Other Women Read online

  Other Women

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph 1 From A Natural History of Lies

  Storm

  Hedgehog

  Ants

  Body

  Director

  Epigraph 2 From A Natural History of Lies

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Autopsy

  5

  Five Years Earlier

  6

  7

  Services Rendered

  8

  9

  Disembowelment

  Epigraph 3 From A Natural History of Lies

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Ends

  14

  Tales of the Riverbank

  15

  16

  One Year Earlier Six Months After That

  Three Months Later

  16 (continued)

  17

  Good News

  18

  19

  Epigraph 4 From A Natural History of Lies

  The Unnamed God

  20

  21

  The Gift of Life

  22

  Watkins

  23

  24

  Warning

  25

  Europol

  26

  In the Air

  27

  28

  Other Women

  29

  30

  31

  Lost

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epigraph 5 From A Natural History of Lies

  36

  37

  38

  39

  Disaster Management

  40

  Closure

  41

  Thaddeus Jones

  42

  43

  Lost in the System

  44

  Resignation

  Epigraph 6 From A Natural History of Lies

  Loose Ends

  45

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  All men lie. To their mothers, to their wives, to their lovers. And they quickly learn that no lie stands alone. Its very existence requires the support of other lies, which, together with that first dishonest moment, shift the world towards a false reality. There can be no return from this disagreeable state other than through guilt, confession and disgrace.

  Women also lie. Mostly to themselves.

  From A Natural History of Lies by J. Clarke

  Storm

  Across the steep wooded slopes, at a point where the Western Weald meets the Hampshire Downs, the forest waits for daybreak. The air is thick. Dry. Suffocating. The dense cloud overhead seems determined to hold on to the night. But, at last, a patch of grey dawn breaks through, casting its shadows deep into the dry cracks that streak across the forest floor. Bracken and bramble are in crisis, their lowly roots denied sustenance by the giant thirsts rising all around them. But they will prevail, for the deluge, long-promised, is here. A burst of dry lightning heralds its arrival. Deep in the forest something cracks and falls. Then the rain. At first, tight and hardened by drought, the alkaline soil proves impervious to the few drops that find their way down through the ancient canopy of beech and yew, hornbeam, hazel, sweet chestnut and alder. But more is to follow. Much more. And soon the parched ground is awash, tiny rivulets running in all directions, gouging their way towards the dried bed of a river-in-waiting. Withered leaves and tree litter are carried along with the flow. The riverbank swells, begins to crumble, flooding dusty burrows, dislodging tiny underground stores of hazelnuts and acorns, uncovering a single antler, a badger skull, a rusted can. And, close beside it, the slim fingers still delicate, a pale hand emerges from its shallow woodland grave.

  Hedgehog

  There are few untrodden places in the ancient woods of the southern counties. Over the centuries, footsteps have penetrated into the deepest gullies, the most perilous slopes, the most inaccessible clearings, in search of food, shelter, solitude. However, today, Watkins is only seeking food. And a recently drenched woodland is sure to provide it. Not everybody knows how to feed off the land. The supermarket chains have stolen that knowledge and wrapped it in cling film and recycled plastic. But Watkins is a seasoned forager and he knows where to look. After such heavy rain, dry roots and dormant mycelia spring forth with new life, so there is every possibility that his favourite mushrooms will be taking the opportunity to pool their resources and spread their spores wide. He can hear the stream close by, its girth swollen by the storm. The clearing should be straight ahead. Then half a dozen paces towards the water’s edge. That’s where they’ve been every year for as long as he can remember. He can already taste the damp, nutty smell of fresh hedgehog fungi. And, yes, there they are. Right where he’s been expecting to find them. What he hasn’t been expecting to find is the girl’s body, lying on the bank, face down, mud streaked across her naked back, her legs awkward as if she’s been trying to slither down to the water to cleanse herself. Watkins pauses, considers running away. Then he pulls out his mobile phone. The signal is weak but he manages to get through. Tells the people that need to be told. Then he kneels down beside the mass of mushrooms and uses his razor-sharp knife to cut their stipes, carefully, so as not to deplete the underlying matrix.

  Ants

  ‘DI Sam Barnes. NCA. You’re the Attending Officer? Sergeant Boakes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. DI James was here earlier.’

  ‘Is that the guy who found her?’

  ‘Yes. Leonard Watkins. He was foraging.’

  ‘Foraging?’

  ‘For mushrooms. He’s given a statement.’

  ‘Right. I gather the dogs are on the way. I suggest you get a wider area cordoned off, before the ramblers start hiking through with their lunch boxes. Who’s the pathologist?’

  ‘Dr Moran, James Moran.’

  ‘Ah, yes. James. How long does he think she’s been here?’

  ‘About two days. Possibly three. Just before the storm. Probably buried and uncovered by the rain.’

  ‘Right. How the hell did they get her here? It’s bloody impenetrable.’

  ‘They might have brought her along the riverbed. According to Watkins, it often runs dry in the summer. So, probably not much to be found now. There’s been some ant activity.’

