Behind Closed Doors: The gripping debut thriller everyone is raving about

by B. A. Paris

  I go up to my room and phone Adam. I’m relieved when he doesn’t pick up as it suits me to leave a message letting him know that Jack wasn’t on the flight. Later, I go down to join Margaret and Richard, the strain of not having heard from Jack clearly visible on my face, especially when I tell them that I’ve tried his mobile again several times without success. They are kindness itself and I’m glad to have them to take my mind off things. I punctuate the time I spend with them with fruitless calls to Jack’s mobile, urging him to phone me.

  In the evening, my new friends refuse to let me sit and mope alone so we have dinner together, where they talk brightly about how much they’re looking forward to meeting Jack the following morning. I eventually get back to my room around midnight and find a message from Adam, saying he’s sorry he missed my call and asking if I would like him to go over to the house to see if Jack is still there. I phone him back and tell him that yes, if he doesn’t mind, but then we work out that if Jack is to catch the flight that evening, he will already have left for the airport. So I tell him not to bother and that I’ll phone him the moment Jack arrives and we joke again about the telling-off he’s going to get for worrying us all.

  The next morning, Margaret and Richard keep me company while I wait for Jack to arrive from the airport so they are there to witness my distress when he doesn’t turn up. At Margaret’s suggestion, I try to find out from British Airways if Jack was on the flight, but they are unable to help me, so I phone the British Embassy. I explain everything to them and maybe because Jack’s name is known, they tell me they’ll see what they can do. When they phone back and confirm that Jack wasn’t on the flight, I burst into tears. I manage to pull myself together long enough to tell them that he doesn’t seem to be at home either, but, although they are sympathetic, they tell me there isn’t a lot they can do at this stage. They suggest I phone friends and relations in England to see if they know where he is and I thank them and hang up.

  With Margaret by my side, I call Adam and, my voice trembling with anxiety, tell him what has happened. He immediately offers to go straight round to the house and calls me back half an hour later to say that he’s standing outside the gates, but that everything is shut up and nobody has answered the bell. So I worry that Jack has had an accident on the way to the airport and, although he reassures me, he says that he’ll make some inquiries. I tell him that the British Embassy suggested I try to find out if anyone has spoken to him since I left and he offers to phone around for me.

  While I wait for Adam to get back to me, Diane calls to reassure me and to tell me that Adam is doing all he can to track Jack down. We talk for a while and, after I’ve hung up, Margaret begins to ask me gentle questions and it dawns on me that she and Richard are wondering if there could be someone else in Jack’s life, someone who he might have run off with. Horrified, I tell her that it had never occurred to me, because there had never been anything in his behaviour to suggest that there was, but that I suppose it’s a possibility I’m going to have to consider.

  The phone rings again.

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Hello, Adam.’ I make my voice hesitant, as if I’m dreading what he’s going to tell me. ‘Have you managed to find out anything?’

  ‘Only that Jack hasn’t been admitted to any of the hospitals I phoned, which is good news.’

  ‘It is,’ I agree, giving a sigh of relief.

  ‘On the other hand, I phoned as many people as I could think of but no one seems to have heard from him, at least not over the last few days. So I’m afraid we’re back to square one, really.’

  I look at Margaret, who nods encouragingly. ‘There’s something I need to ask you, Adam,’ I say.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Is it possible that Jack was having an affair, maybe with someone at the office?’ My words come out in a rush.

  ‘An affair? Jack?’ Adam sounds shocked. ‘No, of course not. He would never do anything like that. He barely looked at another woman before he met you and he certainly hasn’t since. You must know that, Grace.’

  Margaret, who gets the gist, gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I do,’ I say, chastened. ‘It’s just that I can’t think of any other reason he would suddenly disappear without trace.’

  ‘Can you think of any other friends he has, people that maybe I don’t know?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Wait a minute, what about Moira and Giles, you know, the people who were at Millie’s party. Maybe you could contact them. I don’t have their number, though.’

  ‘Leave it with me. What’s their surname?’

  ‘Kilburn-Hawes, I think.’

  ‘I’ll give them a ring and get back to you,’ he promises.

  He calls back half an hour later and, when he tells me that they haven’t heard from Jack either, I become distraught. Nobody seems to know what to do. The general consensus—from Margaret, Richard, Adam and Diane—is that it’s too early to launch a missing person’s inquiry so they tell me that the best thing would be to try to get some sleep and see if Jack turns up the next morning.

  He doesn’t. The day passes in a blur as Mr Ho, Margaret, Richard and Adam take over. I tell them I want to go home, but they persuade me to stay for one more day in case Jack turns up, so I do. In the early afternoon—eight o’clock in the morning in England—Adam calls to say that he has spoken to the local police and that, with my permission, they’ll be happy to break into the house to see if they can find anything to indicate where Jack might have gone.

