The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers
Page 19
Finally, after what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds, I push my chair back from the table and stand up, my movements jerky. I hold the edge of the table for support for a moment before raising my head and walking from the room. More than anything I want to disappear, to run away and hide so I don’t have to face what is to come.
I have no money left. I have a strict policy of always leaving half my money safely locked away, so that even after a bad night I have enough to play the next time. I have never strayed from this in the eighteen months I have been playing, but tonight I broke my own cardinal rule.
I feel detached as I walk through the dark Manchester streets, as if I’m floating high above my own body, staring down at this sad woman who has made one of the worst mistakes of her life. Or maybe not the worst. Maybe just one of many. I think back to the eighteen-year-old girl who arrived at Manchester University with a thirst for excitement, filled with the belief that she could achieve great things.
Without knowing how I got here, I find myself in front of the apartment building, and I come down to earth with a crash. Through the glass doors I can see two uniformed policemen and one woman in a trouser suit standing in the foyer. For a moment I think they have come for me, and once again I want to run.
But I can’t. I have to get back into my apartment, change my clothes and go home to face Dominic. It’s time to tell him the truth.
Painting a smile on my face, I push open the door and feign surprise when one of the two uniformed officers stops me. ‘Excuse me, madam. Can I ask if you live here?’
‘I do, yes. I live in Apartment 624.’
He consults a list, flipping over the pages until he comes to the names for the sixth floor. ‘And your name is?’
‘Saskia Peterson. Can I ask why you need to know?’
‘We’re not at liberty to divulge any details, I’m afraid. Do you have any identification on you?’
I flash my keycard at him, hoping that is enough but doubting it. I have no identification in the name of Saskia Peterson, and I’m about to panic when I hear heavy breathing. Around the corner trundles the concierge, moving at an unusual speed for a person of his bulk. He is red in the face, his pupils dilated as if he’s had a shock.
‘Ooh, Miss Peterson. I’m glad you’re safe,’ he pants. ‘Have they told you?’
‘Mr Baldwin, if you remember, we asked you not to talk about the incident,’ the young woman says, a hint of frustration in her tone. I presume by her clothing that she’s a detective.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Mr Baldwin says. ‘This is one of the residents. You weren’t questioning Miss Peterson, were you? She’s been out. I saw her go. It was well before everything kicked off.’
He earns himself another irritated look, and the older of the two uniformed officers turns back to me.
‘It’s okay, Ms Peterson. Mr Baldwin has confirmed your identity. Thanks for your time.’
This is my dismissal. I’m relieved to get away, and I’m about to head towards the lift when the detective speaks: ‘Will you be staying home for the rest of the night, Ms Peterson?’
How can I tell her I’m just coming in to get changed so I can go home to my husband?
‘I expect so, yes,’ I lie, knowing that I don’t have to come back through the main entrance. I will leave through the car park and hope the police presence in the foyer has frightened Jagger off. Maybe all this will buy me some time.
I quickly shower away the perfume and make-up and pull on some tracksuit bottoms and a pair of flip-flops for my drive home. Moving as quickly as I can, I head for the lift, anxious to get back to my children. Their pull is so strong it makes my heart turn over. I have no idea what the consequences of my mistakes will be for my family, and I want to spend every precious moment close to them.
The doors to the lift open into the car park, and I immediately realise my mistake. There are more police officers down here – many more. And some of them are dressed in white suits. This is a crime scene.
Jagger. He was here. Who has he hurt this time? It can’t be Dominic – he’s at home with the children. Perhaps some poor unfortunate guy looked at him the wrong way and paid the price. Maybe someone witnessed our conversation. I have always thought this apartment block was a safe place. Until tonight.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ an older officer says. ‘If you’ve come to get your car, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Nothing is coming or going from here for a while. Give me your registration number and we can check where the car is and when we might be able to give you access. If you let me have your apartment number, we’ll make sure you’re kept informed.’
I’m about to agree when I realise that the car is registered to Anna Franklyn, but the apartment to Saskia Peterson. How will I explain that?
I turn towards the officer, who must be approaching retirement age, and paste on my best smile, trying to disguise the shake in my voice. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I was only going to stick my bag in the boot.’ I hold up my gym bag and shrug. ‘It’s not a problem and I won’t need the car for a day or two. What’s happened?’
I ask because it would feel unnatural not to. But I just want to get out of there.
‘There’s been an incident, but there’s nothing to see. If you’re not going out, I suggest you head back to your apartment. Can I see your keycard?’
The keycards give residents access to the lift down to the car park. It’s supposed to make it secure, but given my earlier encounter that doesn’t seem to be the case. I flash the card at him, keeping my thumb over the blonde lady in the picture, give him another smile and turn to leave.
Inside the lift I lean heavily against the side and wonder if this nightmare will ever end.
How am I going to get out? I can’t go through the entrance lobby. They are questioning everyone who comes and goes, and I am clearly not Saskia Peterson any longer.
I close my eyes. I have no idea what I’m going to do.
Thursday
43
I’m almost surprised when I wake up to find that I am in my own bed, at home with my husband sleeping beside me. I can’t believe I slept, but emotional exhaustion must have taken over.
