‘Oops,’ I said, and smiled as I bent down to straighten it up. She was too engrossed in her muffin to notice me removing her iPad.
Back at my desk, I checked my mobile phone to see if the police had been in touch regarding Ryan’s break-in. It’d been six days now and still they hadn’t updated me. Likewise there’d been no contact from Effie’s head teacher. What the hell was going on with these people? I didn’t want the accusation of Ryan trying to molest Effie to go as far as a court case, because she was not as strong as me – she’d crumble under questioning. I just wanted that accusation and the pornography found on his work computer to be enough to make it impossible for him to return to his post.
They’d eventually learn the images had been placed there by a third party. I’d spent hours trawling the Internet searching for pictures of teenage girls in various states of undress involving school uniforms to show Ryan had a fetish for them. It was impossible to tell if they were underage and it didn’t matter – it would add to the mounting pressure I was piling upon him. I’d moved the images to a memory stick and given it to Effie. She’d spent so much time in Ryan’s office that she’d seen him input his password into his computer. It didn’t take much effort for her to log on, transfer my folder of pictures into his files and leave.
I’d already got what I wanted when Ryan was suspended, but the longer the school and the police took to investigate, the more time they were giving him to plan his next move. I wanted to push him as quickly as possible into whatever he’d do next without thinking it out properly. Then he’d make even bigger mistakes and I could crush him once and for all. And, of course, there would be a next move, because that’s what I would do. He and I were a lot more alike than he would care to admit – constantly striving to stay one step ahead of each other.
I took my landline off the hook so I wouldn’t be disturbed, put my mobile phone on my lap where nobody could see and went into my media files. It was time to see how far I could go before Ryan cracked. When I had finished, I swapped the phone for Janine’s iPad and set to work using it against her.
I watched from my booth as she flicked through the office diary and saw a drop-in caller booked fifteen minutes after my shift finished. I’d asked Mary if she wouldn’t mind adding it, as the caller had asked for Janine by name.
‘Ryan Smith,’ I told her.
‘Okily dokily,’ Mary had replied chirpily. ‘I’ll be Big Brother and make sure the cameras are on.’
‘Oh, you needn’t bother,’ I replied. ‘I think they’re old friends.’
Janine’s greed was satisfyingly predictable, and I smiled to myself when she couldn’t resist tucking into the second muffin.
Once I’d begun answering calls again, I slipped into autopilot with my responses and questions, all the time keeping an eye on the clock and willing my shift to end. Then I waved goodbye to the other volunteers, grabbed my coat and bag, and made my way downstairs.
When the door to the drop-in office opened a few minutes later, Janine was surprised to find me sitting there, waiting for her.
‘Take a seat,’ I began. ‘I think you and I need to have a long-overdue conversation.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RYAN
I had nowhere to go, no friends or family to talk to about the mess I was in, and no way to resolve any of it. From the moment Charlotte threw herself from that clifftop, my life was no longer mine to control.
Alcohol gave me the strength I needed to open the door to the nursery in the flat for the first time since Charlotte and Daniel’s deaths. There was a gossamer-thin layer of dust on everything from the changing table to the veneer flooring. I looked up to the ceiling and noticed the missing battery cover from the animal mobile. I’d left it open to remind me to buy batteries the next time I passed a supermarket. By the time I remembered, my family was dead and the mobile never moved. The animal theme continued across a row of cushions scattered on a sofa-bed, emblazoned with textured cartoon giraffes and elephants that would never feel my son’s ten tiny fingertips.
I closed the door and took myself to my bedroom. I’d been drinking on an empty stomach, so it hadn’t taken much to get me drunk. But now I was tired, so I crawled, fully clothed, under the duvet. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Tony had told me about Laura. From the beginning, I hadn’t stood a chance against her. She was a survivor who had years more experience of manipulating others and getting away with it than I had. Even her own husband was convinced she had a psychological disorder. She was impossible to predict or outwit.
My biggest mistake had been using Effie to get to her. If I’d just remained in the shadows and called it quits after she’d fled the cottage, I’d have been okay. Instead, I’d unleashed a whole new vitriolic side to her.
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t have slept for long, as it was still light outside when a banging on my front door woke me up, and what sounded like my dad’s muffled voice.
I heard the key turn and he entered the hall. I climbed out of bed too fast and my head spun. He was with Mum; she was crying, and immediately I knew they’d learned of my arrest. My heart sank.
‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’ Dad demanded. I looked at it – the display was black; the battery must have died.
Mum thrust her iPad into my chest.
‘Open it,’ she ordered. ‘Look at my Facebook page.’
‘How long have you had a—’
‘Just open it!’
I scanned her timeline and immediately wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Message after message referring to her son as a paedophile and demanding that I should be fired from school or castrated. I felt dizzy and steadied myself against the wall. Dad grabbed the device and swiped through pages from school-related Facebook groups, created by parents to discuss issues that affected their children in different Years.
‘Years Seven, Eight, Nine . . . right up to Year Thirteen,’ Dad continued, ‘all talking about how you’ve been suspended for molesting a girl and terrorising her mother.’
At the top of each page, and in a post made from an account with no picture but using the name Charlotte Smith, was a photograph of me, an audio file of the recording Effie had made and video footage of me trying to break into Laura’s house. I wanted to be sick.
‘Mum, this is not what it looks like . . .’ I began, but she gave me a look that told me that whatever I had to say wouldn’t exonerate me from what she’d read, heard and watched.
‘Where’s Johnny? He can back me up and tell you this isn’t true. Well, not all of it, not in the way they’re saying it is. I’m not a child molester. I promise you.’
‘Is that your voice on the recording?’ Dad asked.
‘Yes, but—’
‘And who’s the girl?’
‘Effie Morris, one of my students.’
‘And who is that woman whose house you broke into?’
‘It’s the girl’s mother, but she has it in for me. She killed Charlotte.’