Authors: Sophie Hannah
The Warning (8 page)
“I’
M NOT ANY
label that applies to a group of people,” says Nadine. If she’s shocked or hurt to be described as a sociopath, she doesn’t show it. “I’m me—an individual.”
“One who’s been fired three times now,” says Simon. “And for the same thing in all three cases. It’s an unusual form of transgression, I’ll grant you that. As you say: individual. At Speros Engineering, you picked on one Martin Kennett—like Tom Rigbey, Kennett was a man way above you in the office hierarchy. You were friendly and helpful to him to his face, but every so often you’d take someone aside—someone you thought might be about to get close to him, someone who seemed to think well of him—and you’d warn them about him. ‘Keep away from Martin Kennett—he’s bad news, seriously bad.’ You probably put it more poetically, I’d imagine, since you described Tom Rigbey as a plague. You don’t want to deny any of this?”
“No.” Nadine smiles. “I warned people about Martin, yes. I think it’s important to warn people, even if it’s not what they want to hear. It’s for their own good.”
“You were fired from Speros because, although your hints gained some traction initially and some people did keep their distance from Kennett, you shared your poisonous warnings with one person too many. Eventually, someone with more-than-average confidence in their own opinion refused to be swayed, and instead thought, ‘Hang on a minute. There’s no way Martin Kennett’s evil or dangerous, and no one should be trying to blacken another person’s name at work without hard facts to back up her story.’ I don’t know who that person was, Nadine. The bloke I spoke to at Speros wouldn’t tell me her name. Maybe you know it? Anyway, whatever her name was, she went to her boss and made a fuss. Martin Kennett versus Nadine Caspian became official and guess what? You had nothing to back up your claims and hints, did you? You were revealed for what you were. Are, I should say: a spiteful troublemaker who picks on innocent people at random, then warns others about them. That’s
all
you do—but it’s enough.”
“Don’t you think it’s important to warn people against danger?” Nadine asks Simon, as if she’s heard none of what he’s been saying. “As a policeman, I’m sure you issue warnings all the time. Warnings are good for society, and for individuals.”
“It’s a clever tactic, if you want to destroy other people and their relationships,” Simon goes on as if she hasn’t spoken.
I’ve never heard a conversation like this before. For me to join in in any way feels impossible. Both Simon and Nadine seem to be trapped in their own private worlds, speaking but not hearing. Set apart, in two sealed bubbles, miles apart. I’m frozen, trying to listen hard and remember every word.
“Jackson and Decker, exactly the same story,” says Simon. “This time it was the MD you selected as your victim, Iain Jackson. You took people into corners and advised them not to trust him, even with the smallest thing. You said it in a way that implied a detailed backstory, untold suffering . . . and it was bullshit. Lies. All made up. Iain Jackson might have done terrible things to people—anything’s possible—but if he had, you knew nothing about them. You had no reason to think he was any more dangerous than anyone else at Jackson and Decker. As with Speros, you weren’t quite subtle or selective enough. You told one person, eventually, who wasn’t content to avoid Jackson from that moment on purely on your say-so. He made an issue of it, demanded proof, and you had none. He started to suspect you were the person everyone needed to be warned about. A short while later, you got fired for the second time. Then history repeated itself at CamEgo—your third sacking in four years.”
Simon turns to me. “Chloe, when you heard Nadine had lost her job, you feared Tom had made it happen because you’d told him enough to make him fear she was onto him. Not true. There was nothing to be onto. Nadine was on her way to getting the boot anyway. Several people at CamEgo were wise to her antics, but it was the conversation you had with her on the stairs that speeded up the process.”
“On . . . on the stairs?” I hear myself say. I didn’t mention that to Simon—where we were when she said those horrible things. Someone else must have told him. He’s clearly been thorough in his research.
“That’s right. You were overheard, Nadine. On the other side of a thin wall was another flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. Someone coming down those stairs, another CamEgo employee, heard every slanderous word you said. He heard you describe Tom Rigbey as a plague in human form and, knowing this was as far from the truth as it’s possible to be, he went to his line manager. Coincidentally, that person had been told only the day before about your campaign to badmouth Tom.”
Nadine has started to look impatient. “I’ve done nothing worse than advise people to be careful, DC . . . I can’t remember your surname.”
“Waterhouse. Is that your best defense?”
“It’s short and to the point.”
