The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  Ellen was pretty sure she liked Geraldine Cox. They’d worked together on a case not so long ago. Cox had helped Ellen track down a missing child. They’d worked well together and Ellen had come to think of Cox as a friend of sorts. Even still… she wasn’t sure how she felt having Cox as her boss.

  It was the surprise element that most annoyed her. Maybe once she got over that, she’d feel better about things. Or when she found out why Ger hadn’t called, let her know in advance what today’s big announcement was all about. Failing that, it wouldn’t have killed Ger to have at least mentioned she was in the running for the job. They’d only spoken a few weeks ago. Ger had called ‘for a chat’. Now, Ellen suspected the purpose of the call was less ‘chat’ and more fishing expedition.

  Back in the open-plan office, everyone was tipping in with their first impressions of their new boss. Arrogant. Hot. A ball-breaker. Cold bitch…

  ‘Enough.’ Ellen held up her hand, stopping the stream of invective before it got any worse.

  ‘She’s a good copper,’ Ellen said. ‘And that’s all that matters. Calling her a cold bitch is the sort of sexist nonsense I thought you lot had got over since you’ve dragged your macho arses into the twenty-first century. Malcolm.’ She turned to short and chubby Malcolm McDonald. ‘If I ever again hear you refer to any female officer as a cold bitch, you’ll be out of here and back in uniform quicker than you can shove another one of those disgusting bloody pasties down that mouth of yours. Got that?’

  Malcolm blushed, shoved the pastie under a pile of paper and muttered an apology. Ellen would have said more, but she was distracted by what was on her desk. True to his word, Raj had got his hands on an early copy of today’s Evening Star. It sat faceup on Ellen’s desk. Chloe Dunbar’s frightened face staring up at her from the front page. Steeling herself against the inevitable hysterical prose, Ellen picked up the paper and started reading.

  Raj pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. ‘What do you think?’

  Ellen looked back at the newspaper, scanning the story again.

  ‘It happened last Tuesday night,’ Chloe said. ‘Someone was in the house. I woke up and heard him walking around downstairs. I was terrified. I knew it was him, you see.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My ex. He’s been following me for months. Stalking, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘And you’ve reported it to the police?’

  When I ask this question, Chloe’s eyes fill with tears.

  ‘I know it’s difficult,’ I say. ‘But it’s important people know about this, Chloe. Just think how many other people are being let down by those being paid to protect us.’

  ‘The police won’t do anything,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ve reported it but they don’t take it seriously. Oh they pretended. Even sent a detective around at one point. For all the good he did.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘DC Patel. He was nice enough, I suppose. Just didn’t really help me.’

  For the readers’ benefit, DC Raj Patel works in a team led by formerly disgraced Detective Inspector Ellen Kelly, now back in her job as if nothing ever happened.

  ‘Let’s go back to Tuesday night,’ I say.

  ‘I hid in the bathroom,’ she says. ‘I could hear him. Coming up the stairs. I was so scared, Martine. You have no idea.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I thought he was going to kill me,’ Chloe whispers. ‘So I ran. But he came after me. I tried to get out of the house but I couldn’t get the door open.’

  Her voice trails off and I have to encourage her to keep going. She’s not finding this easy.

  ‘He hit me, knocked me out and left me for dead. I don’t know how long I lay there, unconscious. And I don’t know what he did to me while I was lying there.’

  She falls silent and, for a moment, I am silent too. Trying to imagine the terror she must have felt.

  ‘You said your ex,’ I say then. ‘You’re sure it was him?’

  She nods her head. ‘I’ve told them. But they won’t do anything to stop him. That’s why I’m speaking to you. I don’t know what else I can do. I know he’ll come back, you see. And the next time, I won’t be so lucky.’

  ‘He didn’t kill her,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Maybe killing her’s not what he wants,’ Raj said. ‘If she’s dead, it’s all over. She woke up. That hasn’t happened before. I think he hit her because he didn’t want her to see him.’

