Dave wondered if the woman was still alive. He felt instinctively that he ought to speak to her. According to the paper, her name was Rosemary Dwight, of Arrian Gardens, Ampthill, Bedfordshire. Eagerly, he made a note of this.
Turning the pages, he came across a national report. This time it was to do with events following the tragedy. Under the heading ‘The Ghost of Bluebell Hill’, there were detailed accounts of ghostly sightings on the road, of a woman, searching, lost, stopping the drivers as they travelled along that particular stretch of road, appearing out of nowhere, then disappearing.
He turned the page and the photograph of the dead woman stared up at him.
‘My God!’ It was her, the young woman in the rain. Dark-eyed and beautiful, she looked into his eyes, touching him deep inside, turning his heart over.
His fingers burned at the touch of the paper bearing her image. With a gasp of horror, he dropped the page and backed away. But then the strangest thing happened. As he continued to look into those dark, pleading eyes, a great, sweeping calmness came over him. The shock slid from his soul, and in its place came an overwhelming sadness. The eyes seemed to smile gently. She was watching him. Feeling what he felt inside. She was so real, so incredibly real, he felt her presence as though she was standing right beside him. Her nearness was overwhelming, like a warm, caressing vapour all around.
Her voice, silky, murmuring, filled the air. ‘Help me.’
He wasn’t imagining it. This time he knew. She needed him. More importantly, he needed her. If he was to save his marriage, his life, he must let go, believe what his own eyes were telling him.
‘What do you want of me?’ He looked into her eyes. They were quiet now, a yellowing picture on a page. ‘I want to help,’ he whispered, ‘if you’ll only show me how.’
He wasn’t mad. He knew that now, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to be talking to her.
That night, Ida had a terrifying experience.
It was midnight when she finally got the old man settled. He was fretful, crying out in his sleep. ‘What’s wrong, you old fool!’ Forcing the sedative down his throat, she cursed when he spat it out. ‘Filthy old sod!’ Wiping the mess from his chin, she continued to moan, ‘You’ve given me no sleep for two nights now. What’s the matter with you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were up to something.’
Eventually he seemed to drift into a deep sleep, but she didn’t leave straightaway. Instead she sat by his bed, her eyes weighed down with lack of sleep.
‘I often wondered if I looked like you,’ she whispered, holding his hand with unusual tenderness. ‘I never knew, you see. No one ever told me. When I was little, I used to dream about what you would be like, how you smiled, the way you walked.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Now you’re just an old, old man, and I will never know these things. I had to imagine then and I still have to imagine.’
Anger sharpened her features. Only a moment ago she had been holding his hand with tenderness; now she began to squeeze. Squeeze and squeeze, until her bony knuckles were white. Even then she didn’t let go, not until her fingers went into spasm and the pain was too much. She dropped his hand to the bedcovers, noting with satisfaction how her grip had left its mark on him – long, thin patterns of red and white where her fingers had dented his flesh.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, spitefully pinching his nose. ‘Don’t you dare wake me up till then.’
Only his deep snoring answered. ‘Unconscious, eh? Well, it took you long enough to sink, you bugger.’ Chuckling, she ambled away. ‘Such willpower,’ she muttered. In many ways they were too alike.
In her own room she held her aching back. ‘I’m paying a hard price for what you did, old man,’ she groaned. ‘Curse and damn you to hell.’
She quickly undressed, not bothering to wash; these days she hardly saw any point. The bed was inviting, the night outside cold and penetrating. ‘I’m better on my own,’ she sighed, pottering about. ‘I’m glad he’s gone, that husband of mine. He served his purpose, now he’s gone and good riddance to him.’ She paused a moment, listening to her own heartbeat. Thump, thump. A solitary rhythm, sending echoes all over her body. She felt empty. The loneliness was overwhelming. ‘Sometimes, though, it’s not nice, being all on your own.’ Dismissing such notions, she giggled like a child. ‘Ah, but when you’re on your own, there’s nobody can tell you what to do, is there?’
