CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The waitress refilled her glass with the sweet, sickly dessert wine. It tasted foul and was giving her a headache and she wondered who had chosen it, then remembered the Society had a wine committee and its chairman was Marcus Morrison.
He was sitting across the table from her, holding forth. Earlier, he had been keen to introduce her to his cronies and remind them of her notable career. He explained that he was building on that and giving her new opportunities to develop her talents. He talked about her in the third person as if she was a clever monkey and he was conducting an interesting experiment.
Not that his behaviour mattered; she knew that at the same time as she resented it. How could it matter when someone was out there waiting to kill her; had vowed to kill her by the end of the week? She was surprised she had the emotional space left to feel annoyed by him.
Time had slowed down now that every moment was precious. It seemed like the man on her left had been talking at her non-stop for hours, days – who knew how long? His monologue, about government plans to cut legal aid, didn’t leave room for any input from her and she was grateful for that because she couldn’t focus on what he was saying. She sat, fiddling with an earring, not listening, her mind filled instead with dark and fearful things.
Had there been someone prowling round the house? She couldn’t be sure; she could have imagined it, her nerves were shot to bits. Maybe it was a fox or a cat that had set off the light. Sudden hot rage flooded her. Her fists clenched hard and her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palms. She tilted her head back, opened her mouth ready to let out a scream of frustration and grief.
The drone from the legal aid man stopped; from the corner of her eye she saw him look at her oddly. Morrison had also stopped talking and was staring at her: some achievement to silence them both. The urge to scream subsided, now she wanted to laugh insanely instead. With an effort she closed her mouth, forced a smile at Morrison. Sitting at the table behind him, Laura saw another man watching her. Ronnie Seymour, the rather smooth, rather out of his depth lawyer who was representing Harry Pelham.
No-one had brought her any of that horrid wine for some time and it looked like the dinner was over. The legal aid man got up from the table without another word and went off to find a new victim. Morrison waved at her to join him, and with a sigh, she eased herself carefully out of her chair. She had sat too long and her battered body didn’t like it.
‘Are you all right?’
Ronnie Seymour was beside her, a look of concern on his face. She told him she was fine. He hovered, asking if she was enjoying the dinner, asking if she liked living in Sussex and if she missed her London firm; was life at Morrison Kemp a bit dull in comparison? I wish, Laura thought.
‘Not at all dull, no,’ she told him.
‘You’re happy then. Happy you made the switch?’
‘Very much so.’
He hesitated, ‘It’s a shame the Pelham case has become so nasty. My client is anxious to calm things down.’
‘Do you know where he is then?’ she asked sharply.
For a second he was thrown off balance. She was shrewd, but then he knew that from tangling with her over the divorce.
‘I’m hoping it won’t be too long before the police can talk to him,’ Ronnie said. ‘I wonder if we could have a proper chat about what’s happening? Tomorrow, maybe, if you have time? I can come to your office.’
Before she could reply Morrison appeared with three other men. He put his arm proprietorially round her shoulders.
‘As Ronnie has already found out, Laura is a worthy opponent.’
Ronnie managed a grin and Morrison waved his free arm around the dining room in a sweeping gesture.
‘Excellent dinner. Big improvement on last year, eh? Good move, I think, to insist on having our own wine, courtesy of our own wine committee, chosen, I have to say, by yours truly.’ He tried to look modest.
‘In my opinion, Marcus,’ said one of his sidekicks, swaying on his feet, ‘the waitresses were a lot better looking last year … and a lot more friendly.’
There was a burst of lewd laughter. ‘No comment,’ said Morrison holding up his hand for silence. ‘Laura, you must pass on our compliments to your husband. Great dinner, great hotel.’
Some ‘hear, hears’ from the others.
‘Your husband?’ Ronnie queried.
