The Couple's Secret Read online

  ‘Who is this?’ I say out loud, though more to myself than to Stephen.

  ‘Read the information. It’s pretty specific.’

  I take a look and see what he means.

  Name: Ashley Brooks

  Date of Birth: 12 March 1989

  Occupation: Officially unemployed, ex-stripper, occasional sex worker

  Area: Ilford, East London

  Reference: Daffodil

  ‘I’ve never heard of an Ashley Brooks,’ I say. ‘This is … this is very strange.’

  ‘It gets more detailed as it goes on,’ Stephen says.

  I continue to read.

  Lifestyle details:

  • Ashley is dependent on a variety of legal and illegal substances, including heroin and cocaine. Best knowledge indicates she’s been using since she was eighteen.

  • She’s rarely seen out of her flat. When she is, it’s usually to buy alcohol from the independent off-licence near her council flat in Ilford. She has been seen shouting expletives at random passers-by and crying in public.

  • She doesn’t own a car, nor has she been observed using public transport within the last six months.

  • She lives alone. Occasionally young men are seen delivering packages to her door – believed to be illicit substances. Sometimes they go inside, but usually do the transactions on the doorstep.

  Crime:

  • She’s been twice observed having sex in public, once in the car park of the Billington Estate where she lives, and on another occasion was issued with a caution by police after being observed performing oral sex on a young man at a bus stop late at night.

  • She was arrested and charged with possession of a Class B drug in April 2012. She did not serve prison time.

  • She was arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour near her flat in September 2016. She was released without charge.

  I look up from the iPad at Stephen. He’s still looking at the floor.

  ‘How would anyone know all this if it didn’t come from the police or lawyers or somewhere?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. That’s what makes it so strange.’

  I look back down at the screen.

  Support network:

  • Best knowledge suggests Ms Brooks has not been in contact with her mother or father for many years. Her mother is currently serving time in HMP Bronzefield in Surrey for GBH and the attempted murder of a man she was previously living with. Her daughter has never visited her.

  • It is not believed Ms Brooks has any close friends or acquaintances outside the group of men who deliver her drugs.

  • She does not have a consistent romantic interest or sexual partner.

  • She has no siblings.

  Risk:

  • Ms Brooks is considered a low-risk potential investment.

  • Trial runs, completed by our staff, have been highly successful, embarked upon by men posing as tax officials, social services workers and gas-meter inspectors. These have been undertaken using both single and multiple participants. She has reported none of these incidents and her behaviour has not changed other than a potential increase in drug purchases. We believe it is highly unlikely any reports to police would be made after future appointments of this nature.

  • During a trial run, a blood sample was taken. Ms Brooks tested negative for HIV or hepatitis as of August 2019. In spite of this, use of contraception is always strongly advised.

  I finish the page and stare back at Stephen. ‘I really don’t know what to say about this,’ I tell him. It’s the truth. I’m completely baffled and appalled. This Ms Brooks seems to have had important information meticulously detailed. Everything gathered together, from her lifestyle and sex life to her criminal record. And all of it points to a very vulnerable, unwell young woman.

  ‘I don’t know what this is, but I think … I think we best …’

  ‘Best what?’ asks Stephen, looking up at me, moving his eyes, apparently reluctantly, away from the floor.

  ‘I don’t know. It just seems so likely this is part of your dad’s work. I know it’s not pretty, but maybe they gather information for the police or some law enforcement agency …’

  ‘I don’t think he’s allowed to bring it home.’

  He’s got me there. But then again, what do I know? Neither of us knows that much about the way James works in his current position at data-gathering company Varvello Analytics. The thing nagging at me, quietly but firmly at the back of my head, is that this is in our personal Dropbox. Not his work account. Not even his own personal account. If they were work documents, surely he would have had to transfer the files and password-protect them?

  There’s another thing troubling me. ‘When you said to me that it was something bad … I sort of expected … I don’t know … something involving porn … or maybe … God, this sounds ridiculous … evidence of an affair …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I touch his arm, ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I say, trying to sound comforting. ‘How many of these have you looked at?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘And they’re all like this? The same sort of thing?’

  He nods.

  I don’t know what to say to this at first. Then something falls into my head – a strange sensation, almost like déjà vu. That we’ve been here before. ‘You know a few years back, when you had all that stuff on your computer. All those images of naked women that kept opening every time you clicked on something …’

  Stephen looks up sharply and cuts me off, ‘That was a virus.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ I hold up a hand to offer reassurance, but he looks offended.

  ‘Are you saying you think this has something to do with me?’

  ‘No, I’m just trying to make sense of it. And it reminded me of it, that’s all. Could this be the same thing? A virus your dad has downloaded, maybe when he was buying something or downloading music? And he got a load of someone else’s content by mistake?’

  Stephen shakes his head, ‘He downloads music from iTunes. I can’t imagine him buying anything from anywhere … well … dodgy. And anyway, why would the files turn up on our family Dropbox, in his folder?’