  ‘Which means it’s someone she knows,’ Ellen said. ‘But not the ex?’

  ‘We’ve already questioned him,’ Raj said. ‘He has an alibi for Tuesday night. He was out drinking with a group of friends. Pub first, then on to a club. Didn’t leave there until 4am. According to the bouncers, he was too pissed to stand up at that point.’

  ‘But Chloe doesn’t believe that?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I can understand why,’ Raj said. ‘If she believes it’s her ex doing this, then at least she can make some sense of what’s happening. It must be even more terrifying to think she’s being targeted by a complete stranger.’

  Ellen got that. Crime victims often wanted to find meaning in what had happened to them. The problem was, sometimes there was no meaning. Other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘And we’ve no other suspects?’ Ellen asked.

  Raj shook his head. ‘She works in an estate agent’s. Meets a lot of different people every day. We’ve interviewed her two colleagues. Both male. Haven’t discounted them, but there’s nothing to indicate either of them are behind this. And I’ve gone through a list of clients she’s dealt with over the last four months. We’re interviewing everyone but haven’t found anything so far.’

  ‘Reynolds has been clever,’ Ellen said. ‘Chloe comes across as very plausible while we seem utterly incompetent.’

  She ran through what she knew about Chloe Dunbar. Twenty-five-year-old single woman, living on her own in Hither Green. She’d been in several times over the last few months, complaining that someone had been breaking into her house at night-time while she slept. With no evidence of a break-in and no sign that anything had been taken from her home, the case had been a low priority. Until last week, when Chloe was attacked in her house and knocked unconscious.

  ‘She didn’t mention the other stuff,’ Raj said. ‘Why’s that, do you think?’

  ‘Maybe Martine left it out on purpose,’ Ellen said. ‘She kept it simple, easier for people to relate to Chloe that way. And easier for us to spot any potential nutters who read the story and get in touch claiming the same thing’s happening to them.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Raj didn’t sound convinced. ‘Anyway, Chloe’s coming in later. I can ask her myself, I guess.’

  ‘Good.’ Ellen looked at the paper again. ‘You know this is serious, right? She could be in real danger.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Raj said.

  Six

  In the early afternoon, Ellen got a call from the front desk. A woman was downstairs, asking to see Ellen; insisted no one else would do.

  ‘Who is she?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Says her name’s Monica Telford,’ the desk sergeant said.

  Ellen looked regretfully at the pile of files on her desk, waiting to be dealt with. She’d cleared the next few hours to work through them and could do without this. But she recognised the name and her sense of duty wouldn’t allow her to pass this to someone else.

  ‘Tell her I’ll be right down,’ she said.

  Unusually, there was only one person in the reception area when Ellen went downstairs. A tall, attractive woman with long dark hair wearing a navy-blue trench coat and a red silk scarf with a pretty butterfly pattern. Monica Telford. A local artist Ellen had met at an exhibition a few months ago. She’d liked Monica’s work and ended up buying one of her paintings.

  When Monica saw Ellen, she stood up and smiled.

  ‘Ellen. Thank you so much for seeing me.’

  At the exhibition, Ellen and Monica had
only chatted briefly. Ellen couldn’t even recall telling Monica she was a copper. It was flattering, she supposed, to think she’d made a lasting impression. Flattering or not, Ellen wasn’t about to let this drag on for too long.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.

  Monica looked around the waiting area, as if she was scared of being overheard.

  ‘Is there somewhere more private we could go?’ she asked.

  Ellen nodded. ‘Sure. Follow me.’

  * * *

  ‘Someone’s watching me.’

  Ellen waited, dreading what came next.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy,’ Monica said. ‘And I probably wouldn’t have come in at all, if I’m honest with you. It was only when I saw that piece in the Star. Maybe you haven’t had a chance to see it yet? There’s this woman…’

  Ellen held a hand up. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Monica said. ‘Sorry. Oh God, and you’re going to think I’m some sad sap who’s making all of this up because I’ve read that? Shit. I should have realised that’s what you’d think.’

