I bang the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. That might get me as far as the back door, but how will I get in? I pull into a lay-by and rest my head against the steering wheel. My eyes flood with tears. I’m lost.
The lay-by is obviously a stopping place for people going to the short stretch of shops that line the road, and I glance towards them, wishing more than ever that I could go in and buy something to eat or drink.
My attention is drawn to a poster in the window of the newsagents. I can only read the heading: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? The rest is too small to read from here, but I don’t need to. All I need to see is the face in the picture.
My face.
I feel my mouth gape open in horror. I’m wanted by the police! But what else could I expect? A passerby glances my way. I spin my head towards the back of the car for fear that he will recognise me, and stare blindly at the seat behind me.
My insides are churning and it takes a second for me to register that I am looking at more than the dark grey upholstery of the seat. Something glints in the orange street-light, and I know instantly what it is. My house keys. I threw them at my bag after my row with Ian – and missed.
Thank God. As long as I’m right about the police only guarding the front of the house, I can get in, take what I need and then run as far away as I can.
I put the car into gear and pull out. Only a few minutes later I reach the street that backs on to ours. As I suspected, the curtains of my elderly neighbours’ bedroom are still closed. It’s not eight o’clock yet, and at this hour on a gloomy February morning there’s very little light. I can see activity in the homes on either side, but hopefully the families will be too busy sorting themselves out for the day to notice me.
I need to be quick. My clothes may not be a total giveaway and with luck I will be mistaken for an early-morning jogger, but bare feet will definitely draw a second glance.
I pull up on the side of the road about twenty metres from the entrance to their drive and look around. There is a group of kids of about twelve years old on their way to school, but they are fooling around and I’m sure they won’t look at me. A car goes past, but nothing else is happening, so I open the door, get out and close it quietly. I move quickly along the pavement, but not so hurriedly that people will feel compelled to look, and nip up the drive of the house. The gravel cuts into my feet, but I have to get out of sight of the road. I creep down the side of the house, praying that neither of my neighbours has come down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
There is light shining onto the back garden. It has to be spilling from a window, so I approach the corner of the house with caution. Their garden is not well maintained, and even at this time of year is something of a jungle. I’m hoping this will be to my advantage. The branches of a couple of neglected trees hang low over the ground, and if I can duck beneath these I could be at the end of the garden in seconds. But first I need to see where the light is coming from.
Creeping slowly forward, I peer around the corner and sigh with relief. The light is coming from the bathroom, which I know has a frosted-glass window, so moving as quietly as I can I hurry over the weeds and thistles, resisting the urge to cry out as they sting my feet, until I am sheltered by the trees. I stop and turn, knowing that I’m hidden by the gloom from all but the most determined watcher. The light is still on in the bathroom, but suddenly the kitchen light comes on too, and the old lady wanders into the room in her pale blue dressing gown. Thank God I made it.
It’s only then that I realise I will have to return this way when I have retrieved my things from the house. I will have to come back over the wall, and by then they are bound to be up. Should I escape now while her back is turned, or carry on with my plan?
I pause for no more than a few seconds. I don’t think I have a choice, so I turn away from the house and tread slowly and carefully towards the wall. I want to run, but I’m terrified that any quick movement will attract attention.
Finally, I reach the wall that separates our back gardens. With the help of a rusty old chair I am over the wall in less than thirty seconds and in my own garden, staring at the back of my house.
The house where I killed a man.
50
When Becky arrived at the scene at two minutes past eight, the DI of the team handing over the case was already there, pacing up and down outside the house in the cold February air, looking at his watch.
She struggled her way out of her car and walked up the short drive towards the house.
‘Why is it still a crime scene?’ she asked after introducing herself. ‘Hasn’t it been processed yet?’
‘Yes, but as it’s being passed to you, we thought you might want it preserved as far as possible before we cleared out.’
‘Thanks, that’s good of you. Shall we get inside out of this miserable weather?’
A uniformed officer unlocked the door and they stepped into the hall.
‘I think we should start in the kitchen,’ the DI said. ‘It looks as if that’s where it all began. It’s through here.’
He pushed open a door into what appeared to be the living room, with a comfortable-looking sofa and two armchairs, and strode towards a door in the far corner, presumably leading to the kitchen.
Becky took two steps into the room, stopped and looked around. Already the scene wasn’t making sense to her. It seemed to be a home that had once been cared for. There were pictures on the walls, books neatly arranged on shelves, an assortment of multicoloured cushions that appeared to have been chosen with care. And yet a smell of unwashed bodies, dirty pots, unemptied kitchen bins and general grubbiness hung over the place. Had they just stopped caring about their home?
I slip my key into the back door and turn it, praying it isn’t bolted on the inside. Ian had rarely bothered, saying that no one could get round the back anyway. I sigh with relief as the key turns easily, and within seconds I am in.
