by C. L. Taylor
‘Try me.’ I glance at the door, still closed, and the sharp tips of the walking poles propped up against the wall. Is this where she confesses that she’s been stalking me for months? My mind whirs with possibilities – could she be Freddy’s older sister? Steve’s sister? I don’t know what her maiden name is, I’ve never thought to ask her.
‘It’s Katie,’ she sighs. ‘I’m worried about her.’
I hold myself very still, waiting for her to continue.
‘She’s a carer.’ She opens her eyes and looks at me. ‘Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Her mum, Tracy, my sister-in-law, has got a degenerative neurological condition. She’s had it for years but it was manageable, well, as manageable as a chronic condition can be, and Katie’s dad took charge of most of her care. But then she got worse, almost overnight it seemed, and now she can barely walk, she’s often sick and, really, she can’t look after herself when Katie’s at school.’
A new thought digs itself into my brain. Could Katie’s dad be Peter? I know he’s not around but it hadn’t occurred to me until now that he could be dead. What if the stalking has nothing to do with Steve Laing and instead it’s revenge for Peter’s death? He never mentioned a wife and child at work, neither did his parents when I rang them, but he always kept himself to himself. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t socialise with Freddy and Mo.
‘Mel …’ I’m almost too scared to ask the question but I have to. ‘What … what happened to Katie’s dad?’
She straightens her legs and sits up taller. I grip the sides of the bed, ready to propel myself across the room and out of the door.
‘He left.’ She shrugs. ‘Said the marriage had been over for years, that he’d only stayed because of a sense of duty, but he couldn’t cope with it any more and it was either leave or have a nervous breakdown. I was shocked. Graham’s a lot of things but that was a new low.’
‘Katie’s dad left her to look after her mum on her own?’ I’m so shocked by what I’ve just heard that it takes me a second to realise that Melanie just said Graham, not Peter.
‘Yeah. God knows where he’s gone. Malcolm thinks he might be in Spain, or on a cruise ship. Apparently he worked on one before he met Tracy.’
‘Graham is Malcolm’s brother, not yours?’
She smiles tightly. ‘Bunch of charmers, aren’t they?’
I stand up and move over to the window. Outside, lit up by the security lights on the back of the hotel, Joe and Malcolm are struggling to manoeuvre David’s body down the path and into the greenhouse. Both men have what look like white tea towels tied around their mouths and noses but there’s no tea towel loosely draped over David’s head. He’s been tightly wrapped with sheets, bound from head to foot like an Egyptian mummy. He no longer looks human. Just human-shaped.
That could be you, a voice says in the back of my head. If you’d died last night they’d be taking your body into the greenhouse with David’s and no one would know your death wasn’t an accident. I try to block the voice out but it’s too loud and insistent to ignore. Whoever tried to kill you isn’t going to give up until you’re dead, Anna.
‘I know Katie’s not family,’ Melanie continues, ‘not by blood anyway, but I feel so responsible for her. She’s fourteen years old and she’s a carer. That’s why she’s with us – to give her a bit of a break. I paid for a private nurse to look after Tracy while we’re away but I can’t afford to do that full time. With Malcolm partly retired we’re living on my salary and it only stretches so far. I’ve tried Tracy’s GP and social services to get someone in to help but the bureaucracy’s ridiculous. Even the smallest step forwards seems to involve two steps back.’
‘That sounds really tough.’
She shrugs. ‘What can you do?’
An awkward silence fills the space between us, neither of us knowing what to say next.
‘I’ll um … I’ll go then,’ I say. ‘Give you a bit of space to yourself.’
She laughs lightly, whether through nerves or relief that I’m leaving, I’m not sure.
‘Anna,’ she says as I reach for the door handle. ‘While you’re up here I don’t suppose you could get me a fresh towel, could you? Or give me the linen cupboard key and I’ll get one myself.’
‘No, no, of course. I’ll get one now. Sorry, it’s been forever since I…’ I pause as I step into the corridor. The last time I cleaned the rooms I had no idea that my stalker was in the hotel. But I do now.