‘Yes,’ she said, and for some reason her voice dried up. She coughed to clear her throat. ‘He’s Joe Greene. This is his hotel.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
She had been close, so very close to a kill. Anna woke up next morning full of purpose, convinced that today was the day she would deal with the Maxwell bitch once and for all. She’d slept badly, plagued by the dream from her childhood, more bloody than she could ever remember it. At four in the morning, it had left her clutching at her mouth in panic.
It always began with a loose front tooth; her tongue would touch it and feel it move. She knew she must leave it alone, but however hard she tried not to, she would put her fingers in her mouth and move the tooth back and forth to test it. It would come out in her hand with a tearing, sucking sound and a jet of bright red blood. Other teeth would follow and she would try, frantically, to push them back in. Blood gushed from her lips, her remaining teeth split with loud cracking sounds, crumbling until all of them were gone, leaving her mouth a mess of gore and tissue.
The psychiatrist had told her the dream was all about her hatred of being fat. He had leaned back in his chair, half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, and explained it to her at length.
‘Teeth’, he said, ‘are closely linked to feelings of attractiveness.’ He smiled at her, showing all his own sharp little teeth. He looked like a rat. ‘How many times, Annabel, have you heard somebody say, “Oh she has really nice teeth” or “she’s got a great smile”?’
She hadn’t replied.
‘If you lose your teeth, you lose your smile, and with it, your attractiveness. So we can see that this kind of dream is reflecting your own fear, in fact your own subconscious belief that you are an unattractive person. You are experiencing feelings of inferiority and low self-confidence and that makes you very unhappy’.
You moron, she thought, of course I’m unhappy. I’ve just tried to kill myself.
Anna banished the dream from her mind. She had a job to do. Today she would kill Laura Maxwell. Shortly after nine o’clock, she rang Morrison Kemp to fix an appointment to see Laura. Monica answered her call, and within seconds, had supplied crucial information.
‘She’s not in till later so it will have to be this afternoon. That OK for you?’
‘Aah,’ Anna tried to sound disappointed, ‘I was hoping for earlier. It’s just I really need to talk to her, urgently, about Harry, you know … ’ Anna paused to let Monica remember all the bad things she did know about Harry, then asked, ‘where is she? Any idea exactly when she’ll be in?’
‘She went to a dinner with the boss last night and she’s taken this morning off. I can call her at home if you like and get a time,’ Monica offered.
At home. Laura was at home. Anna Pelham could hardly believe her luck.
‘Thanks Monica but don’t worry. This afternoon will do. Say three o’clock?’
It was an appointment she would never have to keep, for by then, Laura Maxwell would be dead.
She had Joe’s collection open on the bed and now she took the used condom out of it and put it in her coat pocket. She picked up a large envelope from her dressing table, and then she picked up the knife and set off again for Laura’s house.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
He had laid it all out on the table in his hotel room. The life and times of Laura Maxwell, up to and including her marriage to Joe Greene. Harry had discovered it as he sorted hurriedly through his wardrobe, throwing a few clothes into a suitcase. He had been in a rush to get away from the house because he had stayed there too long and the police might come calling.
He was pulling out a couple of sweaters from a pile when he spotted the Sainsbury’s bag. He almost ignored it, assumed it contained some old piece of clothing stashed away and forgotten, but he knew he hadn’t put it there. He frowned. That meant Anna must have done it, and anything his wife had ever done he now considered suspect.
He took hold of the bag, opened it, and with growing confusion, flicked through the contents. Inside, was the Laura Maxwell collection. What the hell was it and what the hell was it doing in his wardrobe? There was no time to study it. He threw it into the suitcase to look at later.
Now, after most of the evening and half the night spent puzzling over it, he had reached not very many conclusions. Just that his wife had placed it in his wardrobe, that she had done so deliberately and that, possibly, it had been the purpose of her latest visit to his house. Why she had done it, as so many of her actions, God alone knew. All that was certain was that somehow, in some way, it was bad news for him. He thought it was also bad news for Laura Maxwell.