She put on her pink flowered nightgown. It was her only one. Every other week she washed and dried it in the same day, and though it was growing frayed round the sleeves and the hem was falling down, she had no intention of replacing it. ‘This old nightie has carried me through many a year, and it’ll carry me to my grave.’ Picking out a loose thread, she placed it carefully on the bedside cabinet. ‘If that old bugger wakes me up in the night, he’ll be sorry.’
She got into bed and was just beginning to dream when she thought she heard a sound. Irate but curious, she got up again. ‘It isn’t him,’ she muttered, straining to hear. ‘Sounds like it came from outside.’
On tiptoes, she went out on to the landing, her gaze going instinctively to the old man’s room. His door was tightly shut, just as she had left it, and as far as she could tell the sound wasn’t coming from there. ‘There’s somebody downstairs,’ she croaked. ‘It can’t be her. She’s never dared to come this far before.’
Apprehensive, she edged forward. ‘I locked the doors, I know I did.’ A spiral of fear shot through her. But she wasn’t deterred. She had no intention of cowering in her room, waiting to be hit over the head again.
She searched the house, switching every light on and then off again as she went in and out of the rooms. They were just as she had left them. She checked the front and back doors. They were still tightly secured, no sign of a break-in there. She went to the kitchen window. It was partly open.
‘I could have sworn I closed it,’ she grumbled. But had she forgotten? Was she slipping? It was true that lately she had been feeling her age. Pressing her face to the windowpane, she stared into the night, drawing back with a gasp when she imagined she saw someone there. ‘Who the devil’s that?’
Panic-stricken, she snatched up the key and went to unlock the door, hopelessly fumbling until at last it sprang open. As the night flooded in, a shadow stole fleetingly across her path. With a shrill cry, ‘Get away from here, you!’ she ran into the night, across the lawn and on into the spinney, frantically slashing away the branches that scored her face. ‘I know it’s you!’ she screeched. ‘Go away!’
Half-crazed with fear, she ran on through the spinney like a wild thing, screaming abuse and striking out as if at some unseen attacker.
Some time later, dazed and hurt, she began her way back, all the while glancing behind as if afraid she might be followed. ‘She won’t have him. Not yet. Not until one of us is rotting in the grave.’ With every step she took, the hatred boiled over. And soon, the inevitable self-torture. What if somehow she had got through? What if one day the hatred wasn’t enough to keep her out? If the day ever came when she was within reach of the old man, it would be the end.
Panicked by her own imaginings, she began running, her steps blind and faltering. Scratched and bleeding, she was frantic to get back. To him. To the burden that weighed her down.
When, only a few steps from the house, she felt someone touch her on the shoulder, her worst fears were realised. Screaming like a banshee, she lost her footing and fell face down into the undergrowth. When she managed to scramble up, she could see nothing but darkness all around. Strange, hollow sounds came at her from every direction. From behind she felt the brush of a hand and she ran like the wind. ‘It’s not her,’ she gasped. ‘It’s not her!’ She had stalked the other one for so long, she knew her as well as she knew herself. But if it wasn’t her, who was it?
She could see nothing, hear no one as she ran, and yet she knew they were only a few steps behind, bearing down on her with every minute. ‘Help me
,’ she whispered. ‘Mother! Help me.’
As she neared the house, she heard the softest sound, and then, before she could even turn, she felt the hand on her back, hard and square between her shoulder blades, pushing, forcing her forwards, downwards. Immensely powerful.
Terror made her bold. ‘Leave me alone!’ she screamed.
Seeing the back door, she made a mad dash towards it, twisting and struggling as she went. Falling through the doorway, she knew there was no time to waste. She ran into the kitchen and out again through the door at the far end, which led her straight back into the hallway. She crept into the understairs cupboard and closed the door behind her, and there she remained, crouched, hardly daring to breathe, eyes closed, and praying for the first time in her miserable life.
