‘Carmichael Ward.’
‘Hello, my name’s David Marsh. I’m a friend of Rebecca Wallis.’
‘Visiting times are over for today, I’m afraid, Mr Marsh.’
‘Oh?’ I’m thrown for a moment, and check my watch. ‘But it’s only—’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s the doctor’s instructions.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Between you and me, she was exhausted after speaking with two visitors this morning, and then what with that police officer walking in here like she owned the place—’
I realise she’s broken with protocol, and probably several hospital rules about privacy and patient confidentiality, but I don’t care. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, and I rest my other hand on the shop façade, my vision blurring.
‘The police were there? Why?’
She makes a small noise in the back of her throat, evidently realising her error. ‘Well, I’m sure it was just routine. You’ll be able to come and see her tomorrow, from ten o’clock if that suits?’
No, that doesn’t bloody suit.
I hang up, furious.
Evidently both Lisa and Hayley have been to see Bec, either alone or together, but neither of them have seen fit to tell me.
Me, the one who found her.
Me, the one who saved her life.
‘Everything okay?’
The owner of the shop is hovering on the step, his brow furrowed.
I wonder if I’ve spoken out loud. I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. Just going. Thanks.’
I turn on my heel and set a quick pace, putting as much distance between me and the shop as I can.
What the hell were the police doing speaking to Bec?
Hadn’t they done enough damage? Why did they want to interview her again?
Didn’t they believe her the first time?
I try Lisa next.
Lisa, easy-going Lisa will surely raise my spirits. She looked radiant by the time we left the pub the other day, chatting about her plans for the future and buying another house of her own. As I drove her back to her mum and dad’s we spoke about what she could afford, and I was looking forward to joining her when she went out to choose furniture.
‘You’ve got such an eye for detail,’ she said. ‘You architects are all the same. If you come with me, at least I know I’ll end up with stuff that complements the house and doesn’t clutter it.’
I’d driven home, high on her new vitality and energy. It’s been so long since we’ve seen her like that.
But she isn’t answering her phone, either.
The standard network message tells me she’s either out of range or her phone is switched off.
There’s a pub up ahead, and I decide I need a quick drink to calm my nerves. It’s nothing fancy, just a hole in the wall establishment with a pool table on the left of the door as I push my way into the gloom and across to a bar that stinks of stale alcohol.
I order a scotch from the girl serving behind the bar, wrinkling my nose at her chewed fingernails as she hands me my change, and wander across to a corner seat next to the window. From here, I can peer out at the outside world and try to numb my churning mind.
I shouldn’t have pushed my luck the other day. I shouldn’t have taunted Hayley, but I couldn’t help it. She was pissing me off, trying to second-guess what everyone else was thinking and I was tired of hearing it.
I dial her number again, and am both relieved and surprised that she answers.
She doesn’t say anything though.
‘It’s me, David,’ I say unnecessarily.
A silence drags out for what seems an age, and then she speaks, but it’s not the Hayley I know. She is cold, detached.
‘What do you want?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I wanted to apologise for yesterday. It was uncalled for. I don’t know what came over me.’
The words come tumbling out; all the rehearsed lines forgotten.
A bitter laugh is choked back before she speaks again, and her words leave me terrified.
‘Remember, I know what you did.’
44
Hayley
I hang up, cutting David off mid-sentence and try to shrug off the weariness that seeps into my muscles.
I don’t want to have anything more to do with him.
The more I mull it over, the less I want to stay in touch with Bec or Lisa, either. At least then, they won’t find out what Simon knew about me and maybe, hopefully, I can salvage something from all this. Before all the other stuff comes out.
I didn’t mean to, you see. I couldn’t stop myself.
When it first happened, we were in our final year at uni, and it was because I forgot.
I simply went into the department store in my lunch hour to kill some time rather than stay in the canteen and listen to the latest gossip about whichever celebrity was stuck on whatever island and likely shagging whoever.
Instead, I wandered around the displays of that season’s dresses, dreaming of days out to far-flung places with a non-existent boyfriend and trying to calculate how many pay cheques from my meagre part-time job I’d need in order to afford one of the diamond-encrusted watches displayed under glass counters.
I don’t remember picking up the lipstick.
I know I was considering buying a new shade before realising the time and that I’d have to get back for the afternoon lecture, but when I reached the end of the High Street and put my hand in my pocket after pressing the button for the crossing, that’s what my fingers wrapped around.
I stood there, stunned for a moment before a loud zap reached my ears and the man next to me gave me a nudge.
‘Come on, love, otherwise you’ll miss it.’
My heart beat so hard at the interruption from my thoughts that I cried out in surprise. Luckily, he was already halfway across the road and didn’t hear me, although the old woman beside me shot me a funny look.
I ignored her, hurried to the campus and took the stairs two at a time before locking myself in the ladies’ toilet, sweat beading on my brow.