I can still feel a flutter of panic following the events of the previous evening – the disastrous poker game, a foyer full of police and my car inaccessible. In the end I had decided that the only way I was going to get out of the apartment block was to change back into Saskia, albeit without the full make-up which I had already scrubbed off, and go back out through the main entrance.
I kept on the joggers and flip-flops, but put the wig back on and a bit of lipstick. Then I tried to settle my screaming nerves, knowing it was going to be after 2 a.m. by the time I arrived home.
‘Ms Peterson,’ the uniformed police officer said when I reappeared in the lobby. ‘I thought you were staying in?’
‘So did I, officer. As you can see, I was about to settle down to a bit of late-night television.’ I indicated my relaxed outfit. ‘But I never got a chance to eat tonight and I’m starving, so I’m going to pop along to a late-night restaurant in Chinatown and feast on dim sum and crispy duck.’ I licked my lips and gave him what I hoped was a suggestive smile. I could feel the eyes of the young female detective on me, but I didn’t think my failure to return to the apartment later would arouse suspicion. Saskia had the air of a flirtatious woman, and they would no doubt assume I had found some other, more interesting place to stay the night.
‘Be safe,’ the officer said quietly as I left.
I dumped the wig in a bin. I couldn’t risk stuffing it into my handbag. Dominic and the children have no concept of my bag being anything other than communal property, and it would have been discovered all too quickly. I found a black cab without too much of a problem but was dismayed to find I had chosen one with a chatty driver. I muttered monosyllabic responses so as not to appear rude as I scrubbed off the residue of the lipstick and tried not to cry with despair at all I had lost that night. I had no
idea what I was going to do – I didn’t even have enough money to join another game to try to win it back. I was going to have to admit everything to Dominic and the thought left me feeling weak.
It was only as the one-way system took us back past the entrance to the apartment block’s car park that the driver’s chatter broke through my reverie.
‘…another murder,’ he said, his tone one of disgust at what the world was coming to.
‘Where?’ I asked, my voice hoarse.
I knew the answer, of course I did. I had seen for myself the crime-scene team in their white suits, but I hadn’t realised it was a murder. I had assumed an assault and been certain Jagger was behind it, perhaps as he waited for me. He’d done some evil stuff, but I’d never heard that he’d killed anyone. Now there would be a full-scale hunt for the killer, and Saskia Peterson would almost certainly be questioned as someone who used the car park.
The driver continued to rattle on about what he had heard on the news, but there was one question that I had to ask: ‘Have they said who was killed?’
‘Not yet, but the press are coming up with all kinds of theories. Another bloody car park too. It’s not safe to set foot outside your own door any more, is it?’
I tuned out. There would be CCTV footage of me driving in. How much of my altercation with Jagger would be on film? Not much, I suspected, because Jagger would have chosen the spot carefully, but would the police want to question Saskia Peterson, or Anna Franklyn? I sat back in the cab and tried to think, but my brain was like pea soup and in the end I gave up.
By the time I got home Dominic was in bed, asleep, but now that it’s morning I can’t avoid the questions any longer.
As he rolls over towards me and gives me his early-morning smile, he reaches out an arm to pull me closer.
‘What time did you get back last night?’
‘It was late, I’m afraid. I’m glad you were asleep.’ I’ve got to tell him, but I’m putting it off for as long as possible.
‘I’d have waited for you but I got bored with the television. There was nothing to watch, so I came to bed early. Are you sure you’re not overdoing things at the gym, darling? I know it helps relieve stress, and I’m all for that, but you need your sleep too.’
The stab of guilt at leaving my husband to a boring evening alone is nothing to the shame and horror I feel about what I will have to tell him sooner or later.
‘I would have been home earlier, but I had a bit of a disaster with the car, so I had to get a taxi.’
Dominic opens his eyes fully. ‘What happened? You didn’t have an accident, did you?’
‘No, nothing like that. Some idiot blocked me in – double-parked behind me – and although I went back into the gym and they put out the details over the tannoy, no one came forward. I waited for ages, thinking they would come back. But they didn’t. In the end I shoved my bag in the boot and got a cab.’
‘Thoughtless bastard.’
He rolls over and starts to get out of bed. I look at his broad naked back and ask myself how I’m going to save this secure life of ours.
‘Give me your keys,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and get the car later, when the kids are at school.’
Shit! The car park is nowhere near the gym.
Fortunately I hear Bailey shout, so I jump out of my side of the bed and go to him without responding to Dom.
‘Hey, Bubbles, are you okay?’
‘My throat hurts, Mummy.’
I sit down on the bed next to him and tell him to open his mouth wide and say ‘ahh’. His throat does look a bit red.
‘When did it start, poppet? This morning?’
‘No, it hurt last night too. I was having a bad dream about the man.’ Bailey rubs his eyes with his fists, still not fully awake.
‘What man, darling?’
‘The man who Daddy said is watching the house.’
The back of my neck feels as if someone is brushing a feather over it. I wait, not wanting to pump my child for information but knowing he won’t be able to stop himself from saying more.
