Chapter 13
As soon as the detective had gone, Eve opened her laptop.
James Clarke might be a common enough name, but when linked in the search engine with the word ‘murder’, she found him easily, and it made her wonder how she could have been so oblivious.
How did she not remember this happening?
How did she not know about him? The horrific details were set out in black and white on page after page: the national newspapers, the BBC website, the locals.
He even had his own Wikipedia page. James Joseph Clarke, it said, is an English murderer, sex offender and rapist. This identity – this horrible, vile identity – was ascribed to him in various forms all over the internet.
And then there was his photo, the pictures of him in handcuffs.
He was younger back then, of course, but the man in the mugshot was unmistakably the same man she’d drunk tea with that very same afternoon in that sunny whitewashed kitchen.
She winced, the acrid taste of bile rising in her throat and making her want to retch as she remembered thinking how nice he’d looked in his blue cable-knit jumper, how she’d wanted to feel his arms around her.
And then she looked again at his photo, at his prison-issue grey sweat top and the expression in his eyes – those eyes that she’d been so incredibly drawn to – as they gazed out at her from the screen of her laptop.
Hello, Eve, they seemed to say. So, now you know.
And besides, he’d been identified by the daughter, who had seen him in the house at the time of the murder.
The poor, poor girl, Eve thought. It was hard to think about what she must have gone through, what it must have been like for a seven-year-old to come downstairs for breakfast one morning to find her mother motionless and semi-naked on the floor.
She imagined Mackenzie – who had a key to her mother’s apartment – letting herself in and finding her like that, and she began to sob gently, not for herself but for Mackenzie and because she’d been so, so careless.
What happened to Christy Nicholls could so easily have happened to her, and it would have had a traumatic and devastating impact on her daughter, and her sister, and her nieces, and on her poor parents, and even on Rich, who she knew still cared about her.
Her stomach lurched as she thought about the parallels.
She, too, had met Joe in a shop. Was DI Carver right? Was this his MO?
But at the same time, it was so hard to believe that the gentle, diffident man she had drunk tea with could have so much hatred inside him.
He’d listened to her so sympathetically, been so understanding.
His face had fallen when she’d cried and he’d comforted her with words that had actually helped, that had shown he understood what she was going through.
God. She closed her eyes. So that was the monumental thing he’d alluded to: getting arrested for Christy’s murder and then being convicted the following year and going to prison.
‘I froze in time and the world moved on without me.’
He’d seemed so … so thoughtful. He hadn’t seemed like someone who could hurt a woman in that way. But she didn’t know him. That was the thing. She didn’t know if he had any genuine feelings for her. She didn’t know if anything about him was genuine. She didn’t know him at all.
Eve buried her face in her palms. She stayed like that for several moments, the plummeting sensation in her stomach finally subsiding to the point where she could at last think and breathe, but then a sudden sound jolted her upright, making her heart skip a beat.
It was her phone, moving and vibrating on the coffee table.
She reached over and picked it up. She could see straight away that it was Joe.
She opened the message with trembling fingers.
Eve, I’m sorry, it read. I know that the police have been round to see you.
I’m so, so sorry that I didn’t tell you, but I was going to.
I really was. Please, please hear me out, Eve.
I’m not a rapist and I’m not a murderer.
I can explain everything. Please don’t give up on me.
Eve stared at the message for several long moments.
Please don’t give up on me.
He said this as if she meant something to him, as if they meant something to each other, and it was hard not to be moved, harder still to comprehend that it had only been a matter of hours since she’d skipped across the park, imagining her future, only to find a police detective on her doorstep waiting to drop a bomb into her life.
But the detective was right. She knew nothing about this man she’d been seeing, or at least nothing that was good.
He didn’t own the house in Norham Gardens.
He possibly didn’t even live there. He might just have had a key because he was working there; she couldn’t remember what he’d told her.
But he must live somewhere nearby, and he couldn’t have been arrested yet, not if he was still able to use his phone.
Whose house is it? she typed. The one in Norham Gardens?
She waited, watching the ellipsis as he entered his reply. His name’s Chas Cauldwell. He’s a music producer.
Do you live there?
Yes. For now.
The police say he’s been in prison.
He was wrongly accused, came the reply. He was exonerated.
Eve paused, wondering what Chas Cauldwell had been accused of, although, if a court had overturned his conviction, that shouldn’t matter, she knew. But it would be easy enough to find out. So how do you know him? she typed.
I’ve taken my case to an appeal charity in London.
One of their lawyers acted for Chas. The woman who runs the charity told him about me and he felt sorry for me because he’d been through the same thing.
He offered me a place to stay and then he told me he wanted a loft conversion and I said I’d do it.
So, where is he now?
Abroad. He’ll be back next month.
Eve considered this for a moment. Your name isn’t Joe, she typed.
It’s my middle name. It’s the name I use now.
Does your probation officer know that?
Yes. She approved it. Eve, my name’s all over the internet. I wanted a new start. But I was going to tell you. I promise, I was going to tell you everything.
There was a long pause, then the ellipsis began to move again.
Eve, please. I need your help.
Eve closed her eyes and took a long breath. Was she the most gullible person on the planet? Was she all that was on offer for someone who had hit rock bottom?
The ellipsis was moving again, then stopped.
They said you’ve breached your probation, she typed.
I haven’t, came the reply. Not unless you say I have! Please, Eve. Will you speak to my probation officer?
Eve felt her breath catch. Did he want her to lie for him?
Why? she typed. Why would I do that? I don’t even know you.
You do, Eve. You do know me, he typed back. We know each other. I haven’t lied to you, not once. Please trust me. My probation officer’s name is Debbie Stroud. I just need you to talk to her. I’m not going to coach you. I’m not going to do anything except give you her phone number. Please?