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‘Lovely thanks,’ I reply. ‘A long hot bath, a face mask and an early night.’ It couldn’t be further from the truth. A bottle of wine, a dozen roll-ups and a barbecue-flavoured Pot Noodle.
‘Oh, bliss! I could do with all of those,’ she replies.
Leanne and I couldn’t look more different if we tried. She is a thick-boned woman with a white streak through the centre of long, auburn hair. Her skin is flawless. I’m underweight, my hair is full of split ends and my skin is pale and blotchy. She’s probably around my age and I feel a little reassured that her wedding ring finger is bare. It’s become a real habit of mine, glancing at that digit when I first meet someone. It’s as if I need confirmation that there are others out there like me.
We exchange pleasantries, and as I don’t have an electronic swipe card yet, I follow her into the Help for Homes office. It’sbeen a few weeks since I received Ann On’s message and sent the application to volunteer my time to the charity. Today is my fourth on the job.
It’s a cramped space that barely fits the three desks arranged inside. Behind us is a window looking out into a larger area with tables and chairs. There is a hot-drink vending machine with an Out of Order sign taped to the front, and a handful of men and women are eating lunches from plastic boxes.
I share this room with Leanne and a man with the name Derek Reid written on a laminated ID card attached to a lanyard around his neck. So this is Paul’s friend, the witness at Gwen’s wedding, who Paul used to sign the form that got him added to the house deeds. I bet it was thanks to him that the investigation into Paul went no further after Paul took Gwen away to Clacton-on-Sea. I know it was reported to the charity as a safeguarding issue, but as far as I was told they put it down to ‘miscommunication’.
However, I can’t let on what I know about him in case he says something to Paul. He’s chatty, perhaps even a little flirtatious, and at least a couple of decades older than me. There’s no ring on his finger, and he’s smartly dressed and wears a tartan-patterned tweed flat cap even when he’s indoors. Any friend of Paul’s is someone I wouldn’t touch with a flamethrower, let alone a barge pole.
Yesterday, when I asked him where we keep the files for volunteers and their matches, he tried to stonewall me with talk of GDPR and privacy issues for volunteers, and that because he’s staff, he can access them but I can’t. But I can smell bullshit from fifty paces. Only he’s not here today, he’s off sick.
‘So you’ll be on your own for most of the morning, if you’re okay with that?’ asks Leanne.
‘Sure,’ I say, and try not to display my joy at this news. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m meeting a couple of prospective volunteers for coffee in town. Demand is outstripping supply, so we’re desperate for some new faces.’
Leanne told me the same thing when I arrived for my interview at Help for Homes on Monday. ‘So as I explained on the phone,’ she began, ‘we’re looking for someone who can help a few hours a week in the office with filing, typing letters, keeping on top of emails and chasing up the criminal record checks for new volunteers. Oh, and thank you for bringing your DBS certificate and references with you.’
‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘I had mine already from a recent temping job.’
It was the first of many lies I told her in a very short space of time. The truth is, it’s not hard to buy a forged certificate over the internet that says you have no criminal record if you know the right websites. Only an eagle-eyed expert would realise it wasn’t genuine, and I didn’t have Leanne pegged as one, bless her. As for my CV, well, the Harry Potter books are more fact-based than what I wrote.
Leanne explained how the charity runs programmes across the Midlands and South East region. ‘There are so many cowboys out there and we hate the thought of our clients being scammed,’ she added.
And Paul is the biggest cowboy of them all.That’s what I wanted to tell her. But I didn’t. I know it’s not the charity’s fault. Though it doesn’t stop me from harbouring a little resentment towards Leanne and whoever took him on.
The next day she showed me to my new desk, and this is where I’ve been ever since. There’s a small risk Paul might one day suddenly appear, but it’s one I’ll have to take. Today, I’m mostly responding to enquiry emails until Leanne slips on her jacket, throws her handbag over her shoulder and tells me she will see me this afternoon.
‘I forgot to ask you,’ I say. ‘Does Paul Michael still volunteer for you?’
‘Paul? Yes, he does. Do you know him?’
‘I met him through friends a while back.’
‘Once seen never forgotten, eh?’ There’s a twinkle in her eye that suggests she has more than a professional interest in him. ‘He’s been with us a while, but he’s not a regular. He helps out when he’s back in the country.’
‘Where else does he work?’
‘He’s often based in Africa, helping famine-hit countries to get back on their feet. We don’t see him for months at a time and then he’ll suddenly appear. All the ladies love him, and can you blame them?’
‘No,’ I say through gritted teeth. But I don’t believe for a second he has helped anyone in Africa. He’s hardly Bob bloody Geldof.
I stare at the clock and wait ten minutes after she leaves. Now it’s time to get to the crux of why I’m really here. It takes a while but I finally locate a file on my computer that contains a spreadsheet listing all the charity’s clients, along with the volunteers they’ve been matched with. However, there is no mention of Gwen or Paul’s names. But I’m not done yet. I go through every single document I can find – and there are scores of them – until I unearth a file hidden inside a folder titled ‘Empty’. It’s another version of the spreadsheet, and bingo! This time, I find Gwen’s name with Paul Michael’s next to it. And there’s also a home address for him. I make a note of it on my phone.
I return to the list and count twenty women who Paul has helped over the last five years. Next to each name is a brief description of their situation. It’s a shopping list of brain conditions – tumours, strokes, motor neurone disease, Alzheimer’s, vascular dementia, Lewy body dementia, mixed dementia and Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. They all needed practical help just like Gwen did. Iwonder how many he took financial and emotional advantage of? I want to be wrong; I want Gwen to have been the only woman he killed. But that Facebook message from Ann On suggests something different.
A voice in the back of my head catches me unawares.How are you any different to him? it asks, unfairly I think. ‘I haven’t killed anyone,’ I reply aloud.
But the voice has a point. HowamI any different? If events had played out as I’d planned, I’d have taken advantage of Gwen’s condition just as Paul did. And if I’m being honest with myself, me trying to dig up dirt on him isn’t only because I want justice for Gwen. It’s also because I want him locked up so I get what I’m owed – her estate.
Does that make me a bad person?You already know the answer,Rachel, the voice replies. It can piss off.
Gwen is the last-but-one name listed here. The most recent addition appeared a week after Gwen’s death. Her name is Fran Brown. I wonder if that’s who Paul is now slowly sinking his claws into.