‘Daddy says we have to be very careful, but we haven’t got to worry you about it. He says it’s all under control and you have enough to think about.’ His eyes seem to get rounder and rounder – he’s worried he shouldn’t have said anything – so I smile encouragement and stroke his cheek with the back of my fingers, but the feather is now running right down the middle of my spine.
‘Don’t worry, Bubbles. I’m sure it’s nothing. But what about your throat? Did Daddy give you something to make it feel better last night?’
‘No. I went downstairs to look for you, but Dippy Della was there, and she was snoring.’
Della is our neighbour and is always happy to look after the children on the rare occasions we both go out without them. I should tell Bailey not to call her Dippy, but right now that’s the last thing on my mind.
Why was Della there? Did Dominic go out?
I go back over his words this morning. Had I misunderstood him? I don’t think so.
Why would he lie to me? Where did he go?
44
I’ve delayed my journey to work by half an hour and ordered a taxi. Holly’s going back to school and I need to drop her off so Dom can stay at home with Bailey. But before I leave I need to talk to Dominic about where he went last night.
I’ve just followed him into the kitchen when the doorbell rings. Thinking it must be the taxi, I hurry to the door to ask him to hang on. When I open it, I find a woman of about my age with a dark bob and a pretty face standing on the doorstep. She is holding out some form of identification but before I have time to read it, she introduces herself: ‘Good morning. I’m Detective Inspector Becky Robinson from Greater Manchester Police. I wonder if we could have a word, please?’
I can see my hand shaking where it’s holding the door. I need to pull myself together.
Have they come for me as someone who knows Cameron Edmunds? Or have they made a connection between me and the incident in the car park last night? I quickly dismiss that. They can’t have done. This has to be about Cameron.
I glance over my shoulder. Dominic is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Holly by his side. She’s gripping his hand as if she knows something terrible is about to happen.
I take a deep breath and paste a smile on my face. ‘Yes, of course, Inspector. Come in.’
As she moves to one side, I see another officer behind her – a younger woman – and, barely resisting the urge to gasp, I realise it’s the detective from the apartment block last night. Have they come for Saskia?
She is unlikely to recognise me. She saw me with blonde hair, false eyelashes and bright red lipstick, then later with my face scrubbed clean; very different to Anna Franklyn, head teacher, with dark wavy hair and subtly applied make-up.
‘Dom,’ I say, turning towards him, ‘why don’t you take Holly to school? I need to speak to these two officers. I’ll be here for Bailey until you get back.’
By now the police are inside the front door and I turn back to give them my most relaxed smile. I’m not a poker player for nothing.
‘Actually, Mrs Franklyn – I’m assuming you are Mrs Franklyn?’ I nod before she continues. ‘It’s not you we want to talk to. It’s your husband.’
I spin round to stare at Dom, my brow furrowed. All of my self-control has flown out of the window. Why on earth would they want to talk to Dom?
‘Holly,’ I hear him say softly, his voice giving no hint that he is troubled by our visitors. ‘Why don’t you go up and keep Bailey company for a while – see how he’s doing. Perhaps you could look at a picture book with him? We’ll come and get you when it’s time for school.’
She looks up at him with trusting eyes, lets go of his hand and skips upstairs, apparently reassured and unaware of the tension that surrounds her.
‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’ Dom asks. ‘Would you like a drink – tea, coffee?’
I don’t understand. W
hat can they possibly want with Dominic?
‘No thank you, Mr Franklyn.’
They follow Dom into the room and I trail behind, unsure whether I’m needed or not. Everyone takes a seat and the inspector leans forward.
‘I’m sorry to resurrect what I’m sure was a painful time in your life, Mr Franklyn, but as a result of an incident last night we’re trying to find links between victims of attacks that have taken place in the last couple of years.’
Two deep lines appear between Dom’s eyebrows. He hates talking about that night.
‘Why me?’ he asks. ‘There must be hundreds – thousands, probably – of attacks in Manchester every year.’
‘Sadly that’s true. But we’re looking at assaults that specifically involved injuries to legs – particularly knees – and those in which a hammer was used. Our records show that the offence against you matches that profile.’
Dominic’s brow clears and his voice breaks on his words. ‘Have you caught him? Thank God for that. All I’ve ever wanted was to know that no one else would be hurt like I was.’
I reach out a hand to touch Dom’s shoulder, knowing that night still haunts him.
‘No, but we’re hopeful that we’re getting close to an answer, so we’re interviewing everyone who has suffered a similar attack to see if we can pull together a clearer picture. Can I run a couple of names past you? Let me know if they mean anything. Roger Jagger?’
I don’t flinch at the name, but I don’t meet the eyes of the detective, focusing my concerned gaze on my husband.
Dominic shakes his head slowly. ‘It doesn’t mean anything to me, no.’ He turns his eyes to mine. ‘What about you, Anna? Have you heard that name before?’
All eyes are on me, but I force myself to remember that I am good at this. I shake my head and give a small shrug. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Cameron Edmunds?’
Dominic lifts his head. ‘Now that name rings a bell. Why would that be? Is he a parent of one of the children’s friends, darling?’