by Mark Edwards
‘Please, tell me,’ I said. ‘What happened to him?’
The two detectives exchanged a look and, this time, Jones answered.
‘We don’t know the exact cause of death yet, Mr Sumner. But it looks like he had a fall, hit his head on the fireplace. Whether he fell or was pushed, we don’t know yet.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately the scene, the body, had been disturbed somewhat by his dog.’
Moseley studied my face, trying to work out what was going on beneath the surface of my reaction to this horrific piece of news. Then he lifted his chin in the direction of the uniformed PC, and I was escorted from the room, my legs so shaky I could hardly walk.
The cell was small and stank of nervous sweat. I sat on a bench that appeared to have been designed to hurt your buttocks as quickly as possible, and stared at the wall, trying to wrestle my thoughts into some kind of order.
I had mostly managed to get the memories of what had happened with Pete, Sandra and Dominic back into the box, but now I forced myself to remember the rest of it, so I could play it through, exorcise it once again. Move on to the current nightmare I was trapped in.
After the truth had come out, Dominic didn’t speak to me anymore and Uncle Pete communicated with me only when he had to. He had wanted me to be charged – vandalism, reckless endangerment, I forget the rest – but Sandra had pleaded with him and he’d backed down. Because of the injuries to the woman in the second car, and the involvement of the insurance companies, it hadn’t been simple. There had been compensation claims, an out-of-court settlement that, eventually, came out of the death benefit I received. There were no criminal charges brought in the end. But the story of what had happened – in its black and white version, stripped to the facts – obviously remained on my record.
The worst thing had been how I had destroyed my relationship with my surviving family. I felt a terrible guilt. In a way, what I’d done, the blast of fear and regret that followed, helped me. It was the short sharp shock that people say should be meted out to young offenders, and it worked for me. It brought me out of the cocoon of fantasy and lies I’d been living in, made me face up to what had happened. I was finally able to grieve properly for my parents. I opened up to my counsellor at last, and I did everything I could to act like a model nephew for the next two years.
By the time I left Hastings and headed to university almost two years later, I was different. I had grown up. This doesn’t mean I didn’t have my demons. I had more than my fair share. I still felt, in my heart, out of step with the world. I found it easier to seek solitude than fall into crowds. And I guess, without trying to psychoanalyse myself, it led to the loneliness that made me so vulnerable and open – desperate, even – when Charlie came along and promised to make me whole.
None of my history with the law had crossed my mind when I’d reported Charlie. Perhaps if it had, I would have thought twice about going to the police, even though the circumstances were so different.
My thoughts returned to the present. Where was Charlie now? What was she doing? I guessed she would run, go far away. If she had killed Harold while I was at the police station, did she really think she could get away with it, that the police would blame me? Although she wouldn’t have known I was here, that I had the best alibi it’s possible to get. Was she going to go to my flat and leave something of Harold’s there, some fake souvenir? And how had she killed him? Frightened to death. Yet again, I thought of the dark spirit and thanked God I wasn’t superstitious, then laughed humourlessly at the irony of this.
I banged on the cell door. After a while, a policeman in a uniform with a white stain like baby sick on one shoulder, came to the door.
‘After room service?’ he said.
‘I need to talk to DC Moseley or DI Jones.’
‘You’ll have to wait,’ he said. ‘Try to enjoy the facilities.’
‘But Charlie will be getting away. She’s probably planting something in my flat right now, trying to frame me.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ll pass that on.’
‘What about my phone call? I want to call my sister. And my solicitor? You can’t keep me here indefinitely.’
‘Patience is a virtue,’ he said, shutting the door in my face.
Fifteen minutes later, it opened again. I rose from the bench, expecting to hear that I could make my call or talk to my solicitor. But it was the policeman with the baby sick stain again, and he was escorting someone else into the cell.
It was a tall middle-aged man, balding but fit-looking. I must have gawped at him because he gave me a dirty look before going to sit on the bench and putting his face in his hands. A moment later, he sprang up and stared pacing around, muttering to himself.
‘What are you staring at?’ he snapped.
His voice was middle-class, private educated. He was wearing an expensive watch and the kind of suit I could never afford.
I had recognised him the moment he’d entered the room. Had seen his picture on his own website.
It was Lance.
Thirty-eight
I was sharing my tiny cell with the man who had terrified and attacked my best friend. I had never met him before, despite the work I’d done for Wowcom, so he had no idea who I was. The police must have gone to talk to him after Sasha’s call this morning, had brought him in for questioning.
I could have kept my mouth shut. But I was so agitated that I couldn’t help myself.
‘I know who you are,’ I said, as Lance continued to pace the cell.
He stopped dead.
‘You’re Lance Hendrix. From Wowcom.’
He eyed me warily. I expect he thought I had seen his profile in Wired or a Sunday newspaper, that I was going to hit him with a business idea, pitch for an investment. Or, more likely, he was worried that when I got out of this cell I would leak news of his arrest. I am sure he had a lawyer to match his expensive watch and suit, someone who would be doing everything they could to not only get their client off but keep his face out of the papers.