  They call me first and ask me to run through the last time I saw Jack and I tell them it was when Esther came to pick me up to take me to the airport, that he had waved me off from the study window. I explain that he hadn’t been able to drive me to the airport himself because he’d had quite a large whisky when he’d come in from work and add that I hadn’t particularly wanted to leave for Thailand by myself even though Jack had warned me, when the Tomasin case began to look as if it would overrun, that I might have to. They say they’ll get back to me as soon as they can and I sit in my room and wait for them to phone with Margaret by my side, holding my hand. I know the news I’m waiting for is going to be a long time coming so after a while I tell Margaret that I’d like to try to sleep, and lie down on the bed.

  I manage to sleep until the moment I’ve been waiting for since I arrived in Thailand finally comes. It begins with a knock on the door and, because I don’t move, Margaret goes to answer it. I hear a man’s voice and then Margaret comes over to the bed and, with a hand on my shoulder, gives me a little shake, telling me that there’s someone to see me. As I sit up, I see her slip out of the room and I want to call her back, to tell her not to leave me, but he is already walking towards me so it’s too late. My heart is beating so fast, my breathing so shallow that I don’t dare look at him until I’ve managed to compose myself. With my eyes fixed firmly on the ground, it’s his shoes I see first. They are made of good leather and are well polished, just as I would expect them to be. He says my name and, as my eyes travel upwards, I see that while his suit is dark, in keeping with the occasion, it’s made of a lightweight fabric, because of the climate. My eyes reach his face; it is pleasant, but grave, just as it should be.

  ‘Mrs Angel?’ he says again.

  ‘Yes?’ There’s a trace of anxiousness in my voice.

  ‘My name is Alastair Strachan. I’m from the British Embassy.’ He turns, and I see a young woman standing behind him. ‘And this is Vivienne Dashmoor. I wonder if we could have a word?’

  I jump to my feet. ‘Is it to do with Jack, have you managed to find him?’

  ‘Yes—or rather, the police in England have.’

  Relief floods my face. ‘Thank goodness for that! Where is he? Why wasn’t he answering his phone? Is he on his way here?’

  ‘Perhaps we could go and sit down?’ the young woman suggests.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, ushering them through to the sitting room. I sit down on the sofa and they take the armchairs. ‘So where is
he?’ I ask. ‘I mean, is he on his way here?’

  Mr Strachan clears his throat. ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Angel, but I’m afraid that Mr Angel has been found dead.’

  I stare at him, my eyes wide with shock. Confusion floods my face. ‘I don’t understand,’ I stammer.

  He shifts uncomfortably. ‘I’m afraid your husband has been found dead, Mrs Angel.’

  I shake my head vigorously. ‘No, he can’t be, he’s coming here, to join me, he said he would. Where is he?’ My voice trembles with emotion. ‘I want to know where he is. Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘Mrs Angel, I know this is very difficult for you, but we need to ask you some questions,’ the young lady says. ‘Would you like us to fetch someone—your friend, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ I nod. ‘Can you get Margaret, please?’

  Mr Strachan goes to the door. I hear the murmur of voices and Margaret comes in. I see the shock on her face and I begin shaking uncontrollably. ‘They’re saying that Jack’s dead,’ I say. ‘But he can’t be, he can’t be.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she murmurs, sitting down next to me and putting her arm around me. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Perhaps we could have some tea brought up,’ the young woman says, getting to her feet. She goes over to the phone and speaks to someone in reception.

  ‘Did he have a car crash?’ I ask Margaret, sounding bewildered. ‘Is that’s what happened? Did Jack have a car crash on the way to the airport? Is that why he’s not here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says quietly.

  ‘He must have,’ I go on, nodding with conviction. ‘He must have been rushing to catch the flight, he must have left the house late and was driving too fast and had a crash. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

  Margaret glances at Mr Strachan. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’

  My teeth begin chattering. ‘I’m cold.’

  She jumps to her feet, glad of something to do. ‘Would you like a jumper? Is there one in your wardrobe?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, not a jumper, a cardigan, maybe. The bathrobe, can I have the bathrobe?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She goes into the bathroom, finds the bathrobe, comes back and puts it around my shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur gratefully.

  ‘Is that better?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. But Jack can’t be dead, it must be a mistake, it has to be.’

  She’s saved from saying anything by a knock at the door. The young woman opens it and Mr Ho comes in, followed by a girl pushing a laden tea trolley.

  ‘If I can be of further assistance, please let me know,’ Mr Ho says quietly. I sense him looking at me as he leaves the room, but I keep my head bowed.

  The young woman busies herself with the tea and asks me if I would like sugar.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She places a cup and saucer in front of me and I pick up the cup, but I’m shaking so much some of the tea slops over the side and onto my hand. Scalded, I clatter the cup back down onto the saucer.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. Tears fill my eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Margaret hurriedly, taking a paper napkin and mopping my hand.

  I make an effort to pull myself together. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ I say to Mr Strachan.

  ‘Alastair Strachan.’

  ‘Mr Strachan, you say that my husband is dead.’ I look at him for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Then can you please tell me how he died? I mean, was it quick, was anyone else hurt in the accident, where did it happen? I need to know, I need to know how it happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t a car accident, Mrs Angel.’

  ‘Not a car accident?’ I falter. ‘Then how did he die?’

  Mr Strachan looks uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid there’s no easy way of saying this, Mrs Angel, but it seems that your husband took his own life.’

