by Julie Corbin
Mac. Jesus. I sit back down on the window seat and rest my elbows on my knees. I never expected to have contact with him again. It’s been five years since we’ve been in each other’s company, since I deleted his mobile number from my list of contacts and erased all thoughts of him from my mind. But half a dozen times in the last five years he has texted me. The last time only a month ago and I’m sure I’ve yet to delete it. I take my mobile from my handbag on the dresser and scroll through the messages until I find it: You ever coming back to work or what?
I don’t know why he’s kept up these intermittent communications with me. Guilt? Friendship? Or something more? I don’t know, and I’ve never given it serious thought. Neither have I ever replied to his texts, but now I access his number and call it. It rings twice and then he answers.
‘Claire?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are you?’
‘How do you think?’
‘Has Julian told you?’
‘I found out.’
‘How?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ I take a breath. ‘I understand you’re running the case.’
‘That’s right. I know what’s happening is awful, but we will do everything we can to keep you all safe.’ He sounds exactly the same, his Scottish accent a melodic, comforting lilt. It almost makes me smile. ‘I know you must have loads of ques—’
‘I do. I want to talk to you. Do you have any free time tomorrow?’
‘Sure. What suits you?’
‘Anytime.’ I’ve already decided not to send Bea to nursery. I’m not taking any chances. And then I remember – Sezen is moving from London down to Brighton and I offered to help her with the move. ‘No. Sorry. In the morning I’m driving up to Tooting. I could meet you there . . . although I’ll have Bea with me, so that isn’t ideal. Shit.’ I press my free hand against my forehead.
‘I can come down to Brighton.’
‘No. Wait. Taking Bea all the way to London in the car isn’t ideal.’ I think. ‘I’ll ask Wendy to babysit. I could meet you at about ten?’
‘Can do.’ He names a café in Tooting, on the High Street.
‘See you then.’
At once I make another call. It’s already almost eleven, but I know that Wendy turns in late. I tell her that Bea isn’t going to nursery tomorrow and would she mind looking after her for me. She agrees at once and suggests that Bea and she bake some cakes. I wish her a goodnight, then tidy the bowls and leftovers off the table. When I’m finished, I go down to the basement and make sure that every window and door is locked. I do the same on the ground floor, coming into the sitting room last. The sky is navy blue and starless; streetlamps shed light on what little activity there is outside. And it’s under the closest streetlight that I see two men standing on the pavement talking to one another. One is smoking; the other is drinking from a metallic flask. They are dressed in suits, and the smoker is leaning on a Ford Mondeo. I recognise them. When Bea stepped off the pavement to examine the dead frog, these men were the ones sitting in the car. Surely they haven’t been here all day? They look innocuous enough, but this is a residential area and it’s unusual for people to loiter. They could simply be waiting for someone, but then why the flask? I won’t be able to sleep knowing they’re there, so I go through to the kitchen to get my mobile. I’ll ask Mac to send a local policeman round to find out who they are and, if necessary, move them on. But by the time I come back into the living room, they’re nowhere to be seen. I look through the side panes of the bay window to either end of the street, but there is no sign of them and no sign of their car.
I close the curtains and go into the porch to set the burglar alarm. I know that until the blackmailer is caught, this is the way it will be. I’ll be suspicious of every stranger, every unknown car or curious passer-by. Someone is watching us and until I know who that someone is I’ll have to be vigilant.
I climb the stairs to bed. The house is quiet. Bea is asleep, and Charlie and Amy are watching a film in his room. I go into the en suite, drink a glass of water and get ready for bed. I feel simultaneously dog-tired and wide awake. My heart aches with worry; my mind sparks off in different directions. It flashes to a picture of Bea, talking to her soft toys, watering the garden or skipping along to nursery, not a care in the world. The thought of someone taking her, hurting her, makes me feel immediately and overwhelmingly sick. Images flash through my mind: sick, unpleasant images from news stories. Some of the water I’ve just swallowed comes back into my mouth. I go into her room. She’s lying on her side almost completely submerged by the duvet. I pull it back and see that she still has her arms round Bertie. Being careful not to wake her, I lift her slowly from her bed and take her into mine. Her eyes half open and then close again at once. She snuggles down into the middle of the bed without complaint. I slide into bed beside her and turn off the light, only to lie awake staring at the ceiling. I have never felt more afraid.