For the hundredth time, he read the letter Ben Morgan had given him. There was no doubt in his mind about who had written it, not a shadow of doubt. His wife. For sure. The million dollar question was why and to that he had no answer.
The letter was clever and calculating, it preyed on all Ben’s miseries and weak points, it was designed to mislead and manipulate him in the cruellest way. It forced him to relive the worst days of his life. It was downright evil.
He knew Anna had written it, but her motive was a mystery. The letter was sympathetic to Harry, vicious about Laura Maxwell, the opposite of everything he’d expect her to say. What possible reason could she have for sending it? He couldn’t work it out, but he knew there was one – a devious, scheming, monstrous one.
Harry had thought Laura Maxwell directed every move his wife made but now he changed his mind. The Maxwell woman could hardly be responsible for this; Anna had done it all by herself. He picked up a print-off of Laura’s Facebook page and read again that her husband was the man called Joe Greene. But this little bombshell just added to his confusion. He had been so sure that Joe Greene was his wife’s lover, but if that was true, why then would she choose Laura, of all people, to handle her divorce?
He went to sleep with no answers and a whole lot of questions and he woke, just a few hours later, with suspicion humming in his bones. He had an idea now why she might choose Laura. The idea started small, but it grew fast until he was sure of it. It fitted her sick mind perfectly. She would get a real kick out of it – hiring her lover’s wife to screw her husband in the divorce settlement.
He fought down the rage rising inside him. He needed to talk to Laura Maxwell and he needed to do it fast; he had a hunch that there wasn’t much time. Harry didn’t trust hunches but this one wouldn’t be ignored, it was growing all the time, warning him to hurry as if there was some oncoming doom.
He checked his watch, just gone a quarter-to-ten. He looked up the number for Morrison Kemp and dialled it from the hotel phone. He would talk to Laura Maxwell, the lawyer he had learned to hate, and tell her what he suspected. She might think he was crazy, or driven by spite, but he had to try. If she called the police, so be it. It was no longer the police that scared him.
His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. If Laura Maxwell really was the cold-hearted, pitiless woman he imagined her to be, then she had surely met her match in his wife.
Monica answered the phone and Harry gave his name and asked to be put through.
‘Ms Maxwell is acting for your wife in her divorce isn’t she?’ Monica’s voice oozed disapproval.
‘That’s right. That’s why I’m calling. I need to speak to her about it.’
‘I’m not sure that will be possible, Mr Pelham. It sounds like there might very well be a conflict of interest.’
‘There’s a conflict of interest all right,’ he growled, ‘but it’s not the one you think it is.’
Monica bristled and her lips pursed. She didn’t like being told she was wrong.
‘What I think is that Ms Maxwell represents Mrs Pelham and she won’t be able to discuss her client’s business with you, of all people.’
‘Look, I don’t give a toss what you think, sweetheart. Just do your job and find out if she’ll talk to me.’
It was just as Anna had said; the man was a pig.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that because she’s not in the office at the moment,’ she paused, enjoying her small triumph. ‘I’ll pass on your request. If you leave a number, I’m sure she’ll get back to you, if it’s appropriate.’
Harry didn’t want to leave a number. He didn’t trust her.
‘When will she be in? I’ll call back.’
Grudgingly, Monica told him he could try again later, but not until after 4 p.m. She wanted to make sure that Anna got in first. With a satisfied smile she put down the phone.
‘Shit!’ Harry kicked the table in front of him hard. It banged against the wall, papers scattering on the floor. He collected them up and sorted through them until he found the details of Laura’s address in Rooks Green. He wasn’t waiting a second longer.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Laura didn’t wake until late, after half-past ten, when the front doorbell rang. She’d been exhausted when she went to bed but her mind refused to close down and she’d had to take a sleeping tablet. She was trying not to take them because they made her groggy the next day, but they were the only way she could get some rest.
