by C. L. Taylor
‘I don’t feel safe. I don’t know who’s doing this or what they’ll do next.’
‘You’re scared. I understand that, and if you ever feel in any way vulnerable or worried you can give me a call. Or ring 999 if you are in any kind of danger. I could also arrange for a crime reduction officer to review your home security and provide you with a personal alarm.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Well, obviously avoid going anywhere alone and park in well-lit spots. I’m here if you need me and the local units are aware of your situation. They’ll keep an eye on your house and car whenever possible.’
‘Thanks,’ Alice says, but the knot in her stomach remains.
When DC Mitchell hangs up, Alice taps on the messages icon on her phone and sends a text to Simon:
Just spoke to DC Mitchell. Michael has an alibi! Could your ex be the one that scratched my car?
She puts the phone down, then opens her crisps. She shovels them into her mouth.
Simon’s busy, she tells herself when he doesn’t reply immediately. He’s probably on the phone to a customer about a claim.
Truthfully she doesn’t have the slightest idea what Simon does all day. He might not even talk to clients for all she knows. Whenever she’s pressed him to tell her more about his job he’s swiftly moved the conversation on with an: ‘Honestly, I’d bore myself just telling you about it. Let’s talk about something more interesting.’
Crisps finished, she folds the packet into a little triangle and drops it into the bin before picking up her phone and texting Simon again.
Are you still on for the cinema tonight?
It sounds needy, double-checking when they made the date only yesterday, but she can’t think what else to text. He didn’t reply to her chirpy Morning! How are you? that she sent on the bus to work. I’m not needy, she reassures herself. I just want to hear back from him, to check he’s okay.
The door opens as she frowns at her phone.
‘Man trouble?’
She looks up. ‘Sorry?’
Lynne strolls across the room and takes the seat next to her. ‘I’ve seen that look on your face before and it only means one thing.’
‘What? No. Everything’s fine.’
‘So why are you gripping your phone like it’s a grenade?’
‘I’m not.’ She puts the phone down and gives it a nudge then changes the subject, ‘Everything okay on the shop floor?’
‘Fine.’ Lynne gets up, crosses the room to the minute fridge in the corner, and takes out a blue Tupperware tub. ‘Quiet.’ She glances back at her. ‘Heard anything from the police about your car?’
‘Yeah, they just rang. Michael didn’t do it. He’s got an alibi.’
‘Seriously?’ Lynne sits down and peels back the lid.
‘There’s no CCTV and they didn’t send anyone out to fingerprint the car or look for DNA.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘I wish I was.’ She casts a glance at her phone. The screen is dark. No new messages.
Lynne catches her looking. ‘Has he dumped you?’
‘No! What makes you think that?’
‘Nothing you just …’ Lynne stabs her fork into her boiled egg and chicken salad. ‘You looked worried when I walked in, that’s all.’
‘Wouldn’t you be if someone was sending you creepy messages and keyed your car and the police have no idea who’s behind it?’
‘True.’ Lynne shrugs agreeably. ‘How’s Emily?’
Alice leans back in her chair and rubs her hands over her face. ‘I’m worried about her. Adam’s been disappearing at night, staying up late after she’s gone to bed, and then going out.’
‘I thought she stayed at yours during the week.’
‘She was but she’s been staying over at his more often; keeping an eye on him, probably.’
‘Where’s he been going?’
‘He says the pub with friends but Emily thinks he’s been cheating on her. She’s been stalking his social media to find proof.’
Lynne chases an errant piece of egg around the tub then stabs it with her fork and pops it into her mouth. ‘She needs to dump him.’
‘Try telling her that.’
‘She needs to work it out for herself. When I was her age I thought I knew bloody everything.’
