A Jess Bridges Mystery

Chapter 8

Michael

It’s not every day you get sent a baby bird through the post. A dead one.

Michael Harrison had been a little suspicious as he took delivery from the DHL driver but persuaded himself that it might be a book to review – the dimensions were correct and it was about the right weight. Instead, he found inside a wooden box – the kind cigars came in at Duty Free – and a baby bird nestled in white tissue paper. Deceased, of course, eyes blind before opening, scrawny wings ragged with black feathers, obscene pink, grasping feet trying vainly to hang on to life. It was easy to imagine how it had fallen from the nest in the merciless way that nature has of wasting so many of her offspring, favouring just the few to survive. His admirer could have scooped it up off the pavement anywhere in the last few days to wrap up for him.

Or killed it themselves?

A maggot crawled out of its beak. Michael considered himself tough, but even he flinched in shock and threw the box away from him as if it were radioactive.

In a way, it was – broadcasting a fallout of hatred from some madman who thrived on spreading his brand of twisted hatred to those he probably didn’t even know.

Michael felt a little better now. Over the shock, thanks to a stiff talking to and an even stiffer drink. As a psychologist, he knew that such things didn’t come out of the blue. Only two days ago, he’d gone head-to-head on a discussion programme about the causes of social violence. His leftie opponent, Anushka Kapoor, had been one of those short-haired female warrior types with an ethnic background that made her a popular sign-up for BBC panels. She thought violent crime could be mitigated by reduction of violence in video games and on screen. That had led him to make some acerbic comments about those who take their violence from their bedrooms out into the real world, the ones who approach games to feed their existing propensity for violence. They watered the seed that was already there. He laid the moral responsibility for their acts squarely on their shoulders. That no doubt had annoyed a few haters, prompting today’s offering in the post.

He went through his list of possibles from his social media crazy file. He’d lay good money on it being this joker:

Duckweed58 @Radsor16893 Aug 9

Replying to @DrTypeM

Harrison, you’re a fucking fraud. You deserve to die.

Duckweed58 @Radsor16893 Aug 9

Replying to @DrTypeM

Your woman is going to suffer. I will spend a very long time explaining to her what a fuckup you are. She will pay for it. Then I’ll come for you and kill you like a dog.

He poured himself a second Scotch and continued scrolling through the comments left on his recent Twitter posts. This made messages 250 and 251 from the same critic. He could be called Michael’s most persistent admirer.

He was not impressed by the invective coming his way from Duckweed58, whoever he was. Or she, he supposed, but the tone sounded masculine to him and women still made up the minority of trolls online, thanks to their lower propensity to narcissism.

Michael glanced through the other messages in the thread. Duckweed was not the only one to write to him and there were many more contributions like this sent since his return to the TV but he was beginning to feel that Duckweed needed flagging with the authorities. Michael really wasn’t happy that the man had his home address. How had he got that? Michael didn’t advertise it and was ex-directory. He supposed the creep could’ve followed him home – that was easy enough to do and he hadn’t been very vigilant recently. Oxford didn’t feel a threatening kind of place. Not a very comfortable thought, though.

It would be as well to have this on file somewhere so no one could ask why he hadn’t reported it.

He swirled the Scotch, enjoying the rattle of the ice in the cut-glass tumbler. His wife Emma had bought a set for him as a Christmas present – a his and hers – so they could drink together and compare notes on their days. Taken by cancer, she hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy very many sessions. Jessica, of course, had broken one within a few months of them living together, leaving Michael with a solitary ‘his’ glass. There was probably a metaphor of widowerhood in there somewhere.

Michael had never used to feel physically at risk but his recent experience had changed his mind on that. He should probably report this bottom feeder. He would. In the morning. Duckweed could keep swimming in his invective for a little longer.

As for the ‘she’ encompassed in his ravings? Who did he mean? He couldn’t mean Anushka Kapoor? They were only connected by virtue of the fact they’d been on the same programme. Michael decided that he would mention something when he next saw her. At the end of the programme, she’d predicted that the trolls would be coming out from under their bridges for him. It was annoying she was right.

The only other ‘she’ that had been linked to him in public recently was Jessica. Should he warn her too?

Hey, Jessica. It’s me, your not-so-fondly missed ex-partner. I thought I should let you know of an unspecified threat, from an unspecified source, about an unspecified grievance. And it might not be for you in the first place.

Great.

He’d tell the police that she could be a target and let them decide.

