He was here – maybe just minutes before me, if she’s in such a state now. Surely I would have seen him if he had walked right past me? I was watching the door from my car for at least ten minutes before I came in.
I have to find him, and he can’t be that far ahead of me. I want to break into a run, but I force myself to walk quickly back to the reception area, where a man is leaning against the wall, talking to the girl through the hatch. Rudely, I interrupt.
‘Sorry, but it’s urgent that I catch Mrs Roberts’ son. Did you see where he went?’
The girl looks a bit shocked at my lack of courtesy, but the man turns to me with a sympathetic smile. He’s wearing a dog collar.
‘He was leaving as I arrived, dear. He usually goes out of the back door and parks in the lower car park.’
I give the man a tight smile, and I know he can sense my rising panic. Scott was here!
I don’t even pretend to walk now, but set off at a run, back down the corridor towards an exit that the kindly vicar has pointed out to me. I slam through the doors and race across a small terrace, only realising now that the home is built on the side of a hill. I can see stone steps leading down through a shrubbery. I head for those.
The path is narrow and the bushes rise tall on either side. I feel a shiver as the thick foliage blocks out the sunlight. The path twists and turns, with steps hewn out of the rock, and then I come to a fork. I stop for a moment, unsure which route to take.
All I can hear is my own breathing, so I hold my breath. There isn’t a sound. I turn to look back at the hospice, but it’s hidden by a bend in the path.
Suddenly there’s a noise – a stone clattering down steps as if someone has dislodged it. I give an involuntary gasp. It came from the path on the right, but before I can collect myself I hear footsteps, speeding away from me. He’s here, and he’s running. I catch a glimpse of a dark head of hair, but it’s gone in a flash.
I sprint down the steps, but they are too widely spaced for a single stride and too close for the double step of a runner. My feet suddenly slide from under me on a patch of loose gravel and I fall heavily into a holly bush, managing at the last moment to protect my face. I yelp in pain as the sharp leaves rip at the flesh of my bare arms.
And then I hear the sound of an engine firing up and a car skids out of the car park at speed. Did he know it was me chasing him? Why didn’t he stop?
A sob bursts from me, and I drop my head onto my knees. Scott was here – almost within touching distance – and there are so many things I want to ask him.
How did you survive? How long have you been back? Why did you let us all believe you were dead?
I loved him so much, but he nearly destroyed me. Memories of the torture of the last few weeks we were together surge through me, and I wrap folded arms tightly around my head. Why didn’t he stop? But if he had, would I have run into his arms or screamed at him for what he did and all that he’s doing now?
Finally I scrub the tears from my face and force myself back to my feet to trudge back to my car. Sinking into the driver’s seat, I lean my head hard against the headrest. What is this? What does it mean? Why does he want to torment me?
But I know the answer to the last question. For fourteen years I have believed that I killed him. Maybe he’s decided it’s time I paid the price.
17
Then
The six weeks that Scott and I had been together had flown, and Christmas was looming – too close for comfort. I had no idea how I was going to cope when we went home to our respective families, and I was already anticipating the emptiness I would feel without him. When he touched me I felt on fire, and I ached with longing for him on the nights when I slept alone. Four weeks without him would be unbearable.
With Scott I had learned to be a different person. I embraced life in a way I had never done before and took every opportunity to push back the boundaries of my childhood. I was eating food that I had never heard of, listening to The Verve and Catatonia, and making love with a passion and lack of inhibition that startled me. At last I was learning to fly, and Scott was my instructor. And he had a nickname for me – Spike. No one had ever called me anything but Anna before.
I had pushed his lies about the night of the football game to the back of my mind. I didn’t want to be that person – the one who was always questioning, always prying. Next I would be searching through his pockets or checking his phone. I didn’t believe he was cheating on me with another girl; he didn’t hide me away and his friends had welcomed me.