As Lynne continues to share her wisdom, Alice mentally drifts off. She’s stressing about Simon. There, she’s admitted it to herself. Other than the handful of texts they exchanged yesterday about what film to see and what time, she hasn’t heard a peep from him. He didn’t reply to any of the texts she sent last night or the one she sent that morning and now she’s annoyed with herself. She’s being needy, looking to him for reassurance, but she’s been feeling unnerved ever since Lynne sowed seeds of doubt about him being some kind of scam artist. It was a ridiculous suggestion, but he did leave the restaurant to make a phone call after she showed him the Facebook message from Ann Friend, and he was very odd after the car scratching.
‘Who needs men!’ Lynne’s voice cuts through her thoughts. ‘We should all go away together – me, you and Emily. Have you made plans for the summer yet? I’ve always fancied the Greek islands. What do you think?’
‘Sorry, what—’ Alice is distracted as the staffroom door creaks open. A thin young woman with short blonde hair and a nose piercing walks in with Larry following behind, one hand on her shoulder, his other hand clutching a black holdall with a load of new stock spilling out of the top.
‘Caught her in the act.’ He gestures for the woman to continue through the staffroom to Alice’s office.
She scowls, then tries to twist out of his grasp. ‘Fuck off, you old perv.’
Alice jumps out of her seat and hurries into her office, sweeping her desk for any potential weapons. She doesn’t take any chances with shoplifters, not since one snatched up her stapler and threw it at her head before making a break for the door.
Chapter 23
@onthecliffedge:
Any update on the Harbourside murderer?
@DiddleyBopDee:
What do you mean? Has someone else disappeared?
@realmadwife:
My husband might if he doesn’t put the bloody bins out on time this week.
@onthecliffedge:
Are the police looking into it?
@refrigeratorcar:
Nope. They said no foul play suspected.
@onthecliffedge:
But the bodies of the two men who disappeared haven’t been found yet, have they?
@MotobkeBob:
Nope, that’s because they’re buried in the garden of someone who has loads of cats.
@refrigeratorcar:
What have cats got to do with it?
@MotobkeBob:
People who have loads of cats are weirdos.
@gemzy9:
OI! I’VE GOT FOUR CATS.
@MotobkeBob:
Point proved.
Chapter 24
Ursula
Ursula shoves the last piece of toast into her mouth then washes up her plate and puts it back in the cupboard. She sniffs the air. The musky smell she noticed the first time Edward showed her the kitchen has grown stronger. It’s at its most pungent by the basement door. She tries the handle again. Still locked. She hasn’t once seen Edward go down there since she moved in. Not that they’re in the house together very often – other than when they ran into each other the other lunchtime it’s only first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. They’re like ships that pass in the night.
‘What are you up to, Edward?’ she mutters as she drifts from room to room, opening drawers and lifting sofa cushions before dropping down to her knees to peer under pieces of furniture. She’s on a later shift today and Edward has already left for work. She was already awake when he got up, and listened from the safety of her bed, the chain drawn across her bedroom door, as the floorboard on the landing creaked then the bathroom door clicked shut. She wasn’t going to con
front him about the newspaper clipping he stole back because she knew he’d only lie. Who was it? A relative? An ex-lover? She’s pretty sure Edward isn’t gay. When she moved her things in he was so taken by an attractive blonde walking past the house that Ursula had to ask him three times to move out of the doorway so she could bring in her suitcase.
Besides, what gay man would have a dartboard on the wall of his living room? She runs a hand along the top of the sideboard, the wood cool and smooth under her fingertips until she reaches the neat line of three darts. She taps at the flight, flipping it to the left, then the right then, completely without thinking, closes her hand around it and puts it in the pocket of her coat and glances at her watch. The van’s loaded with parcels but if she doesn’t get a move on she’ll be late.
There’s no light on in the window of number six, no baby sitting on the carpet in a sea of plastic toys, and no television flickering in the corner of the room. The window – the one she normally passes parcels through – is closed and the curtains in the bedroom above are still pulled. Has the owner gone out, Ursula wonders, her agoraphobia magically cured? She crouches down and peers through the letter box. There’s a buggy, propped up against the hallway wall, and a pair of small, blue children’s shoes beneath a tiny jacket on a coat rack. They’re in. She feels sure of it.