Glass emptied, he put the Scotch back into the cabinet and locked it. Michael left a wry observation on the day’s news on Twitter, letting his opinion prove overnight and gather the yeast bubbles of other people’s reactions. He used to have to go into secure wards to find examples of deviant behaviour. Now they were screaming at him on a daily basis, rage unfiltered, freak flag flying. He sometimes wished he had Anushka’s optimism that we could make it better, but someone like Duckweed? He was already on the reject pile and knew it. That was why he was so angry.

Michael pitied him. A little. Duckweed was even bad at being an inadequate.

His inbox pinged. A message from his publisher. The one good thing about the events of last year was the fame it brought and the subsequent boost in sales for his book about psychopathic crime.

Michael,

Great news. Type M for Murder is shortlisted at the Frankfurt Book Fair for the European Non-Fiction award. The organisers want to know if you can come to Frankfurt on 17th October for the ceremony. They will cover the cost of your travel, plus a companion, should you wish to bring someone to help out.

He had to grit his teeth. He didn’t need a nurse.

Your German publisher will arrange a dinner and make sure you meet the key media contacts while you’re there. Let me know if you can attend. I’ll be there too, of course.

Best wishes

Petra

He’d go, there was no question, but he didn’t want to appear too eager. He typed his reply but scheduled it to be sent after lunch the following day.

Petra

October is a particularly busy time but I will see if I can fit it in between speaking engagements. Luckily it is a Saturday so I’m hopeful it will be possible. I’ll confirm if I will bring a plus one with me nearer the time.

Regards

Michael

Chapter 9

Jess

‘Let me get this right: you go skinny dipping and find yourself in the middle of a murder hunt?’ Drew’s voice was lovely and warm, amused rather than shocked. ‘Only you, Jess, only you.’

I hugged the phone to me. It was my lunch hour at the law firm and I was pleased I’d made the decision to call him.

‘It could’ve happened to anyone, Drew.’

‘You tell yourself that, sweetheart, if it makes you feel better.’ There was a sound at his end. ‘What’s that?’ He wasn’t talking to me, but someone in the room with him. ‘My friend, Jessica. She’s fallen into another situation.’

He said it like he’d discussed my habit of stumbling over trouble with Nel already. And why wasn’t he calling me his girlfriend, or partner even? We’d been living together for almost a year, after all.

‘Nel says “hi” and hopes it all works out.’

I didn’t want to say ‘hi’ back to Nel Addison, the gorgeous instructor with legs like a giraffe and bum like a peach (she wore orangey pink leggings in the promo video so I couldn’t help the comparison). ‘Thanks. Give her a cobra pose from me.’ So I could spit venom in her eye.

Drew chuckled. ‘I will.’

‘So how’s it going? The training?’

‘Good, Jess, so good. I’m feeling more centred than I’ve ever been before. Do you know what deep peace feels like?’ Of course I didn’t. ‘I really think there’s something in this for me.’

He didn’t mean to, but I was translating that into the subtext that I knocked him off-kilter, made his life too chaotic and fed him spiritual Big Macs. My slightly edgy undertaker, lover of bands Killing Joke and Metallica, tattooed so that every limb told a story, on a vegan kick for the last few months, had been destined to find Yoga. I’d have to let him work this out.

‘I’m glad.’ I was trying to be.

‘The pace of life here is so restful. The views are incredible – mountains, alpine meadows …’ Peach bums, bendy giraffe legs, apple breasts … ‘I think it can teach everyone something, even the most sceptical eventually see the benefit. I’ve got so much I want to teach you. Hey, I tell you what: you can be my first student!’

Well, that sounded hopeful.

‘If you sign up for my evening class, that is.’

That didn’t. He was saying it like a joke but was it really? Was that the only way I’d get to see him?

‘So you’re serious about this?’

‘Very. I’ll need to look for somewhere with a studio space so I can take students at home, like Nel does here. She thinks if I keep up the training I’ll be able to qualify as a trainer myself – keep spreading best practice.’

As long as that was the only thing he was spreading of hers. ‘And what about your job at Payne and Bullock, Drew? What will your mum and dad say?’

‘I’m thinking of going down to part-time, until the yoga takes off. I won’t be leaving them in the lurch.’

I imagined Drew sitting in a rocket in a Buddha pose zipping off into space. It really didn’t sound as if there was any room for me onboard, did it?

I wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Tact was not my middle name. ‘Drew, be truthful: do you see me as part of this new venture of yours?’

‘Do you want to be? I thought you liked your missing persons work?’

‘I do. I wasn’t saying I wanted to join you in yoga teaching. I meant, us. Together.’

There was silence. ‘Don’t you want to live with me if I teach yoga?’

‘It’s nothing to do with the yoga. It’s whether I fit in with your new life. I’m not exactly a soothing presence, am I?’

‘I’m learning these techniques so I can be calm with you.’

