The Bad Things Read online

  Silence. ‘I can’t, Alex. I can’t do it.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you owe her something?’

  ‘Owe her?’

  ‘You were married to her.’

  ‘And now I’m not, okay? I wish things could have been different, God how I wish it. I still—’

  ‘Still what?’

  There was more silence. ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Besides, it’s too late now.’

  ‘Jez, I know—’

  ‘No.’ His voice was sharp. ‘You don’t know anything. I’m trying Alex, really trying to get over her; to deal with what happened all those years ago, but the pain is still so near the surface, you know? Even after all this time. Christ, it’s even hard to go out with other women, even though I try. God, how I try.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘And I never thought I’d say that.’ He paused. ‘And I bet she’s been cutting herself.’

  Alex said nothing. Two could play the silence game.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? And I know I’m partly to blame. Look, Alex, I don’t expect you to understand, but me and Sasha—’

  ‘You and Sasha what?’

  ‘Nothing. Me and Sasha are nothing.’

  ‘If you can’t go round, could you send another plod round just to, I don’t know, stand outside the flat or something. I don’t want her besieged by journalists.’ She knew her play-acting on the phone wouldn’t fool a determined hack for very long.

  ‘I will ask,’ he said finally.

  She had to hope it was enough.

  It was cold and damp and Alex hunched her shoulders as she put the key in the front door. Suddenly a pair of arms encircled her waist.

  ‘Honey, you’re home.’

  She rolled her eyes and felt her depression lift just a little. ‘Malone, you are so predictable.’ She opened the door. ‘And what are you doing? Waiting to ambush me?’

  ‘And how else am I supposed to get into your house? You haven’t given me a key yet.’

  ‘Too soon, Malone, too soon.’

  ‘It’s not too soon for me.’ Malone pushed the door shut behind them, grabbed hold of her hair each side of her face, and kissed her deeply. He smelled of whisky and smoke.

  She pushed him away, trying to smile. ‘Down boy.’

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. And haven’t I just given you all of myself so you can keep yourself in handbags and shoes?’ He laid his slight Irish accent on thickly.

  ‘Ha. As if. And you know I’m very grateful. But, to be honest, it’s been a shit of a day.’

  He stroked her cheek. ‘Did they not like the piece?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, I haven’t looked.’ Alex rolled her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Sasha.’

  ‘Ah.’ Such a wealth of meaning in such a little word.

  Alex hadn’t known Malone that long. In fact, she met him while researching her latest article; he was the article – the mad man who’d worked undercover most of his adult life. He had posed as a member of a far-right group. His work had included exposing would-be terrorists. It had been a dirty job and his life had been in danger. Then there had been the infiltration of environmental protest groups of the flat sandals and vegan persuasion. Lord, he told her with his lopsided grin, he never wanted to see a lentil again.

  ‘How close did you have to get to the protestors?’ she’d asked him.

  He’d shrugged at that. ‘As close as I had to.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘As close as I had to.’

  It had been a hard slog, but she had eventually been able to tease out more details from him, and her admiration for him had grown. It helped he was amusing, too, and made her forget herself.

  And she told him about Sasha and her babies and how her marriage fell apart and how her sister needed her. She’d told him all that, but she hadn’t told him what really kept her awake at night.

  ‘Tea?’ He picked up the kettle.

  ‘Yes please,’ she said.

  ‘So what about Sasha?’

  Alex shook her head, amused. It was what she liked about Malone. He might have thwarted terrorists and saved the world, but he had no interest in the news of the moment.

  ‘Jackie Wood got out on appeal.’ Alex thought if she just said the words in a matter-of-fact way it would be easier. She was wrong. There was a familiar stinging behind her eyes.

  ‘Ah,’ he said again. He put down the kettle and put his arms round her, holding her tight.

  ‘Sasha was in a bad way.’ Her voice was muffled by his jumper. ‘I tried to get Jez to go and stay the night, but I don’t know if he will.’

  ‘He’ll go.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sure he’ll go.’

  ‘I hope so. Though there’s no reason why he should. Although sometimes I wonder—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes I do. I wonder if he still loves her in some way.’

  ‘Well, you can go back in the morning and see how she is, or later, if you want to. I can stay here with Gus.’

  She pushed herself gently out of his arms, dashing the tears off her cheeks. ‘Thank you. Now I know why I like you.’

  ‘And it explains why the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing.’

  ‘How do you know it was ringing?’

  ‘I could hear it during the long and lonely wait for you outside the door.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  And on cue, it rang.

  ‘Alex Devlin?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She could try and protect her sister but when it came to herself it wasn’t so easy.

  ‘Hi, I’m Ed Killingback from The Post and I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time to talk about Jackie Wood and her winning her appeal today?’

  ‘Do you know what, Ed, I really am not up to it.’ She made her voice as cold as she could.

  ‘It won’t take long, and if you give me your story as an exclusive then you won’t have to worry about the others, will you?’ His young, eager tone wearied her. ‘We could put you up in a hotel so you’re not bothered by any of the red tops and—’

  ‘Look,’ she cut in, ‘I know how it goes and I’m not interested. Please leave me alone.’ She put down the phone with a satisfying clunk.

