Someone Out There

by Catherine Hunt

  ‘Monica, it is Monica isn’t it? I just can’t tell you … I really can’t,’ she had gasped in distress.

  Best friend. Confidante. Pour it all into Monica’s eager ear.

  ‘You poor thing, come in and wait, Laura won’t be long I’m sure, would you like a cup of tea?’

  She’d been shown to a room, and finally, left alone there. It took a couple of minutes to dash up the stairs and plant the phone behind the books in Laura Maxwell’s office. Fingers crossed for a result.

  Anna Pelham really didn’t care anymore. Result or not. Whatever. She was ready. It was just past 5 o’clock. Time to go. Carefully, she wrapped the knife in tissue paper and placed it at the bottom of her bag.

  She put on the Parka, pulled up the hood.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Harry checked carefully before approaching his house just in case the police were there. Just in case his wife was there, he thought bitterly. He didn’t plan on staying long, no longer than it took to pack a suitcase and rig a spy camera in the hallway, trained on the front door, to record her next visit. He hoped she would come back soon.

  He hadn’t checked carefully enough. As he put his key in the front door, he heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. He fought the urge to run; it would be stupid. He couldn’t escape and trying to would only make him look like a guilty man. He blew out his cheeks in frustration and turned around to face the police.

  Ben Morgan was walking hesitantly up the drive. He appeared more the worse for wear than ever, his gaunt face and shabby clothes thrown into sharp relief by the light from the security lamp. He must have been standing in the cover of the hedge waiting for Harry to return. He looked like he’d slept under it.

  Ben stopped a short distance away. He was wary: Harry was violent and unpredictable.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he asked nervously.

  Harry wanted to get away, but he also wanted information out of Morgan.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve come to tell you all I know but I’m not coming in unless you promise not to hurt me. OK?’

  ‘OK, I promise. But last time you hit me, remember.’

  Ben followed him cautiously down the hall and into the kitchen, making straight for a chair by the radiator. His teeth were chattering. Harry put on the heating and made some coffee. Morgan’s mood was neither high nor low, and once he was sure there would be no immediate hostilities, he relaxed a bit. The heat from the radiator entered his coat, then his body, and a sour smell filled the air. Harry sniffed it.

  ‘When did you last have a wash, mate?’

  Ben ignored the remark and launched into the reason for his visit. He was going back to Reading. He’d had enough, he could do no good by staying longer, the police were after him. They’d come asking at his guest house and he’d only avoided them because the landlady felt sorry for him and she’d stalled them, giving him a chance to get away. That had been yesterday evening; he’d spent the night at a hostel for the homeless.

  He gulped the coffee, stretched out gratefully in the chair. Harry wondered if he was after a bed for the night.

  ‘I’m not living here right now, Ben. You can clean up but you can’t stay.’

  ‘You’re not getting it, are you? I don’t want to stay. It’s the last place I want to be. I’m going, going now – tonight – just as soon as I’ve told you. Now do you want to know or not?’

  ‘Of course I want to know,’ Harry said mildly, trying to put Morgan at his ease.

  Ben reached into the pocket of his smelly coat and pulled out a tatty, dog-eared letter. ‘Your girlfriend wrote me this. It’s why I’m here. She asked me not to tell you and I’ve kept quiet but now I think you should see it. Tell her I’m sorry.’

  ‘What fucking girlfriend?’ Harry said, outraged, unable to keep his voice from rising, snatching the letter from Ben’s hand and starting to read it.

  Dear Ben,

  Excuse me contacting you like this and not giving my name. I don’t feel I want to at the minute, but I hope we can meet and talk things through and maybe become friends.

  Your story made me cry so much. I read it on your website and also in the newspapers and it was all so cruel and unfair. They didn’t understand how you were driven to violence, made out it was all because you were bipolar and weren’t behaving normally. Well I know that’s not true. I know you lost your little girl because of that lawyer, Laura Maxwell. It was not your fault, it was hers.

  You’re not a violent man. Anyone who had to go through what you did would have done the same. That woman was out to get you and you couldn’t win however hard you tried. She stacked everything against you and you had to do what your heart told you. You showed real courage and love for your little girl.

  The reason I am writing to you is because I’m going through the same thing. It’s all happening to me, well to my partner, just like it happened to you. He’s bipolar too and he’s terrified of losing his daughter and his wife has got Laura Maxwell working for her. She is so toxic, I can’t tell you. Well, I don’t need to tell you. How you must hate her.

  Harry, that’s my partner, he is terribly depressed. He goes up and down, of course, but I’ve never seen him like this. If he loses Martha I don’t know what he’ll do. Suicide probably.

  Harry looked up for a moment, appalled by what he was reading, and glared at Ben Morgan. Then his eyes went back to the letter, eating up the lines.

  I’m desperate. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do but I want to ask if you’ll meet me. Just to talk to someone who understands would be such a relief. Laura Maxwell is making Harry out to be a bad, mad dad just like she did with you. She’s working in Brighton now at Morrison Kemp solicitors. Our lawyer, he hasn’t a clue how to deal with someone as poisonous as her.

