A familiar figure in jeans and leather jacket waited outside.
The lift slid open and she stepped straight in. A few moments later she was standing outside her apartment. She was about to fumble in her bag for her keys when her door swung open.
What the hell?
Certain she had locked the door before she’d left, she slowly pushed it open. The door swung back against the wall with a dull thud. Beyond, the apartment was clearly in darkness; there were no strips of light showing beneath any of the doors.
She had left the hall light on, she would swear to it.
“Simon?” She really couldn’t face him again. “Is that you?”
There was no response. Of course, there wouldn’t be. She needed to get a grip. Simon would be sulking back in his own apartment and a burglar would hardly announce himself.
She flicked the switch for the hall light. Nothing happened. Now thoroughly out of patience, she flipped the switch on and off at speed.
“Perfect,” she muttered. “Absolutely perfect.” The bulb had gone and she probably didn’t have a spare. She entered the hall and checked the next light switch, which was over the telephone table and opposite the study door. The same result. OK, not the bulb. Had the fuse had tripped out?
The fuse box was located in the study, high on the wall behind the door. She took her mobile from her bag to use as a torch, but when she tried to open the study door it hit against something and stuck. Possibly one of her many books had fallen from a shelf and jammed against it, but by now she’d had enough. She gave the door a violent shove with her shoulder. It gave slightly - and then slammed back into her.
She fell against the wall, sliding to the floor, all the breath knocked out of her. A shadowy figure stepped from behind the door, pausing to look her up and down, before stepping over her and into the hall. By the time it occurred to her to scream, he had gone.
Her phone was a few feet away, glimmering in its own pool of light. She scooped it up, using it to illuminate the study. Reassuringly empty, her laptop was also still on her desk. She had not started work on her new novel, but there was plenty of material on the hard drive she would have hated to lose.
Feeling more confident, she got up and checked behind the door for the fuse box. The red power switch had been flipped to the ‘off’ setting. The intruder must have heard her arrive and hit the power to give himself time to escape. As soon as she flicked the switch the apartment was flooded with light, blinding her. She didn’t see someone was standing behind her, until she’d walked smack into him.
This time she did scream - but two large hands shot out to cradle her face and a familiar voice said,
“Thank God, you’re all right!”
Bryn? How the hell had he got in? Instinctively Natalie pushed him away, and then spotted the two policemen beside him, rigged out in full body armour.
Panic was replaced by fury. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded. Had it been some kind of set up? Bryn was to keep her talking outside while someone else broke into her apartment?
Then DCI Bloom appeared in the doorway, followed by two more officers in dark suits. “May we come in?” he asked, blithely stepping over the threshold and walking inside before she had the chance to reply.
“Why not? I’ll put the kettle on.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “That would be lovely, but before you get started - ” he reached into his pocket and handed her a small plastic bottle. “Do you think you could pee into that?”
25
James arrived home the same time as the police were leaving, which involved a lot of explanations. Alicia had no desire to revisit the events of the past couple of hours, so she left them to it and went to check on the children. It was plain the police thought she was an idiot, but were too polite to tell her so. Her husband would have no such compunction.
Lexi was in the bathroom, singing along to Marilyn Manson. Will had fallen asleep, sprawled across the top of his bed and clutching one of his action figures, which was in danger of taking out his eye. Alicia removed it to a safe distance and tucked him in.
As she returned downstairs James was closing the front door, taking great care to shove each and every bolt home. Outside she could hear the scrunch of tyres on gravel as the patrol car finally drove away from the house, hopefully without the blue light flashing.
“Well,” said James, straightening after shooting the last bolt home. “You had an exciting night.”
Uncertainly she paused on the bottom step, one hand on the newel post. Was he serious? He had such an odd sense of humour, sometimes she couldn’t tell.
“Are you sorry you missed it?” she said.
He shrugged. “To the contrary, I’ve had plenty of excitement myself. The village was in chaos - packed with the police, fire brigade and gawpers wandering about in the middle of the road. The whole place was gridlocked. That’s why I was late.”
Why was she so certain he lied?
James broke eye contact and strode across the hall to the kitchen. Bemused, she followed and watched as he slid a bottle of wine from the fridge.
“Would you like a glass?” he asked, taking one from the cupboard.
She shook her head. “No thank you.”
I’ve got a lump on the back of my head the size of a walnut, matching the one on my forehead; I’m doped up to the eyeballs on painkillers and you want to give me alcohol?
“I was going to update my blog,” she said. “I didn’t have chance this morning and I’ve received some fascinating information about Daniel-the-Pirate. My father’s cousin has sent me a copy of a manuscript, dating from the late 16th century, which could prove he really did sail with Sir Francis Drake.”
As usual, his eyes glazed over as soon as she mentioned the word ‘blog’.
“You’ve had a rough night,” he said. “Why don’t you go to bed instead?” He slid his arm around her waist, and his thumb into the waistband of her skirt, leaving her in no doubt exactly what he meant by ‘bed’.
