Copycat Page 19

  ‘Well, there were two questions. The first was whether your handwriting matches the handwriting in the other samples you gave me. And it doesn’t. You did not write the postcard and the message in the book. I’ll send you the details in my report next week, but, as I said, it’s conclusive. There’s no doubt.’

  The sense of relief that flooded through Sarah left her feeling weak. This was the proof she needed to convince Ben she was not doing this herself. Which was wonderful, amazing, uplifting. It did, though, leave another question unanswered.

  ‘The other handwriting I sent you,’ she said. ‘The list of yoga classes. You were going to compare it to the forgeries to see if the same person wrote them both?’ And confirm that Rachel Little is behind this, Sarah thought.

  ‘I did,’ Donna Martin said. ‘It didn’t take long, to be honest. It was fairly obvious.’

  Sarah was aware that a smile was spreading over her face. It was fairly obvious could only mean one thing: there were lots of clear similarities.

  ‘I haven’t written a detailed report,’ Donna went on. ‘I can, if you’d like, but there’s not much point. There’s no way the same person wrote those two things. No way at all. I’ve rarely seen two samples of handwriting as different as those two.’

  Sarah’s smile faded. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re saying it’s not the same person?’

  ‘I’m saying there’s no way in hell it’s the same person.’

  Her smile faded. Sarah closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘This is very helpful.’

  Which it was. More than helpful: it was wonderful. If she was honest, there had been moments when Sarah had started to wonder whether it was her doing this. She knew it was possible for someone to enter a fugue state and do all kinds of things without having any memory of them. There was a famous case of a man who had two families in two different cities. They knew him by different names and he went between them, telling them he was traveling for work when he was away; the odd thing was that when he was caught by one of his wives, he denied everything. She had incontrovertible proof; it didn’t matter. He denied it all, and he wasn’t lying.

  It turned out that when he switched between names, he became the new person and lost all memories related to his alter ego.

  So she could have been doing the same, and it was a relief to know she wasn’t.

  But it was also a problem. Because it meant someone else was doing it, which meant she and her family were not safe.

  And she had been sure it was Rachel Little. But she was wrong. The handwriting was totally different.

  Unless. Unless that was the very thing which proved it was Rachel, after all.

  She replayed Donna Martin’s words: I’ve rarely seen two samples of handwriting as different as those two.

  Which was the clue that pointed to Rachel. In order to forge Sarah’s handwriting so successfully, Rachel would have to have a detailed knowledge of graphology – which was exactly the kind of weird, hippy-ish bullshit she specialized in – and if she had, she would have made sure any handwriting she gave to Sarah – or Jean – was totally different to the forgeries.

  She would have made it so someone such as Donna Martin would conclude she had rarely seen two samples of handwriting as different as those two.

  So it was her, Sarah was sure of it. All she needed was another way to get the proof.

  But that could wait. For now, she was going to go home and give her husband the good news.

  She turned into her street. Ben’s car was not parked outside the house. It was odd; he’d picked up the kids from the Emergency Room – she must call Jean and see how Daniel was doing – a few hours ago, so he should have been there. Perhaps he’d gone out to eat with them, but he would normally have texted her to let her know.

  She parked and got out of her car. There was no one home. Which was odd.

  It’s fine, she told herself. They’re out running an errand.

  She unlocked the front door and went inside.

  The house was silent. At the bottom of the stairs was a small, purple stuffed dog. It was Kim’s comfort toy, the thing she slept with every night. They kept it in her bed; on a couple of occasions she had left it at a store or at someone’s house and she had screamed the place down, so to avoid a repeat they made a rule that it stayed in her cot.

  Unless they were going away for the night.

  She pictured them leaving in a hurry, Kim dropping the dog in the confusion, Ben failing to notice it, She shook her head. It hadn’t got here that way. There was some other reason.

  She picked it up and walked into the kitchen. It was clean. No dirty plates in the sink, no pots and pans on the stove top. Wherever Ben and the kids were, they hadn’t had dinner. She put Kim’s dog on the counter, and saw it.

  A piece of letter paper. Two messages written on it.

  The one at the top in her handwriting.

  The one underneath in Ben’s.

  18

  She thinks she has found a way out. She thinks she can get evidence, find proof, use it to bring this to an end.

  What a fool she is.

  She has always been a fool. Not stupid, of course – no doctor is stupid – but a fool all the same. If she was not, she would have seen this coming long ago, when she could have – maybe – taken steps to stop it. But she did not because she could not. She had no idea what was being built around her, did not notice the threads being drawn through every facet of her life, ready to be pulled together into the web that will finally trap her.

  And the web is now complete. She will wake up tomorrow to the knowledge she is trapped. Powerless. No longer captain of her own ship.

  A fish on a hook.

  A fly in a web.

  A dog on a leash.

  And tomorrow it is over. No more letters. No more emails. No more books.

  No more Sarah.

  19

  Dear Ben, the note read,

  I’m sorry for the wild-goose chase with the kids. I needed to know you were not going to show up at the house this afternoon. When you found that the kids weren’t at the hospital I could say it was another weird thing happening.

