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‘Could you … could you quickly come upstairs for a minute?’
My concerns about the unprepared food fall away quickly. ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’
As soon as we are upstairs, he leads me into his room and gestures at me to close the door. ‘Tell me now, what’s wrong.’ I walk to the other side of the room and sit down on his desk chair, facing him.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ he mutters. He keeps glancing at the door as if it’s going to burst open at any moment.
The sentence frustrates me. How can he expect me to accept that as an answer?
‘Honey, Dad can’t hear us. I’m fairly sure he’s downstairs in the library, avoiding me in case I give him a job to do. We’re alone. And I’m not leaving until you tell me.’ I’m talking firmly now. Firm, but kind.
He finally looks me in the eye, takes a deep breath, apparently trying to choose his words carefully, and says: ‘I found something. Something a bit strange.’
‘Found what?’ My mind starts diving wildly to various different things he could have found. What does his father keep secret? Does he have a gun? That possibility is so unlikely it almost makes me laugh. Maybe evidence of an affair. That one sends a cold chill crawling across my skin.
‘It’s … it’s a bit hard to explain. They’re files. Files I found on Dropbox. In his folder.’
This takes me by surprise. ‘What? What do you mean? Why were you looking through his Dropbox folder?’
He sighs and rubs his eyes. This is clearly torture for him. I just want to hug him, but I’m scared of interrupting his explanation, so I sit still.
‘It’s … I think it’s something bad. Like, really bad.’
That cold chill is back. I really don’t like where this is going. A dark, menacing mass is forming in my head, as if it’s been let out of a deep, sickening recess of my mind.
‘What kind of thing are we talking about here?’
He stares at me and, for the first time this evening, I see resolve in his eyes. He’s going to tell me everything.
‘I think I’d better just show you.’
I nod, preparing for the worst.
‘Okay. Let me see.’
Chapter 2 (#u37d4e6f6-9844-5652-a94b-6611034d91d9)
Julianne
Knightsbridge, London, 2019
I can feel myself getting colder, an ice cube making its way down my neck, across my back, burning its icy stain into my blood.
‘I really don’t want to rush you, but I don’t think we have much time.’ I try to sound kind, rather than impatient, but waiting for Stephen to snap into action is making me tenser by the second.
His eyes are starting to overspill and I reach out to put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Please, Stephen, I need you to show me. Right now. It may not be what you think it is. You may have got the wrong idea.’
He just shakes his head.
‘Is that a ‘no’ as in you won’t explain, or ‘no’ as in you won’t show me, or ‘no’ as in you haven’t got the wrong idea?’ My smooth tone is breaking at the seams, my impatience to discover if the worst is true tearing me apart inside.
‘No, as in I don’t know. I’m not sure. I just know it’s been eating me up for two days now and I need to talk to you about it.’ After a pause, he goes to a bag by his bed and takes the device out of its leather case. I sit down on his desk chair while he perches on the bed and starts tapping away on the tablet, his face bathed in the blue-white glow of the screen.
‘And you don’t think this could be anything to do with his work?’ I say, partly to fill the silence.
‘I don’t know, that’s why I wanted to show you.’
I nod and wait. Overall, James keeps his work to himself, a lot of it bound up in such rigorous confidentiality it’s hard for him sometimes to even vaguely explain what project he’s working on. My mother once joked that he was like a spy – a bit of a James Bond – but I assured her the job of a head analyst and coordinator at a data services company is one full of spreadsheets, desk work and boardroom meetings rather than anything very exciting.
Stephen is offering me the iPad. I take hold of it and glance at the screen, a mass of files in front of me. From the ends of the file names, I can see they’re PDF documents. There’s something in this that comforts me. At the back of my mind, I think there was a part of me that expected to see .mov or .mp4. But these aren’t videos. That’s a good thing, surely? I scan down the list and then turn towards Stephen.
‘And these were in his Dropbox file?’ I ask.
‘In our Dropbox. The family one. The one we use to transfer photos and things and where I used to put my homework back when you wanted to check it over before submission. It’s Dad’s section of it. I clicked on it by mistake.’
This makes me feel ever so slightly better. If James had anything to hide, surely he’d be a little more savvy about protecting it than to upload it all to the family Dropbox account, the place I store family holiday snaps and copies of dull household documents like the TV insurance details?
‘Tap on one of the files listed here.’ His voice sounds strained, as if he’s trying to calm himself.
I look over at him. ‘If you’re really that worried, I can look at these later? We don’t have to do this now.’ As I say this, though, I know there’s no chance of me happily going back downstairs to carry on with the cooking. I need to know what this is about.
‘No, I’m fine,’ he says, and moves to the edge of the bed, crouching forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks like he’s about to take a particularly gruelling exam.
I focus back on the iPad and, as instructed, tap on the first in the list of files. They’re all unnamed, save for a list of seemingly random numbers and the file type. A document appears on the screen and I turn the device to view it in portrait mode.
A company logo is the only thing on the page. Clover Shore Construction is all it says, with a small clover leaf at the end of it. Underneath, in all-caps Times New Roman font, it says: BUSINESS PROPOSAL.
I flick the page with my hand and it changes, this time bringing up what looks like some kind of CV or personal profile, with a photo at the top of the page, followed by a name, date of birth and separate categories filled with bullet points. I look at the photo. It’s of a young woman. She isn’t looking into the camera; her eyes seem vacant, staring off into the distance. There’s something about her expression that I find quietly alarming. It’s as though she’s drunk or stoned and doesn’t quite know she’s having her photo taken. Although it’s a colour photo, her skin is pallid and grey, her dark hair untidy and her face drawn in and gaunt-looking.
‘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