‘Hello!’ she shouts. ‘Courier!’
She listens for a response – for the wail of a child or a female voice – but the house is completely silent.
‘Helloooo!’ She shouts louder this time. ‘Is there anyone home?’
There’s a startled yelp in response and a pair of bare female feet appear at the top of the stairs. As the woman gets closer Ursula sees that she’s carrying the toddler, who is naked apart from the towel around her waist. As the woman reaches the last step her gaze flicks from the mottled glass panel of the front door to the letter box and her eyes meet Ursula’s. She makes a strange strangled sound and her whole body jolts. Her heel slips on the edge of the step and she falls, landing with a thump, half on the bottom stair, half on the floor, the child tipped sideways in her arms.
‘Oh my God!’ Ursula grabs at the door handle. She turns it and pulls. Locked.
She crouches back down and peers through the letter box. The woman’s still on her bum. She groans loudly as she awkwardly sets the wailing child onto her feet.
‘Are you all right?’ Ursula asks. The child has started crying, plucking at her mother, trying to get back into her arms. ‘I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I gave you a shock.’
The woman doesn’t reply. Instead she closes her eyes as the child scrambles around her legs, her pudgy little hands grabbing at her mother’s shirt, her chest and her hair.
‘Have you hurt your back? Can you move?’ Ursula whips her mobile phone out of her pouch. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance.’
‘No!’ The woman’s eyes fly open and she winces as she uses her arms to push herself back into a sitting position. ‘No, don’t!’
‘You might have broken something.’
‘I’m fine.’ Her voice breaks on the last word and tears spill down her cheeks.
The fear and guilt Ursula feels is unbearable. She clutches the door handle again, as though her desperation might magically have released it, but it’s still locked. She glances around the cramped hallway. There’s a set of keys hanging on a hook to the right of the child’s coat. ‘Can you unlock the door? I could … I could …’ She tails off. She has no idea what she could do but she feels completely useless stuck on the other side of the door.
‘No.’ The woman grasps the banister and slowly, agonisingly drags herself to her feet, bent double like an old lady. When she tries to right herself she yelps with pain, one hand clutching her back, and sinks down to the floor.
‘What’s your husband’s number?’ Ursula asks desperately as the child throws herself at the curled shape of her mother. ‘He needs to come home and look after you.’
The woman stares at her for the longest time – a raw, desperate look in her eyes.
‘Let me help,’ Ursula says. ‘Please, just tell me how.’
‘No.’ Her face hardens. ‘Fuck off. Just fuck off and leave us alone.’
Chapter 25
Gareth
Gareth parks up outside his house and turns off the engine but, instead of opening the door and marching up the path to the front door, he remains in his seat, his hands lying loosely in his lap. Beyond the windscreen the world continues as normal: a ginger tom slinks down the street unperturbed by a lone jogger, face flushed red, speeding along the pavement in the opposite direction. Gareth is barely aware of his surroundings. Fear hasn’t just rendered him myopic, it’s completely paralysed him.
Twenty-five years he’s been a security guard, six as a supervisor, and tomorrow it could all be over. He didn’t tell Whiting on the phone why he wanted a meeting with him and Liam. He wants to explain what happened face to face. There’s a part of him that’s desperately hoping his boss will hear him out and, taking his exemplary record into account, let him off with a written warning, but the bigger part knows that what he’s done is a sackable offence, written into the contract. He can already imagine the look of delight on Whiting’s face. He just hopes the man asks Liam to leave the room before he officially lets him go. Seeing Liam’s smug grin would be the final kick in the teeth.
Gareth’s stomach growls with hunger. He couldn’t face making a trip to McDonald’s after he called his boss; just the smell of food would have made him retch. But it’s after seven now and his mum will need dinner. And so will he if he’s to stand any chance of getting a good night’s sleep.
