Someone Out There

by Catherine Hunt

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Didn’t you listen to my message?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, of course I did. I’m being stupid. You said Valentine was upset.’

  ‘Upset is not the word,’ he said tersely, ‘He’s a highly strung horse. He can’t move and he’s in a strange place. Result, he’s terrified and very distressed. It may be best to end this now.’

  ‘Hang on,’ she said miserably, ‘I’m on my way.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The guest house was less than a fifteen-minute walk from his hotel and Harry Pelham set off for it early on Sunday morning. It was fairly small, no more than ten rooms he thought, and it had definitely seen better days. He gently pushed open the door. No-one at reception, no sign of life at all, just a smell of fried bacon. It was 9.20 a.m.

  He considered walking straight in and knocking on every room until he found Ben Morgan. But he thought it might cause a fuss and he didn’t want that. Morgan was unpredictable, who knew what he might do when he saw Harry at his door – panic, try to run, shout out for help. Harry wanted to question him in private and it would be better if the rest of the guests were not already alerted. That was if there were any; it didn’t look the sort of place to be packed out.

  There was some stationery on the reception desk and he took a piece of it, wrote a note, then folded the paper in half and rang the bell. Nothing happened. He leaned his elbow on the bell until a voice came from a back room.

  ‘All right. Keep your hair on. I’m coming.’ A middle-aged, overweight woman appeared, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

  ‘Sorry to keep you,’ she said, in a tone that made it clear she wasn’t.

  He handed her the note.

  ‘Can I leave this? It’s for one of your guests – Ben Morgan.’

  There were nine numbered pigeon holes on the wall behind her. Harry waited, hoping she would put the note in one so that he could see which was Morgan’s room. She didn’t move.

  ‘At least,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘I’m pretty sure he’s staying here. Ben Morgan.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s here. I’ll give it to him.’ Still she made no move towards the pigeon holes, ‘You a friend of his?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Actually I’m a bit worried about him.’

  There was a pause. Obviously she wanted him to ask.

  ‘Why’s that?

  ‘Is he a bit … ’, she made a circling motion with her index finger at the side of her head, ‘you know, screw loose?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know him well.’

  The woman carried on, ‘he’s a real oddball. Been here for weeks. Never says much but gets all twitchy and wound up like he’s going to burst. Never has any visitors, ’cept you of course.’

  Harry gestured towards the note. ‘I have to run – if you would make sure he gets that.’

  She shifted her bulk and put the note into hole number ‘9’.

  ‘He’s going to have to clean up his ways if he wants to stay here any longer. His room was a tip when I went in the other day. You ask me, he needs someone to take him in hand,’ she leaned against the desk. ‘You want me to call his room? Let him know you’re here?’

  ‘No thanks. Afraid I can’t stop.’ He turned away, walked to the door, waving goodbye.

  He stood in the street outside pretending to be checking his texts but really looking in through the front window of the guest house. Almost at once he saw the woman leave the reception desk and disappear into a back room. He gave her another minute, then slipped back inside and up the stairs.

  It was as scruffy inside as the outside had promised it would be. Nobody had used a paintbrush here for years and the place smelt of mildew. As he climbed to the third floor he wondered how the torn stair carpet had evaded health and safety. He reached door number ‘9’ and waited, listening, but he couldn’t hear any sound coming from inside. He rapped hard on the door. Silence. He tried again.

  ‘Who is it?’ Ben Morgan’s voice. Nervous, hesitant.

  ‘Harry. Harry Pelham. I need to talk to you.’

  No reply.

  ‘I’m sorry I got angry before.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I rang round the hotels.’

  ‘How did you know which one to ring?’

  ‘I didn’t. I guessed you’d be in one near the station.’

  ‘Someone told you I was here, didn’t they?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I can’t see how else you would know.’

  ‘I just told you, I rang round. You took some finding.’

  ‘You were tipped off, weren’t you?’

  The man was paranoid, Harry thought, exasperated.

  ‘Please, can we talk,’ he tried not to sound irritated. He didn’t want to frighten Morgan, not yet, not before he’d opened the door.

  ‘You hurt me last time.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What you said about Martha, it upset me.’

  No reply.

  ‘You said you wanted to help.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I need help, Ben. I really do. I want you to help me deal with Laura Maxwell, the way you said you would.’

  He heard the door being unlocked. Ben Morgan opened it a little and stared out at him. He looked pale and edgy. Harry shoved the door wide and strode into the room, pushing Ben Morgan to one side. The fat woman was right; it was a mess. There were dirty clothes and papers all over the place, foil tins from old takeaways crackled under his feet.

  ‘Right, now you’re going to tell me who put you up to this,’ he demanded.

  Ben Morgan’s anger took him completely by surprise. The man was suddenly beside himself with fury, yelling abuse, screaming that Harry had it in for him just like everyone else. Then Morgan lunged at him, swung back his right fist and hit him hard in the face. Harry Pelham reeled backwards, blood pouring from his nose.

  ‘OK. Calm down for fuck’s sake.’

  But Ben Morgan didn’t calm down, not at all. It was like a switch had been pulled and there was no off button.