Oh my God. I’d driven some men to drink with my ADHD impulses; this was the first who had been driven to yoga.

‘Are we still together? Officially?’

‘You know I don’t care much for labels.’

But I found that I did. I very much wanted to know that I still had a label around my neck saying, ‘If found, send back to Drew’, and vice versa.

‘I mean, if you wanted to date someone else, or I did, would we be free to do so?’

‘We’re on hiatus, Jess. You’re free to do whatever you like.’

So that was what it meant! The sneaky bastard split up with me and didn’t even tell me! He’d crept up behind and snipped off the label so I no longer had anyone to claim me.

I didn’t know if I was infuriated or hurt – probably both. Whatever the storm of feelings raining inside, the result was that my voice choked. ‘And when you come back? What happens then?’

‘We’ll pick up where we left off, if you want that.’

‘Do you?’ I could hear Nel calling again in the background and I lost what little control I had. ‘Are you sleeping with her, Drew? Is this about her?’

‘Jesus, Jess, do you have to be so suspicious?’

Yes, I did. But I found myself apologising. ‘Sorry.’

‘Look, I love you. Nothing changes that.’

But he didn’t say whether he had slept with her or not. And I feared that Drew had the capacity to love a lot of people.

‘I know you need reassurances – that’s your character – but you mustn’t worry so much about stuff. I’ve got to go. Next session starts in five and I need to focus.’

‘And I need you,’ I whispered, tears of frustration forming. Why did my relationships always go like this?

‘What’s that?’

Have some dignity, Jessica. ‘Nothing. Speak later.’

‘Yes. We’ll talk this out. There’s really nothing to worry about. Love you.’

I ended the call for the first time without reciprocating. I couldn’t be a bloody parrot. Love you, love you too. Not when someone else clearly didn’t.

What do I do? Get on a plane and drag him back from Austria kicking and screaming? That was my preferred option but I knew it was a doomed one. Go and join him to remind him what I can offer that Nel can’t? Like an untoned body and chaotic lifestyle? I’d be better off staying far away so he could romanticise me.

What did that leave? Have such an awesome good time to report back on our next call that he was the one who began to worry that I might be moving on without him? I might have fallen into my old habit of making my partner too sure of my devotion to him, leaping on his texts and calls, never playing hard to get. I never learned, did I? I needed him to need me.

Michael used to do this thing where he would schedule replies to messages so it looked like he dealt with them much later. He explained it added to his professional cool. I sorely lacked a bit of personal life cool.

So I messaged Jago. Not a date, I stressed, but a dip.

Jago didn’t play the professionally tepid. He replied immediately. Send me your address and I’ll pick you up 6.30 tomorrow for the first part of your magical mystery tour. Bring your costume – or not, as you prefer ;)

I wouldn’t normally send a man my address on a first date but I comforted myself that Jago was a public figure, not some scuzzy guy met through Tinder. The first thought I’d had in the bushes that he was the attacker had to be way off target. He was famous – sort of.

I went with impulse. When did I not?

6.30 it is, I replied, sending details of how to find me.

Summertown? Very nice. I’ll be driving a white Nissan Leaf.

An electric vehicle – that seemed to fit very well with the public image. OK. Sounds fun.

And I even can promise everyone you meet will be alive. Jago

Maybe not in the best taste but that reminded me. I did a search for updates on the Parks Murder, as the press were calling it. The victim was still being referred to as ‘the unidentified male’ and the police were appealing for anyone to come forward who had any information to help with their enquiries.

I trawled through the most popular message boards where people appealed for information about family members who had gone missing, just in case I could spot anyone resembling what I remembered of the body. It was odd how quickly details blur. Pointless. I was not even remembering what the needle looked like in my haystack.

‘Jess, do you have my tickets for the trip to Paris?’ called Grace.

I’d been following the holidaying PA’s system and had these printed off. Grace preferred that to an e-ticket. ‘On my desk. You’re catching the seven-thirty flight.’ I glanced up at the clock. ‘In fact, hadn’t you better be going?’

Grace whirled out of her office like a matador’s cape, snatched up the file, and headed for the door. ‘Thank you, Jess. Good work. See you the day after tomorrow!’

With her gone, I no longer had to pretend to be doing her tasks. I’d got all that squared away already – except for that presentation for next week, but I had all day tomorrow to worry about that. With a quick look around the open plan to check no one was monitoring me, I tapped open my personal email to check for messages.

There was a new one from my website.

