Strangers

by C. L. Taylor

  It’s just after 1 a.m. and Ursula is sitting on her bed, looking around her room. When, she wonders, did her life become so small? Why, she keeps asking herself. Why does she keep fucking up? She had a nice home with Charlotte but she screwed that up by stealing and now she’s going to have to move out of Ed’s place too because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’s got no money, no job and, after tonight, nowhere to sleep. She’s also got nowhere to turn. Her dad’s dead and her mum lives in Spain with the stepdad she can’t stand. There was a time, when Ursula was at university studying to become a primary school teacher, when there were loads of people she could have turned to, but they’ve all fallen away over the years. How does that happen, she wonders. How does someone’s world shrink until there are only a handful of people left in it? She had Nathan. She had Charlotte. And that was enough for her. She loved them and they loved her. But Nathan is gone and Charlotte hasn’t responded to any of the texts Ursula has sent apologising for what happened and begging to meet up.

  She looks down at the framed photograph in her hands and runs a finger over Nathan’s cheek.

  ‘Help me,’ she says. ‘Tell me what to do.’

  She waits for his voice, for those familiar warm, loving tones that she holds in her head, but all she can hear is the panicky beat of her pulse in her ears. It was the same sound she heard when she thought someone was trying to get out of the basement, the same frantic pounding she felt in her throat when Nicki fell down the stairs. It was the same sound …

  She squeezes her eyes shut as the memory consumes her and in an instant she’s walking towards the exit of the Wellington pub in the centre of Bristol, hand in hand with Nathan. It’s Friday night, the barman has called last orders but the speakers are still pumping out music – Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’. She and Nath are both pleasantly drunk. They’re chatting about which kebab shop to visit before they go home and Nathan’s reaching for the door handle. It’s hot in the pub and Ursula’s already imagining the sweet relief of the cool night air on her face.

  ‘Taking your kid for a walk are you?’ The words cut through the pounding music and Ursula feels Nathan’s hand tighten in hers. She turns her head. There’s a large group of lads sitting at a table to their right.

  ‘Ignore them,’ she hisses.

  ‘What was that?’ Nathan turns towards the lads.

  ‘I was talking to your bird.’ A bald bloke, early thirties with tattoos poking out of the sleeves of his polo shirt, raises his chin in Ursula’s direction. ‘Who’s wearing the heels? You or her?’

  There’s a chorus of laughter and two of the men reach across the table to high-five each other. Ursula pulls on Nathan’s hand again. They’ve heard every possible comment about their height difference since they got together and normally her boyfriend would ignore them or shrug them off, but he’s had a hard day at work. One of the kids he was looking after in the paediatric unit at St Michael’s developed an infection and had a cardiac arrest and died. It’s taken her the best part of three hours to lighten his mood.

  ‘Who’s wearing the heels, mate?’ Nathan asks. ‘Your missus was – when I bent her over your kitchen table.’

  There’s a flurry of movement as the bald bloke jumps to his feet, knocking the table and showering his mates with beer. ‘Say that again!’ he roars. ‘Say it again, you little runt.’

  The barman shouts something about calming down but all Ursula can hear is the blood pounding in her ears as she tugs at the door handle and pulls her boyfriend after her. ‘Nathan, come on!’

  Somehow she manages to get him out of the door but then she feels his grip loosen and his hand fall away.

  ‘Nathan!’ She pulls on his arm as the bald bloke and his four mates pile out of the pub but Nathan doesn’t move an inch.

  ‘I’m not running,’ he says.

  ‘Please!’ She pulls on his arm again. ‘Please! They’re not worth it.’

  She’s never seen him like this before, rigid with anger, clenching his teeth. He’s not a fighter. He’s never shown the slightest hint of aggression, towards her or anyone else.