  ‘I … no … it doesn’t make sense. I just don’t understand how …’

  I stop talking. Both Stephen and I have heard it. Someone is coming up the stairs. And there’s only one other person in the house. We look at each other, as if we’re two children about to be caught doing something we shouldn’t. I stay very still and hear the sound of my husband going into our shared bedroom, then the noise of a drawer opening and closing. He must just be looking for something or changing his sweater. The noise of him coming back out onto the landing causes Stephen’s eyes to widen in alarm, but I shake my head. It’s okay. The sound of his feet is growing distant and, after a few seconds, the creak of the stairs signals his retreat back down to the hallway.

  I let out a breath I only now realise I’ve been holding the whole time, and turn back to the screen. Do I carry on after our close shave? Or give him back his iPad, tell myself it’s going to be fine and just talk to James later, ask him to explain, get everything out in the open? After nearly a minute of us sitting in silence, Stephen hunched over, watching me, I go back to the iPad and click on the second file.

  It’s almost identical in layout to the first, except the photo is of a different woman – a young black girl. She’s smiling, holding a drink up to the camera. I cast my eye down her details.

  Name: Carly Gale

  Date of Birth: 1 April 1991

  Occupation: Sex worker, former shop assistant, now officially unemployed

  Area: Clapham, South-West London

  Reference: Daisy

  Another sex worker, I think, a chill moving down the back of my neck. I read through the rest of her details. She used to be employed in a clothes shop in Central London but after making an allegation of sexual assault against her manager left her job and hasn’t been employed since. She, too, has no
support network to speak of. The phrase ‘trial run’ once again catches my eye. What does this refer to? Was this some kind of brothel agency? Was my husband seeing prostitutes?

  • No attempts to contact police have been made since the second trial run in February 2019. Ms Gale tested negative for HIV and hepatitis as of this second trial run. Participants are still strongly advised to use protection.

  These aren’t prostitutes. This information is telling a far more sinister story. One I can’t get my head around right now, especially not with my teenage son watching me. The screen blurs suddenly and I think something’s gone wrong with the iPad, then realise it’s my eyes. Without me realising, they’ve filled with tears that now begin to stream down my face.

  ‘Mum?’ Stephen says.

  ‘I’m all right.’ I quickly brush them away. Then I hear the doorbell.

  ‘Julianne?’

  Stephen’s face drains of colour as soon as he hears his father’s voice. I instantly hit the lock button on the iPad, like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Fuck, I think to myself.

  ‘Julianne?’ I can tell he’s at the door to the kitchen, probably confused as to where I’ve got to. ‘Where are you?’ he calls up the stairs now.

  ‘We need to go back downstairs.’ I go to hand him back the iPad, then a thought strikes me.

  ‘Hang on just one minute.’ Without thinking too much about what I’m doing, I open the tablet again, navigate back to the folder of files and take a screenshot, capturing the full file path information.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Stephen asks.

  ‘Don’t worry about it now.’ I rush what I’m doing, clicking the home button and locating the Facebook Messenger tab on the menu screen, finding myself on the list of Stephen’s chats. I send the screenshot to myself.

  ‘We’ll talk about all of this later. We will. Just … just try not to think about it … There’ll be an explanation.’ I’m talking fast, trying to stifle the panic I can feel building within me. I give him back the tablet as I make for the door.

  ‘Okay,’ he says.

  ‘Julianne?’ James’s voice is louder this time. ‘Sorry, Diane, I’ll find out where she’s got to.’

  In spite of my panic, there’s a familiar feeling of irritation bristling within me. Can’t he deal with his mother-in-law on his own for five minutes? Why do I always have to play the host?

  ‘I’m coming!’ I shout back, trying to sound normal. Walking the short distance across the landing and down the stairs feels like I’m doing the last leg of a double marathon. I keep thinking I’m going to stumble and fall, but I hold on tight to the handrail and press on, determined. Determined not to believe the worst. Determined to shake the horrible feeling that something, finally, is threatening to shake the foundations of what we’ve built together. Determined to remain convinced he’ll explain everything, clearly and calmly, and all of this will go away. He’ll tell me the documents are something he accidentally got sent. Or important documents from his work that somehow ended up in the wrong folder. He’ll tell me how sorry he is that I had to worry about all this, especially at Christmas, and that I should put it all out of my mind and forget about it. I think of the relief I will feel when I hear those words.

  Chapter 3

  Holly

  Oxford, 1990

  Oxford wasn’t for the likes of me, that’s what my father told me. He even repeated it as we were driving up towards the halls of residence. ‘We’re simple folk, you, me and your mum. Don’t forget these types have had it all. Don’t forget you’re different.’