Once the fear subsided, a new sensation taunted me. One of bravado.
I’d got away with it, hadn’t I?
None of the alarms had gone off. No one had come running after me.
And so it went on.
I could stop any time I wanted to, I told myself.
It’s just a bit of fun.
No one gets hurt.
Until the night we were all at a distant acquaintance’s wedding two years ago, invited out of politeness for attending the same classes at the university.
We’d been placed on different tables, but caught up at the bar in between courses of lavish food presented by a team of wait staff in tuxedos.
We huddled and giggled over glasses of vintage champagne at the extravagance, the drunken antics of the bride’s mother, and the money being lavished on a wedding we were sure would end in divorce in under five years.
Then Simon had offered his arm and flashed me one of his lopsided grins. ‘Dance for old times’ sake?’
‘Go on then.’
We sidled around the other couples, my hand in his, his other resting on my waist, and spent the first part of the song stumbling over each other’s feet until we found our rhythm. As I was relaxing into the dance, he lowered his mouth to my ear and said, very softly—
‘Do you steal for the thrill, or because you actually need to?’
‘Pardon?’
Stunned by his words, I stopped so suddenly that the couple next to us bumped into me.
Simon smiled and held up his hand to them, then raised an imaginary glass to his lips and winked.
They both laughed, took their places, and danced away once more.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I managed as the closing bars of the pop tune reached my ears.
‘If you keep stealing things, you’re going to get caught.’ He kissed my hand, never taking his eyes off me as the music ended and the other dancers
applauded the band. ‘Someone might report you.’
He dropped my hand then, and sauntered back towards the bar as if nothing had happened.
Even now, my mouth is dry recalling it all.
I tried, I really tried but within a few weeks I’d done it again.
I got home, my heart pounding, wondering if he’d seen me. Wondering if he was spying on me so that he could go to the police and tell them what I had done.
He must’ve spotted the new earrings, even though I’d waited weeks until I’d worn them – they were perfect for the summer party we all went to.
Two days later, a letter turned up. Not an email. Not a phone call.
A fucking letter.
And he wanted money, or else he’d write anonymously to my clients and tell them all about my secret shoplifting habit. It wouldn’t matter how I tried to excuse any letters as the work of a spiteful individual, my business would be ruined so, of course, I paid him.
I couldn’t stop shoplifting. I know, that sounds pathetic, but it was the thrill. I got away with it, for a while, and then six weeks ago another letter arrived.
I was terrified, and so when—
I emit a stifled cry as the doorbell trills.
I can’t stop the gasp that escapes when I open the door.
Detective Constable Angela Forbes is on the doorstep, a steely glare aimed at me while behind her, two uniformed police officers hover at the garden gate.
‘What do you want?’ I manage.
‘Hayley Matthews, you do not have to say anything…’ She steps forward, reciting a string of words that I’m sure are second nature to her but confuse me as I move back, my hand going to my throat.
She can’t be serious, surely?
‘…anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ A sly smile creases her lips and she holds out her hand. ‘Come with me, please. We’ll continue this conversation at the station.’
‘I need to get my things.’
Forbes glances over her shoulder and beckons to the taller of the two uniformed officers, who then follows me through to the dining area and watches as I put my mobile in my bag and slip the strap over my shoulder.
Heat rises to my face as they wait on the garden path while I lock the front door and drop the keys into my bag next to my purse. I square my shoulders and turn in time to see the net curtain drop across the front bay window of number forty-seven across the street.
Forbes opens the back door of her car and watches dispassionately as I climb in. She slams it shut, and as she sits behind the wheel I hear the dull thunk of the internal locking mechanism click into place.
The uniformed officers drive off, lights blazing and, at first, I think they’re going to lead us to the police station. However, at the end of the street they break off and head left, out to another call out I presume.
I realise that Forbes had them accompany her for the shock value, not because she saw me as a flight risk.
She wanted to embarrass me in front of my neighbours. She wanted to scare me into submission when I opened my front door.
And she wants me to tell her everything without a fight.
I clench my jaw and stare out the window as we pass through the centre of town, trying to ignore the fear that’s now crawling through my veins.
Christ, fifteen minutes ago I thought I was the smartest woman I’d ever known. Now look at me.
I realise I’m shaking. I’m allowed a phone call, right? That’s what they do on the television. I won’t phone my dad – God, he’d be mortified and I’m sure as hell not trying to explain this to him. Lisa? Bec? And say what?
I turn back to face the front of the car and realise that by placing me behind the passenger seat, Forbes has ensured I can’t watch her in the rear-view mirror. I can’t make eye contact with her.
‘I need the loo.’
‘You can have a break at the station.’
She’s an efficient driver, weaving through the traffic and not slowing down unless absolutely necessary. In half an hour, we slow opposite a six-storey concrete and glass building, and I realise this is it.
This is the police station.
