Page 17 of The Tapes
THIRTEEN
With an hour and a half left of the work day, I’m back in the landscaping office. One of the security guys has been answering the phones and my desk is littered with two-dozen Post-it note messages to pick up. I do my best to catch up with everything I missed.
Although ‘my best’ might not be entirely true.
Faith hasn’t replied, although she’s likely in tutorials, where phones are supposed to be off.
I’ve zoomed in and out of her photo so many times, and am almost certain it’s the same silver car I saw parked across from Dad’s house a few hours before.
The shadows made it hard to see but I thought the driver was a woman somewhere in her sixties.
It was too far for me to make out anything more precise – and I’m assuming Faith sent the photo because there’s a blurry shadow of a woman in the driver’s seat.
Her message said the woman looked ‘a bit like’ Grandma, which wouldn’t bother me if it wasn’t for the fact that my mum’s fingerprints are on a gun that was discovered yesterday.
Could this woman really be her? Really? Why would she have been holding a gun near Nicola’s house, much less left it?
Mum said on the tape that she knows who the Earring Killer is, that she thought she was going to be murdered.
Except she also said she stole the neighbour’s car and robbed a bank.
She admitted to having impulse control problems, and there’s no question she was a liar.
Except, where do those lies begin? And is she now driving a small silver car, while keeping an eye on both her old house, and Faith at college?
As I sort of, kind of, get on with work, all that swirls.
How am I supposed to keep going about my life? The clock is ticking as I wait for the time to leave – properly now – so I can pick up Faith and get some answers about the woman she saw. It’s three minutes to five when a new message arrives from my daughter.
Sorted now – Dan giving me a lift x
I don’t want to be annoyed at her, largely because I want to be the backup.
I don’t ever want her to be stuck, worried about calling me for help in case of a backlash.
There’s no further information about the woman in the car and I scroll back to six weeks before, when my daughter last sent a photo of a person she said could be her grandmother.
It’s a woman outside Waitrose, laughing with another woman who’s holding a bouquet of flowers.
She’s wearing a wax jacket my mum would’ve hated, and is too tall anyway.
There doesn’t seem much point in following up until Faith and I are at home later. It shouldn’t be too long.
Instead, I reply to say it’s fine, and ask if she wants anything in particular for tea. There’s no instant response, which I guess means she’s getting something with her friends.
At least she’s safe.
I’m about to log out of the system when something bangs outside.
Mark’s voice is unmistakeable, largely because he has no sense of what might count as an indoor voice.
He swears loudly, then shouts at someone that they only have a job because of him.
A classic way of motivating employees that I’ve heard hundreds of times.
Someone replies meekly, though I don’t see or hear who.
Before I close down my computer, I hit the home button, where the browser loads the company website.
Mark is front and centre, leaning on the back of a van with a slogan saying the work is 100% guaranteed.
In all the time I’ve worked for him, I’ve never quite figured out what that means, considering there’s usually at least one customer dispute ongoing, and never been a mention of any work assurance.
I click through to the owner section, which never fails to make me laugh.
Mark hired a professional photographer to take a series of pictures with him dressed in his work suit for half the shoot; and landscaping work gear for the rest. There’s a photo with him in his suit, standing in that politician power pose: legs too far apart, like he’s struggling for a poo.
He’s standing tall with his arms folded in another; awkwardly holding a rake in a third.
Mark left school with no qualifications and, if a person didn’t already know that, he’d make sure to tell them within three minutes of meeting. There’s a lengthy bio on the website.
Mark Dixon is one of life’s success stories.
Self-made and self-effacing, Mark is a dreamer, who started his burgeoning career on a production line at Prince Industries.
Having immediately shown his worth, Mark quickly rose to become manager.
He soon realised he had the ambition, work ethic, and intelligence to start his own business.
For some, this might have been a risk – but that is how Mark came to start the landscaping company entirely by himself.
From only one employee, he now has thirty full-time staff, plus contractors, who rely on him for their livelihoods.
Well, someone invested in a thesaurus.
There’s plenty more than that. Mark is one of those who, at his core, probably is impressive. Except, because he can’t stop wanging on about himself, he manages to annoy and upset essentially everyone that ever comes across him.
It doesn’t help that he’ll frequently tell his employees that they only have a job because of him.
Mark blusters into the office and does a double take when he sees me. ‘Didn’t think you were coming back,’ he says.
‘The police kept me a while.’
Mark chews the inside of his mouth, unconvinced. ‘Can you come in fifteen minutes early tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Is everything all right?’
There’s a leer that reminds me of my brother. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘I’ve got some time now…?’
It gets a shake of the head. ‘Not everything’s about you, Eve. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
He stomps to his office and closes the door – and I know it won’t be a fun morning. Whatever it is could’ve been said now, but this is how Mark manages people. He wants his employees to fall out and fight for his favour. He wants people like me to spend a night stewing.
I finally log out of the system, then wait a minute because Mark is on the phone in his office, arguing with someone that sounds like a customer. No good will come of this, so I head out, waving goodbye to Dina, who’s unloading a van, then head out to the road.
The office is a little out of town, buried on one of those soulless trading estates. I head past a row of cars, trying to remember where I parked, before spotting my car underneath a lamp post on the other side of the road.
Except, as I start to cross, a man gets out of the vehicle parked directly behind. He’s tall and broad; shoulders like a rugby player, neck the same width as his head.
I know him, of course – because he’s a police officer.