  I hopped out of the car first to speak to one of the stewards showing us where to park, asking the best way to negotiate the trailer through the tiny lane that snaked around Hawksmith Hall – my new home away from home. I’d been worried Dad would bring the trailer ever since he and Mum had started working out the logistics of taking me and my stuff up there on my first day. I knew he had a customer in a village just outside of Oxford – I’d almost missed my interview when he’d insisted on having his ‘business meeting’ first. Business meeting. More like ripping off an overenthusiastic collector. He had been working in the antiques business for about ten years, ever since the chemical factory had made him redundant. Old furniture, great big chests, mirrors, tables, all sorts really, anything you could use to furnish a home. He’d bought loads of books on the subject of antiques dealing. I’d been surprised there were that many, but apparently it was an area of interest for a lot of ‘retired people’. That was how he always put it: ‘retired’. Never ‘laid off’ or ‘redundant’.

  Once we finally got ourselves sorted in the car park and the trailer was safely out of the way next to a wall of bushes, I ventured in and up the stairs, carrying a bag in one hand and my key in the other. My parents followed behind me, lugging the heavier bags. I’d told them I would come back to get them but they were as keen as I was to see where I’d be staying. ‘Very nice,’ my mum kept saying as we climbed the stone steps to the first floor. ‘Thank God you got that grant, Holly,’ she said in a whisper, which still carried audibly through the corridor. ‘It’s good you get to experience a place like this.’

  ‘Mum, please,’ I murmured. I didn’t mind people knowing I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but it wasn’t something I wanted broadcasting as I walked through the door. Besides, there must be a lot of people here who didn’t come from privilege. This was the 1990s. Class was something we were leaving behind, wasn’t it?

  The room was spacious, if not exactly homely. It looked rather grand, as if someone had converted part of a cathedral into a living space. The bed was a single, but more than adequate, and the floor had a large, deep-red rug in the centre. In the far corner were a desk and chair. I placed the bag I was holding on the bed and turned to my parents, taking in their reactions.

  ‘Very nice,’ Mum kept saying. ‘Very, very nice.’

  ‘You’ll be comfy here,’ said Dad, as if he’d parked me in a B&B. I think he was rather overwhelmed by the whole thing. In fact, I knew he was by the way he kept looking around and then quickly focusing on the floor, as if someone might notice him staring.

  ‘Can you guys stay here while I get the last few bags from the car?’ I said, slightly worried about leaving them. They might wander.

  ‘Of course, love, but we can come and help.’

  ‘No, Dad, it’s fine,’ I said, backing out of the door. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  I left before they could protest any further and walked the short distance back to the car. When I got there, I saw three girls standing by it, looking at something. As I got closer, I could see they were peering over into the car and laughing. I felt rather nervous as I approached, worried they’d try to speak to me, and when they saw me they took a step back. One of them looked a bit embarrassed, as if she’d been caught out, but the other two had looks on their faces that weren’t quite as nice.

  ‘Is this yours?’ one of them asked.

  I eyed her suspiciously and replied that, yes, it was and asked if there was a problem. One of the other girls laughed, while the one I was speaking to just looked back at the old car, partly splashed with mud, the boot slightly dented from a minor back-end collision a year ago. I saw her eyes flick to the trailer, the old, ripped covering my dad used to cover up whatever was being transported bundled in the back, and then they fell back on me. She didn’t say anything. Just looked me up and down one last time and walked away, the other two following her like sheep. I waited until they’d disappeared out of sight around the side of the building before opening the car. There were more bags left than I’d realised and I tutted to myself at the thought of having to come back again for the rest. I didn’t really want to admit how they’d made me feel in our half a minute of meeting, but the sense of unease I’d had ever since getting the letter of acceptance from Oxford had suddenly become a lot stronger.

  Back in my room, my parents helped me unpack for a bit, but I could tell D
ad was itching to head off to meet his antiques contact. Mum, on the other hand, had settled herself on the bed and was unballing my socks from the bag and folding them neatly. At one point a girl knocked on our door asking if we knew the way to somewhere called Gallery Heights as she’d been looking around for ages. I tried to answer quickly, but my dad got in first: ‘We’re not locals, love. Never been here in my life. Apart from when I was a teenager. Not at the university – God, no – but as a lad when I was working for the railways …’

  ‘Dad.’ I cut in to rescue the girl, who was looking at him as if he were a strange animal in a zoo. I turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve only just arrived and I don’t really know the way around myself.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Oh, no problem,’ she said stiffly, then vanished from the doorway.

  After another awkward twenty minutes of unpacking and questions from Mum on where I’d be keeping my knickers and ‘lady things’, we all traipsed back down to the car to get my last two bags.

  ‘Full of books, I bet,’ Dad said, shaking his head, lifting one of the bags out. ‘Well, I suppose you proved they had some worth, getting into this place. Never understand how you have the patience, love.’ I’d heard this speech more times than I wanted to remember and didn’t respond now. All through my childhood I’d been treated like some weird outcast, as if spending one’s weekends buried in a novel were a sign of derangement. Mum frequently made comments about how I’d never really made an effort with ‘more traditional things’, like make-up and nice clothes. When I’d told her there wasn’t much point, as we couldn’t afford expensive make-up and nice clothes, she’d told me I was ungrateful. Maybe I was. Or maybe I was just angry at not being allowed the thing I alone enjoyed without being made to feel bad about it whenever someone else came into the room.