The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  It was a number she didn’t recognise. Frowning slightly, she pressed the Answer button and held the phone to her ear.

  ‘DI Kelly? Martine Reynolds here. Evening Star. I’d like your reaction to a story we’re running later this week. A local woman is being terrorised by her violent ex-partner. She claims the police – your team, in particular – are doing nothing to protect her. Would you like to comment?’

  Martine Reynolds. Muck-raking local hack with about as much integrity as your average psychopath. Ellen hung up and turned to Jim.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to deal with this.’

  Three

  The meeting took place in a hotel room. The Novotel in Greenwich. They’d arranged to meet at five pm. Nathan closed the office early and drove her to Greenwich, making slow progress through the thick rush-hour traffic.

  The journey from Lewisham took half an hour. Plenty of time for her to think about what she was doing and to wish she’d never agreed to it. She tried to tell Nathan how she felt but he wouldn’t listen, kept telling her she had no choice. It was the only way to stop things getting any worse.

  The journalist was waiting for them in the hotel foyer. Tall, thin and blonde with over-tanned skin and a hard face. Chloe didn’t like her. If she’d been alone, she didn’t think she’d have stayed, but Nathan was beside her, shaking hands with the journalist and saying how good it was that she was doing this for them.

  Before Chloe knew it, they were in a lift, travelling up the hotel to a beige room.

  ‘You ready to begin?’ Martine asked, pulling a small digital recorder from her bag.

  Chloe glanced at Nathan, who nodded. She swallowed. ‘You really think this will work?’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ Martine said. She spoke gently and slowly, like she was conversing with a stupid child. Chloe wasn’t fooled for a second. The journalist was a cow, the sort of cold, opinionated woman that Chloe did her best to avoid most of the time.

  ‘It’s just …’ Chloe could hear the wobble in her own voice and hated herself for it. Knew the other woman would hear it too, and use Chloe’s weakness against her.

  ‘I can’t help thinking,’ she continued. ‘What if it’s not Ricky?’

  Nathan sat beside her. The bed sagged under his weight, the movement making her feel sick.

  ‘We’ve already spoken about this,’ Nathan said. ‘Who else could it be? You need to show him you’re not scared of him. You can do that, Chloe. I know you can.’

  ‘We can use a false name, if you want,’ Martine said. ‘The focus of this piece is solely on the failings of the police. No need at all for me to mention you by name.’

  Chloe wondered why she hadn’t thought of that herself. She tried to remember if Nathan had already suggested it, but so much was a fog these days. Remembering anything at all was difficult. It was the stress. She knew that. Whenever she got stressed out, her mind started to misbehave. Like it was running on a low battery.

  ‘What name would you like me to use instead?’ the journalist asked.

  Ivy. The name popped into her head. As a little girl, she’d always wished she was called Ivy. There was a time she’d tried to convince her parents and everyone else to use that name instead of Chloe. Funny how she’d forgotten about that.

  Except that was a long time ago. She didn’t want to be Ivy anymore.

  ‘Let’s use my real name,’ she said. ‘If I really want to send a message to Ricky, that’s the best way to do it, isn’t it?’

  The way the journalist and Nathan smiled at her told her she’d made the right decision.

  ‘Steve, the photographer, will be here soon,’ Martine said. ‘We’ll get some really good shots of you to go with the piece. Make sure the police know they’re dealing with someone who won’t be messed around.’

  ‘And Ricky,’ Chloe said.

  ‘Of course.’ Martine nodded, but Chloe could see she wasn’t paying attention. She was fiddling with the recorder, testing it worked before placing it on the table in front of Chloe. A red light on the machine flashed on and off.

  Recording in progress, Chloe thought. Made her feel like she was someone special. Maybe they were both right. Maybe she had no choice.

  Martine sat back in her chair and smiled at Chloe.

  ‘Ready to begin? Let’s see if we can persuade the police to do their job properly and catch this fucker before he can do any real harm.’