  Her mobile began to belt out some grungy piece of music she didn’t know, but it had been set by Gus as her ringtone. She looked at the screen. Unknown number. She sighed and turned it off.

  Malone switched on the kettle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is exactly what you don’t want.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She gave what she thought was a wry smile but probably looked more like a grimace. ‘You’re trying to avoid publicity now you’ve done your bit, and here I am, bringing it right back to your door.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, the kettle starting to boil. ‘I reckon I’m used to the parasites knocking on the door, don’t you think?’

  ‘I guess. But I don’t want you bothered by it.’ What she meant was she didn’t want him so spooked that he would leave her just as she was getting used to him in her life.

  ‘I won’t be.’ He poured water onto the two teabags. ‘How’s Gus?’

  Bringing her into the real world. She looked at the clock. Football practice tonight. ‘He’s okay, I think.’ And yes, Malone knew about Gus’s patchy history. ‘Wants to go skiing with the school.’

  Malone raised his eyebrows. ‘Expensive stuff.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’ Alex knew she sounded defensive, and it was none of his business anyway.

  Malone drummed his fingers on the kitchen unit. ‘And are you able to pay for it?’

  ‘That, Malone,’ she said, ‘is nothing to do with you.’ He handed her a cup of tea: dark brown builders’; just how she liked it. ‘I’m going up to my study to see if Liz likes you.’

  ‘I hope you gave me a good write-up.’

  Alex stopped, her hand on the doorkno
b. ‘Sympathetic, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘And anonymous?’

  ‘Malone. What do you take me for? It’s an “all names have been changed to protect their identities” article. As you well know.’

  He grinned. ‘Just checking.’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, help yourself to a biscuit or something. Read the paper. Do relaxing things.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘What are you doing here, Malone? Shouldn’t you be going deep undercover into a brothel or something? Saving people, being a hero?’

  He gave a slow, gentle smile. ‘Don’t be flippant. It’s important stuff. Anyway, I’ve told you already, I’ve done my bit. Rescued all I can. Thought I’d come and say hallo.’

  ‘And see if my piece about you is going to be published in the Saturday Magazine. Egotist.’

  Malone shrugged his shoulders.

  Alex sat down in her study, switched on the computer and waited for it to go through its warm-up routine. She thought about Malone, lounging on the sofa downstairs, reading the paper, all relaxed and smelling of his organic soap, and she thought of Sasha alone in her flat with only the television and a razor blade for company, and she knew where she would rather be. She couldn’t say she felt guilty. How could she when guilt was so much a part of her life? There is only so much of it one can feel.

  She and Malone had hit it off as soon as they met. And meeting had been an exhausting task involving clandestine calls to men and women who she was sure wore balaclavas just to answer the phone. Eventually she was deemed worthy of meeting the Man Who Saved The World From Harm, and she presumed they’d also checked out her credentials and whether or not she really was a journalist and not an undercover member of the Russian mafia or a gangland boss. Anyway, they met in a spit and sawdust pub south of the River Wensum. It was down an alleyway in an unprepossessing part of Norwich, and she’d had to muster all her reserves to walk into it without feeling intimidated.

  She didn’t know what she’d been expecting – someone in a beanie hat and Jesus sandals she thought was most likely – but sitting at the table in the corner underneath the portrait of the Queen (yes, they still exist in pubs, and yes, that’s where she’d been told he would be sitting) was a man in his early forties – dark jeans, light blue shirt with white polka dots, trainers – nursing a pint.

  She held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Alex Devlin. You must be Malone.’ Another conceit: last name only. She had resisted the temptation to introduce herself as Devlin.

  To his credit he stood up, shook her hand, and offered her a drink. She was impressed, and it only got better from then on. And when they finally got round to it, the interview went well too. He told her what motivated him, the chances he’d taken, like befriending one of the women who was the girlfriend of the leader of the group he was supposed to be a part of. By ‘befriending’ Alex understood that he meant more than having a chat over a cup of coffee. He told her how he kept a flock of geese in the garden as they were the best alarm against intruders, how he had infiltrated the whole subculture of gangs. Although she thought he was mad to have taken some of the chances he had, she ended up admiring him. Oh, and sleeping with him. Pillow talk was quite good for in-depth personality pieces.

  Of course, being the good interviewer she tried to be, she let him talk about himself and said very little about herself. But she found it…what – interesting? amazing? – that the gentle, mild-mannered man she got to know had been responsible for some of the major high profile arrests in recent months, after years of work. When she ventured to ask why he was letting himself be interviewed, he said he wanted to publicize what was going on as much as possible while keeping himself in the background. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We have to be lucky all the time. People who are trying to destroy us and our way of life have only got to get lucky once. That’s why I do it.’

  He also, he said, hated to see exploitation of people, and was hoping to be able to play some part in the war against human trafficking. Organized crime. Too much of that was going on. Kids brought in to be held as sex slaves. ‘All driven by the drugs trade,’ he said. ‘This area is rife with drugs factories. Houses on urban streets, isolated farms, sheds, barns – whatever.’ But for the moment, he told her, he was resting, he thought he’d done enough. At least for now.