  ‘Nice. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir… the ant activity. It’s clustered around a large wound.’

  ‘A knife?’

  ‘Of sorts. Dr Moran believes it’s the result of… He believes the young woman was recently operated on to remove a child. A baby.’

  ‘Jesus, fuck! Don’t you just love this job? I’d better get over there and take a look.’

  ‘Better watch out, sir. One of the young officers is projectile vomiting.’

  Body

  ‘James. Hi. How’s it going?’

  ‘Ah, Sam. I thought I might be seeing your lot here sooner or later. Get fed up with cyberporn, did you?’

  ‘Couldn’t bear to spend any more of my life trolling around the rancid web. There’s a limit to how many freaks you can deal with in one lifetime. Although this might be turning into a joint exercise. So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Victim is a young woman who has recently undergone a C-section. Full-term or thereabouts. The wound was left open. Placenta and cord still partially adhering to the wall of the uterus. It’s a bit of a mess. You might like to wait until after the clean-up. Don’t want any more heaving around here. Contaminating the crime scene.’

  ‘I’m good. What do you thin
k’s going on here?’

  ‘Well, the external incision is clean. Apart from the wildlife. Whoever did this probably considered completing the job and sewing her back up, but something went wrong. Can’t be sure, but it looks like the uterus ruptured during what might have been a natural birth. The incision is longitudinal so was probably done as an emergency to remove the child. I’ll be able to get a better picture back at the lab. The mess on her arm is probably the result of an attempt at transfusion, pulled out post-mortem. Death probably a result of hypovolemic shock. Judging from her colour, she bled out during the delivery.’

  ‘So, somebody fucked up a DIY Caesarean and buried the evidence? Any sign of the infant?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  Director

  ‘Ah, yes, the Downs body. Nasty business. Any further developments?’

  ‘Not much more than you already know, sir. SOCOs are still at the scene. And the dogs are on site sniffing around, but there’s not much hope of uncovering anything after all that rain. Forensics believe the body was transferred to the site prior to the storm and interred into a shallow grave. Quite near to where it was found. The bank of the river has fallen away along that stretch, so it will be difficult to pinpoint the exact location. Bloodied dressings have been found downstream. They’re checking the DNA with that of the woman… the girl: she can’t be much more than a child herself. As yet, there’s no identification. And nothing much to go on. Painted nails – nothing special. There’s a small heart-shaped tattoo on the left shoulder, so that can be checked for point of origin. And there are several piercings – all the usual places. The jewellery’s been removed. There’s still no sign of an infant. It might be worth investigating local antenatal records, although that would be a mammoth task. Sir, can I assume we’re linking this to the existing Hampshire investigation? The body, the pregnancy, would confirm practices way beyond mere sex trafficking, but…’

  ‘But you believe there’s a link?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re checking out a series of IP locations. In the Winchester and Guildford areas. Trying to establish links.’

  ‘Guildford? That’s conveniently close to your home territory, isn’t it, Barnes?’

  ‘Yes, sir, very conveniently close.’

  ‘And you are continuing to maintain your cover? The teaching post?’

  ‘For the time being, sir, yes. It’s as good a place as any to investigate cybercrime and sociopaths. And although, unsurprisingly, the movement of foreign staff and students into the UK has not proven to be the significant trafficking route anticipated by some amongst us, there is a healthy air of sedition to keep me occupied.’

  ‘Quite so. Well, Barnes, liaise with forensics and keep me informed. And keep as much of this out of the press as possible. Preferably all of it. Has the individual who discovered the body been briefed?’

  ‘Briefed and debriefed, sir.’

  For everything there is a single truth but many non-truths. The phoney, the fabulist, to be successful, must recall with absolute certainty which of these non-truths has been substituted as truth. A liar with a poor memory is doomed to failure.

  From A Natural History of Lies by J. Clarke

  1

  Sophie was happy with things the way they were. Mostly. But there was one exception. She wished there was a garden at the front of her house, an any-shaped outcrop of nature that distanced her from the world outside. But there was no such thing. Instead, Sophie’s front door opened directly onto the street, which, apart from denying her a garden, guaranteed a constant stream of daytime passers-by staring into her lounge as if her life was a display in a department store. And there were steps, two steps that led from her front door down onto the pavement. It was almost impossible to single-handedly manoeuvre the pram in and out of the house. And when Laura got a little older it would be a worry: the steps and the main road being that close. Sophie fretted about it, but Jonah was not that bothered, probably because men don’t concern themselves with such issues. They have other things to worry about; as far as Jonah was concerned, child safety fell within the mother’s domain.

  In the early days, Sophie had made a few attempts at threshold horticulture: potted bay trees either side of the steps; snowdrops, crocus corms and thyme eased into the mean promises of soil between the bricks and paving stones. But, invariably, they had been vandalised. Even stolen. And, anyway, Jonah had disapproved of the scent of thyme and bay wafting in from the street and ravaging his home. Jonah had also disapproved of the scent of cinnamon, curry plant, garlic, cloves and cardamom, lavender, baby wipes, dishwasher tablets, peppermint and cabbage. But Sophie understood: people smell things differently. So that was that.

