Keep Me Close : An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Jane Holland

  ‘So there you go. That kind of money can be a huge temptation. And Adeyemi’s been stepping up his visits lately, especially when you’ve not been there to interfere or send him away. You don’t need to look much further than that for a motive, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ The cold wind makes me shiver, and I can’t help fretting over the idea of Mum falling into the grip of a fortune-hunter. Especially when he may be hurting her. ‘Should I have told the police what I suspect about him? That he may have bruised her arm?’

  ‘Not without proof.’

  I nod, finally agreeing with him on something. ‘Look, I should go home and check how she is. And poor Ruby too. She’s been stuck alone with Mum almost every day this past week or so, and I’m suspicious she’s been doing some housework too, to help out now that Irina’s gone. She’s certainly earning her pay.’ I smile up at him. ‘Thank you for coming with me today. That interview would have gone quite badly without you there.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. You didn’t want to accuse a possibly innocent man, that’s all, and quite right too.’ Logan puts an arm about my waist and half-lifts me, his kiss a little more searching this time. ‘I love that about you. You’re a fair person, Kate Kinley. But I’m glad I was able to speak up for you in that interview. I don’t like to see you suffering because of this creep. I want him stopped.’

  I touch his cheek. It’s slightly bristly, in need of a closer shave. ‘I know you do. And I appreciate your help. But I’d better get back. Maybe we could have dinner again later this week? Or tonight, in fact?’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Logan looks deep into my eyes, smiling. ‘How about I move into the house with you?’

  I stare, taken aback. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I hate you being alone at night there, Kate. Especially when you’re constantly hearing noises or finding the front door unlocked…’

  ‘I’m hardly alone,’ I protest.

  ‘Your mum and Ruby are not my idea of protective companions.’ He grins. ‘Though I imagine Ruby could give any intruder a run for their money. Especially armed with a rolling pin. She’d probably frighten them more than they could frighten her.’

  I laugh, but uneasily. ‘Do you really mean it, Logan? You want to move in with me?’

  ‘Only temporarily, while all this is sorted out.’ He searches my face, and a troubled look enters his. ‘Of course, if you don’t like the idea, just tell me to get lost. Or to mind my own business. I won’t be offended.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Am I coming over all Neanderthal again? Trying to protect the little woman when in fact she doesn’t need protecting at all?’ He grimaces at my hurriedly bitten-back smile. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Forget I spoke.’

  ‘No, I think it’s a great idea. I just wasn’t sure how serious you were. Or how serious all this is.’ I pause. ‘You and me, I mean.’

  Logan seems to consider this point, then bends his head to kiss me on the lips again, this time more lingeringly.

  ‘Just about as serious as it gets,’ he whispers. ‘How’s that?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I take what feels like a massive step and clear out my parents’ old double bedroom. It makes sense that if Logan is to move in on at least a semi-permanent basis, we should stop squeezing up together in my modest single room and take over the more lavish space my parents used to occupy, which includes a luxurious en suite bathroom with white marbled tiles and gold taps shaped like dolphins. Not my taste, but I can see Logan is impressed when I show him round a few days later.

  ‘We’ll need a new mattress, of course,’ I say, and feel ludicrously embarrassed when he tests the springiness of my parents’ bed, which has a massive wrought-iron frame, painted a sombre black with gorgeous scrollwork at the foot and head. ‘I’ll order one online.’

  ‘We need to talk about division of bills. I can’t expect you to pay for everything. Let’s sit down in a few days’ time and work out a system.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Logan walks about the room, pausing to look out of the window through a gap in the heavy curtains.

  Those curtains probably also need to be changed, I think, and start wondering about a colour scheme, automatically redecorating the room as I look about the place. A black and white theme would work well with the wrought-iron bedstead…

  ‘This seems like a really nice room,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘Why doesn’t your mother still sleep in here?’

  ‘Mum couldn’t manage the stairs anymore. Not on her own. It was easier to convert the second lounge into a bedroom and install a shower cubicle in the corner for her. The loo’s not too far away either.’