‘Mum!’ Gareth glances up at the newly installed CCTV camera as he walks into his house. ‘I’m home.’
He shrugs off his jacket then unties his boots and takes them off. He frowns as he stands up again. The house is too quiet. Something’s not right.
‘Mum?’ He walks into the living room. She’s not in her chair, the television is off and her glasses case is missing from the side table.
‘MUM!’ He powers up the stairs, his arms pumping, his feet pounding the worn carpet runner. ‘Mum, where are—’ The word catches in his throat as he pushes at the door to her bedroom. ‘What are you doing?’
Standing at the end of the bed, dressed in her best church coat, a small veiled hat he’s never seen before and what looks suspiciously like half a fox around her neck, is his mother.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ she says brightly as she bends over the open suitcase in front of her. ‘I’m packing to go on holiday.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going on holiday, Gareth. It is allowed you know.’
‘Where? With who?’ As the relief at finding her alive and well wears off, his mind switches itself back on. He stands up straighter and takes a step towards the bed. The contents of his mother’s suitcase make him want to cry. As well as packing socks and underwear she’s added a framed photo of his father, a spatula, the TV remote control, a bottle of toilet bleach, an ornamental frog, the silver cup he won for cross-country when he was fourteen, a blue paperweight and a dinner plate.
‘Mum,’ he says again. ‘Where are you going and who with?’
She doesn’t look up from the pair of socks she’s repeatedly balling and unballing. ‘I’m going to the seaside.’
Gareth’s mouth opens but he swallows back the truth that would break her heart. ‘Who with?’
‘Your dad.’ The bright smile reappears on her lips. ‘It’s a surprise, but Ruth let it slip.’
It’s been so long since that name was said aloud that it takes Gareth a couple of seconds to register who his mum is talking about. Ruth Cotter, the auntie he’s never met. He’s not entirely sure why the two sisters fell out – his mum said it was because she was left more money in their father’s will. Whereas Uncle Tony, his mum’s brother, once drunkenly claimed that the sisters fell out when Ruth spotted John at a danc
e and told her sister that was the man she was going to marry, only for Joan to accept his invitation to dance. But that was over fifty years ago. His aunt went on to marry someone else and have three children, cousins Gareth has never met.
He scans the room, taking in the open wardrobe doors, the chest of drawers with clothes spilling out, the odds and ends from every room in the house piled up on the bed, but he can’t find what he’s looking for. ‘Did Ruth come round or did she send you a postcard?’
His mum smiles. ‘Of course I’ll send you a postcard, Gareth.’
He takes his mother’s tremoring hands in his. ‘Did any post arrive today?’
She looks at him blankly, confusion sucking the colour from her skin.
‘Post,’ he says again. ‘Letters? Postcards? Maybe Sally or Yvonne put them somewhere. Can you remember?’
As she shakes her head he catches the panic in her eyes and the rigid set of her shoulders. She’s on the verge of a meltdown, a sudden outburst of anger and frustration that will traumatise them both.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks. ‘Shall we go downstairs and I’ll get you some toast and soup?’
‘I want a cheese sandwich.’
‘Okay.’ He offers her the crook of his elbow. ‘I’ll make you one. Shall we go?’
While his mother watches TV, taking tiny mouse-like nibbles of her cheese sandwich, Gareth checks the box under her bed. The bundle of cash inside still contains £140. He pushes it back into place, then texts her carers, asking if anyone visited that day. When they both confirm that there weren’t any visitors, he returns to the living room and fires up his laptop. The CCTV will reveal whether there were any unwelcome guests between shifts. His Auntie Ruth. Or someone pretending to be her?
The software that comes with the CCTV is nothing like the kit he uses at work. The interface is clunky and unintuitive and it takes him forever to retrieve the files he needs, then an age for them to load. His laptop is at least five years old and the fan whirrs noisily as the processor struggles with the size of the footage.
Please, he prays, as the screen freezes, please don’t crash.