The One You Love (suspense mystery)

by Pilkington, Paul

  Then the intercom buzzed again, and again. It became more insistent. So much so that Emma began to worry about who it was. And whether they were in trouble.

  Could it be Dan? Or Lizzy?

  She climbed out of the bath, wrapped a towel around herself and pattered out into the hallway, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. A chill whipped around her wet, bare shoulders and legs as she reached the intercom. It buzzed again just before she could speak.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, ‘who is it?’

  She waited, but there was no answer.

  Again, the buzz – this time it was slightly longer than before.

  ‘Hello?’ she said again.

  Silence.

  ‘Look, if this is someone just messing around you can just go to…’

  ‘Help me,’ a weak, barely audible voice interrupted.

  ‘Dan?’ Emma shouted. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Help me,’ the voice repeated in its deathly whisper.

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Quickly,’ the voice said.

  Emma raced into the bedroom, dropping her towel and grabbing her training outfit. She dressed and then headed for the door, not even bothering to shut it behind her. As she rushed down the stairs she had to check herself, for fear of falling. The stairs were quite steep and slippery. Thoughts flashed through her mind of who would be waiting for her at the bottom.

  When she got to the entrance hall she slowed to a stop, taking the opportunity to look through the outside door, hoping to make out Dan’s silhouette. But no one was there. Emma stepped towards the door, her breathing heavy, and grasped the handle. Not knowing whether she was doing the right thing, she opened the door and stepped outside.

  Flash!

  ‘What?’ Emma exclaimed, shielding her eyes from the bright light.

  Flash! Flash!

  Emma squinted and saw the hooded figure at the bottom of the steps, pointing the camera at her. They were wearing a balaclava.

  Flash!

  ‘What the hell…’ Emma said, taking a step towards the figure.

  It turned and ran.

  Instinctively, Emma gave chase. She pursued them down Marylebone High Street, keeping her target in sight, as they turned first into St. George Street and then onto Baker Street. But they gave her the slip by running straight across a road junction, narrowly avoiding a Double Decker and 4x4.

  Emma watched, breathless with adrenalin as the figure disappeared into the distance. She took a moment, then turned and headed back to the apartment - there was no point in chasing them any further. As Emma walked back, she tried to take in what had just happened. She was shocked and upset, and couldn’t believe the lengths journalists would go to, just to get a picture.

  By the time she reached the apartment she was thoroughly unnerved. If this sort of unwanted attention was the price of success, then she didn’t want any of it. She locked the door and went into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa, her head spinning. She really needed someone to talk to – Lizzy, or Will.

  ***

  Emma was woken by a knock on the door. At first, dazed by tiredness, she thought it might have just been part of a dream. But as she staggered across the room and moved towards the door there was another knock.

  Was it the photographer, coming back to get a closer shot?

  Or was it something more sinister?

  But how had they got in? Had she not closed the main door properly?

  Instead of asking who it was, giving them time to react, she crept towards the door. With her heart seemingly punching its way out of her chest, she slowly brought an eye up to the spy-hole.

  42

  ‘You all right?’ Stuart asked as Emma entered the kitchen. He examined her eyes, looking for an explanation as to why she had obviously been crying.

  ‘Today was supposed to be my wedding day,’ Emma stated, taking a seat at the breakfast table.

  She’d let Stuart stay the night on the sofa after his late night visit. Having someone familiar in the flat eased her anxieties, especially now people were calling at her door. She had worried that asking him to stay might give him the wrong impression, and he certainly wouldn’t have been her first choice of overnight guest, but he was there and willing. They’d watched some TV and then, when he’d mentioned calling for a cab, she’d asked him to stay.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking towards his feet for inspiration. ‘Look, Emma, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ Emma said. She looked at the spread Stuart had prepared for breakfast – a pot of tea, toast, selection of croissants, yoghurt and cereals. ‘Where did all this come from?’

  ‘Waitrose,’ he answered, placing a bowl of strawberries on the tabletop and then taking a seat. ‘I tried to make breakfast with what you had in the fridge, but there’s only so much you can do with a half-eaten jar of beetroot.’

  Stuart smiled and Emma smiled back. That was the first flash of his trademark humour that she had once loved so much. And even though it was misplaced at this present time, it was still some comfort.

  ‘Tuck in,’ Stuart said.

  Emma just looked at the table.

  Stuart grimaced. ‘Please say you’ve got an appetite. Otherwise I’ll have to eat the lot.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Emma said, picking up a croissant and placing it on her plate.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  ‘Did someone phone this morning?’ Emma asked, buttering the croissant. ‘I thought I heard the phone ring while I was lying in bed.

  ‘Wrong number,’ Stuart replied, biting into a piece of toast. ‘Some guy wanting to speak with someone called Debbie.’

  ‘Right,’ Emma said.

