‘This burglar has murdered our dog!’ she shouted, knowing no-one could hear her but wishing she could tell the whole world. ‘I will tell the police,’ she said, still talking to herself. ‘And to hell with the hassle, and then I’ll call Paul.’
Just then the phone rang.
She picked up the receiver.
‘Julia?’
It was the same muffled voice. The same crank wanting the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.
Keep your cool, she told herself. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk to you now, whoever you are,’ she said, making sure her voice was as polite, calm, and as controlled as possible. ‘If you feel you have a claim to make, you can do this in writing to the courts. Your case is closed and I am no longer in a position to act for you.’
‘Julia, Julia. That’s a load of crap.’
There was a toneless ha-ha-ha chuckle followed by a derisory click of the tongue that annoyed Julia so much she wondered why she didn’t slam the phone down again.
‘You did your best but it wasn’t fucking good enough. Now you can pay, Julia fucking Grant.’
She felt the first shudder of fear. I know that intonation. ‘Who is this?’
‘You mean, you really don’t know?’ he taunted.
She was certain now that it was Smith but she needed time to think. ‘Will you stop wasting my time. I cannot conduct a conversation with someone whose name I don’t even know.’
‘Ah, but you do know it,’ he said. ‘Extremely well. And it’s you wasting my time. I need those bucks. And I need them fucking fast so I can get out of this goddam country. As far away as I can fucking get.’
No wonder I didn’t recognise his voice, she thought. In the past he had always spoken to her with respect, and hardly ever a swear word.
She had to think quickly. First she pressed the record button. Then she reached for the red telephone at the far end of her desk, cursing Wendy for always putting it there when she dusted, instead of next to the cream one where she could reach it. Lying awkwardly across the polished mahogany surface she dragged the instrument towards her while still holding the receiver of the cream phone in her left hand. If she could stall him long enough to contact Paul.
‘Damn!’ Her thigh slipped on the slippery surface and she only just managed to grab the receiver as the whole thing hurtled off the desk with the weight of her falling body. A pain ripped through her knee but miraculously she still had the receiver in her hand. She dragged the cord of the red phone with her foot until the instrument was almost near enough to reach over and dial the number.
‘Bad language won’t help you, Julia.’ The disguise had been discarded and the voice was now unmistakable. Oh yes, she had heard it often enough. But even without the disguise he sounded different. More in control than he ever was before. Not like a hunted criminal at all.
Careful what you say now, she told herself firmly, in case he subsequently tries to accuse you of harbouring him. Don’t forget he’s on the run.
Despite her awkward position on the floor she was sure that if she could manoeuvre one of the receivers under her chin she could punch out Paul’s number on the red phone. In his sporty Honda CRX he could be at the house in fifteen minutes. Smith had her phone number so he would know her address too. The sooner she got hold of Paul, the better.
But the phone list was on top of the desk on the far side, and her knee was throbbing with pain.
‘You’re not answering me, Julia. I told you, I’m in a hurry.’
‘Where are you?’ she asked. It was a long shot. He was hardly likely to tell her, but it was worth trying before she spoke to Paul.
Sam Smith laughed. ‘All in good time, clever clogs.’
She stopped breathing. Clever clogs?
‘If I call the police,’ she said, breathing again because lots of Lancashire people used that phrase, ‘if I call the police they’ll trace your call. Is that what you want?’ They couldn’t, but Smith wasn’t to know that.
‘You love your daughter, don’t you?’
‘Look, I’ve no idea what you’re on about, but just leave my daughter out of this.’
‘How can I?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that if you don’t give me the dough by eleven o’clock on Monday morning I won’t be responsible for what happens to your darling precious beautiful Nicola - oops, sorry, it’s Nicky, isn’t it? And she sure is beautiful.’
‘You’re mad. I haven’t got that kind of money.’
The walls of the room began to sway towards her. Nicola? He called my daughter Nicola.