The concrete floor of the rear porch is freezing underfoot, and I spot a couple of pairs of boots and some trainers by the door. The boots would be warmer, but the trainers are probably going to be the most practical. There’s a coat hanging up too, and I definitely need that. For now, though, the bathroom is calling.
The downstairs toilet was put in at the back of the house by the previous owners, who loved to garden. It saved them trudging through the house all the time, but it is a cold and unloved area. I always intended to decorate it, put something down on the bare floor and change the door so that it closes properly, but I hadn’t been able to afford it. For now, though, it is perfect.
Just as I am about to pull the chain of the old-fashioned toilet I hear a noise. I don’t move. My hand is still grasping the porcelain handle. Someone is talking. Someone is in my kitchen.
Becky followed the DI into the kitchen, where the smell was worse. The remains of an Indian takeaway, several days old, sat on the table, and the sink was piled high with pots.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This is turning my stomach. Is it okay with you if I open the back door?’
‘Of course. Let me,’ he said. ‘This door leads to the rear porch. There’s a toilet there too. I’ll open up so we can get some fresh air. It will be cold, though.’
Becky shuddered. ‘Rather be cold than sick, if that’s okay with you.’
The DI cast her a worried glance as he left the room. She heard him open the back door and he reappeared, rubbing his hands together.
Becky pulled her coat closer around her, but felt much better for the cold blast of fresh air.
‘If you don’t feel too good, it’s okay to use the loo down here. Everything’s been processed.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ she said.
What she didn’t want to admit to was that it wasn’t just the smell in here that was getting to her; it was the sight of the blood.
I can’t move. They are out there, in my kitchen. The tiny room I am standing in is less than three metres away from two police officers and one of them isn�
�t feeling well. I’m going to be caught.
Would it be better to walk out and give myself up? I don’t know. All I do know is that my chest feels as if it is in a vice. I gently let go of the handle of the toilet chain and wrap my arms round my waist, trying to hold myself together. They are talking, and I can hear every word.
‘There was a massive argument the day before the incident, as we understand it. Caroline – everyone calls her Callie – was screaming at him. Neighbours said she appeared almost deranged.’
I close my eyes. He is right. I had felt as if I was going to explode that day – as if all the blood had literally rushed to my head. I remember catching a brief glimpse of myself in a mirror, my face flushed bright red, my eyes dark, practically demonic.
‘What do we know about him – Ian Fullerton?’ the woman asks.
‘He’s got previous. Assault on a woman he lived with a couple of years ago. She withdrew her complaint in the end, but it was nasty.’
I almost make a sound. Ian never told me that. But why would he? Once again the risks of meeting someone with whom you have no shared connections jump out at me.
‘He sounds like a charmer,’ the woman says. ‘Anything else?’
‘He’d recently sent her a lot of very abusive emails. Certainly enough to cause a major argument that could have turned nasty.’
‘And there’s no sign of this Callie? What steps have been taken?’
‘Poster campaign, local press. It’s not gone national yet. Her passport is still here, and lots of her clothes. She hasn’t accessed any bank accounts or used a credit card.’
I hear the woman sigh. ‘Okay. So it looks like it’s exactly what you said it was. A domestic that turned ugly. Can I have a look at the rest of the house?’
‘Sure. There’s more blood – it’s all still marked up for you.’
There is the sound of the kitchen door opening and then silence.
I don’t know what to do. If I try to escape into the garden and back over the wall, they might see me. But if I stay here, they might come back to use the toilet.
They know everything – the emails, the argument, and no doubt they have seen the texts too. Maybe they believe he beat me up and I retaliated, but there isn’t any evidence of that. I don’t have any bruises.
I know for certain that they’re looking for me now, and soon there will be nowhere for me to hide.
I don’t know how long I have been here, and I have no idea whether they have gone or not. It is fully light outside, and has been for a while. My calf muscles feel stiff, probably from a combination of being in one position for a long time and the icy cold coming from the floor, creeping up my legs.
There is no safe way for me to find out if the house is empty. I can either make a dash for it and hope they have gone, or I can edge open the door to the kitchen and listen for talking or movement. I won’t be able to hear them if they are upstairs, though.
Just as I have decided to risk leaving, I hear the sound of hurrying feet and a muttered expletive. There is a bang as the back door is slammed shut, then heavy footsteps head back to the kitchen, passing within inches of where I am standing. I hear a click as the kitchen door closes. The police officer had obviously forgotten the back door was still open. Had he come ten seconds later, he would have caught me.
Suddenly I don’t know if I can do this. I feel sick at the thought that I am hiding from the police, but I lean against the wall and take some deep breaths, telling myself that right now the only thing that matters is getting away from here safely.
I will take the trainers and coat from the back porch, but I still won’t have money or food and I can’t risk going into the main part of the house. How can I go into a shop anyway, with my picture all over the place? My plan had been to walk slowly through the house to see if I could conjure up any memories of what happened that night. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that. Even if the police have gone, they could come back at any moment.