  I was planning to meet a man here, Ben. I had it all lined up. He contacted me after the post on Craigslist and we arranged to hook up. He pulled out at the last minute.

  And I saw myself clearly. Saw how erratic and crazy my behavior has become. I realized that I don’t – can’t –- trust myself anymore. Some nights I lie in bed and I can’t believe the thoughts I have. I don’t know WHAT I might do – to you, the kids – and it terrifies me.

  I can’t go on like this. Living a lie. Hiding in plain sight.

  I need a break. I need some time to figure out what I want to do. What I want US to do. Maybe we can make this work, maybe we can’t: but I need some space to think.

  I’m sorry, Ben. I love you, I truly do. It’s a cliché, but this is about me, not you.

  So go. Take our children away somewhere for the weekend. Tell them Mom’s working. Don’t call me. Don’t answer my calls. And when you get back, let’s talk.

  S xxx

  And then, underneath, hastily scrawled.

  Sarah – I don’t know what’s going on but I’ll do as you say. We’ll be back Sunday afternoon. You know this is very fucked up, right? And we have to resolve it, one way or another. Right now, I don’t much care which way, but like you say – I can’t go on like this.

  Sarah put the note on the countertop; the paper shook noisily, her hand unsteady. She looked at Kim’s purple dog. She’d miss it tonight. Ben would have difficulty getting her to go to sleep.

  She sat heavily on a stool, and leaned her forearms on the counter. She was dizzy, her legs weak.

  She picked up her phone and called Ben. He needed to know right away that she wanted him back.

  It went straight to voicemail, which meant it was switched off. If he was on another call it would have rung, giving him the optio
n to hang up his call and accept hers.

  ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘This is all a huge mistake. Come home. And call me as soon as you get this. I can explain.’

  She hung up the call and then it hit her.

  Rachel Little had been in her house.

  She had been in here, left the note, and gone.

  The timing was not a mistake. Rachel knew she had the proof she was innocent and so she had taken this step, written this note, before Sarah could tell Ben what Donna Martin had concluded. She wanted Ben gone.

  She wanted Sarah alone, and vulnerable.

  Suddenly Sarah saw how foolish she had been. She had been convinced that what Rachel wanted was to drive her and Ben apart so she could move in on Ben, and as a result she had become fixated on proving it wasn’t her doing it so she and Ben would not be driven apart in the first place.

  But Ben wasn’t the target.

  She was the target.

  She didn’t know why. She didn’t know what she had done to Rachel Little to provoke this, but it didn’t matter.

  And now, at least, she knew what she was up against. And, in a way, it was a good thing Ben was gone.

  It left her free to do whatever she needed to stop it.

  20

  She made some coffee and then moved to the couch. She had a numb feeling – the beginnings of shock, maybe – and she could tell she was losing her grip on reality. She forced herself to think through what had happened.

  Ben had gone to get the kids from the Emergency Room, but, presumably, they had not been there. He had called her – twice, it seemed, if the missed calls were anything to go by, then come home to find this letter.

  In which she confessed to having wanted him out of the house so she could have a random assignation with someone she had met on Craigslist, then confessed to erratic feelings which made her fear for her own predictability and the safety of her children, and then asked him to leave with the kids.

  Which he had done.

  And the kids had been with Jean, so he must have gone to get them there. She picked up her phone and called her friend.

  ‘Hey,’ Jean said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Not great,’ Sarah said. ‘Did Ben come for the kids?’

  ‘Yes. A few minutes before three. I was surprised he was so early, but I guess it’s Friday, so maybe he got done at work.’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘What do you mean? What did happen? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Before I tell you, I need to ask a question.’ Sarah paused. ‘Did Daniel break his arm today?’

  ‘No,’ Jean said. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And you didn’t leave me a message at the office asking me to collect the kids from the ER?’

  ‘Sarah,’ Jean said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Someone – saying they were you – called the office and gave them a message for me, saying Daniel had broken his arm and you were taking him and all the other kids to the ER. As a result, you needed me or Ben to pick them up. I couldn’t, so I called Ben.’

  ‘Who called?’

  ‘Someone who knew I was back at work and that I would have to ask Ben to go to the ER, which he did, only to find no kids. So he came home, and there was a letter from me.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘What was in the letter?’

  Sarah told her. There was a long silence on the line.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Jean said, eventually. ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘Right. And now Ben’s gone. Did he say anything when he came to get them?’

  ‘No,’ Jean said. ‘Other than thanking me for helping out.’

  ‘Did he seem OK?’

  ‘Yes. You know Ben. Doesn’t give much away. Have you called him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said. ‘His phone is switched off. I’ll keep trying. But God knows what I’ll tell him.’

  ‘You think it was Rachel?’ Jean said.

  ‘I know so,’ Sarah replied. ‘And I’m going to sort this out. Tonight.’

  Rachel was renting an apartment in a building near to the college. She had the top floor; the bottom was occupied, according to the label under the bell, by Gerard Makinson.

