Ask laura, p.5
Ask Laura, page 5
Whilst reflecting on this, the telephone rang. It was DC Peters asking if she and a colleague could come and talk to me about the letters. Naturally, I agreed. I should have been writing an article about ‘Holiday Harmony’ – a feature which would run ahead of the school summer holidays, and one which I now felt utterly unqualified to write. It was almost 10.30am and Amy said they would be with me in fifteen minutes, so I boiled the kettle and set a tray in anticipation of offering my visitors coffee. When the doorbell rang, I pasted on a smile which I didn’t own and invited them in. Amy introduced the other officer as Detective Sergeant Steve Radcliffe and we assembled in the living room with coffee and questions on both sides. The DS was about six feet tall with broad shoulders and an athletic build. He was handsome in a rugged way, and I would guess somewhere in his early thirties. Amy spoke first.
‘There’s been another letter, Mrs Green,’ she said matter-of-factly as if it had been expected.
‘But I’ve not had one; surely the magazine would have passed it on to me?’
‘They gave it straight to us. We’d asked them to pass on any more letters unopened so that we might have a chance of some forensic evidence,’ Amy explained. It made sense.
‘And did you? Get any forensic evidence, I mean?’
‘It’s too early to say. We’ve sent it for examination but it will take several days as it’s not a priority case.’ That at least was reassuring.
‘So what did it say?’ I wanted to know yet didn’t want to know.
‘It’s couched in very similar terms to the last ones but a little more forceful and specific.’ DS Radcliffe took over the conversation as Amy Peters took out her notebook and a pencil.
‘Can I read it? It was addressed to me.’
‘Well, we can tell you the gist of it if you’re sure you want to know?’ The sergeant seemed reluctant.
‘Yes, I do.’
He took the notebook from his colleague and began to read out some of the letter; he spoke slowly, paraphrasing the points and missing out some of the more distasteful words. Even his edited version was more chilling than the others had been and my stomach was churning by the time he’d finished. A few moments of silence ensued when I thought I was going to be physically sick. Then, taking a deep breath, I concentrated on focussing on the letter objectively, a tactic that had helped me cope with traumas in the past. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to help, the room seemed suddenly cold and I wrapped my hands around the mug of coffee, trying to draw warmth and comfort from it. The DS looked at me sympathetically then attempted to move on to more general questions.
‘I always thought these agony aunt columns were fictitious, with the letters made up by journalists. I can’t believe that you’re actually ‘Ask Laura’.’ He spoke as if he’d heard of the column.
‘Are you familiar with my page?’ The question brought a blush to his face, which rose from his neck up to his hairline.
‘My mother sometimes gets the magazine so I’ve seen it on occasions.’ He was flustered and even his DC looked at him now and smiled to herself. Could we have discovered his guilty pleasure?
‘Can you explain how it works?’ He again moved things on quickly and I went along with it even though I’d already told the constable.
‘The letters arrive at the magazine address where the paper ones are sorted with a selection sent on to me. I decide which ones to answer, between four and six a week, and send them back with my answers by email. Some readers send their problems via email, and the process is the same. Madeline, my editor, has the final say in which ones are published.’
‘Do you ever enter into correspondence with your readers directly?’ he asked.
‘No, that’s not possible. Occasionally I refer readers to articles I’ve written previously and which are archived on the magazine’s website if I think it will help their situation.’
‘So you never get involved personally in any reader’s problems?’
‘That’s right. I try to signpost readers to organisations that could help, for example, Relate for marriage guidance, bereavement groups, Gingerbread for single parents, etc. But the magazine policy is never to get involved personally.’
‘Then you wouldn’t give out your address, phone number or email address?’ he asked.
‘No, never.’ It seemed an obvious question but presumably they had to ask the obvious.
‘There were a couple of inferences in this latest letter that lead us to believe the writer might know a little more about you than we previously thought, perhaps even where you live.’ DS Radcliffe seemed reluctant to tell me this and nothing he’d read to me from the letter made me think the same.
‘So you didn’t read the whole letter to me?’ My anxiety was increasing, surely knowing precisely what was in the letter couldn’t be any worse than the scenarios my imagination would weave. ‘Can I see the letter in its entirety, please?’
He reluctantly turned back in the notebook to the page from which he’d read.
‘This is only a copy. As I said, the original is being examined.’
I scanned the page and almost immediately was aware of the blood draining from my face. The words were full of venom and talked of the vile things he’d like to do to me, physical violence and even sexual references. There was mention of my honey-blonde hair and my ‘pretty face’. The writer almost casually dropped into the letter that it would be a shame for such a face to become scarred. It was shocking – especially when he wrote that he knew where I lived in my comfortable home with my beautiful family, and if I didn’t stop writing my column, he’d be ‘paying me a visit’ one dark night. I dropped the pad onto my lap. DS Radcliffe picked it up and asked if I was all right while his colleague went to the kitchen to fetch me a glass of water. I drank the water too quickly and coughed and spluttered all over. Then, flapping my hands to indicate I was okay, I regained my composure, outwardly anyway.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s certainly not pleasant!’
