My breath catches. It’s her. The woman described in the tape. He was talking about the Holbecks’ nanny.
I squint at the photo credit caption beneath.
（L to R） Robert Holbeck, wife Eleanor Holbeck, with their two sons Edward and Robert, and a family friend, as they attend the Children’s Aid charity luncheon, July 31st 1985.
A family friend. No name. I scroll on, skipping ahead to the late 1990s, getting closer to Bobby’s death date. And I see her again, at some kind of garden party. She gets her own photograph this time beside Eleanor, Pimm’s glass in hand, as they are caught mid-laugh. The nanny’s soft blonde hair is swept back up in a French twist, her pale neck and delicate collarbone bare. She is older here; but now that I consider it, there is an eerie similarity between us. I can’t help but wonder if it’s ever crossed Edward’s mind how much his fiancée looks like this willowy figure from his childhood; I imagine it has crossed Robert’s.
The photo credit reads:
（L to R） Eleanor Holbeck and Samantha Belson at the Melfort Annual Summer Gala, August 7th 2002.
Samantha Belson.
I have a name. Now I just need to find out if she’s still alive.
My next move depends very much on the type of game we’re playing here, and I’ve got exactly three days in which to find that out.
20 The Plot Thickens
Thursday 15 December
‘So, this is for the new book?’
Retired NYPD Lieutenant Deonte Hughley sits across the table from me in a cosy booth at Tom’s Diner in Prospect Heights. He gives me a wry smile as he takes off his pristine cowboy hat and places it gently down on the bench seat beside him.
My American publisher put me in touch with Deonte two years ago after I requested they connect me with someone in the US police force who could fact-check my first novel.
Lt Hughley was keen to help, having recently retired, and was an invaluable resource on my first book, always sparking creative ideas and handling my layman knowledge with diplomatic kid gloves. During the final edit, I spoke with him regularly, running legal and sometimes infuriatingly granular procedural questions by him. At what temperature is DNA evidence completely destroyed? Can a cause of death always be determined? Do cops really like doughnuts?
It always helped that he answered with a certain light-heartedness, given the sometimes unsettling nature of the content. We’ve kept in touch via email since, and spoke most recently last week, in the final frantic throes of my new novel’s first draft deadline.
We know each other fairly well by now, a shared language emerging from his honest disclosure and my unending interest in his answers. We’ve certainty duked out a lot of plot strands together, though this might only be the fourth time we’ve actually met in person.
‘Uh-huh. Second book. Exactly. Just piecing it all together,’ I say with a smile. And in a way it’s true. My questions are about a family, a family with the power to cover up anything. But it isn’t my book I need Deonte’s help with this time. It is my life.
He shakes his head, slow, and stirs his coffee. ‘I don’t know where y’all come up with these ideas. So, in this one, a girl finds a tape cassette with a confession right there on it. Ha. Now that is a case I would have killed to be on.’
‘Why, because it’s a sure thing? Convictable? Given the evidence?’ I ask, perhaps a little too hopefully.
Deonte raises an eyebrow. ‘Nah, because it sounds like a fun one. I think you know by now, at least from our conversations, most crime, well, it ain’t fun. It’s a god-awful, draining, soul-destroying slog. But this tape, now that sounds tasty – juicy, exciting, you know. Like a movie. I’m in. Hell, I wanna read it now.’
‘Well, that’s a good sign.’ I give a reassured smile. ‘So, my main character, the girl, is given this tape by the perpetrator of the crimes. But, here’s the thing, the crimes mentioned on it, it’s not clear if they really happened or if this man is stringing her along, toying with her. She doesn’t know if the events described are real,’ I add, then break off, unsure how to get to the nub of what I’m asking. ‘I guess I want to know what evidence she’d need in order to take this to the police? To be sure it wasn’t a fake, or to ensure a conviction without leaving herself open to reprisal.’