‘Oh yes you have. And you’re lucky I’m not demanding a million. Charles Grant and his son Simon sold that chain of estate agents for a packet. When they died you inherited the lot. I know, Julia.’
‘But I can’t touch it. It’s all in trust for Nicky.’
‘Lucky Nicky.’
Her head began to spin. ‘I’m going to phone the police,’ she said calmly.
‘You have a beautiful home, Julia.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t like the wrought iron gates, though. Your balls could get hung up on those long sharp spikes. But the cobbled driveway is fucking classy. I like the gables and the old slate roof too. And the back garden’s so secluded. Lovely roses . . . ’
She heard the rasp of his breath. Excited staccato beats that made her want to throw up.
‘But it’s nothing compared to the inside, is it, Julia? Now that’s something else. Especially the Persian carpets and the Queen Anne stuff in the dining room. Must be worth a bomb.’
A noose tightened round her neck. It was him! He was in your house last night. He killed Duke. The voice inside her head almost drowned out Smith’s next words.
‘You haven’t forgotten where you came from, have you, Julia? You were shit lucky. You wouldn’t miss a miserable two-fifty grand.’
He sounded so smug. I should be in command of this conversation, Julia told herself, yet from the moment it started he was the one with the upper hand.
‘Your threats are not frightening me,’ she said, finally managing to tuck the receiver firmly under her chin so that one hand was free now to dial the police. Or Paul, if she could dredge his direct number from her memory. ‘So if you don’t mind ─ ’
‘Not so bloody fast. I haven’t finished talking yet.’
‘Well I’ve finished talking to you.’
‘I don’t work alone, rich bitch. I have good friends, as you must know by now. You love Nicky, don’t you? She’s a lucky kid. Just like you, Julia. Lucky. She has everything she wants. Me mates tell me she looks real cute in her school uniform. Blue skirt. Pink blouse. Little blue beret. You must be very proud of her. But I can tell you she looks even cuter in the white frilly skirt she wears to the Sonya Lake dance school. Almost as good as you do in that see-through nightgown of yours. Nice set-up those little ballerinas have there. Big hall, all those airy windows ─ ’
Oh God. Cheadle High Street. The blue Volvo?
‘And Julia. Just in case you’re tempted, don’t tell the police about this conversation. They wouldn’t understand the special thing between us, would they? Be sensible. Don’t tell anyone. Not if you love Nicola. Sorry. I mean Nicky. And not unless you want certain interesting facts made public. A very juicy piece of news about Manchester’s top defence solicitor. Yes, Julia, I could tell the authorities a thing or two. I’ve never seen the inside of Styal Prison but they tell me the women there have a pretty cushy life.’
Julia fought for breath.
‘What facts?’ she managed to say, her voice a mere croak. Smith is no fool. If he is my brother he would know I would not give him a quarter million quid to stop him revealing that I am the twin sister of a convicted murderer, as ghastly and as gruesome as that is. Or to stop him having the sordid details of my childhood sexual abuse splashed across the media. But what else is there that he might know, if he is my brother? It must be something far worse than that
. . .
‘You know. You know.’ He paused. Then he said, ‘Now don’t forget. Monday morning. I’ll be in touch to tell you where to leave the money. In tens and fifties, Julia. No fuckin’ twenties.’
‘What facts?’ she yelled into the phone.
‘That you killed your foster father. And that’s just for starters.’
- 24 -
Julia put down the receiver. She heard the click as it slotted into place. Funny how I’ve never noticed that sound before. Almost like . . . what? A gun?
Still sprawled on the carpet she lifted the receiver up, then put it down again. Yes. It was just like the click of a gun being cocked. Or how she imagined it would sound.
Like a puppet without strings she picked herself up from her ridiculous position on the floor. She put both telephones back on the desk, then sank into her chair and rubbed her painful knee.
A gun?
She flicked her eyes to the ceiling. Don’t be ridiculous, Julia. Do what anyone under threat would do. What any competent solicitor would do. What every mother in your position would do.