‘That’s why we didn’t want you to read it all, but you can see why you need to take this seriously. Have you had any more thoughts on who this could be? Have you argued with anyone lately, your ex-husband perhaps?’ the DS asked.
‘We’re not on the best of terms but I’m certain it’s not him. I honestly can’t think of anyone who would want to scare me like this. But the references to my home and family are very general. They could apply to any number of women throughout the country, and he’ll know what I look like from the headshot on the page each week.’
‘Yes, we realise all of that, which is why we can’t offer you any kind of protection,’ DC Peters spoke up.
‘Protection, I wouldn’t expect it! I’ll admit to being a bit unnerved by this, well more than a bit really, but I’m pretty certain that this isn’t anyone I know, or even who knows me.’
‘That’s our thinking now too, but we would ask you to be extra vigilant until this is sorted out.’ Amy Peters smiled reassuringly at me.
‘It’s a pity it’s not like the old Agatha Christie stories,’ I mused, ‘when the culprit was caught by the faulty letter on his typewriter. Printers are so impersonal and tell you nothing about the writer.’
‘Actually, many modern printers include some form of tracking information which can associate a document with the printer’s serial number. Apparently, it’s something to do with a yellow dot, or similar mark, which forensic investigation can decipher.’ The DS suddenly looked embarrassed as both DC Peters and I stared at him.
‘Of course, it’s not widely used, only in cases of serious fraud and the like.’ He blushed again, trying hard not to come over as some kind of techno-geek.
‘So the forensic team won’t be using such high-tech knowledge on my nuisance letters?’ I smiled at him, rather enjoying his discomfort. He shook his head and stood to leave.
‘If you think of anything at all that might help, please ring. And could we have the address of your ex-husband too? I know you think he’s not responsible, but we still need to check him out, just to eliminate him if nothing else.’ He handed me a card with his contact details and I gave him Paul’s address, thanked them both and then showed them to the door.
My concentration was gone entirely. It would be impossible now to do any work. So I boiled myself an egg and ate in silence whilst considering getting a cat. A purring ball of fur on my lap could be just the thing to calm my increasingly edgy nerves, or maybe I should consider a Rottweiler.
Chapter Ten
Madeline’s call was unexpected, although I had thought about calling her myself to find out why she hadn’t told me of this latest letter.
‘Darling, this is so horrible for you. The police asked that any further letters be sent directly to them – I’m so sorry!’ she gushed.
‘That’s okay, I understand.’ And I did.
‘We’ve had a meeting with the legal department and the executive editor and have decided to suspend the ‘Ask Laura’ page for the time being.’ Madeline spoke softly now, knowing this wouldn’t go down well with me.
‘But why? The police agree that it’s probably someone who doesn’t know me. Why give in to this monster? It’s blackmail and if we give him what he asks, he’ll have won!’ I was angry and afraid simultaneously; angry at the man writing such letters and fearful for my future! If they decided to cut out my page, I’d be looking for another job, and I loved this one.
‘We simply can’t take the risk. If anything did happen to you, I’d never forgive myself. Put yourself in my place, Laura. Wouldn’t you do the same?’
‘I suppose so, but this is only temporary, isn’t it?’ I asked, needing reassurance.
‘Only until the police find whoever is doing this. In the meantime, we’ll continue paying your salary and perhaps you could concentrate on writing some more features? Our readers will miss your problem page, but they enjoy the regular features you write so beautifully.’ Madeline was always so calm and annoyingly right. All I could do was to thank her and accept the decision to suspend my page. They had been generous in continuing to pay my salary, but we both knew it wouldn’t be indefinite. We ended the phone call, by which time I felt more than a little deflated. Perhaps it was time to pull out my unfinished (barely started to be more accurate) novel, but I had no heart for it. Maybe tomorrow?
That evening, Jake was going to Jon’s house again, and I’d given him the same instructions about ringing when he was ready to come home. Lucy was in her room, and Sam absorbed in a computer game, so I’d spent my time trying to write, although the words wouldn’t come. Then, just as I was beginning to wonder if I should ring Jake, the door opened and he walked in, followed by Jon and Richard. My heart sank.
‘Hello, I was just about to come and get you.’ I tried to sound upbeat but felt the situation was suddenly not in my control, even though it was in my own home. Jake gave me a weak smile and went upstairs, followed by Jon, while Richard edged towards me.
‘Jake was ready to come home and wanted to show Jon something, so I thought I’d bring them over to save you the trouble.’ His face had a peculiar expression on it, a mixture of anticipation and something else which wasn’t easy to interpret.
‘Thank you, but it wouldn’t have been any trouble to come for him. I hope he’s behaved himself?’ What a stupid question. Jake, probably the most sensitive of my children, always behaved himself at other people’s homes; I knew he could be trusted.