Ordinarily she’d have been pleased by the unexpected attention, but part of her still felt resentful by his lack of empathy. So she slid out of his embrace to make her point and then felt even more peeved when he did not appear that bothered.
“It won’t take long,” she told him. “I’ve already drafted it.”
He filled the glass to the brim but instead of placing the bottle back in the fridge, he left it on the counter. “In that case, I’ll check my emails first. I’ve lost my phone and I’m still waiting for my hotel confirmation about that conference I’m attending.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “But I’m using the computer.”
“No you’re not, you’re standing here, chatting to me.” He bent to kiss her cheek but she pulled away. Laughing, he ruffled her curls. “Don’t get into a strop. I won’t be long. If it’s that urgent, why not use the laptop? You do have this draft backed up onto your flash drive?”
“Yes, I always back everything up, but - ”
“There you go, problem solved,” he said and, raising his glass to her, he walked out - effectively leaving her talking to herself.
“The laptop doesn’t have an internet connection … ”
Sorely tempted to throw the bottle after him, Alicia went instead into the sitting room and switched on the TV. She sat down, berating herself for being such a doormat, whereupon something sharp dug into her hip. She dug it out of her pocket. It was James’s phone.
It took her a while for her to remember how it had got there. Of course, she had taken it into the garden and it had rung, right at the most inconvenient moment. He must have left it on the telephone table and she’d mistaken it for the landline.
She was about to take it through to the study and give it to him, when she spotted little square envelope on the home page. Someone had sent James a picture message - which was the reason it had launched into Kanye West in the first place.
If she hadn’t felt so cross with him, she would have ig
nored it - but spite made her open the message. There was no caption, only a photograph of a woman lying on a bed naked, except for a tiny thong - which, of course, made all the difference.
Perversely, her first thought was that Gabrielle Cameron had rather good breasts for a woman on the wrong side of forty. But, as she examined the photo more closely, she realised it wasn’t of Gabrielle at all, but someone much younger. She clicked on the sender details.
Summer Cameron.
Gabrielle’s daughter? Oh God, was James sleeping with one of his students?
Nausea flooded through her and she only just made it to the cloakroom toilet before throwing up.
James and Summer.
The daughter, not the mother.
The proof was there in that vile photo. Who else would Summer send a picture like that to, but a lover?
Alicia allowed her legs to buckle beneath her until she was knelt on the floor. Surreally she could hear the television in the sitting room as it launched into the weather forecast for tomorrow; and Lexi upstairs in the bathroom as she pulled out the plug on her bath and the water cascaded down through the waste pipe. More background noise to drown out her life. Would her family notice if she ceased to exist?
There was a bang on the door. “Alicia, are you in there?”
It would be pointless to remain silent. “Yes, I’m - ”
Whatever she was doing, James was not interested. “I’m off to bed,” he said, his voice fading into the distance. “See you in the morning.”
She got up and leaned over the washbasin, rinsing her mouth and splashing cold water onto her face. Her pale, freckly visage loomed back at her from the mirror, framed by hanks of limp auburn hair. Her skin had a grey tinge, and her eyes were bloodshot, but she could put that down to tiredness. She’d had a hell of an evening.
James’s phone remained on top of the cistern. He thought he’d lost it.
Like all his ‘toys’ it had been expensive. Since he’d bought it, he had become more addicted than any teenager. Now she knew why.
Bastard.
Aware she was torturing herself, she opened the message again. You could tell a lot from a photograph, even a tiny one like this. For instance, Summer (bloody stupid name) had taken the photograph herself, possibly that very evening. Her right arm was stretched into the air and her hand was out of shot (holding the phone). Her beautiful breasts poked straight up. Obviously not a woman of forty. Alicia’s own breasts disappeared beneath her armpits when she lay down and the only part of her which stuck up in the air was her belly, unsubtly rounded by pregnancy and too many cakes.
Summer had long blonde hair.
James’s indiscretions were always blonde.
Summer lay on a single bed with a pink duvet and fairy lights threaded through the bedstead. There was part of a poster just visible on the wall behind her, promoting a cult paranormal movie. It was a teenager’s bedroom. Apart from the overdose of pink, it could have belonged to Lexi.
How old was this girl? To be fair to James, she appeared rather older than fourteen. Was she still at school? Could he lose his job - would he really risk everything - over a stupid little fuck?
She slammed the phone onto the floor. “God, James! You are such a fool!”
As though conjuring him up, the floorboards above her head creaked. He wasn’t joking when he said he was going to bed. Never mind that she was down here, puking her guts out.
Bastard.
She glared at the phone. Miraculously it was in one piece. It was tempting to chuck the thing down the toilet and flush - but she didn’t. She was too pragmatic for that. What if it caused a blockage? Instead she deleted the message, switched the phone off and slipped it behind the pedestal of the wash basin, between the wall and a bottle of bleach. If he did ever find it, he would assume it had fallen there by accident.
She left the cloakroom, feeling pleased with her ingenuity.
Typically James had shut down the computer but Alicia was past caring. She was in no mood to be light-heartedly blogging about pirates. She switched off the television, checked everything was locked up and headed up the stairs to bed.