“Yes, in keeping with your overall strategy,” Simon agrees. “Say as little as possible. You don’t need to kill, bomb, mutilate to have an effect. That would be too easy. Any fool armed with a weapon can wreak havoc—where’s the challenge there? You do nothing but warn. If lives are destroyed as a result, it’s so much more satisfying for you, because you’ve barely put yourself out at all. What’s strange is that you can’t see it’s
your
life you’re trashing. How many more times are you prepared to be fired? Why don’t you just stop?”
Nadine leans forward and taps the glass coffee table with her fingernail. “Cite me one thing I’ve said that’s factually untrue. All I did was express my own personal opinion to Chloe. I’m entitled to my opinion.”
“It’s not your true opinion,” says Simon. “I think you go out of your way to pick blameless, good, decent people. That makes it more fun, does it? Luckily for the world, and unluckily for you, there are plenty of people who hear warnings like the kind you dish out and don’t just think, ‘No smoke without fire’ and ostracize whoever you suggest. Luckily, Chloe chose to ignore you, and is now engaged to Tom Rigbey. She could see he was a decent guy, even if she couldn’t immediately see what a toxic person you are.”
“Toxic?” Nadine laughs. “Toxic because I warned her, as a friend would? Isn’t that what we do when we care deeply about someone? Spot the dangers that might lie in store for them and warn them to take a different path? Warn them until they don’t trust their own judgment anymore, and will take our word for anything? I’m sure you’ve done it, DC Simon—oh, yes, you have! You’re doing it now: warning Chloe not to trust me. How’s that any different to what I said to Chloe about Tom? You can’t possibly know what kind of satisfying, meaningful friendship Chloe and I might have had if your ‘toxic’ slurs hadn’t got in the way. Isn’t that right, Chloe? Is there any point in my warning you now—don’t trust DC Simon? No?”
Simon blinks at her a few times. Then he says, “It happened to you, didn’t it? That’s what’s behind this. You were warned away from somebody. At work? In your love life? You listened, you heeded the warning, and you came to regret it bitterly. The person who gave you the advice might have done so because they cared—maybe too much—but they were wrong. You suffered as a result. You lost something.”
Nadine’s mouth flattens into a line. Is she even listening? She mutters, “Of course, you could argue that anyone who heeds a warning from a stranger deserves everything they get. If your theory about me is right—I’m not saying it is, but if it
were—
well, I’d be living proof of an important principle: trust your own judgment when it comes to those you care about. Don’t trust strangers pushing slander. If your theory were true, DC Simon, which it isn’t . . . then I set Chloe a test. And she passed.”
“But you failed when it happened to you,” Simon says. “You didn’t trust your own judgment. And you’ve never forgiven yourself. Never got over it.”
“Interesting story.” Nadine looks away, toward the door to the balcony. “Also interesting that you feel free to make up stories about me while condemning me for doing the same thing—allegedly.”
I clear my throat. “Nadine, if Simon’s got you all wrong, tell me what it is about Tom that makes you think he’s a plague and not to be trusted. It’s your opinion—fine—but what are you basing it on?” I want something conclusive from her. Did she set me a test, which I passed, or offer me a chance to protect myself that I blindly ignored? What is her genuine opinion of Tom?
Why do you care? You trust Simon Waterhouse, don’t you?
“I was just trying to warn you, Chloe,” she snaps. “For your own sake. I wish I hadn’t bothered.”
The aggression in her voice throws me. She kept her tone civil, if chilly, for her dialogue with Simon, so why is she lashing out at me?
Because, if Simon’s right, she can’t forgive you—for being in the situation she was once in and choosing differently. She lost something. She suffered. You’re engaged to Tom Rigbey, on your way to happy ever after. She sees you as her counterpart—in love, adoring, impressed by a brilliant man—and can’t forgive you for being wiser than she was. Easier for her to forgive Simon, who has accused and exposed her.
“But why did you feel the need to warn me?” I persist. For some reason, in spite of everything, I want to give her one last chance. I don’t want to condemn anybody on weak evidence. Not Tom, certainly, but no one else either.
“How can I talk to you now, Chloe?” Nadine demands, as if I’ve let her down. “How? You’re engaged to him? You’ve made it very clear whose side you’re on. Anything I said now would fall on deaf ears.”