  Chloe hated swearing, particularly in women, but she did her best to smile and not show her true feelings. Three years with Ricky had made her something of an expert at hiding how she really felt.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What do you need to know?’

  * * *

  Afterwards, Nathan drove her home. They were nearly at Hither Green when he suggested they stop off for something to eat.

  ‘We could go to the Italian place in Lee,’ he said. ‘My treat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  Starving was stretching it, she thought. He had enough fat across his middle to last several weeks without food. She didn’t feel like going to a restaurant. The whole encounter with the journalist had left her feeling dirty. Like she’d done something she shouldn’t have. Sharing such personal information with a complete stranger, it was horrible. She wanted to be at home, soaking in a deep, warm bath and pretending this evening had never happened.

  Except going home meant being alone and she didn’t think she could bear that either. Briefly, she wondered about asking Nathan if she could sleep at his. Just for one night. But she was afraid he’d read it the wrong way, think she was implying something different. And if he thought that, then things would get awkward between them.

  He wasn’t interested. She knew that because she knew men. Knew how they acted when they liked a woman. Nathan never acted that way. Never showed the slightest bit of interest in being anything except a friend. She knew why, of course. Nathan had principles. A man like Nathan, a good and moral man, what on earth would he ever want with someone like her? Because Nathan knew the truth. Knew what sort of a woman she really was.

  She’d told him the first time they’d ever met. At the little house on Nightingale Grove where she now lived. It had all come out. He’d asked about references from her previous landlord and when she started to explain, she’d found herself telling him the whole story. Words tumbling over each other as she raced through every last, sordid detail. And afterwards, when she’d finally stopped speaking and crying, he’d pulled a blue silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

  ‘Sounds like you could use a friend.’ That was all he said. Never mentioned a word of what she’d told him then or any time after that.

  Which was why now, when he asked if she’d like to go for a meal, she smiled and said what a good idea it was.

  ‘But only if you let me pay,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  At the restaurant, she ate little and drank more wine than she would normally. They talked about everything and nothing. By the end of it she was exhausted, but also relaxed. It was a long time since she’d felt like this.

  Fifteen minutes later, when Nathan pulled up outside her house and asked if she’d like him to sleep on the couch, she was able to smile and tell him truthfully, yes, that would be great.

  Four

  The counsellor’s office was in a bright glass annexe at the back of Lewisham Hospital. From the waiting room, Ellen was able to look out across Ladywell Fields. She supposed all this light and green views was meant to make the clients feel better about themselves. If that was the case, it didn’t work.

  She arrived early, hoping to get in and out before ten am. The big announcement at work was scheduled for ten-fifteen. Ellen didn’t want to be late. Luckily, Briony Murray, Ellen’s perky antipodean shrink, didn’t believe in not starting on time.

  At the dot of nine o’clock the door to Briony’s office opened and the counsellor was there, smiling and inviting Ellen to come in. Ins
ide, the two women sat in their usual positions, facing each other on two of the low, pale yellow sofas by the window.

  ‘So,’ Briony began. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Good,’ Ellen said. ‘I think. Yes. It’s been a good week. Well, work’s been a pain in the backside but apart from that, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Why?’

  Briony had blue eyes, the sort of blue that reminded Ellen of Japanese willow pattern. Blue eyes, clear skin and cropped blonde hair. Ellen didn’t know exactly how old the counsellor was, but guessed she was somewhere in her thirties. Ellen wondered how someone that young got to be so wise.

  ‘Well,’ Ellen said slowly. ‘I’ve been seeing quite a bit of Jim. Which is, you know, it’s going well. I like him.’

  She thought about last night. He’d been so good. Waited patiently while Ellen spoke on the phone. First, to Chief Superintendent Paul Nichols, then Jamala Nnamani, the station’s press officer. Trying to work out what angle the story would take so the station could prepare itself to deal with the inevitable backlash.