  He was shouting that he’d had no contact with his daughter for six years, not even supervised contact – no court had been willing to allow it, claiming it would put Millie at risk. And it was all because of Laura Maxwell. She had driven him insane, driven him to do something crazy. He hated her. She should have never been born.

  The door to the room was still open and people had heard the commotion and come to watch. It looked like Harry had been wrong in thinking there were not many guests as quite a crowd had gathered. A man rushed up the stairs, followed more slowly by the chubby receptionist.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ the man asked.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ the woman puffed out as she reached the landing. ‘He’s the guy I told you about – must’ve sneaked up here when I wasn’t looking.’

  The audience made no difference to Ben Morgan. His tirade continued non-stop. His fists were clenched and his thin frame shook with emotion.

  Harry saw he had no choice but to give it up. He would get nothing now out of Morgan and he didn’t want anyone calling the police. He wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘That’s it, show’s over,’ he said, pushing through the crowd and stomping off down the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Laura abandoned her Sunday afternoon plans to go shopping with Emma and went to visit Valentine instead. They arranged to meet afterwards at a café in the North Laine area of town. It was where Emma loved to shop, with lots of small, independent traders that weren’t too expensive. The place was colourful and vibrant with a studenty, Bohemian feel. It was the style Emma had always liked and now, at thirty-four, it was still reflected in her clothes and her curly, red hennaed hair.

  Laura was late getting to the café and Emma had been waiting almost an hour when she finally arrived. It was after 6 p.m. and the shopping crowds had all gone home. Emma was sitt
ing on her own at a corner table, surrounded by bags, examining a pair of handmade silver earrings she’d bought. There was a half full glass of white wine in front of her; a bottle of wine was on the table and one empty glass.

  ‘Hiya.’ Emma stood up and hugged Laura, then pulled back as she saw her wince with the pain from her cracked rib.

  ‘God I’m sorry. I forgot. Are you OK?’

  Laura nodded, sinking down in the chair opposite.

  ‘Well you don’t look it. You’re white as a sheet.’ She poured wine into the empty glass and pushed it across to Laura.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late, Em. I know you need to get back.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t. I’ve texted and they’re fine. They’re back from Speedway and Steve is making the boys’ tea. So, no problem.’

  Laura was grateful though she didn’t believe it. Emma and her family were flying off to Majorca tomorrow to spend half term week at Steve’s parents’ apartment in Puerto Pollensa. Emma must have a thousand things she needed to be doing.

  ‘How was Valentine?’

  ‘Not good,’ Laura said dejectedly.

  Jeff Ingham had not exaggerated. Valentine was in a bad way. Physically, of course, he was bound to be but it was his mental state that would kill him. He struggled in the sling, wild eyed and crazy. It was the worst thing he could do, and if he continued with it, he would not survive. His broken leg needed rest and he had to stay calm so that his weight would be kept evenly on all four legs. The sling helped – it meant that most of his body weight was partially supported off his legs – but on its own it couldn’t save the day. The struggling unbalanced him and risked injuring his other legs. He had to help himself, she knew, and so far he wasn’t doing that. It had been all she could do to persuade the vet to give it a few more days.

  ‘Do you think I’m being selfish?’ Laura asked, close to tears. ‘Keeping him alive like this?’

  ‘No, of course not. I know you’d only do what’s best for him.’

  ‘I feel so guilty. I mean is it fair to put him through all this? Am I just doing it for myself and not in his best interests?’

  ‘If you feel it’s right then I’m sure it is. You’ve got to give it a try.’

  Laura looked at her uncertainly and managed a weak smile.

  ‘Come on, I’m starving, let’s order,’ Emma said, anxious to distract her friend from tormenting herself over Valentine. She waved at a waiter and ordered a pizza for two with mushrooms, red peppers, and anchovies, then asked Laura to tell her everything that had been going on.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy but I think someone’s targeting me,’ Laura said, gulping down wine. She searched Emma’s face for a reaction, steeling herself for signs of disbelief. But all she could see there was concern.

  ‘I can’t get it out of my head that it’s all connected. I’ve got this horrible feeling that he’s going to try again.’

  ‘You think it could be this guy you saw, Ben Morgan?’ Emma said.

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘And he’s been following you?’

  ‘I think so. The way he ran off when I turned round to look at him. If it was coincidence he wouldn’t have reacted like that, he’d have been as surprised as me. It was like he knew I was there.’

  ‘But if he wanted to hurt you, why didn’t he do it then? I mean why run off when he had a chance to get you?’

  Laura shivered, ‘I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to do anything when there were witnesses around.’

  Emma looked at her, appalled, ‘You have to go back to the police. Tell them about this man, get them to track him down. Why not do it now? Come on, I’ll come with you.’

  Emma did not doubt her, Laura thought, didn’t think she was being irrational. It was a relief to be believed, but it left a bitter taste as well. Emma was taking her fears seriously, was being supportive, whereas Joe …

  ‘That’s so kind of you, Em,’ Laura felt tears start again in her eyes, ‘but the policeman I need to talk to won’t be in until tomorrow so I’ll do it then. There’s no point in going back now. They won’t do anything.’