I give it another fifteen minutes or so and decide that I have to leave before my limbs seize up completely. I edge out of the bathroom and tiptoe towards the kitchen door. I can hear nothing. I want so much to open the door, to go into my house and lie on my bed, to sleep, to have a shower, to find some food. But I can’t.
I know I should walk up to one of the policemen outside and say, ‘My name is Callie Baldwin and I killed Ian Fullerton,’ but I’m not ready. I can’t bring myself to admit what I have done.
51
The two women sat at the same table, in the same chairs, as they had done every day for months, the bulb that hung down from above casting its dim yellow light on their faces. The only time they saw daylight was when they went upstairs to clean.
But today was different. This morning Thea hadn’t come for them. She hadn’t brought down their breakfast, and last night she hadn’t come with their flask of cocoa. Hannah felt dreadful. Her muscles were stiff and aching, and she felt a wave of anxiety rising, threatening to engulf her.
The other woman, whom Hannah still thought of as Judith, was irritable and kept rushing to the bathroom. She said she had been sick.
‘Where’s Thea?’ she asked. But Hannah had no answer.
What they both needed was a calming mug of Thea’s tea. She craved it and felt certain it was the only thing that would bring back the stability that enabled her to cope.
More worrying was the fact that Callie hadn’t come back after her treatment with the doctor. That had never happened before. Hannah knew that he offered an alternative, a way out of life for those who couldn’t take it any more. The woman who had left the basement just before Thea and the doctor’s holiday had taken that option, and Hannah knew that the other Judith was ready to leave too. But Callie had only been here a few days. Would she have taken that decision so soon?
‘Where’s Judith?’ the older woman asked, and Hannah knew she meant Callie.
She felt a rare burst of anger – at Thea and the doctor, at the other Judith, but most of all at herself.
‘She’s not called Judith. I’m not called Judith. And neither are you. It’s so they don’t have to remember our bloody names.’ Hannah could feel her voice rising. ‘My name’s Hannah. Don’t call me Judith again.’
She felt so ill, and she knew why. She had pretended not to understand that everything was laced with drugs, even when Callie had refused to eat or drink anything that Thea gave her. But Hannah had known. She had become too dependent, but what did it matter? For the last few months Thea’s potions had stopped her from falling apart, and now she missed them badly.
The other woman was still looking at her. Her eyes were bloodshot, but perhaps they had always been like that and Hannah hadn’t noticed.
‘My name is Rosa,’ the woman said quietly. ‘I’m a nurse. I know what’s happening to you – to both of us. It’s dangerous.’
Hannah frowned. ‘What is?’
Rosa gave a deep sigh, as if the act of speaking took too much effort. ‘I think Thea has been giving us some kind of tranquilliser. Coming off any drug in one go can be nasty – that’s why you’re feeling so dreadful. We haven’t had our morning dose, or last night’s.’
Hannah’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Will it get better soon?’
‘Not for a while,’ Rosa said. ‘At worst, one of us could have a seizure. At best, we’ll feel increasingly ghastly. You’ll probably be sick – I already have been, twice. You’ll feel agitated and may start to shake unless she brings us something soon. We’re going to have to help each other, Hannah.’
Hannah folded her arms on the table and dropped her head to rest on them. She already felt like death, and it was going to get worse. They were stuck down here, and they didn’t know when they would next get food or the drugs they had come to depend on.
A small voice in her head was telling her that she knew the code to get into the main part of the house. But she was confused. She wasn’t sure she could remember it. Her head was swimming, and al
l she wanted was to curl up in a ball and die. Is this how the last woman felt before she took the doctor’s alternative way out? The one who had left them just before Callie arrived? Because if he came down here now and offered her the same solution, she would take it without hesitation.
52
Tom wasn’t feeling at all comfortable about his offer to help in the search for Hannah Gardner, and wasn’t sure why he had given in to Jack’s persuasion. He could only hope that his unease wouldn’t be too obvious to Nathan. Why was it that whenever his brother was around, Tom ended up circumventing the system – and in some cases, very possibly the law?
Philippa would be furious if she knew he was interfering in a missing-persons case, and his only excuse would be that Nathan was an old friend and he was simply offering a bit of advice. She had been surprised that he was going home on his day off, given the new case they had picked up, but Tom told her he had spoken to Becky and it didn’t seem as if he needed to get involved at this stage.
‘It’s looking like a domestic that went bad,’ Becky had told him when she called later that morning. ‘There’s no sign that anyone else was ever in the house, and Callie Baldwin is nowhere to be found. It adds up, Tom.’
He had agreed and left her to it, telling her they could catch up the next day.
To Tom’s surprise, Jack had been home when he arrived back from his tedious meeting, but when the doorbell rang to signal Nathan’s arrival he had disappeared into the dining room taking a mug of coffee, a sandwich and his laptop, although he had left the door ajar so he could listen in on the conversation. Tom would have much preferred his brother to be out of the house. He might spill hot coffee in his lap and shout out, or have a coughing fit, alerting Nathan to his presence.
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