  The bald bloke gets the first punch in. It connects with Nathan’s jaw and he reels backwards. Ursula screams but Nathan doesn’t hit the floor. Instead he regains his balance and swings round, landing a blow on the bald lad’s cheek. There’s a pause, a split second where Ursula sucks in the cold night air, and she prays that it’s over, that two punches are enough, but then one of the other lads leaps forwards, smacking Nathan on the side of the head. Then there’s no time to think or hope or pray because the others leap in too and there’s arms and fists and blood and rage and Nathan’s dark head disappears as he’s punched and kicked and thumped to the ground. And now Ursula’s scream fills her ears as she launches herself at the mass of torsos and limbs, shoving and pushing, desperately searching for Nathan’s hand or foot, his shoulder or his leg, anything she can latch onto to pull him away. She doesn’t see it coming, the blow that lands on the side of her head, that makes her brain rattle in her skull and her ear explode. Then she’s toppling and dropping, palms scraping against the hard concrete of the pavement, her bare knees taking the brunt of the fall. She feels rough hands in her hair, yanking her back up, then Nathan shouting, screaming at her to go. And she twists and she fights and she claws at the man that’s holding her and when she’s finally free she scrabbles to her feet and she runs.

  Chapter 42

  Gareth

  Sunday

  Gareth is on his third cup of coffee of the morning when there’s a sharp double rap on the front door. He jumps, slopping coffee onto the kitchen table and hurries out into the hall. As he gets closer to the front door he sees two shapes beyond the mottled glass and his heart leaps into his throat. If the police want to speak to him face to face it has to be bad news.

  He yanks open the front door and searches the faces of the man and woman standing on his front step. He doesn’t recognise either of them. The tightness in his belly increases as they stare expressionlessly back.

  ‘Is it … is it Mum?’ he asks.

  The man on the left, dressed in slacks and a navy-blue jumper with a white shirt collar peeking beneath the neckline, flashes a badge at him. ‘DC Forbes from Avon and Somerset Constabulary. This is DC Merriott. Are you Gareth Filer?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘We’d like you to come into the station for a chat please.’

  Gareth goes cold. He’d rather they just broke the news. He doesn’t want to sit in a police car for ten or fifteen minutes, fearing the worst. ‘Just tell me.’

  The detective looks puzzled. ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘My mum. You’ve found her, haven’t you? Is she dead? Is that why you’re here?’

  The detective still appears to have no idea what he’s talking about.

  ‘My mum’s name is Joan Filer,’ Gareth clarifies. ‘She’s a vulnerable missing person. She’s been missing since Friday afternoon. Lisa Read is the officer I’ve been in touch with.’

  The detective glances at his colleague, who frowns and lightly shakes her head. Neither of them have the slightest idea what he’s on about.

  ‘Right.’ DC Forbes regains his composure with a quick clear of his throat. ‘I see. I’m very sorry to hear that, but we’re here about a different matter. Liam Dunford has gone missing and our enquiries suggest that you know something about his disappearance. We would like you to come to the police station with us so that we can interview you formally. You’re not being arrested but you can have a solicitor during the interview if you want one. Your attendance at the station is purely voluntary.’

  Gareth stares at him, a thousand thoughts whirling through his head as he tries to make sense of what he just heard.

  ‘I, um … I … Okay, but I can’t be long.’

  ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in
evidence.’

  Gareth stares at the detective, feeling progressively more scared the longer he speaks.

  ‘Am I … am I under arrest?’

  The detective shakes his head. ‘As we explained back at your house you’re here voluntarily to answer some questions. You are free to leave and stop the interview at any time. You may also have a solicitor present if you wish.’

  ‘Then why say all that? All the stuff about evidence if I’m not under arrest?’

  ‘It’s part of the interview.’

  ‘I’m definitely not under arrest?’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ The female detective sitting on the right of DC Forbes gives Gareth a look like he’s missing a few brain cells.

  Gareth feels like a fool. He’s watched hours of police dramas on the TV but now he’s the one in the small, grey room with a black digital device recording every word he says, he feels completely wrong-footed. Worse than that, he feels like a criminal and he hasn’t done anything wrong. In a different universe he’d be the one sitting on the other side of the table, the one asking the questions, the one in control.