‘Oh yes, he’s been great. They get on so well together it’s a pleasure to see.’ Richard sat down next to me on the sofa, uninvited. I stood up and offered coffee, not that I wanted to prolong this visit but simply to move away from such uncomfortable proximity to this man. He patted the seat beside him, saying, ‘No, don’t worry about coffee, come and sit down and get comfortable.’
The only way I could have been comfortable with Richard would be by sitting in the next room.
‘Richard, you’ll have to forgive me, but I have a lot of work to do tonight, so I’ll just go and see if Jon’s ready...’
Richard stood and moved over to me, and before I was able to protest, his arms were pinning me to the door-frame and he was trying to kiss me. I pulled away and almost ran to the other side of the room. His face darkened.
‘Come on, Laura, don’t be a tease. I know you’re lonely and we could have a bit of fun, a diversion, you know? So, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, literally if you like?’ He laughed, snorting at his joke.
‘Yes, I do know what you mean and I’m sorry but you’ve got the wrong idea entirely! I’m not looking for another relationship or even a bit of “fun” as you put it!’ My whole body was trembling as Richard’s face grew darker. He came towards me again, his face contorted into a grin or a leer. I couldn’t decide which.
‘Think you’re too good for me, do you? You with your pathetic little life, pretending you can solve other people’s problems when you can’t even get yourself a man!’
If the children hadn’t been in the house, I was convinced he would have struck me or something worse. I froze, afraid to move as Richard pushed past me and went to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Come on, Jon, we’re going home, now!’ he shouted. Fortunately, Jon came down immediately and I watched as his father grabbed his arm and almost dragged the poor boy out through the door. I remained still, breathing deeply to calm myself. Jake came downstairs and jolted me back into the world of the mundane as he asked what he could have for supper. If he noticed the state I was in, he said nothing, and I forced myself to find my son something to eat.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. My mind raced with the events of the day and I had to admit to being shaken by the unpleasant encounter with Richard. He’d clearly been engineering a friendship between our sons, in which probably neither of them had an interest. Perhaps now that would stop and Jake wouldn’t receive any more invitations from Jon. The memory of Richard touching me made me shudder. The man must be so thick-skinned as I’d told him on previous occasions that I had no interest in seeing him at all. Surely now he would realise that I wasn’t being coy or teasing. I simply didn’t like him.
As I mulled over the incident, a strange thought crossed my mind; could it possibly be Richard who was the source of these hate letters? Surely not! I tried to form some kind of timeline to piece together events in relation to the letters. I’d certainly been aware of Richard for the past year, but he’d only approached me a few months ago when he first asked me to go out with him. Since then he’d hovered on the periphery of school events, and I’d been very much aware of him watching me on occasions. He’d even suggested another date, which again I refused. The invitations from Jon to Jake had been more recent but was it possible that Richard wrote those letters, and if so, why? Could it be an attempt to make me feel vulnerable so he could play the knight in shining armour and offer comfort? And should I tell the police about him? It was a tough call; if I did speak to the police, they would almost certainly interview him, which, if he were innocent, would be a dreadful accusation no matter how tactfully the police approached it. Yet they had asked me to inform them if anything out of the ordinary happened or if I had any suspicions about who this letter writer could be. I tossed and turned in bed, unable to decide what to do, and sleep refused to rescue me from my troubled mind.
Eventually, I went down to the kitchen to warm some milk in the hope of getting sleepy, purposefully turning my thoughts from Richard to the other bad news of the day, the suspension of my page. It grieved me to think that ‘Ask Laura’ wouldn’t be appearing in the magazine and for an indefinite period too. I loved answering those letters and liked to think that my advice helped those readers who perhaps had no one else to turn to. Switching on my laptop, I began scrolling through some of those old letters that I could never bring myself to delete. One of them jumped out at me; it was sent nearly two years ago from a mother estranged from her daughter.
* * *
Dear Laura,
My daughter, Alice, left home last year to live with her boyfriend. I didn’t want her to go, but she’s seventeen and we’d not been getting on too well at the time. I hoped we could build a new relationship and perhaps become friends, but she refuses to see me. She never comes home and when I’ve called at their flat, I don’t get an answer, even though I’m pretty sure she’s in. She still sees her sister, who is fifteen and living at home, but even she won’t tell me why Alice refuses to see me or answer her phone. What can I do?
Sally
Dear Sally,
This is such a difficult time for you and I can feel your pain throughout your letter. Teenage years are never easy, and as parents, we sometimes fail to pick up on things our children see as important. Perhaps there was a particular incident or even something you said which Alice misunderstood? You could try writing a letter, asking her what it is that you have done to cause this estrangement, and telling her how much you long to see her again. If there is no response, maybe you could tell your younger daughter how upsetting this is for you and ask for her help telling Alice how you feel.
You don’t say what your relationship with Alice’s boyfriend was like – could you approach him to talk about the situation?
If these suggestions don’t work, there’s very little you can do except to remain constant. Continue to send birthday and Christmas cards, with chatty messages asking how she is and telling her how much you would like to see her again. Hopefully, in time, Alice will realise what she is missing and how much you love her.
Laura