Dear Ms Bridges,

I am a neighbour of Glenda Payne and an old friend of Cory – in fact, I’m the one who put you in touch with her. I understand from Glenda that you specialise in finding people. I’m writing to ask you if you will help finding my daughter. Angelica is a vulnerable girl of fifteen. I’ve appealed to the police but they say there is little they can do. They know where she is but she has told them she doesn’t want to come back and wants no contact with me. Now they are saying my son isn’t safe with me either and threatening to take him away. It’s a nightmare. Please, please, help me contact Angelica so I can sort this out and prove to them that I am a good mother.

Amy Mason

Interesting. It begged the question: what made a ‘good’ mother? ‘Good enough’ seemed so much more achievable. I rang Glenda.

‘Jess! How lovely to hear from you! How are you, dear?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Apart from the dead body in a boat adventure – and the fact that her sneaky bastard of a son had broken up with me without letting me know.

‘You must come to dinner at the weekend and tell us your news. Have you heard from Drew lately?’

‘Yes, I spoke to him at lunchtime.’

‘Lucky you. He only rings home once a week. He must be missing you.’ Glenda at least believed we were still together, partly because she was on a mission to become a grandmother and I was her best bet.

‘Not so much. He and his teacher Nel seem to be aligning their auras.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t be silly – she’s no competition. He loves you. Anyway, she’s forty, far too old for him.’ And Glenda had had the same thought – and dismissed it. Had she never heard of cougar women? ‘He’s just excited by learning something new. He’s always been like that.’

Like sixteen new positions for incredible sex? ‘I was ringing because I had a message from Amy Mason.’

‘Oh, Amy. Poor Amy. Yes, I mentioned you to her this morning. I remember how good you were with that runaway I met with you and thought you might be able to help.’

‘Her daughter has run away?’

Glenda cleared her throat. Oh, we were entering awkward territory, were we? ‘Not exactly. She’s left, but with Amy’s old partner, Roman Wolnik.’

I made a note of the name. ‘Are they …?’

‘I don’t know. I thought he was like a father to Angelica but you never really know, do you? He’s a cold kind of man under the charm. Never stopped to talk unless he wanted something. Anyway, Angelica has cut off all contact with her mother and is now accusing her of child abuse. It’s the first any of us have heard of it. Amy has a son with Roman – a sweet boy, Pawel, about seven, I’d say. Roman is now kicking up a fuss, claiming Pawel isn’t safe with Amy and trying to get the boy handed over to him. Amy is terrified to let him have access in case he snatches Pawel and goes back to Poland with both children. It’s all headed to the courts but Amy also has to prove to her social worker that she isn’t abusive – all one horrible knot of problems.’

I clicked my ballpoint pen. I had to wonder, allow myself to think the worst. ‘How well do you know Amy, Glenda?’

‘She’s a neighbour in Windsor. Across the cul-de-sac from us. Your Cory knows her – or at least their partners know each other from work. TV, films or something.’

I made a note to ask Cory for the low-down on Amy. ‘So not that well?’

‘I suppose not. How well does anyone know their neighbours these days? But I can’t believe she would do anything so terrible. And Pawel seems such a happy little child. He doesn’t seem to miss his sister very much, but then again, she is fifteen and he’s only little, so I doubt they spent much time together.’

‘Who’s the father of Angelica? Not Roman too?’

‘No, no. He was a soldier – an officer. Died in a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. Horrible tragedy – happened soon after we first moved in. Everyone was so devastated. And then Amy met Roman through grief therapy. He lost his first wife – to cancer – back in Poland. We were all so happy for her, especially after Pawel arrived.’

I found the situation interesting – that would be enough usually to take the case – but there was the added pressure here that I didn’t want to let Glenda down.

‘You know my rules – about not telling the one searching where their loved one is without permission?’

‘Of course, dear. Roman’s working in Oxford this summer – another reason I thought of you. I was expecting that Angelica might still be with him. Amy just wants someone who isn’t Roman or the police to pass on a message for her to Angelica.’

‘I can do that. Where’s he working?’

‘Amy and Roman are both employed by the same production company, which is making a big budget film set in Oxford.’

There couldn’t be many of those happening at the moment. It should be easy enough to locate. ‘OK, I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll offer her mates’ rates as she sent me to Cory.’

Most of my cases were mates’ rates as I found it hard to talk money with distressed clients. I needed to toughen up. This was my business after all. Doing what I do, I was hardly going to meet a happy customer, was I?

‘Thank you. I knew I could count on you, dear. Dinner on Sunday? You could meet Amy then.’

I realised this had been Glenda’s plan all along. I didn’t mind as her scheme suited my purposes. It would give me a chance to form an opinion of Amy. ‘OK. Sunday.’

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’ Glenda said brightly as she put down the phone.

Too late for that.