  ‘Is it too late to ask for a solicitor?’ he asks, then instantly regrets it when he catches the look exchanged between the two detectives.

  DC Merriott puts her pen to her notepad and looks up at him from under her thick blonde fringe. ‘Sure. We can delay the interview until he turns up. Name and number?’

  ‘I haven’t got one. I’ve … I’ve never needed one, apart from when Mum drew up her will.’ His cheeks start to burn with shame. They’re looking at him like he’s an idiot and he’s not. He’s just a normal bloke. He’s never broken the law in his life.

  ‘We could get a duty solicitor in for you,’ DC Merriott says.

  ‘How long would that take?’

  ‘Maybe half an hour, maybe more.’

  ‘Then no.’ Gareth shakes his head decisively. ‘I don’t want one. I want this over as quickly as possible. My mum’s missing. I need to get home.’

  ‘Okay then.’ DC Forbes glances down at his pad. ‘So, tell us about your relationship with Liam Dunford.’

  ‘We’re colleagues. Well, I’m his superior, but I didn’t recruit him. Mark Whiting did that.’

  ‘You’re security guards, is that right? At the Meads shopping centre in Bristol.’

  ‘Security officers,’ Gareth corrects him. ‘But basically, yeah. That’s right.’

  ‘And how would you describe your relationship?’

  Gareth considers the question. ‘Professional,’ he says, after a pause.

  ‘Professional, right.’ DC Forbes scribbles something on his pad, then glances up. ‘Any issues, arguments, that sort of thing?’

  Gareth sits very still. He knows his body language is being scrutinised for any sign of discomfort or guilt and, despite the overwhelming urge to rub the back of his neck, he doesn’t move a muscle.

  ‘No more than with anyone else,’ he says.

  ‘So there were disagreements then? It’s normal, isn’t it, in a work environment? We can’t get on with everyone we meet.’ DC Merriott smiles encouragingly at him.

  ‘As I said, no more than with anyone else.’

  ‘Right.’ DC Forbes presses his lips together. ‘Then why would you say to your boss, Mark Whiting, and I quote, “He could be at the bottom of a lake for all I care”?’

  Gareth sits forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table, then remembers his decision not to move a muscle and sits back sharply again. ‘Because my mum had just disappeared and Mark was asking where Liam was. Right then I couldn’t have given two shits.’

  ‘Understandable. Totally understandable.’

  Gareth watches the detective’s hand move over his pad. He can’t read a word he’s writing and they still haven’t told him what’s happened to Liam, other than the fact that he’s missing. Is he dead? Do they think someone murdered him? His heart beats fast. Do they think he did it? Do they think he killed him and dumped him in a lake?

  ‘So,’ the female detective says, ‘tell me, Gareth, why would Liam tell his friends that he was blackmailing you?’

  Gareth’s jaw drops and his mind goes completely blank. ‘I’m … s … sorry what?’ he stutters.

  ‘When interviewed about his disappearance, Liam’s friends told us that he said …’ she glances down at her notes ‘… he had you wrapped around his little finger. Those were their exact words. Why would he say something like that, do you think?’

  ‘He …’ The word catches in Gareth’s dry throat. He wets his lips with his tongue, then reaches for the plastic cup of water on the table and takes a sip. As he drinks he weighs up the question. If he denies that Liam was blackmailing him they’ll know he’s lying. If he tells them the truth they’ll have the motive they need.

  ‘Is he dead?’ He sets his cup back down, his gaze flitting between the detectives. This time it’s their body language he’s trying to read.

  The detectives exchange a glance, then DC Forbes meets his steady stare.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us?’