  Briony smiled. ‘You’ve been telling me that for the past three weeks. Glad to hear it’s still going well. Last week, you mentioned feeling guilty. Do you want to talk about that a little more this morning?’

  Not really.

  ‘It’s normal, isn’t it?’ Ellen said. ‘Of course I’m going to feel guilty if I start seeing someone else. Especially if I start to like them.’

  ‘Is it normal?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ellen said. ‘I mean, who wouldn’t feel like that? I married Vinny. I made a promise to him and myself that I’d spend the rest of my life with him. And it’s breaking that promise if I fall for someone else the minute Vinny’s gone.’

  ‘But it’s not like that,’ Briony said. ‘Is it?’

  ‘You mean because it’s nearly five years?’ Ellen asked. ‘You think that makes it okay? Well it doesn’t. No matter what you say, Briony, it still feels like I’m being unfaithful to him. And what about Pat and Eilish? They think I’ve forgotten all about Vinny and I’m going to marry Jim and have more kids with him. What sort of mother does that make me if they’re going around thinking things like that? I’m selfish. There. I’ve said it. A selfish, stupid woman who can’t wait to rip her clothes off for the first guy who comes along and shows a bit of interest in her.’

  ‘Wow,’ Briony said. ‘He makes you feel like ripping your clothes off? I’d like to meet this guy. He sounds pretty hot.’

  Ellen groaned. How did this happen every time? She hadn’t even known that’s what she thought. Well, the bit about ripping her clothes off, maybe. But the rest of it. All that self-pitying guilt. Where the hell had that come from? She knew – knew – the last thing – the very last thing – Vinny would have wanted was for her to give up on her life. He’d be happy she met someone else. Just as she would have wanted that for him. So what the bloody hell was wrong with her?

  ‘I just seem to make everything so complicated,’ she said quietly. ‘Why is that?’

  Briony reached across the low coffee table and patted Ellen’s knee. ‘Complicated makes us interesting, Ellen. It only becomes a problem if you try to suppress those feelings instead of dealing with them. That’s why I’m here. To help you look deep inside yourself and not be afraid of what you see.’

  It sounded reassuring. It was reassuring. Somewhat. Until Ellen remembered the reason she’d been referred to counselling in the first place. For killing a man. Ellen knew that if she looked too deep inside herself, she would find something that scared the living shit out of her.

  * * *

  It was a ten-minute walk from the hospital to Lewisham police station. Ellen walked it in five, pushing her way through the crowded street market and running the final stretch until she reached the imposing white building where she worked. Europe’s largest police station, slap-bang in the middle of Lewisham, recently named the most dangerous place to live in the UK. Not a surprise to Ellen or any of her colleagues, who day by day felt they were on the losing side of the war against crime.

  Instead of taking the lift to her office on the third floor, Ellen went straight to Room 1.10, the large meeting room on the first floor where Chief Superintendent Paul Nichols had scheduled his meeting.

  All four of Ellen’s immediate team were already there, along with a fair scattering of other officers from across CID. The chairs in the room had been laid out conference-style and Ellen’s team sat in a neat row at the back. She slid in beside Abby Roberts, said hello and asked about the latest rumours on Nichols’ announcement. She was interrupted by Raj Patel, leaning across Abby to get Ellen’s attention.

  ‘Star’s due out at eleven,’ Raj said. ‘I’ve asked Malcolm to grab a copy the moment it hits the shelves.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘Good. What do you think Chloe’s playing at?’

  ‘She wants to be taken seriously,’ Raj said. ‘Part of me doesn’t blame her. The way she sees it, we’ve done nothing to protect her.’

  ‘Until the other night we had nothing to go on,’ Ellen said. ‘The attack in her house has changed things. But she already knows that, so why speak to the press?’

  Before Raj could answer, the door swung open and Nichols strode to the lectern. He stood for a moment, surveying the room with obvious disdain as he waited for the chattering to die down. His gaze moved around the room, landed on Ellen and slid across to Abby. Briefly, so brief Ellen was certain no one else saw it, Nichols’ eyes dropped to Abby’s chest before he lifted his head and moved on to the rest of the room.