Chapter 45
Alex
Alex looks at his phone and sighs: 9 p.m. and still no sign of Becca, and no text to say she’s running late either. Maybe there was an urgent situation at work (she’d forewarned him on their first date that she very rarely left on time after a shift) or maybe – he shifts uncomfortably in his chair – maybe she’s stood him up. That would be a bit weird, considering she was the one who wanted to see him in the first place, but she might have lost her nerve. It had to be a dumping, though why she couldn’t bring herself to do that over the phone he didn’t know. He’d much rather dump someone from the comfort of his own home with a beer in his hand and an ‘end call’ button to silence any awkwardness. He reaches for his pint, takes a sip and considers how he’ll react when Becca breaks the news that she doesn’t want to see him any more.
He’ll be nonchalant, he decides. Probably make it easier on her by saying that he’d been considering doing the same thing. That he thinks they’d be great friends (although obviously they’ll never see each other again after they’ve said their goodbyes) and he hopes there’s no hard feelings. Yes, he sets his beer back on the table, that’s the way he’ll play it. Cool, calm and nonchalant. And if she gets to the pub in the next five minutes there’s a chance he’ll be able to fit in a couple of episodes of The Walking Dead before he has to go to bed. He considers the lager level in his pint glass. It’s just dipped below the halfway point. Can he risk another trip up to the bar for a second pint before Becca turns up? Running out midway through their conversation would be irritating. Although he might appreciate the excuse to leave the table.
‘Hi, Alex.’ Becca touches a hand to his shoulder and leans down to kiss him on the cheek. She smells sweet and floral at the same time. It’s different from her normal perfume. She’s moved on already.
‘Hi.’ He pushes a glass of Rioja across the table towards her and her face lights up.
‘A drink already waiting for me. That’s so sweet.’
Her response confuses him. She doesn’t seem like she’s about to dump him but maybe this is her way, make the dumpee feel so calm and relaxed that when she places the bomb in their hands they barely notice it go boom.
‘How’s work?’ he asks, more out of habit than interest. He just wants her to get to the point and put him out of his misery. Misery? That’s interesting. Maybe he’s not as nonchalant about splitting up as he thought. She is good company most of the time and there is that great bum.
‘Not good.’ She knocks back half her glass of wine. When she sets it back on the table there are two tiny claret smudges at the edges of her lips. Alex decides not to mention them. ‘Sorry I’ve been a bit evasive recently but I couldn’t say any more about what’s going on. I still can’t really. The hospital board are terrified that if the press get a sniff of it then …’ She sighs and takes another gulp of her drink. ‘Anyway, sorry I’ve been a bit distant. I’ve been really stressed about … um … something I’ve done …’
‘Go on.’ Alex takes a gulp of his pint and braces himself.
‘I … um … I did something I shouldn’t have, at work. That’s why I was so freaked out when the managers started sniffing around. I thought they’d found out and I was going to get sacked.’
Alex leans forwards in his seat, elbows on the damp table. Becca was never anything other than utterly professional when Anna was in hospital. He can’t imagine her doing anything wrong.
‘What I did was …’ Her eyes flick away from
his. ‘I gave someone your home address.’
‘What?’ He sits back again, unsure and confused. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Well … it wasn’t so much your address. It was Anna’s.’
‘You gave someone our address? The flat in Woodside Park?’
‘Yes.’ She nods, still not looking at him. ‘And the details of Anna’s next of kin.’
‘You gave them my details? Which ones? When?’
‘Not yours, her parents. You’re not … you weren’t married. It was after Anna was discharged from hospital and before we got together. Someone rang the nurse’s station and said they needed to contact her urgently. When I asked why, they said it was confidential.’
‘So you just gave them all her details? Are you even allowed to do that?’
‘No.’ She finally meets his eyes. ‘I’m not. That’s why I’ve been so worried.’
‘Why do it then?’
She sighs heavily. ‘Because of who it was. The person who asked for Anna’s details … I worked with them.’