  Sophie did have a small concrete garden at the back of her house. Its measly dimensions owed to the fact that, at some point in the distant past, priority had been given to the construction of a line of flat-roofed garages, which had reversed, windowless, into the existing row of Victorian properties, leaving their terraced residents with a diminishing display of disappointing rears. As always, Sophie had rallied. Despite this horticultural privation, she had accumulated a vast array of terracotta pots, which she had squashed into every opportunity in the vestige of backyard that nestled beyond her kitchen window. Throughout the year, she religiously cultivated a rich, potted, non-aromatic, shade-loving flora, supplemented in the summer months with a dozen or so tomato plants and a few etiolated sunflowers that cast even more shadow upon her dank little garden. Even at the height of summer, the damp cement, the terracotta pots, the sunflowers and the tomatoes encouraged the growth of moss and algae. Sophie loved the green and blue tenacity of these lowly plants, although Jonah always referred to their lush colonisation as mildew.

  All things considered, Sophie hated the front of her house and, if the truth be known, she would have rather lived somewhere else. But all requests for relocation were denied. As far as Jonah was concerned, they could not move from their small, cramped, terraced house to a bigger house with a proper garden, where Laura would eventually be able to run and play, because they did not have enough money to better themselves after Sophie’s unplanned pregnancy. Sophie couldn’t really argue with that; she could have been more cautious. But some innate awareness of the proximity of her thirties, and of her declining reproductive opportunity, had encouraged laxity. The pregnancy was definitely her fault. So, that was that.

  * * *

  It was twelve thirty, early-August. With the washing loaded and Laura enjoying her morning nap, Sophie had just started tending her pots. She was engrossed in snipping axillary shoots from her tomato plants, when she heard the front door open and close. She stepped into the kitchen to investigate. Jonah was in the dark passageway, puffing and cursing and removing the large suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs. She kicked off her gardening shoes and approached him, the kitchen scissors in one hand and a posy of tomato shoots in the other. ‘Why are you home,’ she asked. ‘I thought you were in Bournemouth today. Are you going somewhere?’

  He did not look up. ‘I’m leaving,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving?’

  ‘I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.’

  ‘What things? What are you talking about?’

  He balanced the case upright and met her eyes. ‘There’s no way this is good for either of us.’

  Sophie clenched and unclenched her hands, an activity which caused the tomato posy to disintegrate and the scissors to spin onto the floor and come to rest beneath a radiator. She grappled for words. ‘But, what about Laura?’

  Jonah recoiled from the pungent smell of crushed tomato leaves, the cocktail of alkaloids loved by some, unloved by others and loathed by Jonah. ‘The longer this goes on the worse it will be for her. I’ll send money.’

  Sophie fell back against the wall, wiped her hands down her jeans. ‘Money? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s happened?’

  Jonah turned away and started to haul the suitcase u
p the stairs, crashing it against the slim spindles with all the disregard of a person who no longer owned them. Sophie hurried after him.

  ‘Jonah, you’ll wake Laura. Tell me what’s happened. We can talk about it.’

  They did not talk about it. Sophie asked him where he was going, if she would be able to contact him. What if something happened to Laura? Jonah said nothing. Sophie repeated her questions. Several times. But still Jonah said nothing. So, Sophie became silent, stunned, forced to stand and watch Jonah coldly and methodically arrange his clothes into the case: jeans, socks, shirts, boxers still in their presentation pack. The Arran jumper her mother had given him the Christmas before she died. Finally, he crushed three pairs of shoes, his library book and his phone charger into the top section, then tried to force the latches closed. That was never going to happen. So, he opened the case, pulled out the Arran jumper and, with this removed, secured the latches. Eyes down, he edged past Sophie into the en-suite and emerged moments later carrying his washbag, grabbed the handle of his case and made to leave.

  Sophie threw herself in front of the door to prevent him doing so and, her voice trembling with suppressed tears, asked him again where he was going.

  He paused before giving her an answer she’d never expected: ‘There’s somebody else.’

  Sophie got out of the way.

  She propped herself against the doorframe and watched Jonah bumping the case back downstairs, this time holding on to the banister and gouging channels into the wall opposite. She needed to do something, took a moment to rush in and check that Laura was still asleep, then hurried down behind him. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs Jonah was already dragging the case down the two doorsteps. In her haste, she wrenched her ankle as she stepped off the bottom stair and saved herself from falling only by catching hold of the scratchy newel post. She sagged against it, trying to make sense of what was happening. But there was no sense to be had. No sense at all. Through the doorframe she could see Jonah balancing his case as he rearranged the boot of his BMW, which was parked immediately outside on the double yellow lines. The driver’s door was hanging open, obstructing much of the pavement. She limped forward.