5
I wake up early the next morning with my arms round Bea. Like a new mother with her first baby, throughout the night I found myself reaching out to make sure she was safe. And whenever I did drift towards sleep, the words from the emails haunted me – Have I mentioned that I’ve killed before? Mostly I favour the knife – razor-sharp phrases that jerk me awake, my heart racing.
I slide out of bed quietly, leaving Bea asleep, and go into the shower. The water is warm and invigorating, stinging my skin into life. I think about the day ahead. I’m meeting Mac at ten and don’t have to collect Sezen from her flat in Tooting until around twelve o’clock, so that gives Mac and me a good hour and a half to talk. I want to know everything: every detail, every suspect, every lead they’ve had so far.
Mac. I don’t relish the thought of seeing him again, his very existence bound up with a period in my life that I’d rather forget. Five years ago he was a colleague. I was a solicitor with the CPS, and Mac was a detective. We were thrown together on several of the same cases. The last case we worked on prompted my decision to re-evaluate my life, to stop work altogether and concentrate on being a wife and mother. It was the murder of a young woman named Kerry Smith. She was a good person who had, as a teenager, got in with the wrong crowd. She wasn’t well spoken, her education had been intermittent, but she was trying to better herself and make a future for her kids. Becoming a mother had changed her. The only mistake she made was to become involved with the wrong man – Abe – a harmless-sounding name for such a violent criminal. The father of her children, he was wanted for aggravated assault, burglary and drug-dealing. Kerry had experienced the brunt of his temper, and she’d also witnessed the damage he inflicted on other people. She was prepared to give evidence against him, not because she hated him or wanted to get her own back, but because she had children now and she wanted men like Abe off the streets. She was given accommodation in a safe house. All was fine for a week and then Abe found her. When she was coming home from the corner shop, he knifed her nine times in the chest.
Mac and I tormented ourselves with the realisation that we should have better protected her. We operated within the law, but we knew that perhaps we should have, could have found a safer safe house. Had we pulled out all the stops? Had we?
We both knew we hadn’t.
To try to make up for it, we put all our energies into catching Abe, breaking down his alibi and convicting him. At the backs of our minds we knew it was too little too late. Her two young daughters were motherless, their grandparents out of their depth. And this made us push harder. We skated a fine line between what was lawful and what was not, but there was no way either of us could let him walk free.
And then there was Kerry’s funeral.
I turn off the shower and start to dry myself, knowing full well that I’m going to have to remember what happened at the funeral sooner or later. Just not right now.
‘Mummy!’ Bea shouts through from the bedroom. ‘Look at me!’
I open the bathroom door and call out, ‘I’ll be
there in a minute.’ I finish drying myself and dress in three-quarter-length trousers, a baggy T-shirt and flip-flops, then stop when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I don’t look my best. I don’t look my worst. I look like someone who hasn’t the time, or maybe the interest, to make the most of herself. I think about Amy’s scathing comments yesterday and decide that if I’m going to see Mac for the first time in five years, I need to make more of an effort. I go into the walk-in wardrobe and change into a pair of fitted jeans and a red crossover top that flatters my figure. The shoes I wear with it are wedge sandals that I bought only four weeks ago. Comfortable and stylish, they give me an extra few inches, and as I’m only five feet three, I immediately feel more confident. I usually let my blonde hair dry on its own, but I blast it quickly with the hairdryer, flicking out the ends and running some wax through it to help it hold its shape. Then I go into my bedroom and sit down at my dressing table.
‘I can do tumble-overs,’ Bea says.
She is bouncing on the bed, and with Bertie under her arm, she throws herself into a perfect forward roll.
‘Hooray!’ I clap. ‘That’s very good, Bea.’
‘I can do lots of them.’
‘No nursery today,’ I say. ‘Grandma Wendy is coming to look after you while I collect Sezen.’