I decided after our first few weeks together that I had to do something to take my mind off Scott when he wasn’t around, so I volunteered as a charity fundraiser. My first task was to sell raffle tickets. The organisers had cleverly pitched the tickets to be cheap and the prizes focused on young people – food, books, entertainment, clothes, with the big prize being a holiday for four. Most students could be persuaded to part with ten pence for a good cause, and almost everyone had offered more. As someone who had been scared to talk to anyone just a few weeks previously, I had found selling the raffle tickets offered me the perfect excuse to approach strangers, and I was growing in confidence. I hadn’t restricted myself to students, and I’d been out on the streets of Manchester. Suddenly, university life was everything I had ever hoped it would be.
I had just decided that my life couldn’t get any more perfect, when it began to fall apart. The time had come for me to return any unsold raffle tickets to the charity and hand over the cash I had collected, and I was so proud of myself as I pulled the shoebox in which I had stashed the money from the top of my wardrobe. I had been regularly exchanging coins for notes, so I didn’t expect the box to be heavy. But neither did I expect it to be empty.
I stared at the white void. There was nowhere for the money to hide. Had I put it somewhere else and forgotten? I pulled everything in my room to pieces, yanking out drawers, searching under the bed, under my mattress. But I knew where I’d put it. I hadn’t hidden it because I thought it was secure. I always locked my room when I went out and there was no sign anyone had broken in.
I sat on the bed and put my head in my hands. Where was the money? There was nearly three thousand pounds missing. I’d been collecting for weeks, and several of the lecturers had been generous.
I was on my hands and knees, searching for a second time to be sure, when I heard a knock on the door. It was Scott. He would know what to do. I rushed over to the door, unlocked it and burst into tears.
Scott held me as I cried, stroking my hair, whispering meaningless platitudes that nevertheless soothed me. When I calmed down we sat on the bed, Scott holding my hand as I told him what had happened.
‘Look, you’ll just have to tell them that the money is missing. It’s not your fault, Spike.’
I turned to look at him, and he must have seen the incredulity on my face because he squeezed my hand and said, ‘It’s not. They can’t blame you.’
‘So who can they blame? I was responsible for it. I don’t understand how anyone could have got into my room without me knowing.’
‘Perhaps you popped out without locking it. It would have only taken someone a moment. Or perhaps you were in the bathroom and someone sneaked in. You don’t always lock the door when you’re in, do you?’
That was true. I had only locked it today because I was intending to count the money.
I reached for my phone. ‘Well, there’s only one thing for it: I’ll have to call the police.’
Scott snatched the phone out of my hand. ‘Don’t do that. You’ll make yourself very unpopular with everyone on this corridor if they’re all questioned.’
He was right. No one would thank me if their rooms were searched. Some of them had a mild drug habit, or maybe not so mild in some cases. But I shook my head and held out my hand for the phone.
‘No. It might make me unpopular, but I don’t care. This is stealing, and if I’m going to tell the charity the money has gone, they have to know t
hat I’ve reported it.’
Scott transferred the phone to his other hand – the one furthest from me. I looked at him and held out my hand.
He dropped his head and stared at the floor.
18
Now
I should leave Colwyn Bay. It’s too late to go back to school and home is closer, but I can’t go there either. Not yet. I have too much thinking to do.
I drive without knowing where I’m going, but I’m drawn to the beach. I’ve always loved the sea, and I park the car and stare at the blue-grey water. It doesn’t soothe me, so after a while I get out, thinking a walk might blow away the cobwebs and ease the pressure inside. I lock my handbag in the boot and set off, the cool sand feeling good on my hot feet.
I must cut an odd figure in my smart work clothes, carrying my shoes in my hand, but if I get any strange stares I don’t notice. The beach is quiet as the children are still at school – where I should be. But a few people are risking a dip in the sea, and I envy them as they laugh and shout about how cold the water is. I feel as if I will never laugh again.