  Martha is heartbroken. She wants to be with her dad, she misses him so much, she says he’s her best friend. She cries herself to sleep and talks to him through her favourite teddy bear.

  Harry has Bipolar 2, the mildest form. He’s never had a manic episode, he’s not psychotic and he doesn’t have substance abuse problems. He’s been in hospital twice for depression but they were both voluntary admissions. He’s been on medication for three years and his condition is fully stable with no relapses. He loves Martha very much and would never do anything to hurt her. He’s a good dad but he’s so worried that everything is being twisted and he’ll end up losing her.

  Laura Maxwell doesn’t care about any of that. She’s only interested in winning and she plays on ignorance and misunderstanding about bipolar. There’s so much prejudice. I know some people have it so bad they find parenting hard but it’s not like that with you and Harry. You love your kids, they mean everything to you.

  Please, please, please don’t mention this letter to anyone. I think it would be the end for Harry if he found out I’d written it but, like I said, I’m desperate.

  The letter ended with details of where and when Ben could meet her. She would be in Kim’s Café, near the West Pier, between 1 p.m. and 3 p.m. The date she gave was four days ago.

  ‘You met this woman?’ Harry asked in a low, tense voice.

  ‘I tried to. I went to the right place at the right time but she wasn’t there.’

  ‘I bet she wasn’t.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Ben said gloomily, ‘I hope nothing’s happened. I thought maybe she’d had enough, I mean, that you two had broken up. It’s difficult for people, I know, dealing with someone who’s bipolar – the mood swings and stuff … ’ he tailed off as he saw the expression on Harry’s face.

  ‘There are a few things you need to know,’ Harry stood, leaning over him, ‘One, I have no girlfriend; two, I’m not bipolar; three, someone has been playing mind games with you.’

  Ben Morgan looked up at him apprehensively. Harry was a big guy and he didn’t want any more physical contact with him.

  ‘Stay cool,’ Ben got out of his chair and backed away. ‘I understand. I really do. It’s
hard to accept, sometimes, that we have this illness and we lose people we love because of it.’

  ‘For the last time, I do not have any fucking illness.’

  ‘Please calm down,’ Ben said, circling round Harry to get to the door. ‘There’s another thing you should know,’ he stopped in the doorway, ‘something’s going on with Laura Maxwell. She’s been seeing the police.’

  ‘The police,’ Harry grunted, ‘I guess that wouldn’t be so unusual for a lawyer.’

  ‘Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot,’ Ben was suddenly touchy. ‘She has some sort of serious personal crisis going on is what I’m saying.’

  He related how he’d gone along to Morrison Kemp, intending to speak to Laura’s boss about Harry’s case, but he’d come across her the moment he walked through the door, and hadn’t been able to handle it. He’d turned straight round and left. He’d waited outside, trying to get up the courage for another attempt, but before he could do so, she’d come out herself.

  She was acting strangely, gasping for air and clutching her stomach so that, at first, he thought she might be having some kind of attack. She stood in the street, staring up and down, before walking off. He had followed. He’d had to be careful because she kept stopping, looking behind her, waiting in doorways. As though she was being hunted, paranoid, and he gave a weak smile, he should know.

  He tracked her to the police station and waited outside for forty-five minutes until she came out and got into a police car. It was clear she’d been crying, a fact that had shaken him. He had thought her incapable of tears.

  Harry waited impatiently for more. But there was no more.

  ‘That’s all?’ Harry snapped, exasperated, and Ben flinched. ‘It’s, well, it’s interesting I suppose, but what to make of it?’

  Ben shrugged, ‘Dunno. I’m just telling you, that’s all. It’s got to be something really serious to get her in that kind of state.’

  ‘What I’m interested in is this letter,’ Harry waved it at him.

  Abruptly, Ben turned away, moving fast towards the front door.

  ‘Hey, come back, you can’t just leave like that,’ Harry shouted.

  ‘Good luck, Harry,’ Ben said, running off down the drive.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Anna Pelham crept close to the farmhouse cuddling the knife in her pocket. Laura should be home alone by now, she thought joyfully. She rounded the corner of the house, passing recycling bins and a pile of sawn logs. Never before had she dared come so near to Joe’s home. Just standing there, looking at the everyday things that were his, sent a thrill of delight through her.

  She stayed in the shadow of the back wall, well away from the light spilling out of the kitchen window and across the garden. She could partly see into the kitchen: cream painted wood cabinets and an Aga. Slowly, she craned her neck out as far as she dared, impatient, itching for a sight of her prey, then pulled back as if she’d been stung by a hornet. She had seen Laura, sitting at the kitchen table.

  Take your time, she told herself. There’s no rush, no need to take risks. Stay calm and pick your moment.

  No sign of the moon tonight, luckily, the sky was full of cloud. She flitted across the lawn towards the double garage, stopping in an area of deep shadow beside it. She planned to wait for the kitchen light to go out then try the door, and if it was unlocked, go into the house and take Laura Maxwell by surprise. If not, she would revert to her original scheme. She would ring the doorbell, and when Laura answered, she would tell her that Harry was after her, had been to her house and threatened her. She would rush into the house, scared and upset, throw her arms around the lawyer and bury the knife in her back.