Phone the police.
Or should it be Paul first? He would get things moving faster.
She yanked the red telephone towards her. She could also ask Paul to organise that trace facility. BT would set it up immediately they got police authorisation.
But first things first, Julia. Tell him you need protection. Tell him why and don’t get side tracked.
She grabbed the receiver and started to dial.
Then she stopped.
Fool. Idiot. Imbecile. Are you out of your mind?
She banged down the receiver then pressed her palms over her ears as every syllable of what Sam Smith had said came screaming back to her inside her head:
You killed your foster father. And that’s just for starters.
Don’t tell the police. Don’t tell anyone . . .
She rubbed her eyes, hoping this would make her see more clearly. The whole episode had a nightmarish quality to it, as unreal as the fragments of recall from her past. Fragments of a little girl alone, of horror, disgust and fear. Fleeting fragments of love and warmth and closeness. Fragments of loss and longing . . . of chocolates . . .
And now? Jumping in and out of her brain but refusing to be caught was a new bizarre fragment that his ridiculous unbelievable words had triggered. A fragment that for a fleeting moment connected to a thread in her brain but leapt away immediately. A fragment that terrified her.
How could she believe him? He was just trying to frighten her. It couldn’t be true. The last time she had a foster father she was only ten years old. You can’t kill someone when you’re ten years old. Oh, he was so much cleverer than she had thought. Stupidly she’d let him know about her amnesia. He was using that knowledge. He knew she wouldn’t know if he was telling the truth or not.
But what if he was telling the truth. Maybe she had done something bad. Something wicked. Something far worse than just lying there allowing that foster father to molest her because she so badly needed to be loved and wanted. Far worse than possibly being the sister of this poor clever depraved man whose life had gone so wrong . . .
How would she know when she couldn’t remember?
She needed to hear it again. Not trusting herself to press the right sequence of buttons for a playback on the new answer machine, she yanked out the Olympus tape, slotted it into her Sanyo recorder and pressed the rewind button. The tape whirred.
You love your daughter, don’t you, Julia?
Oh yes. It was real all right. And sounded even more menacing the second time around.
She pressed the fast forward button, then the play button again.
. . . and Julia, just in case you’re tempted . . . Don’t tell the police. Don’t tell anyone. Not if you love Nicky . . . And not unless you want certain interesting facts made public . . . I’ve never seen the inside of Styal Prison but they tell me the women there have a pretty cushy life. You killed your foster father and that’s just for starters.
The words drummed in her ears like a CD that’s stuck: Don’t tell the police. Don’t tell anyone. You killed your foster father. And that’s just for starters. You killed your foster father. And that’s just for starters ─
Don’t tell the police. Don’t tell anyone ─
He was mad. Demented. Insane. It wasn’t only his escape he and his accomplices had planned so meticulously. It was this. All these lies.
She ran the tape back to zero then tidied her desk and put the chair back in the kneehole. It was as though she was looking down from a great height at someone else doing these things. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion although she was trying desperately to hurry.
To tell? Or not to tell?
How clever was he really? How many spies were working with him? Would he really know if she told the police?
Of course he would. He and his spies would see the results of her telling. And if anything happened to Nicky . . .
From his positive tone of voice, there was no doubt in her mind that Smith would tell the police that she carried criminal responsibility for her foster father’s death, whether it was true or not. But what if it was? In English law the age of criminal responsibility begins at ten. The police would undoubtedly investigate. They would question her. There would be enormous difficulty in remembering the facts that might help to show her innocence, but the police being the police would inevitably leak details of the investigation to the press in order to smear her since by virtue of her position she was a constant thorn in their side. This would spell the end of her career. The end of everything ─
But I can’t remember.
A gun? Yes. You’ll need a gun. He shot Duke. He shot Sergeant Scott.