  The room grew quiet. Nichols cleared his throat – delicately – and began.

  ‘Thank you for joining me this morning at such short notice. I know we’re all busy, so I’m not planning to keep any of you longer than is necessary. However, I felt it was important to bring you together this morning to share some very exciting news. Yesterday afternoon we completed the recruitment process for a new Detective Chief Inspector.’

  Nichols paused for dramatic effect, did something with his face that might have been a smile, and continued.

  ‘As you all know, our esteemed colleague Detective Chief Inspector Edward Baxter took early retirement this year due to ill health. The task of finding a suitable replacement has taken time. It has been imperative to choose the right individual to lead CID through these turbulent times of spending reviews and rising crime. We received many applications’ – his eyes slid back momentarily to Ellen – ‘and choosing the best candidate from a selection of such high-calibre individuals was a challenge.

  ‘But I’m delighted to announce we have made our decision and, with no further delay, let me please introduce the newest addition to our CID team…’

  Nichols paused again and turned his attention to the door. Along with every other person in the room, Ellen watched in silence as a tall, blonde woman walked in and joined Nichols at the lectern.

  Like Nichols, the woman looked around the room at the men and women gathered there. Unlike Nichols, when she reached Ellen, her face softened and she smiled. Ellen might have smiled back. She wasn’t sure. The shock of recognising her new boss had taken over everything else.

  Nichols was a tall man but, standing alongside him, the woman was just as tall. This was partly due to the red stilettos she wore. Ellen could just see the toes peeking out beneath her immaculately cut, flared black trousers. The shoes, Ellen knew because she’d been told this before, were Vivienne Westwood.

  ‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘My name is DCI Geraldine Cox. I’m very pleased to meet you all.’

  Five

  Nathan knew he’d never survive another night on the sofa. He ached all over, neck so stiff it was agony to move his head. It had been worth it, though. Lying there all night, knowing she was sleeping so close by. He could hear her breathing, the gentle sound of it soothing him on the lumpy, uncomfortable sofa. Besides, he was used to getting by without much sleep.

  Soon after it started to get bright he had an idea. A surprise fo
r her. A burglar alarm. He’d sort it today. No arguments. Get one of those fancy ones that connected to the police station. If that didn’t show her how much he was willing to do for her, he didn’t know what would.

  He got up early – easy enough when he hadn’t actually been sleeping – and prepared breakfast for them both. Thought about going out to the garden, looking for a flower to put on the table, but realised in time that she might misinterpret the gesture. Worse, it might make her think of the flowers that were left out for her at night. He definitely didn’t want her thinking that. The whole point of him being here was to make her feel better, not worse.

  He used up all the bacon in her fridge and made a cheese and onion omelette to go with it. When it was all ready, he was starving, but he didn’t want to start without her. He went and knocked on her bedroom door. Pushed it open when there was no answer, stood for a moment, watching her sleep. She hadn’t mentioned her head yesterday and he hoped it had stopped hurting. He hated to think of it.

  ‘Chloe?’

  She stirred, but didn’t wake. He walked over to the bed, shook her shoulder gently and stepped back so she wouldn’t think he was standing too close.

  She looked a bit surprised to see him, but she got over that. Sat up, pulling the quilt up so it covered her entire body. Not necessary because she was wearing pyjamas, but he liked what it said about her that she’d do that.

  ‘I’ve made you breakfast,’ he said.

  She smiled and his heart soared.

  ‘Breakfast?’ She giggled. ‘I never eat breakfast, silly. There’s never enough time.’

  ‘Well there is this morning,’ he said. ‘We can go in late. A good breakfast sets you up for the day. That’s what my mum always said and she was right.’

  He left then, giving her the privacy to get dressed and ready without him in the room with her. Plenty of time for that later.

  * * *