‘Is it the weekend?’
‘Not yet, poppet, but it’s a good day to stay at home and Grandma will do baking with you.’
‘And I can show her my birthday toys because she hasn’t seen them all yet.’ She does another forward roll, then slithers off the bed and comes to stand beside me. ‘And Daddy comes home today because one more sleep has passed.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Looks nice.’ She watches me closely as I brush blusher on my cheeks. ‘I can have pink cheeks too.’
‘OK.’ I smile at her. She stands perfectly still as I brush the dusky rose powder over her cheekbones. ‘Now look in the mirror,’ I say.
She moves in close to the mirror and turns her face from side to side. ‘Dust sparkles like fairies have.’ She points to the palette of colours. ‘I need eye stuff now.’
‘Just a little, then.’ I apply some to my own eyelids and then some to Bea’s.
‘Amy has lip gloss,’ she tells me. ‘It tastes like strawberries.’
‘This one doesn’t taste of anything, I don’t think.’ I smear some gloss on her lips and at once her tongue comes out to taste it.
‘Broccoli,’ she says, screwing up her nose.
‘No, it doesn’t.’ I laugh. ‘Have a look at yourself now.’
‘I look pretty.’ She hops a couple of times in front of the mirror. ‘Grandma might not recognise me.’
‘Let’s get you dressed and breakfasted before she gets here.’
By the time Wendy arrives, Bea is wearing her favourite shorts and T-shirt and has eaten a huge bowl of cereal.
‘Hello, you,’ Wendy says, when Bea opens the door to greet her. ‘Have you been raiding Mummy’s make-up box?’
‘Mummy made my eyelids blue. Look, Grandma.’ She moves in close to Wendy, closes her eyes, then quickly opens them again. ‘Sparkles.’
‘And very pretty you look,’ Wendy says. ‘Just like Mummy.’ She kisses me on the cheek. ‘You look lovely too, Claire.’
‘Thought I’d make the effort.’
I glance beyond Wendy and am shocked to see that the same two men are back in the street. One is stretching his legs; the other is leaning up against the side of the car talking on his mobile. Talking on his mobile and looking straight at me. His glance is purposeful, directed, so much so that I have the distinct impression that as he watches me, he is talking about me to whoever is on the other end of the phone. Goosebumps prickle my arms and legs. I slam the door shut. Wendy and Bea go into the house while I hang back in the porch. Could these be Georgiev’s men? A heavy coldness sweeps through me and for a moment I’m numb. I stare straight ahead, seeing and hearing nothing, and then I look at the wall to one side of me. The burglar alarm. And not just any old alarm, a state-of-the-art one that has CCTV cameras on the front and rear doors. I’m reminded of a conversation I had with Julian a couple of months ago, when we were having it installed. The conversation went along the lines of ‘You can’t be too careful.’ He was quite specific, twitchy even, about us making the house more secure, checking the locks on the windows and doors, priming the boys on personal safety. Did he know then that Georgiev was likely to threaten our family?
‘Surely not,’ I say out loud, disappointment and frustration flooding through me. ‘Bloody, bloody hell.’ I come in from the porch and close the inside door behind me.
‘I’m going to get my dogs, Grandma!’ Bea is running up the stairs, tripping over her feet in her haste.
Wendy gives me an uncertain smile. ‘Everything all right, Claire?’
‘Fine.’ I try to smile back.
‘So is nursery closed today, or . . . ?’
‘No. I just thought Bea could do with some downtime. She’s had a busy couple of days.’ I kiss Wendy on the cheek. ‘I really appreciate you dropping everything to come and look after her.’
‘No trouble.’
‘Really, Wendy.’ I hold her shoulders and look directly into her eyes. ‘I don’t know how I’d cope without you.’
‘Goodness me! What on earth’s brought this on?’ she says, looking both pleased and puzzled at my sudden rush to compliment her.
‘I’m just—’ I stop. I want to pour it all out and then I want to be held and reassured that everything is, and will be, fine. But I know that, in this case, a problem shared is not a problem halved. ‘I just want you to know you’re appreciated.’