No. For Christ’s sake, Julia Grant, you’re a lawyer. Try to behave as though you’re advising a client under threat. You wouldn’t advise a client to get a gun. If Paul knew what you were planning now he would tell you that you were behaving without caution or judgement. And so would Ben. I know they would. But they don’t know the half of it. Neither do I. Yet. Oh, if only I could remember . . .
Get a gun from where?
Moss Side, of course. All your clients in Moss Side have guns. Or they know someone with a gun. Joe Sagoe. He would lend you one. Or Charlie Kuma . . .
Stay calm, Julia. And stop talking to yourself. You have a day and a half to think this out before you have to hand over a quarter of a million quid that you haven’t got.
There must be a way around it. Someone will be able to help.
Don’t tell anyone. Not if you love Nicky. Not if you want to avoid being taken in for questioning and all the detrimental publicity that would follow . . .
Don’t tell Wendy. Don’t tell Nicky. Don’t tell David and Jess. Don’t tell Ben. Don’t tell Linda. Don’t tell Sonya Lake. Don’t tell Miss Haydock or anyone else at St Mary’s school. Don’t tell Paul.
There was no one she could tell. Not one sodding soul. No one she could trust. No one to help her.
No one.
Then it hit her.
The white frilly skirt. The ballet school. The big windows . . .
He knows where it is. He followed me there. He saw me leave Nicky there.
You fool, Julia Grant.
She looked at her watch and ran down the stairs. How long since you put the phone down? Where was he phoning from?
Handbag. Keys. Hurry, woman. Behave naturally. If Wendy sees you like this she’ll start asking questions. Take a deep breath.
‘Wendy, do you think you could be a darling and wait here till I get back. I’ve got someone coming to replace that lock.’
‘I was staying anyway,’ Wendy said softly. ‘Aren’t you a bit early for Nicky? I could fetch her if you like. Then I could tell her the terrible news. It would save you.’
‘No!’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Wendy. I didn’t mean to shout. I must go myself. I promised.’ She heard her voice rising again
.
Behave naturally.
Seconds counted, but as she opened the front door something stopped her dead. Something that made her realise that Wendy was the only person who she could even vaguely confide in and the knowledge made fresh tears spring to her eyes. ‘I . . . I don’t know what I’d do without you, Wendy.’
Wendy hurried to Julia and put her arm around her shoulder. ‘I’ll go down to Margaret’s quickly and get one of the puppies. Just as soon as I’ve ─ just as soon as I’ve dug the hole.’
Julia nodded speechlessly. She glanced at the clock on the wall. She had to go now.
She pulled away from Wendy’s comforting arm and steadied herself against the door. ‘Forgive me, Wendy. I’ve got this thing about blood and dead bodies. I couldn’t have looked at Duke again. I couldn’t have buried him myself. I don’t know why I’m like that but I am. I can’t help it.’
‘Julia, don’t torture yourself. At least you and Nicky are unhurt and nothing seems to be missing - except that little photo and I’m sure I’ll find it. Please try to relax.’
Julia fled down the steps to her car. At the gate she almost collided head on with Sergeant Bennett’s black car. He jumped out and apologised profusely.
‘I’ve just come to tell you we’ve secured the right to occupy the empty house opposite. The team’s moving in shortly. They’ll have a fine view of the house and garden and the road.’
‘As long as nobody sees them,’ she said. ‘It’s most important.’ Paul had moved fast.
If Bennett noticed the panic in her voice he did not comment but merely nodded and smiled. ‘Please continue to tell us of any vehicles you’re expecting,’ he said.
“Yes,” she said, her mind miles away in Cheadle. She revved the engine and he reversed to let her through. If he knew what she was doing he would also regard her actions as lacking caution and judgement, she thought as she drove out into the slow moving Wilmslow traffic. She turned right at the Blue Bell garage then put her foot down as far as the law would allow and headed for Cheadle.
- 25 -
Sonya Lake patted Nicky’s shiny blonde topknot. ‘She’s working very hard, aren’t you, Nicky?’
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