Chapter 46
Anna
‘Melanie, would you mind going downstairs and telling the others that we need to have another house meeting? Everyone’s to wait in the lounge until I come down.’
‘But I was hoping to have a shower.’ She looks longingly in the direction of the linen cupboard.
‘I know, I’m sorry. The meeting won’t take long and you’ll have plenty of time afterwards.’
‘Is it about Trevor? Because I’m not sure there’s much more we can do tonight.’
‘It’s about a number of different issues.’ I finger the master key in my pocket, willing her to hurry up and go downstairs. If we stay here much longer other guests will drift up to their rooms. I need Melanie to keep them all in one place so I can start searching.
‘Well, if you insist.’ Reluctantly, she steps out of her room, pulling the door shut behind her.
I wait until she’s disappeared into the stairwell then, key in hand, I let myself into Trevor’s room. I’m fairly certain he’s not my stalker: he self-medicates his PTSD with Valium and just living day to day must be hell.
Trevor’s room is empty. There’s no rucksack on the floor and no toothbrush or toothpaste in the bathroom. The only evidence he ever stayed here is the ever-so-slightly rumpled bed. I shut the door and deliberate about where to go next. I’ve already had a quick look in Melanie and Malcolm’s room and I saw the inside of Joe’s room after Katie’s sleepwalking escapade. Katie’s room? I dismiss her as a suspect straight off. If her dad was Peter Cross then maybe there’d be a tiny possibility she could be my stalker but he’s not, and she’s not. That leaves Fiona and Christine.
Fiona’s room is closest so I head in there. Whereas Melanie and Malcolm’s room smells of damp clothing, Fiona’s room is much more pleasant. The scent of her perfume hangs in the air and her toiletries, make-up and hair products are neatly arranged on the dressing table. Unlike some of the others, she’s completely unpacked. Her empty rucksack is in the wardrobe and her clothes are in the chest of drawers. I rummage through them, keeping one eye on the door and freezing whenever I hear the pipes rumble or a joist creak. There’s nothing hidden amongst her clothes but I do find her purse in the top drawer. With fumbling fingers I search through her cards. They all say Fiona Gardiner, including her driver’s licence, which gives her date of birth as 15 August 1983 – she’s nearly thirty-five – and her address as 15A Wimpole Street, London. There’s nothing else of interest in her purse apart from a small pre-printed card that says, ‘To the world you may be one person, but to one person you’re the world.’ Underneath, in sprawling handwriting, it says, Love you Fi, M. x
M? That has to be the ex-boyfriend she mentioned when we were checking the oil tank. I move to shove the card back into the purse, then pause.
An image flashes up in my mind, of Mohammed sitting next to me in the car, his head tipped back, his mouth open as he snored softly. Could Fiona be his girlfriend? I know he was seeing someone older than him. I remember Freddy taking the piss when he saw a photo on Mo’s phone, saying he was dating a cougar, but I didn’t hear a name mentioned and I didn’t bother to ask. Why would I? Their private lives were their own. At least that’s what I told myself at the time. It’s only now I realise how little I knew about my team’s lives.
But why would Fiona come after me? She said her boyfriend had dumped her out of the blue. Even if that is Mo, why would she want me to ‘sleep’ when he’s still very much alive? Unless she thinks it’s my fault that he dumped her.
I tuck the card back into the purse, return it to the drawer and turn my attention to the bedside table where Fiona’s mobile phone lies redundantly next to a glass of water. I snatch it up and press the button at the base. The phone flashes to life but the screen’s locked. The background wallpaper doesn’t give me any clues. It’s a tropical beach somewhere with crystal-clear sea. I swipe upwards and try to guess her pin number.
1234.
Incorrect PIN entered.
4321.
Incorrect PIN.
I try the first four digits of her date of birth then freeze as something creaks in the corridor. Holding the phone behind my back I creep to the door and peer out, but there’s no one there. I take a steadying breath, look back down at the phone and tap on the screen with my thumb.
1508.
Incorrect PIN.
0883
Incorrect PIN.
