Page 43 of The Tapes
THIRTY-THREE
Mark presses back in his massive seat until it squeaks. There’s a moment in which I think my former boss might topple backwards, however he seemingly knows the spot in which he’s perfectly balanced.
‘You’re lucky I’m giving you this time on a Saturday,’ he says. ‘You couldn’t even have the courtesy to return your keys. Had to drop them in the mailbox and scuttle off.’
If only he knew…
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply. ‘My dad’s funeral was the next morning and it was all a bit much.’
Mark nods along, waiting for the capitulation he knows is coming.
‘If I could, I’d take back everything I said and did the other day,’ I add.
‘Putting the keys in the box and not replying to your message was incredibly disrespectful. I should’ve been much more grateful at everything you’ve done for me.
’ I pause and then go for the jugular: ‘It’s my time of the month and?—’
‘I get it,’ he replies, not getting it. ‘I have all this at home. Hormones-this, time-of-the-month that. Women are just temperamental – or, as I always say, temporarily mental.’
I smile while digging my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself not to say anything. I’ve worked with him long enough to know what to say.
‘You’re right,’ I tell him, even though he’s wrong. ‘I’ve learned so much from you. I was upset about my dad and you’re the last remaining father figure in my life. I took it out on the wrong person.’
He’s nodding along enthusiastically, scratches his balls for good measure, then plucks a cigar from his top drawer.
He uses it point at me, before lighting.
‘That is very big of you,’ he says. The room immediately stinks of that earthy, slightly sweet smell.
Mark probably shouldn’t be smoking indoors but it’s not the time to get all HR about things.
‘Lots of people say I’m a father figure,’ he says. ‘I suppose I was an influencer before anyone knew what one was. I’ve always been wise for my age but if that’s a crime, then shoot me now.’
He has a puff of the cigar and pats his chest. I laugh along, just about holding back the vomit.
‘I’ve always told people you’re wise,’ I reply – and Mark nods knowingly.
‘Of course. Look, I was gonna put up the ad on Monday but, seeing as you’re here and you’ve said sorry, I suppose we can start over.’ He nods towards my old office. ‘I’ll put you back on three months’ probation. You can have your old salary and we’ll take it from there. How does that sound?’
‘Wise…?’
He grins. ‘Good girl.’
He puffs on the cigar again as I try to figure out how to twist the conversation the way I want it. ‘My missus could learn a thing or two from you,’ he says, unexpectedly.
‘How?’
‘Y’know. Typical woman. Gets all emotional about stuff.
You should’ve heard her kicking off the other night.
We were supposed to be at her mum and dad’s anniversary dinner – but I couldn’t be bothered.
She told them I was ill – but then her dad was on a run to the offie and saw me in a beer garden with my mates. It all got a bit… aggro.’
I don’t tell him that, in a way, I did hear her ‘kicking off’. I suppose that’s what the ‘they can’t prove anything – just tell them I was with you’ was about.
Mark’s still talking. ‘Her mum’s like you. Hormonal and stuff. Just try not to bring it to work in future, yeah?’
I force away the shudder as I agree that, yes, I won’t bring my hormones to work any longer. I don’t tell him that I won’t be working here for long; but that I need those keys back.
‘I’ve been struggling when I think about Owen, too,’ I say.
Mark had been about to inhale from the cigar but a cloud skirts across his face. ‘Poor kid,’ he says, and some of the bravado has slipped.
‘Someone said you played football with him…?’
There’s a twitch of the eye, as if he’s wondering whether someone’s been gossiping – except that Instagram football photo is out there.
‘That’s why I went to the pub that night instead of the in-laws’ anniversary,’ he says.
‘I’d only been with Owen the night before, played footy with him, and then he was gone.
Life’s too short for anniversary dinners when you’ve got your mates. ’
I’m not sure whether that’s the conclusion most would reach but he probably has some sort of point about prioritising the important things.
‘He left his wallet,’ Mark says. ‘I brought it in to return it, before I knew anything that happened. Can’t remember where I put it.
’ He suddenly spins in the chair, almost overbalancing and nearly stabbing himself in the face with the cigar.
Once he’s regained some composure, he places the cigar carefully in the ashtray and opens the unlocked safe.
‘That reminds me,’ he says. ‘I let the police into his locker. They were looking to see if there was a reason he did what he did. They found this in there.’
He passes across Mum’s tape. I stare at it for a moment, before taking it, then opening the case to make sure the cassette is inside.
‘It has your name on it,’ he adds, and I sense him wanting an explanation that, despite my grovelling, I can’t bring myself to give. This isn’t why I asked Mark to meet me here, nor anything I expected. I thought the tape was lost.
I thank him, then put the tape in my bag, already desperate to listen to it again. ‘I know it’s Saturday,’ I say, ‘but I figured I could do a few hours this afternoon to catch up on everything I missed the last few days. It’ll get me ahead before Monday.’
Mark waits and, for a moment, I figure he’s going to demand details about the tape.
Instead, he slowly starts to nod. ‘I can’t hang around,’ he says, while stubbing out the cigar.
‘You’ll have to lock up yourself – which I guess means you can have these back.
’ He opens his top drawer and pulls out the keys and fob I left in the mailbox, then slides them across the desk.
I catch them a moment before they slip over the edge.
We stay in position for a short while as he probably wonders if I have a bit more praise for him. When he decides we’re done, he pops himself up. ‘Things to do,’ he says.
And then, somehow, I have the office to myself. Mark disappears in his BMW. I wait until he’s out of sight before dropping Owen’s wallet down the side of the safe. Mark will find it at some point and assume that’s where he left it.
He’s a creep – but thanks to Mum’s tape, I know he isn’t the Earring Killer.
The cassette Mum mailed to her old friend sat dormant in a box for thirteen years and, though the contents aren’t quite the same as the one I originally listened to, it’s not that different. More importantly, it doesn’t cut in and out.
Together, Vivian and I put the tape in my cassette player. And once we pressed play, everything became clear.
Mum’s voice told us how she stole the jewellery box, and found the hidden bottom. How the person from whom she took it would know it was her. That she knew they’d be coming.
She named names.
Vivian discovered the person who murdered her daughter at the same time as me. She would have known thirteen years ago if not for the floods, the boxes, and the fact she had to package up a whole portion of her life. It was the only way for her to cope: to throw everything in the attic and move on.
We both know we cannot take that tape to the police. It’s recorded by a liar and a thief. It isn’t evidence and – crucially – we don’t have the jewellery box. That’s what this all hinges on.
Except I have an idea where it is.
So I flit around the office, making sure that Mark doesn’t come back, because I can’t have him interfering in what comes next. I keep half an eye on the CCTV feed from the adjacent storage facility, waiting until there’s nobody there.
It takes almost ninety minutes but, when everything is clear, I move as quickly as I can – first locking the office, then hurrying across the yard and using the master fob to get myself into Mark’s other business.
That’s the other reason I needed to go grovelling to Mark – I needed access to the computer system to check the storage locker numbers against the people who rent them.
Long rows of roller doors are inside and my footsteps echo as I head along one line before turning to check the parallel one.
And number forty-one is in front of me.
The lock-up rented by the Earring Killer.
The lock-up rented by retired Chief Inspector Kieron Parris.