She heard the footsteps, and her heart stood still. They travelled up the hallway and paused right outside her hiding place. The suspense was unbearable. In her dark corner, she dared to wonder whether to go out and confront the intruder. But some deep instinct warned her this was no ordinary intruder. Whoever it was had already hurt her. Maybe they meant to kill her.
And still they waited outside, just an arm’s reach away. She could hear the intermittent gasps of breath, much like that of an animal.
All her courage went, leaving a frightened little woman, scared to come out, afraid of what she might find there. Who would want to hurt her? And why? She remembered her husband. In her mind’s eye she could see him so clearly. She wondered how he had felt in that moment just before he died. The same way she felt now, she thought, and her heart lurched with horror.
It seemed like an age before soft, hesitant footsteps carried the intruder away. Ida sighed with relief.
Her relief was short-lived as she realised that the footsteps were not leaving. Instead, they made their way deeper into the house and on up the stairs. She waited. Knowing it was not the old enemy. Feeling instinctively that the old man would not be harmed.
The footsteps returned, paused once more outside her hiding place – as if she was being challenged, taunted. It was almost as though the intruder knew she was there. The soft, whispering sound of laughter filtered in through the door. Any moment now, she thought, the intruder would burst in.
But no. Instead, the footsteps moved away but they trod so softly she couldn’t be certain which way they had gone – outside, or back into the house.
‘Why should they go back inside?’ she breathed, trying to convince herself that the intruder had left for good. ‘No. They’ve gone away now.’
She inched open the door and crept out. It seemed quiet enough.
Passing the mirror, she caught sight of herself in the moon’s reflection. Reeling with shock, she backed away. It was like looking at some grotesque monster – clothes torn, lacerated face daubed with blood. Every bone in her body ached. She had been crouched in the cupboard for too long. But determination set in. ‘I’m not beaten yet,’ she muttered stubbornly. ‘To hell with all of them.’
She searched the downstairs, trying every door and window as she went. ‘All safe now,’ she reasoned, misguidedly believing that, by locking doors and windows, she was keeping the evil out. Upstairs, she looked in on the old man. ‘Out to the world,’ she observed bitterly. ‘The old fool. What would he know?’
When she went into her own room, her instincts were quickly alerted. Something was different here. Quickening her steps, she went to the wardrobe. It was open. She searched. ‘Nothing!’ Looking up, she noticed something brown protruding over the edge. Ignoring the pain that seared through her, she stretched up, gasping with astonishment when she felt her old suitcase hard and familiar beneath her touch. Refusing to believe what her fingers told her, she dragged the object down and threw it on to the bed. Flinging open the unlocked lid, she gazed at the contents. ‘It’s all here,’ she muttered. ‘Nothing missing!’
Puzzled, she sat hunched on the bed, pain and fatigue racking her frail form. Her mind was racing, chaotic. ‘Why would someone take the suitcase and then return it intact?’ She couldn’t begin to understand. ‘Who are you?’ she called to the dark, and there was no answer. No answer from the dark. No answer in her own mind. She was not easily given to fear, but she knew it now. She could taste it like a poison.
Something different was happening.
Overcome with dizziness, she fell sideways against the pillow, her eyes fixed unblinking on the open suitcase.
Someone had terrorised her this night. Her mind fought to stay alert. Who? Why?
Her eyes closed, and she lapsed into unconsciousness.
11
Detective Inspector Lowe had been on the police force a long time. Recruited as a young man, he had made the force his life. Having gained promotion early on, he knew about murders and, up until now, he thought he knew the mind of a person who could take a life without compassion.
Investigating a murder was a great challenge to him. He had been at the spearhead of eighty-five murder investigations and of these he had tracked down eighty-three killers. In spite of the two who had eluded capture, it was nevertheless a fine and distinguished record. Now, when he was heading for well-earned retirement, he didn’t want to go out on an unsolved murder.
‘I’ve no intention of giving up on it,’ he snapped angrily. ‘But the truth is, we’ve been down every avenue and they all lead nowhere. We’ve no real clues to go on, no motive, and despite a finger search of the immediate and surrounding areas, no sign of the weapon. All our enquiries have come to nothing, and the longer it takes us to track him down, the colder the trail.’ Taking in a long deep gulp of air he blew it out the same way, long and hard, swelling his cheeks to plump round balloons. ‘What do you make of it, Sergeant?’