  The two-tone noise of the computer announced it was ready for business, and Alex let the emails download. She decided not to go on Facebook or Twitter; it would only push her blood pressure sky-high. That was the trouble with being a freelance – she felt she needed to be readily contactable, which was easy in the era of mobiles and social media, but, boy, when she wanted to lie low, it was bloody difficult.

  The emails were, as she suspected, a mixture of clothes companies, train companies, and supermarkets advertising their wares, and requests for interviews about her and Sasha from various magazines. She deleted them all. But the one she wanted from her editor was there.

  To: Alex Devlin

  From: Liz Henderson

  Subject: Malone

  Hey Alex – loved your piece on Malone, strikes just the right balance and gives us a good rounded picture of the man. The photographs all add to the mood.

  The photos had to be done in shadow or from the back to keep Malone’s anonymity intact. At least he hadn’t insisted on wearing his balaclava.

  You’ll be pleased to know we’ve found an early slot for it in the Saturday Magazine – should go in two weeks time. Please invoice as usual.

  Alex let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Thank the Lord; she’d be able to eat for a little longer, though she still wouldn’t have enough to pay for the skiing trip. Worry began to gnaw away at her again.

  Keep coming up with the ideas, Alex, we love your pieces.

  Best

  Liz

  That lifted a little of the heavy weight that was permanently on her shoulders. It was hard making a living as a freelance, and she was lucky to have found such regular work with the magazine supplement. She’d even done news stories for the main daily paper to earn some extra cash. Sometimes she felt like a jack of all trades and master of none, but her in-depth features seemed to chime with the Saturday Magazine’s ethos.

  She looked at the time of the email. Liz had sent it just after the news broke of Jackie Wood getting out of prison. Keep the ideas coming. Sure. Easier said than done sometimes. News features didn’t just fall into your lap; you had to keep your eyes and ears open. Be receptive.

  Jackie Wood.

  The thought flashed into her head. A thoughtful piece on her time in prison, reflecting on her life; all that bollocks.

  She shook herself. Where on earth had that idea come from? Left field, most definitely. She sat back in her chair.

  Absolutely not.

  She gazed out of the window onto the scrubby courtyard that passed for a garden, the gloom pierced by the lights in the kitchen. The terracotta pots she had planted with geraniums and lilies in the summer looked defeated. They bore cracks from the frost and the plants were withered bits of brown stick. If she’d had an ounce of foresight she would have brought them inside before the winter. The grass was patchy and mostly mud and even the silver birch looked tired of life.

  Picking up a pencil, she began doodling, making notes. Suppose, just suppose for one minute that she did get to talk to Jackie Wood, what were the pros and cons?

  Pros: she really wanted to talk to Jackie Wood. She never thought she’d be able to and yet here it was. The opportunity. The woman had been let out on a technicality and she was still guilty. At least, in Alex’s eyes. She must know where Millie is buried. She could tell her. She would tell her. And that would bring peace of mind to her sister.

  Cons: Jackie Wood probably wouldn’t want to talk to her. Wouldn’t want to talk to any journalist. Would she know who she was? Would she remember her; her name? Not necessarily. It was fifteen years ago and Sasha had captured all the headlines. Sasha and Jez. Jez had managed to keep A
lex’s name out of it as far as possible, and, because he was a police officer, that seemed to be a long way. And then she’d kept her head down, not courting any publicity. But she did give evidence at the trial, so that was living in cloud cuckoo land. Jackie Wood would know who she was, there was no doubt about that.

  And what about Sasha? And Jez? How would they feel?

  But she’d be doing it for them.

  And then there was the main stumbling block – her editor would never wear it. Liz was bound to say she was too close to it; it wouldn’t be fair; it wouldn’t be balanced, and all that. In truth, Liz would be worried about bringing the Press Complaints Commission down on the Saturday Magazine’s head.

  But, what if she talked to Jackie Wood, managed to write the article and then pitched it to Liz, what about that? She’d done that many times in her career – written an article on spec. And if Liz didn’t want it, she could tout it around. It would be a financial risk, but someone, somewhere would take the article. And there would be no deception involved. All above board. She would declare her interest and sell it as a personal story. Everyone wanted a personal story.

  The words went in and out of focus. It could be the best chance she had to get the story out of Jackie Wood; the best chance to find out what happened the day Harry and Millie were taken. From her garden. While she was supposed to be looking after them. The day their family had been torn apart; the day she had let her sister down. And if she knew why Jackie Wood and Martin Jessop had taken the twins away and murdered them, then maybe she could find some sort of peace.

  And she would go some way to paying her dues to Sasha; get rid of that guilt that had been eating away at her for the last decade and a half.

  She turned back to her computer and opened up a document file entitled ‘Jessop and Wood’. She’d kept all links to the case in one tidy place on her computer. Links to stories; links to people who claimed they’d known Jessop and Wood were evil; she’d even kept a link to the clairvoyant who insisted he’d be able to lead them to Millie’s body, for a fee, naturally. Alex never found out if he went to the police in the end. She stared at the file. She would be adding new links soon, to today’s story, but first—