Simon stands up. “Let’s go, Chloe. She won’t tell you anything because there’s nothing to tell.”
“Chloe’s not so sure about that, DC Simon. Are you, Chloe?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am. Get some help. I’m sorry if you’ve had a bad experience, but it’s not my fault, or Tom’s. Stop trying to ruin other people’s happiness.”
“That’s right,” says Nadine bitterly as Simon and I turn to leave. “You tell yourself
I’m
the one doing that. You believe exactly what suits you, like everyone else does.”
“W
HERE DO YOU
want me to drop you?” Simon asks. We’re in his car, driving away from St. Matthew’s Gardens.
Thank God.
“I don’t,” I say. “Just . . . drive around for a bit. I’m not ready to . . . I mean, I need to ask you some questions.”
“Ask away,” he says wearily. I ignore the tone and choose to notice only that I’ve been given official permission.
“You honestly believe Nadine Caspian is . . . what? A serial warner? That’s it, all she does? She warns people about other people? Is that a thing? Have you ever known anyone else do that?”
Simon sighs. “No. It’s a new one for me. But I’ve known lots of dysfunctional people who have taken something that wasn’t a thing and never should have become one, and turned it into their own personal form of inflicting harm.”
“All those questions you asked me about Tom—had he told me he’d been fired . . .”
“I wanted you to focus on what you knew for sure. You had no reason to think Tom had been fired. You knew that Nadine had—that other receptionist told you. I was hoping you’d figure out that, in the absence of any other certainties, that fact alone ought to make you more suspicious of Nadine than of Tom.”
“And . . . when you said it was good that I’d had dinner with Tom and accepted his marriage proposal . . . when you told me to reply to his text as if nothing at all was wrong . . .”
“Yeah. I didn’t want Tom to get wind of your suspicions—planted in your head by Nadine. Most people don’t take kindly to be suspected of every heinous sin under the sun when they’ve never harmed anyone. I didn’t want you to start acting cold and withdrawn and aloof with Tom in case it ruined a promising new relationship.”
“I wish you’d told me as soon as you knew,” I say, as we drive past the Vue cinema on East Road. “Why didn’t you?”
“Once I knew the truth, I knew I needed to tell you, and I wanted to say it in front of Nadine, see how she’d react. Why would I go through the same spiel twice?”
“For the sake of my peace of mind,” I say pointedly.
“I suppose,” he concedes. I wait for an apology, but none arrives. I wonder if anyone has ever warned anyone to have nothing to do with DC Simon Waterhouse.
“Nadine’s right about one thing,” he says. “It’s something people often do when they care about others, or imagine they do. They warn them. Maybe they shouldn’t.”
“Maybe not. Unless an enormous boulder is about to land on someone’s head.”
“You can’t tell people how they ought to feel about other people,” says Simon. “It doesn’t work. Have you and Lorna been best friends for a long time?”
The mention of Lorna’s name surprises me. For once, she wasn’t in my thoughts at all.
“Yes. It feels like forever. Why?”
“No reason.” Simon smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to warn you about her.” He gives me an impenetrable look, then shakes his head.
“Because you don’t think she’s bad for me, or because Nadine Caspian’s put you off warning anyone about anything ever?” I ask.
“I like your suspicious mind,” he says. “I warn you: carry on like that and you might end up working for the police. She asked me to drop you off at her house—after our visit to Nadine.”
“Who did? Lorna?”
He nods.
“No. Drop me off at my . . .” I change my mind mid-sentence. “Actually, can you drop me off at CamEgo? I want to see Tom, as soon as possible.”
“No problem.”
As I climb out of the car, my phone buzzes twice in my pocket. A text. I wait until I’ve waved Simon off, then pull out my phone, praying it’s from Tom.
It is. Four words – “A mouthful of fish! T xx”—attached to a photo so unflattering that I’m amazed he dared send it. His mouth is wide open and there’s half of what looks like a tuna sandwich stuffed inside it, hanging out because it won’t all fit in.
It’s not the salmon fillet from earlier, but I suppose tuna will suffice as evidence. Eating fish did happen and here’s the picture to prove it: a gross one that would put many women off, perhaps, but not me.
I love Tom Rigbey, and I’m going to marry him. He could push a charity worker under a bus tomorrow, or have the flag of some unpronounceable country ruled by a dictator tattooed on his face and I would still love him every bit as much as I do now.