subjects. Maybe I ought to take up journalism. Maybe I should start by doing an exposé on
her
.
Jackie’s still not answering. He puts the phone on to Speaker and Automatic Redial and continues his search for Kirsty Lindsay.
She doesn’t have a Wikipedia page. Doesn’t seem to show up at all much before 1999. Degree from the Open University, 1998,
then a slow trickle of bylines from a local paper in the Midlands. He starts searching backwards. Tries Facebook, Myspace,
Friends Reunited, Genes Reunited. She has no presence on any of them. Doesn’t get a mention attached to any school, any reunions,
any relatives; clearly never won a prize, never distinguished herself in any way, and no one has been looking for her.
Suddenly he realises that a voice is coming from the handset. She’s picked up. He snatches it up and puts it to his ear. ‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice, cold and hard; suspicious. ‘Who is this?’
‘Who is
this
?’ he asks.
‘Who did you want to speak to?’
‘Jackie. Jackie Jacobs,’ he says. ‘Have I dialled the wrong number?’
A fractional pause. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘Martin,’ he says.
‘Martin who?’
‘Martin Bagshawe.’
He hears her breathe. The voice is faintly familiar. It’s someone he’s met before, someone he knows. Not well, but he doesn’t
know anyone well, really.
‘OK, Martin,’ she says, ‘I need you to listen to me very carefully and pay attention to what I say.’
A surge of adrenalin makes him dizzy. She’s dead. Something’s happened to her.
‘Is Jackie OK?’ he asks. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s fine,’ she says sharply. ‘And Martin, in answer to your question,
you’re
what’s happened.’
Her voice changes, as though she’s reading a pre-prepared speech off a piece of paper. ‘Listen, Martin, you need to understand.
Jackie is not your girlfriend. She’s not your friend. In fact, she finds your behaviour aggressive and frightening.’
‘I—’ he begins to protest, but she ploughs on, ignoring him.
‘Martin, I want you to listen very carefully. Jackie wants nothing to do with you. What you’ve been doing, all this following
and watching, it’s harassment. It’s not a show of devotion and it won’t persuade her to change her mind. You need to stop
it. Now.’
Who is this woman? He knows the voice; it’s maddeningly familiar. Now he hears his own breath, coming fast.
‘I don’t know who you are …’ he begins.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am. All you need to know is thatJackie is in a place of safety and she wants you to leave her alone.’
‘Place of safety …? What are you—’
‘You heard me, Martin. And I’m telling you now, you’d be well advised to listen to what I’m saying. You need to leave Jackie
alone. You need to stop.’
‘If Jackie wants that,’ he snaps, abruptly angry, ‘she can tell me herself. Who are you? Who are you to tell her what to do?’
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘She’s not coming to the phone. I’m going to hang up now, Martin. And when I do, you’re not to call
this number again. You’re not to call, or send any other type of message, to this number. You are not to come to her house,
not to come to her place of work, not to follow her in the street. Do you understand? Because if you do, we will be calling
the police. Do you get that?’
He can barely articulate. His lips are cold and numb, his throat constricted. ‘Yes,’ he mumbles. Whoever this woman is, she’s
not going to listen to reason. She’s got to Jackie and she’s going to destroy everything, twist it till it looks ugly, deformed.
He won’t argue with her. People like that – it’s not worth wasting your breath.
The line goes dead. He dials again. It goes straight to the plummy robot woman, who tells him that the mailbox has been deactivated.
His hands are shaking.
Chapter Twelve
He’s a cocky young sod. Kirsty can tell by the swagger, by the imperious curl of the lip,
her
.
Jackie’s still not answering. He puts the phone on to Speaker and Automatic Redial and continues his search for Kirsty Lindsay.
She doesn’t have a Wikipedia page. Doesn’t seem to show up at all much before 1999. Degree from the Open University, 1998,
then a slow trickle of bylines from a local paper in the Midlands. He starts searching backwards. Tries Facebook, Myspace,
Friends Reunited, Genes Reunited. She has no presence on any of them. Doesn’t get a mention attached to any school, any reunions,
any relatives; clearly never won a prize, never distinguished herself in any way, and no one has been looking for her.
Suddenly he realises that a voice is coming from the handset. She’s picked up. He snatches it up and puts it to his ear. ‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice, cold and hard; suspicious. ‘Who is this?’
‘Who is
this
?’ he asks.
‘Who did you want to speak to?’
‘Jackie. Jackie Jacobs,’ he says. ‘Have I dialled the wrong number?’
A fractional pause. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘Martin,’ he says.
‘Martin who?’
‘Martin Bagshawe.’
He hears her breathe. The voice is faintly familiar. It’s someone he’s met before, someone he knows. Not well, but he doesn’t
know anyone well, really.
‘OK, Martin,’ she says, ‘I need you to listen to me very carefully and pay attention to what I say.’
A surge of adrenalin makes him dizzy. She’s dead. Something’s happened to her.
‘Is Jackie OK?’ he asks. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s fine,’ she says sharply. ‘And Martin, in answer to your question,
you’re
what’s happened.’
Her voice changes, as though she’s reading a pre-prepared speech off a piece of paper. ‘Listen, Martin, you need to understand.
Jackie is not your girlfriend. She’s not your friend. In fact, she finds your behaviour aggressive and frightening.’
‘I—’ he begins to protest, but she ploughs on, ignoring him.
‘Martin, I want you to listen very carefully. Jackie wants nothing to do with you. What you’ve been doing, all this following
and watching, it’s harassment. It’s not a show of devotion and it won’t persuade her to change her mind. You need to stop
it. Now.’
Who is this woman? He knows the voice; it’s maddeningly familiar. Now he hears his own breath, coming fast.
‘I don’t know who you are …’ he begins.
‘It doesn’t matter who I am. All you need to know is thatJackie is in a place of safety and she wants you to leave her alone.’
‘Place of safety …? What are you—’
‘You heard me, Martin. And I’m telling you now, you’d be well advised to listen to what I’m saying. You need to leave Jackie
alone. You need to stop.’
‘If Jackie wants that,’ he snaps, abruptly angry, ‘she can tell me herself. Who are you? Who are you to tell her what to do?’
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘She’s not coming to the phone. I’m going to hang up now, Martin. And when I do, you’re not to call
this number again. You’re not to call, or send any other type of message, to this number. You are not to come to her house,
not to come to her place of work, not to follow her in the street. Do you understand? Because if you do, we will be calling
the police. Do you get that?’
He can barely articulate. His lips are cold and numb, his throat constricted. ‘Yes,’ he mumbles. Whoever this woman is, she’s
not going to listen to reason. She’s got to Jackie and she’s going to destroy everything, twist it till it looks ugly, deformed.
He won’t argue with her. People like that – it’s not worth wasting your breath.
The line goes dead. He dials again. It goes straight to the plummy robot woman, who tells him that the mailbox has been deactivated.
His hands are shaking.
Chapter Twelve
He’s a cocky young sod. Kirsty can tell by the swagger, by the imperious curl of the lip,
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