Kanye West was right. What didn’t kill you did make you stronger.
Right now she was feeling very strong indeed.
26
Natalie turned the bottle over in her hand. It was a clear plastic vial and had a white label all ready to be inscribed with her name.
“You want me to - what?”
The expression on DCI Bloom’s face did not flicker. “We need a specimen of urine to check for drugs.”
Did he keep a supply of these bottles for such an occasion?
“I haven’t taken any drugs - ”
“Not deliberately, but we think someone may have put something into your drink.”
No prizes for guessing who had put that idea in his head. “I had my drink with me all the time. There was no opportunity - ”
“Humour me.” DCI Bloom gave her a gentle push in the direction of the cloakroom. “Speed is of the essence, my dear.”
So now she was in the cloakroom, with the door closed. Outside the police were moving about the apartment. She could hear doors opening and closing as they made no effort to be either quiet or discreet. All the time they called out to each other - too muffled for her to discern exactly what was being said, until one spoke directly outside her door.
“No sign of anyone, sir.”
They were searching for her intruder. Hadn’t she seen him leave? Natalie leant wearily against the door. The wood felt cool against the hot skin of her forehead. She felt tired and ill - she could barely keep her eyes open. Would this ever end?
Someone banged on the door. Abruptly she stepped back, confused. Had she drifted off for a moment?
“Are you all right, Miss?”
She muttered something appropriate through the door, then glanced down at the bottle still grasped in her hand, and at the toilet a few feet away. Any more procrastinating was likely to bring the DCI in to supervise. She unscrewed the lid from the bottle and got on with the task in hand.
When she stepped back into the hall the two officers in the body armour had gone, but now there was a swarm of Scenes of Crime officers spreading throughout the apartment. Which was an awful lot of trouble to go to for one foiled break in.
She dangled the bottle from her fingers. “Who wants this?”
One of the SOC officers took the bottle before she’d barely got the words out, and slid it into a clear plastic bag. “I also need a blood sample and a strand of hair.”
She looked at DCI Bloom. “Is he serious?”
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” suggested DCI Bloom. “I’m afraid this is going to take some time.”
By the time the SOC officer had taken the required samples, the kettle had boiled and Bryn was spooning instant coffee into mugs. “Milk?” he asking, holding up a carton. Her carton. “Sugar?”
She hesitated. “Just black,” she said, and sat at the small round table in the centre of the room. What else could she say? Get the hell out of my kitchen/apartment/life? A plate of her favourite ginger biscuits appeared in front of her. She ignored it. If she ate anything now she knew she would simply bring it back again.
At least the kitchen was tidy, although there was a lingering scent of Indian takeaway, and she had cleared up all the broken glass - God knows what they would have made of that. Had it only been a few hours ago that she had come home and found Simon sitting on the sofa? If she could go back to that one moment -
“You are a most interesting lady, Natalie Grove,” the DCI was saying. “You go on TV and talk about a long-forgotten murder, and within a few hours all hell breaks loose.”
Deciding that a reply was not required, she took a sip of coffee. Unexpectedly Bryn had made it exactly the way she liked it. She sought him out. There were not enough chairs at the table so he was leant against one of the worktops, cradling a mug in his hand.
“We’ve checked your
apartment,” DCI Bloom added, as though sensing her attention had wandered. “Your intruder was working alone. He executed a tidy search and your TV, computer and other valuables appear to be still here. What he was looking for?”
The question took her by surprise. She put down the mug and spooned sugar into it, to give herself time to think. As she stirred, she was aware of every clink of the spoon and that everyone in the room was waiting for her answer.
Admit nothing. She could almost sense her father’s presence in the kitchen, even though he’d never visited her apartment. Don’t volunteer information. Don’t incriminate yourself. She remembered how he’d always hated the police. It had never occurred to her to wonder why.
“The usual, I suppose,” she said, as vaguely as she could manage.
“Do you have a safe for cash and jewellery?”
That one was easy. “I don’t keep cash in the apartment and I don’t have much jewellery.” She took another sip from her mug. She liked her coffee black, strong and unsweetened. The sugar she’d added had now rendered it undrinkable. It was an effort to prevent herself grimacing. Carefully she set the mug back onto the table, smiling politely at the men sat around her table, so they would feel more inclined to believe every word she said.
“Would you know if anything was missing?” the Detective Chief Inspector persisted.
Down the hall, she could hear the SOC officers moving from room to room. “I suppose so.” It was easy to sound vague when she felt so shattered.
“Would you be so kind as to check the apartment for me?” The tension had returned to his voice. “Then we’ll be out of your way.”
That suggestion she was happy to agree with, although it took a good hour for the forensics to be finished. The DCI and his team drank more coffee and finished off all the biscuits. Bryn made some calls on his mobile. To his sister? Girlfriend? Wife? As he went outside to make them, she had no idea who he was phoning.
Eventually she was given the all clear to check her apartment. She knew it would be a waste of time but went through the motions to keep them happy. The police stayed in the kitchen. Bryn, however, followed her.
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