Three words repeat themselves in my head. Scott is alive. I can feel my heart racing. I have always believed that part of me died with him all those years ago. I never wanted to love someone like that again, to feel such extremes of joy, fear and despair, and I have put barriers around my heart that only my children are allowed to penetrate. Maybe him being alive will free me from a tiny portion of the guilt that has been plaguing me for fourteen years.
I still don’t know how he survived. When I left him he was all but dead and I believed he had drawn his last breath, but I feel no relief, no elation at the fact that the man I loved is alive. I feel a complex cocktail of emotions. I’m bewildered by what he wants from me now, petrified that he might expose my past sins on the radio, shocked that he might be involved in Cameron’s murder, and angry at myself for – despite my fears – wanting to see him.
Cameron’s murder holds its own threat, should my relationship with him be discovered, and I don’t know which shoulder to look over. Should I be more afraid of the repercussions of Cameron’s death, or of Scott’s resurrection? Either could blow my world apart – my job, my marriage, my family. I have so many secrets, both past and present.
Head down, I pace along the beach, no longer looking to the right or the left. It’s a long time later, when I hear the voices of children shrieking as they run into the water, that I lift my head. The warm weather has brought families here after school, and I’m shocked to realise how much time has passed. I have been here for too long. I promised Dominic I would cook dinner, and now I’m going to be later than ever. The children will have been home for a while now, and I’m so far away. How could I have lost track of time?
My car is at the opposite end of the beach and I start to run, sand kicking up onto the legs of my trousers. It seems to be taking forever to get there, and the sand grows softer as I run, my feet sinking in. I fall to my knees, pick myself up and set off again, dismay at my own carelessness spurring me on.
By the time I reach the car I know I’m going to have to dream up some excuse for how late I am, and I brush frantically at my clothes to remove the sand.
I open the car door and jump in, shoving my key into the lock. I hear a beep from my mobile and remember it’s in the boot, so with a groan of frustration I leap back out of the car to grab my bag and I pull out my phone. A text from Dominic, and below it I can see I have missed three calls – all from him, all in the last fifteen minutes.
He never calls or messages when I’m at school. What can have happened?
I hastily open the text.
Where are you? Holly’s had an accident, and I can’t get hold of you. I’m taking her to hospital, but she wants her mummy. Call me when you get this.
Oh shit! I ram the key into the ignition. Holly! What could have happened to her? It’s going to take me two hours to get home. How am I ever going to explain this? How could I be so far away? What’s happened to my baby?
I want to phone Dominic straight away, but if I do he’ll know I’ve got the message and won’t understand why it will take me so long to get to him. I need to get closer first.
I bite back a sob. I need to know what’s happened to Holly but I can’t ask.
I realise that Dominic may have called Jennie when he couldn’t get hold of me, assuming I was in a meeting that she could interrupt. Maybe she’ll know how my daughter is, and it’s easier to lie to her than to Dom.
I quickly make the call.
‘Anna, where are you?’ she asks immediately.
‘Never mind that now. What’s happened to Holly? I haven’t been able to get hold of Dominic.’ It’s amazing how quickly lies come to me these days – they burst, fully rounded, from my lips.
‘She’s fallen over. She’s hurt, but it’s not critical so don’t worry. I don’t have all the details. Once he knew you weren’t here, Dominic hung up. I presume so he could call you again.’
She hears the break in my voice as I thank her and she tries to calm me, thoughtfully refraining from asking me any more questions. Finally we hang up, but not before I’ve promised to call her later to let her know how my daughter is.
Tears are streaming down my face as I drive, but I can’t lose it now. I have to get back safely.
Thoughts of Scott and Cameron flee from my mind. Right now the only thing that matters is my family.
19
After Dawn Edmunds’ revelations about what might have happened to her had she decided to leave her husband, Tom decided the sooner they got the identification over with the better it would be. Then they could focus on digging further into his background. If he was as evil as she said, he was a man who would have enemies. On the other hand, she could just be a disillusioned wife.
Dawn had come along to the mortuary with them amiably enough, although she was slightly unsteady on her feet, which she blamed on the starvation diet she’d been on for the last few days. Tom thought it more likely to be due to what he imagined was the neat vodka in her glass.