‘Thank you. I’m delighted to be part of this family. I’m only sorry your dad’s no longer alive to be part of it too.’ She takes hold of my hand. ‘He’d be very proud of you, you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Bea’s so like you when you were little. You loved your stuffed animals and all your little games.’ She lets go of my hand and walks towards the kitchen. ‘I thought that while the cakes are in the oven, we might pop out for a bit.’
‘I don’t want you to take Bea out,’ I say abruptly, and she turns to me, surprised.
‘Why ever not? We won’t go far. Just across to the park.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I say again.
‘Has something happened?’ She looks at me closely. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m feeling . . .’ I consider being almost truthful but realise that I don’t know enough to answer her questions fully. I will only succeed in spreading some of my own fear and uncertainty, and that feels neither wise nor kind. I look her squarely in the eye. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘What sort of a question is that?’ She shakes her head at me. ‘Of course I trust you!’
‘Then, please’ – I think about the men outside – ‘I’d feel happier if Bea didn’t go further than the back garden.’
Her grey eyes stare back at me, firstly confused and then accepting. ‘No problem.’ She nods her head. ‘We have lots to do in the vegetable plot. I know Bea’s looking forward to planting some late potatoes. Ones that will be ready for Christmas dinner.’
‘Thank you.’ I start off along the hallway. ‘I’ll just get myself organised. Charlie and Amy are still asleep.’
‘I won’t disturb them.’
I go downstairs to quickly log in to Julian’s email account. I need to see whether another email has arrived. Within minutes I see that there’s nothing new. I’ve already put into my handbag the ones I printed out last night. I want to discuss them with Mac. I want to hear his theories and put forward some of my own.
As I’m leaving, Bea is halfway down the stairs with most of the animals from her toy chest.
‘I’m bringing them for tea and cakes,’ she tells me.
‘You be a good girl.’ I hug her tight.
‘You’re squashing Bertie, Mummy!’
�
��I’ll be back soon.’
‘You go and collect Sezen,’ Wendy says. ‘And take your time.’ She gives me a gentle nudge. ‘We’ll be fine here.’
I come outside on to the pavement and stop in front of my car. The two men are still there. Still looking at the house. Still looking at me. I make a snap decision and, ignoring the possibility of danger, walk towards them, smiling as warmly as I can. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Mrs Miller.’ The older one slides his mobile into his back pocket and holds out his hand. ‘DS Baker, and this is DC Faraway.’
His handshake is solid and warm. ‘Policemen?’ I say.
‘Indeed.’
DS Baker takes his wallet from his trouser pocket and shows me his ID. I should have guessed. And now that I know, I see that they have ‘plainclothes policemen’ written all over them, from the make of their car to the lazy turn of their heads, belying sharp glances and cynical appraisal of everything around them.
‘When I saw you outside, I wasn’t sure what to think.’ I shrug. ‘Thought you might be with Georgiev.’
‘Just the opposite.’ He inclines his head. ‘Your safety is our priority.’
‘Are you going to be here all day?’
‘We are.’
‘I’m going out now.’ I fold my arms across my chest and look down at my feet. ‘I’m not sending my daughter to nursery this morning.’ I look at Baker, then Faraway. ‘She won’t be leaving the house unless myself or my husband is with her.’
They both nod.
‘Understood,’ Baker says. ‘Hear you’re meeting up with the boss.’
‘Yes.’ I try to smile. ‘I need to get a handle on what’s going on.’
‘Rest assured we’re doing our best this end.’ His expression is sympathetic. ‘Our very best.’
‘Thank you. I really appreciate your presence here.’ I shake their hands again. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Something to eat?’
They both shake their heads and I reiterate my thanks, then walk back to my car. On the one hand I feel reassured that the police are already mobilised to protect us, and on the other my heart sinks further. The threat is real. The danger is not imagined or exaggerated. This will get worse before it gets better. And once again Julian has kept me out of the loop. I would have noticed if the men had been here all week. This must have been the result of the call Julian made before he went to the airport.