  ‘What are your plans for today?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘I haven’t got any.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be alone,’ Stuart advised. ‘This was supposed to be the greatest day of your life. It’s bound to be difficult and you’ll need support.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t want charity.’

  ‘What are you thinking about Dan’s letter?’ Stuart asked. ‘Do you believe Lizzy?’

  ‘I want to,’ Emma said. ‘But I want to believe Dan too.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ Stuart noted. ‘Either your best friend is lying or your fiancé is lying.’

  Emma put a hand to her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stuart said.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Emma replied, standing up from the table and walking over to the window. ‘I just can’t get my head around what the letter said. I can’t believe that Lizzy would do that to me. Not if she’s the person I always thought she was. That Lizzy would never have done this. But I still can’t believe Dan would have done this either.’

  ‘Sometimes people let us down,’ Stuart said. ‘Even those we love and trust the most. When it comes down to it, humans are pretty weak creatures.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Emma said. ‘Maybe there is another explanation.’

  ‘Go on,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Maybe Dan didn’t write the letter,’ she said. ‘After all, it was typed, so it could have been from anyone.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Anyone. The story was splashed all over the papers yesterday. Maybe someone decided to write the letter as a prank.’

  ‘Some prank,’ Stuart said. ‘They would have to be a really sick person.’

  ‘But it’s possible,’ Emma said. ‘Maybe the press wrote it themselves; just to make a better story.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not just kidding yourself?’ he asked. ‘I mean - I can understand that you don’t want to believe what it said.’

  ‘But you saw last night the lengths they’re prepared to go to. They made me think that someone was in trouble down there, just to get a few photographs. It really scared me, Stuart.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And when we find out who took them, they’re going to regret it, believe me.’

  ‘I doubt w
e’ll discover who did it,’ Emma said.

  ‘Oh we will,’ Stuart said confidently. ‘And I know where we’ll find our answer.’

  ***

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Stuart said, putting yet another newspaper back on the rack in the local newsagent’s store. ‘Why would they go to the bother of taking your photo and then not publish it? I was sure this was going to work.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Emma said, as she finished looking through the paper she was holding. ‘But I have one idea.’

  ‘Go on,’ Stuart said.

  ‘I met someone a few days’ ago, in Regent’s Park. He took my photo.’

  Stuart looked aghast.

  ‘He seemed pretty harmless,’ Emma said, knowing just what Stuart was thinking. ‘It’s not the same as last time.’

  Stuart looked unconvinced. ‘Really?’

  ‘Honestly, he’s not another Stephen Myers,’ she protested.

  ‘But you still think he might have been hanging around outside your apartment, wearing a balaclava and pretending to need help?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Emma acknowledged. ‘Maybe I’m just being naïve.’

  ‘Tell me more about him.’

  ‘I don’t really know much,’ Emma said. ‘Apart from he’s probably about twenty, and he hangs around Primrose Hill taking pictures of celebrities. He was also a big fan of Up My Street.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Em,’ Stuart said, in an aggressive tone that shocked her. ‘How could you get involved with someone like that again?’

  ‘Probably the same way I got involved with another man who just upped and ran out on me,’ Emma shot back.

  Her anger flaring, Emma turned and walked out of the store. She didn’t bother to look whether Stuart was following.

  How dare he just walk back into her life and start judging her like that?

  ‘Emma,’ Stuart said, catching up with her a few metres down Oxford Street. He moved around in front of her. ‘Please, let me apologise.’

  Emma stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry for saying that back there,’ he said, ‘it’s just I don’t want to see you making the same mistake again.’

  ‘You think Stephen Myers was my mistake?’ Emma snapped. ‘You think it was my fault?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Look,’ he said, ‘we’re both stressing out about this. Let’s just go and get a coffee, and relax a little.’

  ‘Okay,’ Emma agreed. ‘Look, I’m sorry too,’ she said, softening. ‘You were right – today is going to be difficult.’

  ***

  They had just left the coffee shop when Emma spotted Eric. He was on the other side of the road, a camera around his neck. But at that particular moment his attention was elsewhere, giving Emma the time she needed.

  ‘Emma!’ Stuart shouted, as she darted across the road. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Emma reached Eric before he had time to react, grabbing the back of his collar using one of her much-practised Karate moves.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, flailing around like a fish on a hook. ‘Get off me!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Emma demanded, keeping her grip from behind. A couple of pedestrians gave her interested glances as they walked by, but for the most part people dismissed the altercation as just another one of those everyday London occurrences.

  ‘I…I…was,’ Eric stuttered.

  ‘Is this him?’ Stuart said, catching up.

  Emma nodded.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Stuart said to Eric, who now looked genuinely scared. ‘Were you following us?’

  Eric shook his head.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Stuart said. ‘Was it you at Emma’s apartment last night?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he protested. ‘Please, just let me go.’

  ‘Not before I take this,’ Stuart said, yanking the camera from around his neck.

