But there are no helpful password hints in the drawers. No cryptic clues scribbled on scraps of paper, no primers or lists or anagrams taped secretly to the underside of any of the drawers. Plenty of pens though, whiteboard markers, spare staples, bags of rubber bands, and dozens of torn chocolate-bar wrappers.
Jason had a sweet tooth, I think, chucking them out onto the carpet in my search. Presumably Joyce disapproved. ‘No more choccies. You don’t want diabetes, do you?’ Otherwise the wrappers would be in the wastepaper bin standing behind the desk. She may be gone now, but he’d probably got used to hiding them.
Exasperated, I try various passwords at random.
WAINWRIGHT123
123WAINWRIGHT
HOTSEXWITHJOYCE69
Nothing works.
I didn’t really expect them to. I blame Daddy, of course. I never learnt much about computers as a kid, kept out of school for years and home-taught. Phones aren’t much hassle, but my hacking skills are non-existent.
I stare at the blank screen of the Mac, wrestling with a burning desire to smash the computer to pieces with the leather swivel chair I’m sitting on.
But I don’t want to make that much noise.
Then I notice the filing cabinet, a few feet from the desk.
I get up silently and stand in front of it. It’s a large metal cabinet with five drawers. A plant pot on top containing a decorative fern. Attractive and sturdy, rather like the desk and the Jag he drove. Jason Wainwright had expensive tastes. I expect he charged substantial fees for his services. So who hired him to follow me about, if that was what he was doing?
I try the top drawer, holding my breath.
It’s not locked.
Chapter Fifty-Four I have no idea how much time has passed before I hear the lift doors open and close, then footsteps coming along the corridor in my direction.
I don’t move at first.
My neck hurts from being hunched over, reading. Papers and documents from several folders I found in the filing cabinet are strewn over Wainwright’s desk. And my eyes are sore from crying.
Damn you, Daddy.
Fucking damn you to hell.
Except I don’t believe in hell. I do, however, believe in revenge. How dare you hide all this from me? How dare you play God with my life?
Someone enters the outer room of Wainwright’s offices, crunching over the wood splinters. Not a security guard. A security guard would have raised an alarm by now, on a radio or phone. A security guard would be unlikely to enter the scene of a break-in late at night without back-up. Nor would he approach Wainwright’s office so openly and without hesitation.
I screw up the paper I’m reading and thrust it into my bag. Then I turn, leaning back against the big desk.
‘Hello, Daddy,’ I say.
Only it’s not my father who enters Wainwright’s office.
Anger is my first emotion. Then a sense of bitter hurt.
That surprises me. I thought it was Cat who was in love with him, not me. But maybe strong emotions can bleed through from one persona to another.
Dr Holbern would know.
I don’t.
‘Hello, Rachel,’ he says, without a single quiver in his voice. ‘I thought I might find you here.’
Dominic looks at me from the doorway, then I see his gaze move steadily past me to the leather-topped desk. The glossy black-and-white photographs everywhere. Papers scattered about. The drawer of the filing cabinet wide open. Folders spilt on the carpet. Everything in disarray, including my heart.
‘How did you know?’ I ask, my smile false and brittle.
‘About Wainwright?’ Dominic shrugs. ‘I’ve known for some time. Isn’t that obvious?’
‘Nothing here is obvious,’ I say savagely.
‘Right.’
Dominic slides his hands into his jean pockets, and leans against the door frame. He’s making no attempt to come any further into the room, I notice. Doesn’t want to spook me, I suppose. In case I run again.
Though I have no idea where I would go. Not after what I’ve just read.
I recognise that look on his face. He’s hiding something. Something I haven’t found out yet among all this crap in Wainwright’s files. But what?
‘You’re angry,’ he says.
‘Does that surprise you?’
Without looking at them, I run my hand over the papers and photographs on the desk, then dash them furiously to the carpet.
A photo lands almost equidistant between us, face up. Dominic and me – or rather Cat – walking arm in arm on our way home from a restaurant. I remember that night, the woollen dress, the icy weather. The pavements had been slippery and Dominic had held my arm to make sure I didn’t fall. It was about a fortnight before our wedding.
I ask, ‘Okay, how long have you known?’
‘Known what, exactly?’
He is studying my face. Probing to see what I know before he gives anything away.
I need to be cautious, too.
‘That Wainwright was following us.’
‘Us?’
‘Fine,’ I say coldly, and correct myself. ‘How long have you known that Wainwright was following you?’
‘It was something Sally said.’
My stomach churns with jealousy at that name, and I struggle to hide it, hating him more than ever.
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Sally didn’t know who Wainwright was, but she spotted him hanging round the casualty department day after day. Once she’d pointed him out to me, I kept seeing the same guy everywhere. In bars, in shops, once even on the Tube. He got off at the same tube station as me, then got out a map and tried to pretend he was lost when he realised I’d seen him. That was when I worked out he was watching me. Before that, I had no idea.’ He grimaces. ‘I know that sounds naive. But I was so focused on you, I couldn’t see what was going on around me.’
‘I killed him,’ I say, without really meaning to.
He frowns. ‘Wainwright?’
‘I pushed him under the train.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Look, I know it was me,’ I say angrily. ‘He was right there one minute, the next he was dead.’
Dominic smiles. ‘Is that guilt talking?’
‘No. I just thought you should know.’
‘Well, you can forget it. You didn’t kill him,’ he says dismissively. ‘It was an accident.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘That’s because he was standing closer to me and Sally that night than he was to you. If you’d pushed him under the train, I would have seen.’
‘Dominic,’ I say, trying to keep my fury under control, ‘are you having an affair with Sally?’
He hesitates. ‘Define “affair”.’
‘You bastard.’
‘Oh, come on.’ His mouth twists. ‘A stray kiss here or there, what does it matter? Besides, you don’t care what I do. We’re hardly love’s great dream.’
‘So why marry me?’
‘I didn’t marry you,’ he points out.
Something jolts inside me. It’s a blow but he’s right. I can’t deny it. To deny it would be to deny myself.
He’s still watching me. ‘Who did I marry, Rachel?’
‘Cat,’ I whisper.
‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’
‘Cat,’ I repeat, my voice raised in sudden fury. I hate the way he’s talking to me. ‘You married Catherine.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Rachel.’
He nods, his whole body taut. ‘Cat’s not your alter ego though, is she? Not really. Deep down, she’s you.’
‘She’s not me,’ I say with cold emphasis.
‘For God’s sake, stop lying to yourself. This is bullshit. You are Cat, and Cat is you. There is no Rachel. There never was.’ His voice has hardened. ‘Rachel was the girl you invented to take the blame for all the appalling things you did as Cat.’
‘No!’
He points to the files I’ve been reading, contempt in his voice. ‘You still haven’t faced the truth yet, have you?’ he says. ‘You’re a fake, Catherine. Everything about your life is false. And we all know it. You’re the only person who won’t admit it. And you’re a born liar.’
I shake my head in instant denial. ‘No, you’re the liar. You’re the one in disguise.’ My voice sharpens. ‘And Wainwright knew it, didn’t he?’
‘You’re Cat,’ he says doggedly.
‘No.’
‘Yes. Admit it. Say your real name.’
‘No.’ I’m shouting now. ‘I’m Rachel.’ I run at him, claws out, determined to hurt him as much as he’s hurting me. ‘I’m Rachel, you fucking bastard. Cat is dead.’