  ‘Very sensible.’

  ‘It was her idea,’ I say, maybe a little defensively.

  ‘But you sorted it out for her.’ He comes close and touches my cheek. ‘You’re a dutiful daughter. I’m sure Celeste’s very proud of you.’

  I’m not sure how dutiful a daughter I am, but I kiss him back when he leans forward.

  When he pulls back, he’s smiling. ‘It’s a big house, isn’t it?’ He goes to the open door and glances idly along the landing. ‘Which room is Ruby’s?’

  ‘Two along, next to the bathroom. That’s my room next door. I’ll have to move some of my things in here once the new mattress arrives. My work clothes, for certain. I can’t be walking back and forth for everything.’

  Still feeling awkward, I pivot away and start throwing open their closets. Mum’s clothes were cleared out ages ago, her old evening gowns and fake fur coats taken to a charity shop, while her everyday clothes were moved to the new built-in wardrobe downstairs.

  It stung to let go of some of those lovely clothes, but I would never have occasion to wear them, and besides, we don’t share the same taste. Back in the day, my mother loved to wear daring backless dresses or sequinned gold affairs with plunging necklines and mid-thigh hems.

  I’m not entirely a jeans with everything girl, but leaning that way. At work, they expect us to dress sharply and with ‘wit’ as Mark calls it. I’ve never quite managed to capture the look, unfortunately, but I know nothing my mother ever owned would be fit for our office.

  ‘I’ll clear all these out and then you can hang your stuff up in here,’ I say, flicking through rows of my dad’s work shirts.

  ‘Nice ties,’ Logan remarks over my shoulder.

  ‘Take any of this you want. Shirts, ties, sweatshirts…’ I see his surprised look. ‘I mean it. They’ll only go to a charity shop. Who else would want them? Though they’re probably a bit out of fashion now. I really ought to have done this years ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Too painful, I expect. I had to sort through Ciaran’s stuff…’ I hesitate. ‘Do you remember Ciaran, my brother?’

  ‘I think we met a couple of times, here and there.’

  ‘He was such a lovely boy, though a bit of a handful at times, and was becoming a lovely man too. I do miss him awfully, and wish we’d had a chance to…’

  I break off, feeling myself well up with tears.

  ‘You okay?’ he says softly, at my elbow.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I tidied out Ciaran’s room quite recently. When Ruby started living here, in fact. But chucking out my dad’s stuff felt like a step too far, then.’ Sadly, I run my hand along the white and pastel-coloured shirt lapels, remembering how handsome and well-turned-out my father always looked when he came downstairs in the mornings. ‘Dad loved looking smart for the office.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said you couldn’t face it before. So why now?’

  ‘Oh, necessity, I suppose.’ I manage a wry smile for him. ‘Let’s face it; we can’t keep sleeping right on top of each other in my little bed, like a couple of sardines in a tin. This room is much better suited to a couple.’

  He strokes my hair. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Besides,’ I say,
twitching the curtains open, ‘this room has a better view of the drive and the front gate. I’ll feel more secure being able to keep an eye on who’s coming and going.’

  Logan stands beside me, looking down towards the front gate. His face is speculative. ‘I wonder if the police have got anywhere with their investigation.’

  ‘Oh, don’t. I still feel unsure about that whole thing. I mean, what if it isn’t Mr Adeyemi and he finds out I suggested him as a possible… well, criminal.’ I put my hands to my hot cheeks. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘Then don’t think about it,’ he says calmly.

  ‘I wish I could. But it’s driving me mad, Logan. The thought that someone out there hates me enough to write such awful things to me, and about me. To send them to you.’ I make a small sound under my breath, shuddering. ‘Another man might have believed what that letter said, and stopped seeing me.’

  ‘Just as well I’m not another man then, isn’t it?’