  ‘Hey, give me it back,’ Eric shouted, trying to grab the camera. ‘That’s worth a lot of money. Be careful with it.’

  Emma glanced at Stuart, who was fiddling with the camera.

  ‘Stuart,’ Emma said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, clicking the camera several times before opening up the back and pulling out the film. ‘Got it. Here you go,’ he said, handing the camera back to Eric.

  ‘Let me go,’ Eric moaned. Emma let go and realised he was crying. She was shocked and embarrassed.

  ‘If I ever catch you following her again, I swear I’ll kill you,’ Stuart said, jabbing a finger at Eric.

  Eric just turned and ran.

  ***

  ‘You open them,’ Emma said, as they entered the photographers to collect the set of prints they’d handed in for one hour processing.

  ‘You sure?’ Stuart replied.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  They gave their details and the cashier handed over the photographs. Stuart waited until he was outside to open them. Emma watched as he shuffled through them, his face not revealing any emotion.

  ‘Are the photos there?’ Emma asked. ‘Of last night?’

  ‘I think we’d better call the police,’ Stuart replied. ‘Right now.’

  43

  ‘Afraid of flying?’ the lady asked, turning to look at the young man sitting to her left. She looked to be in her sixties and had a friendly smile.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ Will answered.

  ‘It’s the way you’re gripping the arm rest,’ she said, nodding towards his white knuckles, ‘like you’re hanging on for dear life.’

  ‘I’m usually okay,’ he said, smiling ruefully, trying but failing to loosen his grip. ‘Didn’t have any problems on the way out. Now though I just can’t stop thinking about being so far up. I feel as though if I stop concentrating on the plane being up here, we’ll just crash. I know it sounds really stupid,’ he added, embarrassed.

  ‘It’s not stupid,’ she said. ‘My husband had a terrible fear of flying. Didn’t bother him for a while – he just didn’t fly anywhere. Then my son emigrated to Canada, and he had no choice but to fly.’

  ‘So how did he get over it?’ Will asked.

  ‘I bought him one of those self-help books,’ she replied. ‘It said that the fear comes from a loss of control – the person wants to be in control, but ultimately they can’t control anything, apart from how they react to the situation. So the first step is to accept that you’re not in control of things. You don’t have to focus on the engines, or the wings, or how high the plane is. Just sit back and let the pilot get on with flying the plane.’

  ‘Sounds sensible,’ Will said, considering that piece of advice. He turned and ventured a look out of the window, peering down at the Atlantic Ocean. Again, his mind tried to single-handedly keep the plane from crashing down into the water. But he closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the thoughts.

  ‘The other trick is to use a distraction tactic,’ she said, noticing Will’s continued discomfort. ‘Did you notice that when you were talking to me, you started to relax a little?’

  ‘Not really,’ Will said. ‘But I’m willing to try anything.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk some more. So, is this your first time visiting Canada?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Will said, turning away from the window. ‘Always wanted to visit the place. My friend lives in Toronto and he’s been asking me to come over for a while.’

  ‘And did you have a good time?’

  ‘It was good while it lasted,’ Will said. ‘I was only here in the end for a few days.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, I need to sort something out at home.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ the lady said, ‘to come all that way just for a few days.’

  ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ he said. ‘I really do need to get back.’

  ‘Must be important.’

  ‘It is,’ he replied. ‘So, why did you go to Canada?’ Will asked, changing the subject. ‘To see yo
ur son?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, knowing full well that he’d just slammed the door on that part of the conversation. ‘We’ll talk about me for a while. I was over to see my new granddaughter.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘It was very nice,’ she said. ‘She’s beautiful. Alex – that’s my Son – has such a wonderful family now. I just wish my husband had been alive to see it.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Will said.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said, smiling, ‘Anyway – he might not be around to see anymore, but I can still feel his love. I love him now as much as I ever did, and I know that he loves me back.’

  ‘It must be great,’ Will said, ‘to feel so close to someone, even though they’re gone.’

  ‘Isn’t it the same for all those who we love?’ she said. ‘Just because they’re not here in front of us, doesn’t mean they’re gone.’

  ‘I wish I believed that,’ he lamented. ‘My mum died a few years’ ago. But I don’t feel like you do. She’s dead and that’s that.’

  ‘What about the people you love that are still alive?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t really get on with my dad,’ he admitted. ‘But I do love my sister – she’s the person I love the most. We’ve always been really close.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it?’ she added, noticing Will’s solemn expression.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just that, well, I don’t know whether…I have to tell her something and I think that after I do, everything will change.’

  Will stopped, suddenly feeling emotional.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘you don’t need to tell me anything.’

  Will turned to look out of the window and tried to wipe away a tear as subtly as possible. He hoped he wouldn’t just crack up in this flying tin can, where there was no chance of escape.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe it would help to talk about it,’ the lady suggested.