  There was a shared entrance. Sarah stood outside it and rang Rachel’s bell. She heard it chime in the interior and listened for the sound of footsteps.

  Nothing. No doubt Rachel had peeped out a window and seen her standing there and did not want the confrontation.

  She rang the bell again. Rachel needed to know Sarah wasn’t going anywhere.

  Still no response. This time she hammered on the wooden door.

  ‘Rachel,’ she shouted. ‘Open up! I want to talk to you!’

  Still nothing. She felt her anger mount. After what Rachel had put her through the absolute least she could do was talk to her.

  She banged on the door again and called Rachel’s name.

  To her left, a window opened. A man’s head appeared in the gap. He was in his fifties and had bleary eyes.

  ‘Keep it down, miss,’ he said. ‘I was having a nap.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘But this is important. I need to see Rachel as soon as possible. She’s the woman who lives here.’

  ‘I know who she is,’ the man – presumably Gerard Makinson – said. ‘And you can need to see her all you like. She ain’t here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean this here is a building where sometimes people are and sometimes people aren’t. And she’s one of the ones who aren’t. Not right now, anyway.’

  Sarah hesitated. ‘Then where is she?’

  ‘About now she’s probably thirty thousand feet up in the air,’ Gerard said. ‘Flying to Texas. Least, that’s what she told me when I dropped her off at Portland Bus Station at midday.’

  ‘You dropped her off at the bus station at midday?’

  ‘Yup. I was headed to Portland to meet an old veteran buddy of mine and when I was on my way out I seen her lugging her bag to the bus station here in Barrow. I asked if she was headed to Portland and she hopped right in.’

  Sarah thought it through: the timings worked out. The message – supposedly from Jean – had come around lunchtime. Rachel could have put the letter in the house after calling the office, and then headed to Portland.

  Commit the crime, then flee the scene. It all added up. Never mind the handwriting analysis: there was no doubt now that it was Rachel.

  ‘Are you sure she got on the bus?’ Sarah said. ‘She didn’t come back here?’

  ‘If she did, I haven’t seen her,’ Gerard said. ‘You want me to pass on a message?’

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘When I see her I’ll tell her myself.’

  21

  So had she skipped town? Or was she still around? Sarah tried to think what she would have done.

  She couldn’t. Since she was not a crazy, vengeful, psychopathic bitch she could not see which of those options a crazy, vengeful, psychopathic bitch might choose.

  She called Ben again. Left him another voicemail. Then she called Jean.

  ‘She’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s not where?’ Jean replied.

  ‘Rachel. She’s not at her apartment.’

  ‘You went to her apartment? Are you nuts?’

  ‘I wanted to confront her,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve had enough. I wanted to tell her I know what she’s doing and she needs to stop it. And then claw her fucking eyes out if she didn’t promise to cease and desist right then and there.’

  ‘Are you sure that was a good idea? You don’t know for certain it’s her.’

  ‘I do. But it makes no difference now. She wasn’t there anyway.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Texas. Bit of a coincidence she happened to leave today.’

  ‘Jesus, it is her,’ Jean said. ‘So what next?’

  ‘I go home,’ Sarah replied. ‘Try to call Ben. And work out my next steps.’
r />   She also called Ian Molyneux and told him what had happened.

  ‘I need a favor,’ she said. ‘I need you to help me find Ben. Check hotels. My guess is he’s in Boston.’

  ‘I can’t really do that,’ Ian replied. ‘He’s not done anything wrong. I can hardly ask the BPD to search the city for a guy who’s not committed any kind of a crime.’

  ‘What if you tell them he’s kidnapped his own kids?’

  ‘Maybe I could. But the problem is he hasn’t,’ Ian said. ‘And when they found him and discovered he’d had a domestic argument and his wife had wanted the cops to find him so they could work it out and then maybe have some frantic make-up sex before their next argument, they’d flip out. I’d probably lose my job.’

  ‘So there’s nothing you can do?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Nothing. At least not about Ben. But you can call me anytime if you need help.’

  ‘Thanks, Ian. I appreciate it.’ Although it wasn’t what she had called for, it was comforting to know she had his support if she needed it.

  She only hoped she didn’t.

  22

  ‘Want some company?’ Jean said.

  Sarah held the phone between her ear and shoulder and fished in her bag for her bank card. There was a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and a box of pizza on the counter of Bingham’s, her local market.

  ‘I thought you had a date?’ she said.

  ‘I did. I can cancel. I figure you might not want to be alone.’

  ‘Jean,’ Sarah said. ‘You don’t have to do that. Your date’s more important.’

  Although it would be nice not to be alone, Sarah thought. But I don’t want to tell her.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Jean said. ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘I feel bad,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t want you to change your plans for me, although I appreciate the thought – it’s true I’m not looking forward to a night – let alone a weekend – alone. But I don’t want to ruin your evening. Really, I don’t.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Jean said. ‘Here’s a compromise: I’ll go out with Carl for a drink, and then I’ll come to see you.’