Damn it. I could be here for hours, guessing, and I’ve still got Christine’s room to check. Reluctantly, I lay the phone back down on the bedside table and lift the mattress. Nothing. Nothing hidden in the wardrobe either. If Fiona’s my stalker, she’s hiding it well.
I feel a pang of guilt as I unlock Christine’s room and step inside. She’s not much older than my mum and she’d hate it if a stranger rooted through her things. She gave me an absolute bollocking when I was a teenager and I went through her chest of drawers looking for a hairbrush while she was out at work. How she knew I’d been through her things when she got back, I have no idea, but she completely lost the plot.
Christine’s room is even tidier than Fiona’s. There’s nothing on any of the surfaces, not even the bottle of whisky I saw the last time I came in. Unlike Fiona, she’s only partially unpacked. There are jumpers, trousers and several floral scarves hanging in the wardrobe but there are still several items in her rucksack: three pairs of socks, a glasses case, a clear pencil case containing several pens and a first aid kit. As I reach for the first aid kit something else catches my eye: a book, the cover curled and battered, the pages yellow-tinged and crinkled with age.
The Book of Sleep: A Poetry Anthology.
My stomach twists as I stare down at the faded countryside scene on the cover: a huge yellow moon peering between the black skeletons of leafless trees.
It has to be a coincidence that the title includes the word ‘sleep’. It makes sense that Christine would be interested in poetry, she’s an ex-primary school teacher, after all.
Unless she’s not.
I open the cover, flick to the index page and scan the contents:
Sonnet 39 – Sir Philip Sidney
Sonnet 27 – William Shakespeare
Golden Slumbers – Thomas Dekker
Cradle Song – William Blake
To Sleep – William Wordsworth
I run my thumb over the pages, scanning the text as one poem blurs into the next, then stop abruptly as something unusual leaps out at me – a flash of yellow against the cream pages:
In Memoriam
Emily and Eva Gapper
Emily Gapper, devoted wife and mother. Passed away on 13.2.2015 to be with our darling daughter, Eva Gapper. Knowing that the two of you are together is my only comfort. Forever in my thoughts, my beautiful girls. Love and miss you always …
It’s a death notice, a heart-felt tribute published in a newspaper, clipped out and pasted over one of the poems. I find more as I continue to
turn the pages: a tribute to a young woman called Akhtar, a farewell to a pub regular called Curly, fond reminiscences about an Auntie Mary and a goodbye to a man called Derek Sanders. There are dozens and dozens of these notices glued into the pages of the book. I feel a strange sense of disconnect as I flick back and forth between the clippings, as though I’m caught in a dream. This isn’t Christine fondly remembering a lost relative and pasting their ‘In Memoriam’ notice into her favourite book, it’s a catalogue of death.
My hands shake so violently that the book falls from my fingers and drops to the floor. As it hits the carpet a single piece of paper flutters from between the pages and settles near my feet. It’s not a cutting from a newspaper. It’s the same size but it’s been handwritten on a piece of complimentary Bay View Hotel notepaper:
In Memoriam
David Allan Campbell
? – 5th June 2018
Remembering David Campbell, hotelier, friend and colleague.
He struggled to live, then he fell asleep …
It is as though the ground has just disappeared from beneath my feet and I’m suspended in midair, my stomach hollowed against my spine, anticipating the fall. I grip the edge of the mattress but I can’t feel the coarse, puckered material beneath my fingertips. I can’t feel anything. My heart has stilled in my chest and there is no air in my lungs.
Why would Christine write her own ‘In Memoriam’ notice for David and what does it mean – he struggled to live? She tried to save his life. Didn’t she?
With hollow legs, I force myself up from the bed and onto my feet. I pull the rucksack towards me and reach inside. What else is Christine hiding?
The sound of distant voices makes me freeze.
I drop the book back into the rucksack, hurl myself out of the door and, with trembling fingers, turn the key in the lock. My heart hammers in my chest as I turn to run to my room but, before I can take a step, Christine appears at the top of the stairs.
In Memoriam