‘You deserve everything you get,’ I said.
I wished in that moment that I could have taken a picture of his face, of his jaw literally dropping, and send it to Sasha.
‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ he said when he’d recovered.
I stepped closer to him. ‘I’m talking about what you did to Sasha.’
He stepped back. ‘You know that little bitch?’
‘She’s my best friend. And she’s told me everything – your sordid affair, what you did to her in that hotel room, the threatening texts, the way you set your wife on her. All of it.’
He sneered at me, though his face had turned white. He looked me up and down. ‘What are you doing in here? Did she tell a pack of lies about you too?’
‘What? No. But I know—’
He jabbed a finger at me. ‘I have no reason to explain myself to you, whoever you are. But this girl is a liar. I never had an affair with her. In fact, for your information, I have never, ever been unfaithful to my wife. I certainly never attacked the silly girl.’ He twisted and turned as he spoke, a ball of kinetic energy. ‘I was barely aware of her existence until the police turned up at my office this morning.’
‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘How can you say that? She works for you.’
‘Hundreds of people work for me. Do you think I know them all?’
I ignored him. ‘And I know you had an affair. She told me all about it. She told me all about your . . . proclivities.’
‘My what?’
‘She told me what you like to do in bed.’
He stared at me, then burst out laughing. ‘Did she indeed?’ He seemed genuinely amused. ‘Tell me, does your friend have mental health issues? We normally screen for that sort of thing, but a few slip through the net. Psychometric tests aren’t foolproof, unfortunately.’
Now
it was my turn to be affronted. ‘No, she hasn’t. Is that going to be your defence in court?’
He sat down on the bench, suddenly calm and collected. ‘It will never get to court. Sarah or Sasha or whatever her name is – she’s a liar. A fantasist. She’s invented the whole thing.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘You know what? I don’t care.’
Before I could say any more, or make sense of this, the door opened and the officer with the baby sick stain beckoned me out.
‘You can make your phone call now.’
He pointed to a pay phone on the wall opposite. I hadn’t used a pay phone in years, was barely aware they still existed. I picked the receiver up and realised I was going to have to pay for the call myself. I fished in my pockets and found two 20p pieces. I pushed one into the slot and dialled Tilly’s mobile number, one of the few phone numbers I knew by heart.
She picked up after four rings, but all I could hear was a great rushing howl. It was like she was standing at the centre of a hurricane, or there was extreme interference on the line.
‘Hello?’ I said. Then, raising my voice when there was no response, said it again. The howling continued, a blast of static that looped and roared. I pulled the handset away from my ear. It was like I was trying to call someone in Hell.
‘Tilly, are you there?’
‘Hello? Andrew?’ Her voice was faint but it was unmistakeably my sister.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. Sorry, it’s really windy here.’ She laughed. ‘It’s like the start of the Wizard of Oz.’ Her voice was a little clearer now, though I had to press the receiver hard against my ear. Beyond her voice and the roar of the wind, I could hear the faint background sound of seagulls, their cries cutting through the static.
‘Where are you?’ I asked, gripping the phone with frustration.
‘Beachy Head.’
‘What the hell are you doing up there?’
Beachy Head is a famous chalk cliff on the outskirts of Eastbourne and is a notorious suicide spot. It’s well known as the most popular place in England to kill yourself. I remembered reading that around twenty people a year throw themselves off the cliff, its fame no doubt adding to its popularity among the suicidal. The Samaritans had a huge billboard on the clifftop, encouraging people to call the charity helpline to be talked around. Despite its bloody reputation, it was a beautiful place, offering breathtaking views of the churning English Channel below, the red and white stripes of the lighthouse, the continent just beyond the horizon.
Her reply was swept away on the wind and as I said, ‘What?’ the phone beeped and the display flashed Insert another coin. Jesus. I stuck my second and final twenty pence piece into the slot.
‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should call you back when I’m inside. I think we’re going in the pub in a minute.’
She sounded happy and I wondered if she was on a date. Or maybe Rachel had turned up. But I needed to tell her about my own predicament – it was important that someone knew where I was – so I said, ‘Listen I need to tell you something . . .’
She wasn’t really listening. I heard her say, ‘It’s Andrew,’ to whoever she was with.
‘Tilly . . .’ I said, impatient.
‘What’s the matter? You sound really worried. Don’t tell me you think I’m going to wheel myself off the cliff?’
‘No, Tilly . . .’
‘That thing at the start of the year, it wasn’t that serious. I’m absolutely fine now, OK? How many times do I have to tell you. I. Am. Fine.’
I heard her say something to whoever she was with. Then she addressed me: ‘I think I should call you back. Do you want to talk to her first?’
Little shivering tendrils of dread reached out for me. ‘Tilly,’ I said. ‘Who are you with?’
‘Charlie.’
It was as if the gales blowing across the clifftop came down the wires and through the phone, knocking me backwards, a blast of ice that penetrated my entire body. The police officer who’d escorted me to the phone furrowed his brow as I staggered, grabbing hold of the payphone on the wall and almost collapsed.