Forbes steers the car around the side and towards the rear of a red-brick wall, adhering to the slow speed limit while my heart rate increases.
I can feel it in my neck.
This is the route by which all suspects are brought in for questioning. I’ve seen it on the news in the past, and murmur a silent thanks that there are no journalists with cameras hanging around.
This is just a misunderstanding, I tell myself. I’ll have this cleared up in no time.
Forbes slings the car into a parking space parallel to the driveway and then leads me through two double doors at the side of the station.
It’s noisy here; there is a thin man in his thirties yelling at the top of his voice, his body odour so overwhelming that I take a step sideways to try to avoid it. A uniformed police officer keeps one hand on the man’s shoulder and talks to his colleague the other side of the desk. Her eyes are wide; she’s only young and appears terrified of the tattooed and swearing individual the policeman has brought her.
‘Through here.’
Forbes doesn’t break her stride; she swipes her card across the panel to one side of a thick wooden door and gives me a gentle shove to get me away from the fracas now taking place at the custody desk.
I wonder if she brought me this way on purpose, to intimidate me. If she did, it’s working. My legs are shaking as she pushes open a door to a room with a sign on it stating ‘Interview Room One’.
‘Sit.’
She gestures to a chair on one side of a table.
The pitted wooden surface is scarred and sticky, shining under the stark lighting. I keep my hands folded in my lap.
‘Do you have a solicitor you wish to appoint, or do you wish one to be appointed on your behalf?’
I think of Mr Franchester, my dad’s solicitor who helped him update his will two years ago. ‘No, I don’t have a solicitor.’
‘We’ll arrange a duty solicitor to represent you. Is there anyone you’d like me to call to advise them that you’re here?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
To my dismay, Forbes leaves the room and shuts the door behind her.
I am left staring at the opposite wall, and wonder how the hell I’m going to survive this.
45
Lisa
It’s raining; a light, persistent drizzle that slowly soaks into my jeans by the time I walk out of the gates at the north end of the Common.
I stand at the kerb and pull the hood of my padded waterproof coat over my head, shoving my hands in my pockets.
I’m lost, cast adrift on a plethora of decisions that I can’t make on my own. We always decided together. Where to go, what to do, who to socialise with.
Paralysis seizes me. I stand, frozen, as cars roar past, headlights seeking a way through the rain that is quickly turning torrential; brake lights flashing as drivers realise their error in following too closely to the car in front; the noise and clamour of a city in motion all around me.
I want to see it. I want to see the escape room again, but I’m struggling.
I curse my own stupidity for not bringing some painkillers with me in case I needed them. My recovery is progressing well, and I forget what I’ve put my body through, such is my relief that I’ve had a reprieve from death.
Despite my surgeon’s best attempts, I am not superhuman after all.
I miss a bus by seconds, and squint through the mist that swirls across the pavement and up the road. It’s not far, not really.
I can’t make it, but I have to know.
I grimace as another bolt of pure fire stabs my abdomen and hope to hell I haven’t caused any damage. Since moving the boxes in Mum and Dad’s garage, my stomach muscles have twisted together, reminding me that I need to take it slow; I need time to heal.
Except I might not have time.
A car advanc
es down the road towards me, a sign on its roof a welcome illumination.
I raise my hand as it approaches, the orange flash of an indicator blinking before it pulls to the kerb. It’s covered in the livery of one of the local taxi firms, an extravagance I’d normally avoid.
But then, this is anything but normal.
Normal packed its bags and headed for the hills almost two weeks ago.
I wrench open the back door and collapse onto the seat behind the front passenger seat.
‘A-Maze Escape Room.’
‘No problem, love. Terrible weather to be out in.’
That saves me explaining myself to the driver, at least. The escape room is only a five-minute drive away from here, and on any other day – health permitting – I might have walked.
Not today.
I stare out the window, at figures dashing back and forth on the pavement as they try to get indoors, back to the office, back to work before getting too wet.
A woman struggles with a flimsy umbrella that has turned inside out, and then gives up and shoves it into a rubbish bin next to a bus stop, raises her bag over her head and begins to run. Her heels splash through puddles and rivulets of rainwater that rush towards the gutter, the drains bubbling over in shock from the deluge.
Thankfully, the taxi driver is silent save for the beat of his fingers against the steering wheel as a song on the radio plays out; an eye blink of a memory from my teenage years.
Humming to the song under my breath, I keep my face passive.
The driver adjusted his rear-view mirror after we set off, and I reckon it isn’t angled at the lorry that grumbles along behind us.
I wonder if he saw the photograph of me that appeared in the newspaper. Maybe he’s seen it online, but then I don’t know what’s happening on social media.
I don’t go there.
Even when I checked my old timeline the other day, I didn’t venture further past than seven years ago in case someone noticed. Because if one person noticed, someone else would, and my presence on the site would spread like a ripple across water.
The Friend Who Lied Page 16