  ‘What about Harry Pelham?’ Emma asked her. ‘He sounds a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘He is, and I’m suspicious about him. That’s the thing, I can’t be sure who it is, just that there is someone.’

  ‘You say the police are letting him go free even though he’s threatening his wife?’

  ‘They’ve put conditions on his bail, not much else they can do. He hasn’t actually been convicted of anything violent.’

  ‘So they just sit back and wait until he’s killed somebody,’ Emma said, angrily. ‘And what about him being a paedophile? They have to act over that, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, if it’s proved, but he won’t go to jail unless it’s really serious.’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Emma frowned, her sharp brown eyes examining Laura. ‘I’m worried about you, Lau, you look really stressed out.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have unloaded it all on you,’ Laura said, feeling guilty for bothering Emma with her troubles when she was about to go on holiday. ‘Don’t worry. I’m OK. Maybe I’m overthinking it anyway, maybe there’s nothing in it and it’s just a lot of random bad things all coming at once. Shit happens, as Joe would say.’

  ‘Is that what he thinks?’

  ‘He thinks I’m being neurotic; irrational was the word he used.’

  Laura drank the rest of her wine. The bottle was empty and she ordered herself another glass. She would have got another bottle but Emma said she needed to get home without being totally pissed.

  ‘It’s not like it used to be. Joe’s different,’ she said, and told Emma her worries.

  ‘Sounds like it’s just what happens to everyone after a while.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Laura said.

  ‘Wait until you have a kid, that will really put sex on the back burner,’ Emma said, grinning, then told what she hoped was a funny story about one of the ups and downs of her own fifteen-year relationship with Steve.

  Laura was only half concentrating. She kept glancing towards the door and out of the window to the street outside. Maybe her attacker was waiting for her, ready to strike again. Her fingers picked at the pizza in front of her, slowly shredding it to bits.

  ‘You’re supposed to eat it, not mutilate it,’ Emma said.

  Laura gave a weak laugh. She took a bite of the pizza but it seemed to swell up inside her mouth and she needed some wine to be able to swallow it.

  She looked at her watch. Gone 8 p.m. ‘Em, you should get going. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.’

  Reluctantly, Emma gathered her bags together.

  ‘I wish I wasn’t going away. You take care and try not to worry too much. Make sure you text me what happens with the police.’

  Laura promised that she would and Emma kissed her goodbye, remembering not to hug. She set off to catch the bus that would take her home to Saltdean. Laura watched her go then stood looking nervously round the street, staring at the faces coming towards her and peering into the shadows.

  Her head was fuzzy with the white wine but fear was clearing it fast. A wave of threat hit her like a blast of cold wind blowing up the road. Her enemy was here, somewhere close by, she knew it in her gut, and terror filled her. This time he wouldn’t care that there were witnesses; she saw herself stabbed and dying on the pavement, her blood running into the gutter.

  Laura started running towards the taxi rank, regardless of the pain, blessing the lights from the Royal Pavilion that lit the way to safety.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  There was an atmosphere. Definitely hostile. Definitely involving her. Laura noticed it as soon as she walked in on Monday morning. Monica, on the front desk, was definitely off with her. Laura knew that if there were any office gossip Monica would know about it because she always made it her business to find out.

  Monica was in her early fifties and had worked at Morrison Kemp for thirteen years – full time f
or the last six since her children were now grown up. With a lemon-sucking face she had watched Laura arrive from her big London job, knowing, before meeting her, that she would be too big for her boots. Now her lips were set in disapproval, her needle-sharp nose lifted in distaste. She could hardly manage a curt ‘Hi’ before turning away to talk to her colleague.

  Mid-morning, Laura attended the weekly review meeting. Morrison chaired it and made sure there was the usual sky high level of praise and self-congratulation for the firm’s overall performance. No mention was made of the Hakimi debacle. Morrison simply remarked, casually, that Sarah Cole had now ‘gone to pursue career challenges elsewhere.’ No-one said anything but Laura sensed frosty eyes upon her and felt herself blush.

  Shortly afterwards she ran into the young, studious trainee, Alex Marshall, who had shared an office with Sarah, and his manner towards her confirmed her feeling that something was wrong. Alex was only twenty-five but he was going on forty. He loved legal textbooks and obscure facts and he always tried to follow the exact letter of the law. It got him into trouble with Morrison who often ticked him off for being too pedantic and for getting so hung up on legal details that he couldn’t see the bigger picture. As Laura knew only too well, Morrison was a man who cared about the end result and was none too fussy about the means of achieving it.

  She attempted to chat to Alex about a course he’d been on recently. It was entitled ‘overcoming probate challenges’ and mention of it and its fascinating mix of up-to-the-minute facts about wills, trusts, and inheritance tax planning would usually have guaranteed his attention. Probate and wills were one area of the law that Laura would have gone a long way to avoid, but she knew Alex found it interesting. He could become quite animated discussing it. But not today. Today he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

  He mumbled that it had been fine and hurried back to his office and she wondered what Sarah had said to him on Friday afternoon as she’d cleared her desk. She guessed it had been about her and it had not been nice.