  ‘I don’t think anything yet,’ Ellen said. ‘Because you haven’t told me anything.’

  Monica smiled. ‘I haven’t, have I? I’m making a right mess of this. Okay. I’ll start again.’

  The story she told closely echoed what Ellen already knew about Chloe Dunbar, repeated in today’s paper for the rest of the world. For the last few months, Monica thought someone was watching her.

  ‘Just a feeling at first,’ she said. ‘Like, I’d be walking down a street, or in the park, and I’d think someone was following me. But whenever I looked around, there was no one there. At least, not anyone I recognised.

  ‘Then I started to notice things around the house. Stuff started moving. Oh, don’t look at me like I’m a crazy woman. I don’t mean moving around by themselves. Being moved. By someone else.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  By now, Ellen was going through the motions. Monica’s account was too similar to Chloe’s to be taken seriously.

  ‘The cushions in the sitting room,’ Monica said. ‘I arrange them in a very careful way. You haven’t seen my house but if you did, you’d know what I mean. I care a lot about how things look. I’ve organised my house just the way I like it. Everything perfectly beautiful and exactly in its right place. When something’s moved, I notice. Believe me.’

  Ellen thought of her own child-friendly home, nothing where it was meant to be, and felt a pang of envy. It was a constant struggle to rein in her desire for neatness and order in the face of her children’s boundless enthusiasm for chaos and mess.

  ‘My kitchen, too,’ Monica said. ‘A bag of pasta put into the wrong cupboard, the salt cellar in the fridge. That sort of thing. And then this morning, something else. Something that’s really, properly freaked me out.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Monica leaned forward in her chair, making sure she had Ellen’s full attention. She looked excited. Almost like she was enjoying this.

  ‘He left me something,’ Monica said. ‘A cup of tea and a flower. A rose. They were on the kitchen worktop when I came downstairs this morning. The tea was still warm.’ She shivered. ‘Like he’d only just left.’

  In her mind, Ellen was already running back through Chloe’s newspaper interview, going over what she remembered word for word. Making sure she hadn’t missed it. Even though she already knew.

  There was one detail Martine Reynolds had left out of the piece. Something no one could possibly know about unless they’d been told about it. Chloe’s stalker had a unique MO. Every morning after he’d been in the house, Chloe came downstairs to find a cup of tea on her worktop. Beside it, a single rose, wrapped in black crêpe paper.

  * * *

  ‘Why, Chloe?’ Raj asked. ‘It was such a stupid thing to do. I told you, don’t talk to the press whatever you do. What if Ricky sees it? Do you have any idea how he’ll react when he reads this? I’ve already told you, he wasn’t the person who broke into your home and attacked you. It wasn’t him.’

  Raj looked more upset than angry and she felt bad about that. Everything he said made sense and she couldn’t understand now why she’d agreed so easily to the interview.

  ‘It was Nathan’s idea,’ she said. ‘The journalist is a friend of his. He said it would make a statement to Ricky and the police.’

  ‘It’s made a statement all right,’ Raj said. ‘Jesus, Chloe. If I was your ex and you accused me of something like this, I wouldn’t be too happy. From what you’ve told me about Ricky, he doesn’t sound like the sort of bloke who’ll take kindly to something like this.’

  She wanted him to stop. If he didn’t stop, she’d start crying again, and she was so tired of being upset the whole time. These last few days, she’d been feeling a bit better. There’d been no more ‘incidents’ since the story in the paper and she’d started to hope that maybe it was all over.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice wobbled and Raj patted her hand, told her it was okay, but she knew it wasn’t. She’d been stupid. Raj was right.

  They were sitting in the small kitchen at the back of the estate agency where she worked. She could see Nathan getting up from his desk – again – and waddling over.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Raj said before Chloe had a chance to answer. ‘Just a few more questions and then I wouldn’t mind a word with you, Mr Collier.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nathan said. ‘But before we do that, can I get anyone a cuppa?’