  I look at him sideways and wonder how this happened so quickly for us. It seems such a short time ago that I spotted him in the street and we got chatting. Now he’s moving in…

  Having a man under the same roof will protect my mother better, both against possible intruders and her nocturnal wanderings. I’m a fairly independent woman, but under the circumstances, I’m not embarrassed to admit it’ll help me feel more secure too.

  Yes, letting Logan move in feels like the right thing to do.

  Doesn’t it?

  *

  At the weekend, the new mattress arrives, covered in thick plastic, and together, Logan and I heave it up the stairs to my parent’s old bedroom. We have to keep stopping because of its weight and sheer unwieldiness, and I burst into fits of helpless giggles at one stage when it slips from between my hands, pinning Logan against the wall. Even Mum comes out of her room to see what’s going on, and has to have it all explained to her again by Ruby, for about the tenth time.

  ‘Mum, you’re supposed to be resting that hip,’ I point out, leaning over the bannister. ‘Better go back to bed.’

  ‘I’m sick of that bloody room.’ Mum starts to wander off down the hall, and is gently guided back to her bedroom by Ruby, complaining all the way in a loud voice, ‘No, I don’t want to go back in there… It’s too dark, and I can’t see what’s going on.’

  ‘There’s nothing to see, Mrs Nosy,’ Ruby says firmly, and a moment later Mum’s bedroom door closes behind them both.

  ‘Okay, let’s try this again, shall we?’ Logan hefts up the mattress. ‘You got your end?’ He looks a trifle dishevelled, but is still smiling. ‘This time, please try not to drop it again. Especially on me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that impression.’

  ‘No, really…’ I bite back a snort of laughter. ‘Though you did look funny, flattened by a mattress.’

  ‘Pick up your end.’

  I obey, still grinning, but I’m a little worried about my mother’s complaints. ‘I hope my mother’s hip will improve soon,’ I say, starting to back up the stairs with the mattress. ‘She’s not supposed to be moving about too much, the doctor said. But Mum’s right. We can’t keep her in that room forever.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ Logan mutters.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He grins. ‘Nothing.’

  I narrow my eyes at him, but decide he’s joking. At least, he’d better be.

  We carry the mattress up to the bedroom and heave it breathlessly into place on the bedstead. I bend to make sure it fits the space properly, and turn to see Logan hesitating in the doorway.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I need… you know. The loo.’

  ‘Oh.’ I try not to laugh at his obvious discomfort. ‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’

  He disappears, but doesn’t use the bathroom on this floor, heading for the downstairs loo instead.

  I adjust the mattress to exactly where I want it, and then make the bed up, even putting a black cover on the duvet and finding the matching pillowcases. Once it’s done to my satisfaction, I run downstairs to check on my mother.

  Logan is nowhere to be seen, but the front door is slightly ajar, so I imagine he’s gone out to retrieve something from his car. He’s been gradually moving things from his flat to our house over the past few days, and keeps producing yet another tool kit or bag of knick-knacks from the recesses of his car boot.

  Ruby has gone back into the kitchen; I can hear her humming to herself as she starts preparations for dinner, which we’re all sharing tonight.

  My mother’s bedroom is in semi-darkness, her bedside lamp off and the curtains drawn to shut out the glow of lights from the road on her side of the house.

  ‘Mum?’ I peer into the room, thinking she must be napping. But she’s not. Instead, she’s pottering about in her nightie, her back to me, a ghostly figure in the gloom. I shake my head in disbelief. ‘You just can’t keep still, can you?’

  Mum starts at the sound of my voice, and immediately climbs back into bed. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she says, not looking at me but clasping her hands together in front of her chest. ‘Not my fault, no.’

  Puzzled, I go further into the room, snapping on the overhead light. ‘What are you talking about? What isn’t your fault?’

  She blinks and raises a hand, shielding her eyes from the light. ‘Too bright,’ she says, sounding suddenly frail.

  ‘I’ll turn it off in a minute, I promise. I just want to check…’

  I stop dead.

  There’s a trail of dirt on the green carpet.