‘Now Cameron’s dead, I’m going to pig out on chips,’ she said with a hint of glee. ‘He said I was getting fat, and either I did something about it or he’d lock me in a room and starve me until I was fit to be seen in public,’ she’d told them with a shrug. ‘Hence my trip to food hell – three cups of clear broth per day. Whoopee-do!’
After that pronouncement she had slumped against the door in the back of the car with her eyes closed, and neither Tom nor Becky had tried to engage her in further conversation.
In the mortuary car park Tom switched off the ignition and turned to her. ‘I’m afraid your husband might look a little different to how you remember him due to the way he died. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said, swiftly reapplying lipstick to her plumped-up lips with the aid of a small mirror.
Tom and Becky walked with her along the corridor, their footsteps the only sound. Tom had made this journey many times with relatives, but it was unusual for them to be apparently unconcerned about the outcome. He couldn’t work out whether Dawn would be glad to see Cameron dead so she knew he was out of her life, or whether – despite everything – her husband had offered some sort of security and without him she might be lost.
Tom and Becky stood either side of Dawn as the mortuary technician pulled back the sheet covering the deceased’s head and shoulders, and Tom felt himself wince slightly. Cameron’s face was badly discoloured. At least his eyes were closed so she didn’t have to see the signs of haemorrhaging as a result of the strangulation.
Dawn had been looking down – the first sign that she was feeling anything at all about the experience. Tom didn’t push her, waiting for her to feel ready, but when she finally lifted her head she gasped. Tom glanced at her and saw her frown.
‘Shit!’ she said with some force.
‘I’m sorry. It’s never a pleasant experience.’
Dawn gave him
a puzzled glance. ‘What? No, no, you don’t understand. It’s not him! That’s not Cameron. This guy – even with his face looking like that – looks far more pleasant than my bastard husband.’
Tom gave Becky a concerned glance. Had they put this woman through more than twenty-four hours of stress – of one sort or another – believing her husband was dead, only to find it wasn’t him?
‘Are you absolutely certain, Mrs Edmunds? We won’t rush you. Take as long as you need.’
‘Oh, I’m sure all right. It’s not him. Shit!’
Dawn’s revelation that the body in the mortuary wasn’t that of her husband left Tom both embarrassed and concerned. There were all sorts of implications, not least where the hell was Cameron Edmunds? Having said she couldn’t believe the ‘bastard’ wasn’t dead, Dawn had become quiet, standing head down, deep in thought.
‘Mrs Edmunds, we’re going to have to ask you to come back with us. We need to ask some more questions, I’m afraid.’
Her head shot up. ‘Why? I don’t know anything.’
‘You’re sure your husband hasn’t been in touch since Friday?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Look, he’ll probably come swanning in at some point as if nothing’s happened. All he’ll care about is whether the guy leaked bodily fluids onto his leather seats as he died – and somehow it will be my fault if he did. It’s not him – he’s not dead – so what more do you want from me?’
The words came out in a rush, and Tom sensed she was more than disappointed it wasn’t her husband. She seemed dismayed.
‘It’s not that simple, Mrs Edmunds. If you could come back with us for a short time, I can explain what we’re going to have to do now, and why. We won’t keep you for long, then I’ll arrange for someone to take you home.’
She bit her lip. ‘Okay. But I need to tell the kids. I’d told them he was dead, you see. That’s why I kept them home from school. They’re going to be confused.’
An interesting choice of words, Tom thought, although the children weren’t the only ones who were confused. If the victim wasn’t Cameron Edmunds, who the hell was he, and why had he been killed so brutally? What was he doing in that car? Had he simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was Cameron Edmunds the killer – although to murder someone in your own car seemed a little far-fetched? Or was Cameron the intended victim, and had he gone into hiding? Whatever was going on, he needed more information from Dawn Edmunds and they needed to find her husband.
The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Page 8