  And I burst into tears.

  PAST

  Once I’d realised that I could get away with murder, I spent the rest of the night working out the details, thinking of ways to get Jack exactly where I needed him to be when the time came. Because my plan hinged on him losing the Tomasin case, I took a leaf out of his book and planned for every eventuality. I thought very carefully about what I would do if he won and, in the end, I decided that if he did I would drug him anyway and, while he was unconscious, phone the police. If I showed them the room in the basement, and the room where he kept me, maybe they would believe what I told them. In the event that I didn’t manage to drug him before we left for the airport, I would somehow get the pills into him on the plane and try to get help once we arrived in Thailand. Neither solution was brilliant, but I didn’t have any other options. Unless he lost. And, even then, there was no guarantee that he would bring up a glass of whisky to commiserate.

  The next day, the day of the verdict, I spent the morning crushing the remaining pills into as fine a powder as I possibly could and hid it in a screw of toilet paper, which I pushed into my sleeve as I would a tissue. When I eventually heard the whir of the black gates opening and the crunch of the gravel as Jack drove up to the front door sometime in the middle of the afternoon, my heart began hammering so hard I was afraid it would burst out of my chest. The time had finally come. Whether he had won or lost, I was going to have to act.

  He came into the hall, closed the front door and activated the shutters. I heard him open the cloakroom door, walk across the hall to the kitchen, followed by the familiar sounds of the freezer door opening and closing, the ice cubes being popped from the tray, the cupboard door opening and closing, the clink as the ice cubes were dropped into one glass—I held my breath—two glasses. His footsteps as he came up the stairs were heavy and told me all I needed to know. I began rubbing my left eye furiously so that by the time he unlocked the door it would be red and inflamed.

  ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘How did it go?’

  He held out a glass to me. ‘We lost.’

  ‘Lost?’ I said, taking it. Without bothering to answer, he raised his glass to his lips and, scared he would knock the whole lot back before I’d had a chance to drug him, I jumped off the bed. ‘I’ve had something in my eye all morning,’ I explained, blinking rapidly. ‘Could you have a look?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could you just look at my eye a moment? I think there must be a fly in there or something.’

  As he peered into my eye, which I kept half shut, I worked the paper holding the powder from my sleeve and into the palm of my hand. ‘So what happened?’ I asked, unscrewing it as best I could with my fingers.

  ‘Dena Anderson screwed me over,’ he said bitterly. ‘Can you open your eye a bit more?’

  Keeping my movements small, I moved the glass I was holding in my other hand under the paper and shook the powder into it. ‘I can’t, it’s too painful,’ I told him, stirring the contents around with my finger. ‘Can you do it? I’ll hold your glass for you.’

  With a sigh of annoyance, he handed me his glass and pulled my eye open using both hands. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘If I had a mirror, I’d be able to see for myself,’ I grumbled. ‘It doesn’t matter, it’ll probably work itself out.’ He held out his hand for his glass and I gave him mine. ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘Revenge,’ he said, grimly.

  I raised the glass I was holding. ‘To revenge, then.’ I knocked half of the whisky back and was gratified to see him doing the same.

  ‘Nobody makes a fool out of me. Antony Tomasin is going to suffer for this too.’

  ‘But he was innocent,’ I protested, wondering how I was going to keep him talking until the pills took effect.

  ‘What has that got to do with it?’ As he raised his glass to take another drink, I was alarmed to see tiny white specks floating in the whisky. ‘Do you know what the best part of my job is?’

  ‘No, what?’ I said quickly.<
br />
  ‘Sitting opposite all those battered women and imagining it was me who had beaten them up.’ He knocked the rest of his glass back. ‘And the photos, all those lovely photos of their injuries—I suppose you could call it one of the perks of the job.’

  Incensed, I raised my glass and before I could stop myself, I had thrown the rest of my whisky in his face. His roar of anger, plus the knowledge that I had acted too soon, almost paralysed me. But as he lunged towards me, his eyes shut tight against the sting of the whisky, I took advantage of his momentary blindness and pushed him as hard as I could. As he stumbled awkwardly against the bed, the few seconds before he righted himself were all that I needed. Slamming the door behind me, I ran down the stairs to the hall below, looking urgently for somewhere to hide, because I couldn’t let him catch me, not just yet. Upstairs, the door crashed back against the wall and as he came pounding down the stairs, I headed for the cloakroom and climbed into the wardrobe, hoping to buy myself a few precious minutes.

  This time, there was no singsong in his voice as he called for me. Instead, he roared my name, promising such harm to me that I trembled from my hiding place behind the coats. Several minutes passed, and I imagined him in the sitting room, checking behind every piece of furniture. The waiting was unbearable but I knew that with every minute that passed, the chances of the pills taking effect increased.

  At last, I heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps coming down the hall. My legs turned to jelly and as the cloakroom door opened, I found myself sliding to the floor. The silence that followed was terrifying; I knew he was there, outside the wardrobe and I knew he knew I was inside. But he seemed content to leave me to sweat, relishing no doubt in the fear emanating from every pore of my body.