Sergeant Coley was a younger man, an expert at computer language but less proficient when it came to hands-on policing. ‘Well, sir…’ He rolled his small blue eyes, as if it hurt to throw his mind back that far. ‘You’re right. The Fellowes murder was a difficult one, no weapon, no motive that we can pin down, and no clues of any kind. Truth is, I don’t really see where we go from here.’ He almost leaped out of his skin when the other man’s fist came crashing on to the table.
‘If it was up to you, we’d go nowhere at all!’ Inspector Lowe stormed. ‘Get your head away from that bloody computer and put your thinking cap on, man! Use the brain the good Lord gave you and go back over your notes. I want you to find anything and everything that might help.’
‘Right, sir.’ Sergeant Coley hadn’t been assigned to Inspector Lowe all that long, and already he was thinking of asking for a transfer. Not that he didn’t like the other man, but he felt hopelessly inadequate, not certain whether he was even cut out to be a detective. Lately he’d been wondering if he might be happier looking for a post in administration. ‘Sir?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Am I looking for anything in particular?’
Suppressing his frustration, the inspector answered in a quiet controlled voice. ‘Use your common sense, man. Sift all the information, like you were sifting for gold.’
‘Yes, sir.’ There were times when Coley wished the earth would open and swallow him whole.
Inspector Lowe got out of his chair and walked to the far side of the room. Here he stood, hands in pockets, staring at the men on the other side of the glass screen.
After a while he turned to look at his colleague, suggesting thoughtfully, ‘I think it’s time we paid Mrs Fellowes another visit, took a further look at the scene of the crime.’
The younger man shook his head. ‘We went over that room with a fine-tooth comb, sir.’
The inspector was losing patience. ‘Then we’ll go over it again if necessary, Sergeant.’ He smiled, an idea germinating in the back of his mind. ‘A murderer nearly always returns to the scene of the crime, isn’t that so, Coley?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. We have to think like the murderer would think, don’t you agree?’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘When we last searched that room, we missed something.’ Turning round, he added thoughtfully, ‘We must have or we’d have nailed the bugger by now!’
‘Ouch!’ Seated by the kitchen window, Ida snapped, ‘Rip the skin off my face, why don’t you?’ Glowering at Eileen, who had been gently bathing her wounds, she began whimpering. ‘It hurts. It bloody hurts.’
‘I know, but the wounds are deep, Ida. I’m doing my best but you really should go to hospital.’
‘No hospitals!’
Tenderly, Eileen dabbed at a long cut running from ear to throat. ‘This one looks infected to me.’
‘Infected or not, I’m going to no hospital, so you can stop trying to persuade me. All right?’
Dipping the swab into the TCP solution, Eileen shook her head. ‘You’re a stubborn woman, Ida Fellowes.’
‘Always been that way. It’s too late to change now.’
Satisfied she had done all she could, Eileen put away the cotton wool and emptied the liquid down the sink. Washing her hands, she told Ida, ‘I still think you’re mad not to call the police. You could have been killed, don’t you realise that?’
Ida stood up and fastening her blouse said sharply, ‘No hospital, and no police. I remember the last time, they were crawling all over this house, poking and prying, asking their damned questions.’ She wagged a finger. ‘I don’t want them here again.’
Eileen had learned not to argue with Ida; she was too strong-minded. ‘All right, don’t get yourself into a state.’
Ida looked out of the window and saw two men approaching the house. ‘It’s them!’ she cried. ‘It’s the bloody police!’
Surprised, Eileen ran to the window. ‘You’re right. Aren’t those the same two who came here before?’
‘How did they find out? Was it you, Eileen? Did you call them? Tell me the truth.’
‘No, I didn’t call them.’ Eileen was indignant. ‘I wanted to, but you wouldn’t let me. Remember?’
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