce now. Maybe she should sit down. Or even lie down. Just for a few minutes. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep. Reveka dropped the knife, which narrowly missed her foot. She looked at it, lying on the floor, and was surprised. What was wrong with her? Why was the room swimming? Reveka collapsed onto her hands and knees. What was wrong? Something was very wrong. She started to crawl to her son’s room. Fear shot through her body. She needed to see him. She was sick. Was he sick, too? She placed one hand in front of the other, dragged her knees and legs along behind her. She just wanted to sleep. Lie down on the kitchen lino, but more she wanted to check on her baby son. She dragged her body into his room, lit by the cheerful golden glow of the tractor lamp. There he was. Sound asleep. So still. Perfectly still. She had thought he might be dreaming. Dreaming about stars and gifts and Christmas treats, but when he dreamed his eyes usually flickered. Tonight, he was stone.

  Reveka stretched to put her hand through the bars of the cot. Exhausted, she knew she couldn’t make it into her own bed, didn’t want to. She must have a bug. Her head screamed from the inside. So much pain. Toma would be home soon. He would get her Tylenol. She couldn’t get it herself. Didn’t want to be that far from Benke. She lay down on the floor next to him. Close by if he woke and needed her.

  CHAPTER 48

  Emily

  Thursday, June 20

  Oh. My. God. Patrick Pearson has been arrested for kidnapping me! Mum and Dad are reeling. I don’t know if they were even going to tell me. Well, they’d have had to at some point, but I guess they were going to struggle to find the right moment to drop that one. At is happened, I overheard them talking in the kitchen.

  “DI Owens has been in touch,” says Mum.

  “Oh, yes,” replies Dad. My parents have a weird way of speaking to one another at the moment. It’s all sort of stiff and narky. I don’t know if it’s the stress of me being kidnapped or what. I think it was there a bit even before then. Not sure. Anyway, when they talk to one another now, it’s like they’re constantly waiting for bad news or are about to deliver it. Something like that. I miss them just being—I don’t know—themselves. Sort of relaxed and nice to each other.