Joe was home when she’d got back from the dinner, thank God. She’d texted him from the taxi, her heart hammering as it neared the house, and then he’d replied saying he was back. Relief washed over her. She climbed out of the cab on wobbly legs.
He was still in a bad mood, and before she could say anything, he told her he didn’t want to talk about the awful day he’d had and was going to bed. Laura let him be; there was no point in telling him her worries about a prowler, not tonight anyway. She had not forgotten the look on his face when he’d heard where Barnes had found the phone. She hadn’t told him Barnes’s reaction or given any hint that the police thought she’d sent the texts to herself, but she suspected Joe had come to the same conclusion. He’d said he believed her, but he hadn’t looked that way. He hadn’t mentioned the texts since.
He was asleep, or pretending to be, when she went to bed herself a short time later. Even if he did doubt her, it was good to have him next to her, to know she was not alone in the house.
Laura wasn’t sure what had disturbed her until the doorbell rang again. She couldn’t be bothered answering it, turned over to go back to sleep, but a stab from her rib woke her up properly. There was a note on the pillow beside her – from Joe, to say he’d gone to work and hadn’t wanted to disturb her peaceful sleep.
She got up, put on her dressing gown, and went downstairs to make some coffee. Sun was streaming in through the kitchen window and when she looked out at the garden and the fields, she found her fear of the night before had receded. The world looked different in daylight.
She ate some toast and jam and wondered what Ronnie Seymour wanted to say to her. Before she’d left the dinner, he’d asked her again about a meeting and fixed to come in and see her at 2 o’clock. He’d said that Harry Pelham was anxious to calm things down; did that mean he was planning to offer some kind of deal? He wasn’t in much of a position to bargain.
The letter box banged and she went to the door. There was one large white envelope lying on the mat addressed to ‘Ms Laura Maxwell’. That was unusual, the post she got at home was usually in her married name of Greene. She slit open the envelope with her thumb, and suddenly, the white envelope was turning red and drops of blood spattered on the oak floor.
Laura watched in shock as blood poured down her right thumb. Inside the envelope were three glossy funeral brochures; stuck to the top of each of their front pages was a row of razor blades. The doorbell rang.
Laura dropped the envelope and the brochures
spilled out on the hall floor. She stared at them; stared at the front door.
‘Who is it?’ she called, her voice croaking. Silence.
‘Hello, who’s there?’ her voice, louder this time though she could hardly hear it over the noise of her heart thudding in her ears.
‘Hi Laura, it’s me Anna. Anna Pelham. I’m really sorry to bother you at home but I just had to see you.’
Blessed relief flowed through her, it was so good to hear a friendly voice.
‘Thank God it’s you, Anna. Just a moment.’
Laura kicked the brochures away from the door and opened it half way, tentative, in case it wasn’t Anna after all but some crazed impersonator. But there she was, shy and nervous with an apologetic look on her face. Laura swung the door wide and hugged her.
The hug caught Anna off-guard, and before she could make any move, she found herself being pulled into the house.
‘I’m so glad to see you, you won’t believe what some madman has just done.’ Laura held up her hand for Anna to see. ‘Razor blades in a letter, for fuck’s sake.’
Anna put on her most concerned face. ‘Oh my God, Laura. Do you know who did it?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute, I just need to stop it bleeding.’
Laura rushed into the kitchen and turned on the tap, running cold water over her cut thumb.
‘Are you OK, Anna?’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘What’s happened?’
Anna didn’t reply. She was too busy drinking in the place where Joe lived; the sofa he sat on, the TV he watched, the inglenook fireplace with the log burning stove that he filled with wood. She couldn’t help smiling, her senses overloaded, she could feel him now in her arms, smell him; for a moment, she thought she might faint with excitement. Then her eyes locked onto the shelf above the fireplace, a thick black beam above the stove, and the smile was wiped from her face.
Someone Out There Page 25