  Chloe and Raj both shook their heads, then had to wait while Nathan made a big deal of getting a drink for himself.

  Chloe usually made the teas and coffees and she wondered if Nathan was annoyed at having to do it himself. Or whether he was only getting the drink so he could earwig on their conversation. If that was the case, he was out of luck. Raj didn’t say a word the whole time Nathan was in the kitchen. Eventually, Nathan seemed to work out he wasn’t wanted and left.

  ‘Why do you need to speak to Nathan?’ Chloe asked. ‘You don’t think he could have anything to do with this, do you?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Raj said. ‘But I have to keep an open mind. Until we find out who broke into your house last week, everyone is a potential suspect.’

  ‘It’s so hard to think straight,’ Chloe said, needing to explain. ‘I don’t know who I can trust. You’ve been really kind but it’s not helping, is it? If it’s not Ricky doing this to me, then that’s worse, in a way. Because then it could be anyone and I don’t understand why someone would want to hurt me or freak me out like this.’

  ‘We’ll find them,’ Raj said. ‘You’ve got to believe that. But speaking to this journalist, that’s not going to help. I don’t want you doing anything like that again, okay?’

  She nodded. She hadn’t liked the woman anyway.

  ‘Do you really think you’ll find him?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Raj said. ‘Of course.’

  But she didn’t believe him. It had been going on too long and the police had done nothing. The only person who’d done anything to help was Nathan. Maybe Raj was right and speaking to the journalist was a mistake. But at least it made her feel like she’d done something. Which was far better than sitting back and just waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

  Seven

  I would do anything for love.

  Never understood that. Until now.

  Meatloaf. The fat bastard won’t leave me alone. The old man’s fault. The Meat’s biggest fan. Back to Hell was the soundtrack to my life. Christ.

  But I won’t do that.

  What wouldn’t you do, Meat? Me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.

  She was distracted last night. Easy to hate her when she’s like that. Not that I could ever hate her. Wish sometimes it could be easier, more straightforward. The way these things are meant to be. Wish she didn’t have to be so complicated.

  She can’t help it. I know that.


  Run right into hell and back.

  In the blink of an eye.

  It’s like she doesn’t want me to know what she’s thinking. Like she’s hiding the best part of herself. She’s scared. I understand that. Understand why, as well. We have more in common than she knows. I want to tell her that, just don’t know how to do it.

  She let me touch her last night. Would have let me do more, too. I felt her skin when I put my hand inside her shirt. The shock of it. Electricity through my body. Shock after shock. Her face close to mine, smiling, letting me know she felt it too.

  Exquisite pain. Knowing what I wanted but holding myself back. Making sure to take it slowly. Don’t want to scare her off.

  You can go your whole life not knowing. I nearly did. If our paths hadn’t crossed, maybe I’d have gone on like that. Now I know, though. And that changes everything.

  * * *

  ‘I suppose I should congratulate you,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Only if you want to.’ Ger smiled. ‘I can understand if this might be a bit awkward for you. Which is why I wanted to see you. I was hoping we could talk things through, iron out any potential issues before they become a problem.’

  They were sitting in Ger’s office. What used to be Ed Baxter’s office until Ed left on long-term sick leave. So far, Ger hadn’t added any personal touches and the room was almost exactly as Ed had left it. The only thing missing was the framed photo he’d kept on his desk. Ed and his missus on holiday in Costa del Somewhere or Other.

  ‘Can’t stand clutter,’ Ger explained. ‘Lucky for me, Ed was the same. Nothing worse than spending your first day in a new job clearing up someone else’s crap. Coffee?’

  She swung off her chair and went to the Nespresso machine on the shelf behind her desk. The coffee machine the team had bought Ed as a fiftieth birthday present.

  ‘He left this for me,’ Ger said. ‘Told me it belonged here, not at home with him. Truth is, Ellen, I think the chemo’s left him feeling so bloody sick he can’t stomach anything right now.’

  ‘You’ve been in touch then?’ Ellen asked.