I could hear Charlie’s voice from just a few hours ago. You swore on your life. You swore on your sister’s life.
I frantically tried to work it out. Could Charlie have got round to Harold’s in north London then down to Eastbourne in the time I’d been here? Yes, just about, with the hours I’d been kept waiting in the interview room and then in the holding cell.
‘Yeah, she came to see me,’ Tilly said in her chirpiest voice. ‘She wanted to take me out as a treat. Hold on, she wants to talk to you.’
Before I could shout out a warning to Tilly, Charlie came on the line.
‘Hello Andrew.’
Her voice was calm and measured. As she spoke, the wind seemed to drop, the roaring noise dropping to a low, undulating hiss.
‘Charlie. Whatever you’re planning to do, please, don’t do it. Tilly has never done anything to you.’
She laughed. It was the coldest sound I’d ever heard.
‘We’re having a lovely time,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to believe that so many people die every year in such a beautiful place.’
‘Charlie!’
There was a pause of a few seconds and I figured that Charlie was taking a few steps away from Tilly so she wouldn’t be overheard.
‘Tilly doesn’t know what you did to me,’ she said.
‘I know,’ I blurted. ‘She’s innocent. Charlie, I’ll do anything, say anything. Just please, please don’t—’
The police officer was watching me even more closely now.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Charlie said. ‘Too much interference on the line. You know, this is probably the last time we’ll ever talk.’ She sighed, sadness entering her voice. ‘I loved you, Andrew.’
‘Charlie, I loved you too.’ My voice was shaking. ‘Maybe we can—’
‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘You betrayed me. Do you really think I could forgive you?’
‘Charlie—’
The phone beeped. Insert another coin. I didn’t have any more coins.
‘I’m going to go now, Andrew. I’ll hand you back to Tilly.’
‘Please—’
The phone beeped urgently.
‘Say goodbye to your sister,’ Charlie said, and the line went dead.
Thirty-nine
I stared at the dead receiver in my hand. I was on the verge of hyperventilating. I scrambled in my pockets for another coin but had nothing. I wanted to scream.
‘Everything all right?’ said the police officer, coming over.
‘No. Please, I need you to call Eastbourne police, get someone to Beachy Head.’ I was almost sobbing. ‘She – Charlie – is going to kill my sister. She’s going to push her over the cliff, make it look like an accident. Oh God, it’s probably too late already.’
He put his hand on my arm.
‘Calm down,’ he said. I guess he was used to dealing with crazy people, drunks, nutters. He was looking at me like I was one of them.
‘I can’t fucking calm down,’ I said. ‘You have to let me go. And call Eastbourne police. You have to!’
‘Let’s get you back to your cell . . .’
‘No!’
I shoved him in the chest, and in a flash I was surrounded by uniformed police. They came out of nowhere, and one of them had my face against the wall, yanking my arms back, sending spasms of pain into my shoulders. He cuffed me, and I was dragged back to the cell and shoved inside. The door slammed shut behind me.
‘She’s going to kill her!’ I shouted at the door. I kicked it and screamed curses at the unrelenting metal, shouting till my throat was shredded and hoarse. Tilly, oh Tilly. I could picture the stunned look on her face as Charlie shoved
her chair, the sea and the rocks rushing up to meet her. I closed my eyes, sank to my knees, sobbing. It was too late. She would already be dead.
I had invited the dark spirit into my life. Its name was Charlie. It had stolen from Harriet, disfigured Kristi, ruined Victor, murdered Karen and Harold. It had wreaked havoc in my life, tried to cut me off from everyone. What had happened to Sasha and Rachel – was that Charlie too? Were Lance and Henry merely convenient patsies? Everyone I cared about, all the people I liked and loved. The dark spirit had poisoned their lives too, destroying everything. And now, the final straw, the coup de grace. It – she – had taken my sister.
Eventually, I stopped crying and looked up to see Lance gazing at me with a mixture of contempt and amusement.
‘You’re as mental as your friend,’ he said.
A little while after that, Lance was taken from the cell, for questioning I assumed. I sat on the hard bench, numb and drained. I had given up trying to get the police to open the door or talk to me. All I could do now was wait.
If Tilly was dead, the only person I had left in the world now was Sasha. I was terrified that Charlie would target her next. She hated Sasha anyway. A terrible thought struck me: what if she had already done something to Sasha before heading to Eastbourne? That would be logical. She knew Sasha was at home. What would she do? Make it look like another death by misadventure? An apparent suicide?
The door opened and DC Moseley entered the room.
I jumped to my feet.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I said. ‘Urgently. I tried to tell the—’
Moseley put up a hand to silence me then gestured to the uniformed officer who had cuffed me. Moseley took the key and unlocked the cuffs.
‘You’re free to go,’ he said.
I stared at him. ‘What? Why?’
He rubbed his neck. He looked tired but alert, like he was running on adrenaline. ‘Some new evidence has come to light.’