  I bend to examine the debris more closely. ‘What’s this?’ I pick some up, smelling it, surprised by the crumbling texture between my fingers. ‘Is this… soil? Compost?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ is all she says, repeating the words several times in the same worried way. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ I reply mechanically, ‘there’s no need to keep apologising. But I don’t understand. Where on earth did all this mess come from?’ I follow the trail of dirt around the bed and find one of her tall pot plants has tumbled over. ‘Oh dear, did you knock the plant over?’

  There’s compost everywhere, and the bamboo stick that was keeping the plant steady is some three or four feet away. It must have fallen out when the pot was knocked over.

  ‘Well, never mind.’ Carefully, I right the pot, try to steady the tall, fleshy houseplant and then go to retrieve the bamboo stick, as it refuses to stay upright without it. ‘I’d better get the Dyson, get this lot vacuumed up. Just as well I’ve had a bit of practice at hoovering lately, now Irina’s not coming in to clean anymore.’

  I feel I’ve been reassuring and jokey, and not a bit accusatory. Yet when I glance her way, my mother gives a kind of whimper, and buries her face in her hands, muttering, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ over and over.

  ‘Goodness, Mum,’ I say, abandoning my attempt to fit the bamboo back into the pot and leaning the plant against the wall instead. I’m confused by her overreaction to what is clearly just an accident. ‘Are you crying? Did you hurt yourself?’

  Mum shakes her head.

  ‘There’s no need to get so upset over a little spilt compost on the carpet.’ I hurry round to give her a hug, but she resists. ‘Honestly, I’ll soon get it tidied up. Oh, come here.’ I hold her tight, and rock her back and forth like she’s a child again and I’m her mother. Her unhappiness communicates itself so strongly to me, I feel almost frightened. ‘Please calm down, Mum. What’s all this about?’

  But she refuses to say anything more, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, something akin to terror in her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  My birthday comes and goes without any contact from the police. I leave a couple of messages for PC Plimley on the number she gave me, but she never gets back to me. Too busy, I assume, and perhaps she has no information to give me. Which isn’t surprising. A few poison pen letters can hardly be top priorit
y for the police. The more days that go by, in fact, the more embarrassed I am that we took them to the police at all. What a snowflake the constable must think me, getting wound up over some malicious person sending me hate mail.

  Though it was disturbing to see David’s signature on those letters, almost as though he were still alive…

  Which he isn’t, of course.

  I was chief mourner at his funeral; I saw him cremated. There can be no doubt that he’s gone, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

  But whoever it was clearly knew David too, or was able to find his signature and copy it, because it’s a near-perfect match. At least to my untrained eye.

  We celebrate my birthday with a small cake and some champers at home with Mum and Ruby, and then Logan and I slip away into central London for the evening. Logan has bought tickets to Cats, which I have to admit to never having seen, and we spend an enjoyable evening at the theatre, followed by a late dinner and drinks in a posh and very crowded West End restaurant after the show.

  It’s the first time I’ve been out in ages. Despite Ruby’s constant presence at the house, which ought to have liberated me, Mum has been in such a fragile state since her accident that I don’t like to leave her too much. She’s become rather withdrawn, almost sullen at times. Logan is perfectly pleasant to her, so I don’t blame him for her change in mood. But I have noticed that Mum seems fidgety and nervous in his presence, and sometimes refuses to speak while he’s in the room.

  Thankfully, Logan has taken this shyness in good part, and will often take himself off to browse the internet or clean his car just so that Mum can feel more comfortable. It embarrasses me, though, and I frequently find myself apologising for her hostile attitude towards him.

  Tonight, though, after today’s birthday celebrations, she seemed happy with the idea of me going out to enjoy myself. So I fully intend to do that.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ Logan says softly, toasting me with the bubbly we’re drinking. There’s a candle in a jar on the table between us, and his eyes glitter strangely in the candlelight, but he’s smiling. ‘Have you had a good birthday so far? What did you think of the show?’