  The light stayed on and Anna stayed put. Her right hand strayed to the pocket of her Parka, feeling for the knife inside, curling her fingers round the handle. Comforting.

  After fifteen minutes she could wait no longer. There was now a light on in what she guessed was the main bedroom, the bedroom shared by Joe and Laura. Her body fizzed with outrage at the disgusting thought. Her heart was pumping, her senses razor-sharp. She moved out from the shadow, and at the same moment, the bedroom window opened and Laura stood framed in it. Instinctively, Anna swung back towards the cover of the garage, tripping the security light as she did so. She dived into the darkness, lay on the ground, her face pressed into the cold, damp grass.

  The window shut with a thud, and after a minute or so, when she turned her head to look, the bedroom light was out. Quickly, she got to her feet and headed back to the front of the house, taking a wide loop down and across the garden, using the flower beds to screen her from sight. No more pussyfooting around, she thought, time to go straight in through the front door. She heard car tyres crunch on the gravel drive.

  When she got in sight of the door, there was a minicab parked in the drive. Laura must be going out. She swore under her breath and the muscles in her jaw clenched tight with anger. This was not in the script.

  She couldn’t see the front door, it was hidden under the tiled porch, but she heard the bell ring. She waited, heard the bell ring some more, watched as a man returned to the car. Then she heard Laura’s voice shouting out for the cab to hang on. The engine started up. Anna smiled – it seemed that Laura had missed the lifeboat.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Laura left work early because of the Law Society dinner and decided to take the following morning off. She let Monica know she wouldn’t be in until Thursday afternoon. The receptionist pursed her lips, disgusted that Marcus had invited Laura to the dinner; it was a privilege usually reserved for the firm’s partners, or potential partners. She hoped, fervently, that her boss had not gone off his head.

  Laura visited Valentine on her way home. He was in the same pitiful state, but a rather surprised Jeff Ingham told her that, in the last two hours, he had started eating more. It was too early to say if that would last, the vet cautioned.

  She got home soon after four. Joe wouldn’t be back until late; he was going straight from work to the nursing home to collect his mother and take her to the theatre. Laura rang him to ask how his day had gone and whether he’d clinched the business deal he’d been so keen to get. He was curt and uncommunicative, then accused her of checking up on him because she didn’t have any faith in him. She guessed the meeting had not been a success.

  It was one more thing to worry about and she fished out a bottle of brandy from the kitchen cupboard. She drank two glasses of it, fast, and felt it calm her jagged nerves. But then fear dropped over her again like a black sack and she realized, sick inside, that she didn’t feel safe anywhere, not even at home. Exhausted with it, she laid her head down on the kitchen table. She drifted off to sleep, woke, then drifted some more; broken thoughts and half dreams chased through her head.

  When she woke again the time was 6.23 p.m. Laura groaned, the taxi that Monica had ordered for her was due in less than an hour. It was a shame it was coming, otherwise she would just stay where she was and to hell with the tedious dinner. She struggled to her feet, crawled up the stairs to shower and change.

  Pain ran through the whole left side of her body; her left hip and back were stiff because she’d been trying to avoid putting any pressure on them, and her shoulders ached from hunching over to protect her rib. Bruises flared vividly against her white skin, swollen skin, the stitched cut on her leg was red and angry. In the bathroom mirror, her eyes looked tired and haunted.

  She chose a knee-length black dress and a red jacket, which would cover up all the damage, put on some pearl earrings and a lot more make-up than usual. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, feeling shattered. The shower and the alcohol had relaxed her and she badly wanted to lie down and sleep. She opened the bedroom window, breathing in the cold air to wake herself up. A cloudy, black night stretched across the lawn and the fields beyond, broken suddenly by a stab of light as the lamp on the side of the double garage snapped on.

  It was then that she saw it, or thought she did. A movement by the side
of the garage, just for a moment, then nothing, only shadows. Someone was out there. She felt her skin contract with fear.

  Laura shut the window, turned off the bedroom light and stood in the dark looking out, looking for movement, a figure creeping towards the house. Nothing. Just the hairs on the back of her neck standing at full attention and her scalp prickling.

  The doorbell rang and she nearly shot through the roof. Relief. The cab had arrived and now she was delighted to be going to the dinner, because she would be with other people. She would be safe.

  She snatched up her bag from the bed and headed for the front door, then stopped on the landing, paralysed by a new, awful thought. How could she be sure? Maybe it wasn’t the cab at all, maybe it was something else entirely. What if she opened the door and there, waiting for her, was the killer.

  The bell rang again, twice this time, insistent. She stood, frozen, for a few more seconds, then took off her shoes and ran into the front bedroom where she could see the driveway from the window. The minicab was there. She sobbed with relief. But then the driver came into view, got into the cab. Dear God, he was leaving! She banged on the window, opened it, shouted for him to hang on. The engine started.

  Laura flew down the stairs, clutching her shoes, out into the night, sharp gravel spiking her feet. Just in time, she wrenched open the door of the cab and collapsed onto the back seat.

  The cab drove off and Laura’s heart slowed down a little. So glad to be gone; so glad to escape from her own home. It had come to this.