  Gareth leaves the police station on shaky legs, his back slick with sweat. He glances over his shoulder as he descends the concrete steps. He can’t shake the feeling that, at any moment, Detective Sergeants Forbes and Merriott will come flying out of the black, glossy door and haul him back in. There was a point in his interview, as he explained why Liam was blackmailing him, where he felt certain he was never going to leave that claustrophobic grey room ever again, a belief that was reinforced when DC Forbes asked him where he’d been between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. on Thursday 28th March. He was at home asleep, he told them, his throat desert dry. No, he admitted when asked, there was no one who could confirm his alibi but the CCTV above the front door would show that he hadn’t left the house. DC Forbes raised an eyebrow. ‘Not via the front door, anyway.’

  When DC Merriott announced there would be no further questions for now and turned off the digital recorder it was all Gareth could do not to slump over the table and cry. Instead he sat rigidly in his seat, his hands on his thighs, and asked if he could leave. He followed the two police officers through the labyrinthine corridors in a daze, feeling as though he’d been transported into another world. Was Liam dead? He still didn’t know. All he wanted was to get the hell out of that building and run all the way home.

  But he doesn’t run. Instead he walks slowly out of the shadow of the station and into the weak March sunshine. He walks on autopilot, crossing the road, turning left, turning right, not knowing or caring where he’s going. Only when the police station is no longer in sight do his legs give way. He sinks down onto a low wall outside a chip shop and slumps forwards, his elbows on his knees. Then he rests his head in his hands and he closes his eyes.

  Chapter 43

  Alice

  Monday

  Wherever Alice goes in the store, and whatever she does, she can feel the weight of Lynne’s gaze resting on her shoulders.

  It was Lynne she turned to on Saturday, after she said goodbye to Simon in the car park of the Red Lion. It was an awkward parting. A lot of the anger she’d felt earlier in the evening, when she’d had a go at him for not telling her about his stalker, had dissipated but she couldn’t bring herself to give him a hug. She had too much she needed to process. Instead, as they hovered outside the pub door, she raised a hand and pointed across the car park towards her VW Golf and said, ‘That’s my car. I’ll be in touch.’

  As she sat in the car and watched Simon drive away she deliberated about who to ring. She didn’t want to worry Emily, not when she was on a night out with her friends trying to forget what a bastard Adam had been, and Lynne, being Lynne, was only too happy to chat. She drove to her house and they sat in the lounge, clutching mugs of tea, Lynne listening intently as Alice told her everything that had happened. When she got to the bit about the cinema Lynne clamped one hand to her mouth and stared at her with disbelieving eyes.

  ‘They didn’t … the stalker … t
hey didn’t really sniff your hair?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘There were a couple of young girls sitting behind us. We’re pretty sure it had nothing to do with them. But it freaked Simon out so much he thought we should leave.’

  ‘And that’s why he dumped you? Because he thought his stalker was going to hurt you?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Aren’t the police doing anything?’

  ‘He’s reported it but they haven’t got a clue who’s behind it. Whoever’s been stalking him has been careful to cover their tracks.’

  ‘Shit.’ Lynne put down her cup and rubbed at her arms, her gaze drifting towards the closed curtains at the windows. ‘That’s scary.’

  ‘I’ve freaked you out.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just … it’s one thing to be stalked by someone you know, but to have no idea at all … it could be anyone, anyone you meet on the street.’

  ‘Exactly. I think that was part of the reason he was so cagey with me when I asked him about his job. For all he knew the stalker could have been me.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Alice gave her a long look. ‘I’m going to help him find out who’s doing this. We’re going to set a trap.’

  Now, as she unpacks the new stock in the back room and hangs the dresses, shirts and jumpers on a rail, she mentally rehearses the plan to catch Simon’s stalker. When she left Lynne’s and arrived home a little after midnight Emily was curled up on the sofa under a blanket watching Gogglebox on demand.

  She laughed as Alice walked in, then peeled back the blanket so she could sit down. ‘Dirty stop-out! I got home over an hour ago. What time do you call this?’

  For the second time that evening Alice recounted her conversation with Simon, her daughter’s eyes growing bigger and bigger as she told her about the plan that they’d made.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s letting you go along with that. It could be dangerous, Mum.’

  ‘How is it dangerous? We’ll be in a public restaurant.’