If she was lucky, Lindsay might even reveal something about the case’s progress.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Deborah
I have a story prepared if Graham or one of the ICU team ask me who I am, why I’m here. But no one has enquired so far today. A new high-dependent patient has moved into the bed beside Alice overnight and there’s been a lot of attention on her. Although Graham is here again, still looking after Alice, he doesn’t appear in the mood for idle chit-chat, getting on with his work without saying more than a few words to me. I sit by Alice’s left side and eat the packet sandwiches I bought at the hospital shop.
Edward appeared pale, tired, when he left just before lunchtime. Instead of immediately entering the ICU as soon as I knew it was clear, like I usually do, I followed him. I don’t know why – it wasn’t as if I planned to stop him and talk to him. When he walked out of the main hospital entrance, he took his mobile phone from the inside of his jacket pocket and made a call. I walked a little further on from him and hesitated – I made a big deal of searching through my handbag, as if looking for something, so that I could stand and listen to his conversation.
As I sit here now, watching the mechanical rise and fall of Alice’s chest, I wonder where Edward is. Did he go to see the person he was speaking with? Probably another woman. Has he given up on Alice? Or had he already, even before her attack? The percentage of couples who survive trauma: death of a child – or in their case, the incarceration of theirs for murder – is low. It’s no wonder relationships crumble under the pressure; the guilt. Me and Nathan, Alice and Edward. Are we all now destined to become statistics? The thought makes me sad. But, I tell myself, it doesn’t have to end sadly – there are still things within my control. When Alice wakes up, it would be great if her husband was here, wanting to spend the rest of their days together. If I can find forgiveness, it may have a positive impact on others. Maybe we can all come out of this better people, with a brighter future.
‘We’re going to have to ask you to leave, Diane.’
Graham’s tone sends a chill through my bones. Have I been caught out?
I bundle my things together, hands shaking. ‘Oh, okay. Is everything all right?’ My voice displays a tremor.
‘Yes, but Alice’s consultant and team are on their way. Today’s the day,’ Graham declares with a broad smile.
Oh, shit. They’re going to take her off the ventilator.
Today might be the day Alice Mann talks. What will she remember?
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Tom
His mum had been acting strange. More so than usual. The only reason he hadn’t been concerned was because she hadn’t ventured outside the house – she’d been holed up inside for days watching daytime TV and pottering about, cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning. He hadn’t even noticed her on the laptop; he assumed it was due to his warning to that Wendy woman. So, while she was in the house, separated from any other people, she couldn’t be doing any harm. Talking to people who she shouldn’t be.
Tom left his room and ascended the basement stairs, the creaking sounded loud in the relative silence of the house. Too silent. He quickly checked the rooms.
She’d gone out.
It unnerved him. Like a foreboding, it made his heart race as he imagined what might happen to him if he was left totally alone. Like when he was growing up. The skin on the back of his legs prickled, his nerve endings jumping with the memory of the leather belt. When his mother left was when that bastard would come for him.
Danger always came when she wasn’t with him.
For him back then, but for others now.
He should try to take his mind off his mother’s absence for now. His growling stomach acted as a diversion. He was hungry, so he headed back to the kitchen. When had he last eaten something other than a Pot Noodle or crisps? Flinging open cupboards and the fridge and freezer, Tom rummaged through the sparse contents. Nothing to even make a sandwich from.
A relief washed over him. That was it, she’d only gone shopping. She hadn’t gone to tell someone; she wasn’t handing him over to the police. She was getting food. He hoped she’d be quick. One, because he needed to stop the hunger pains, and two, because being outside too long could be a problem. God knows what damage she’d already done going to that psychologist, talking to those pathetic group members. The thought of her being in contact with Isabella’s dad was something he’d been trying to put to the back of his mind. Hopefully he’d limited any fallout from that now.
At the time, his mum’s links with ‘the damaged’ was useful – he’d been handed Isabella on a plate. But once Isabella had told him she’d completed the first job she’d been tasked with, Tom quickly realised she wasn’t as good at real-life gaming as she was online. She hadn’t been aware that he knew she’d taken the easy way out. Smearing some blood on the wall was a nice touch, but nothing passed Tom by, and he was angry that she hadn’t made the cut. Angry that he’d been wrong about the fact he thought she could have made the cut. His ultimate goal, his end game, had been to make a kill with Isabella. But she had evidently been unable to make an actual kill.
Isabella had served a purpose at least. And killing her on his own had been a bigger thrill than he could’ve ever imagined. He’d taken more of a backseat in Sean’s killing, once he’d set things in motion – his kick coming instead from the power he’d had over Kyle, how he’d forced him to do most of the lead-up work. Tom had still had the pleasure of plunging the knife in, though – delivering the wound that would prove fatal. He couldn’t compare it to Isabella’s murder, though. He knew now that there was even more thrill to the kill if he put all the work in himself – it was more deeply satisfying to know he was the only one to have snuffed out her life. Still, it was a shame it had to be her as she’d been better than Kyle in some ways. Certainly more intelligent. Just not as trustworthy. Although even Kyle was now breaking. For four years he’d kept his silence, protected Tom. And he would again. But in a blip, which had created a huge issue, Kyle had opened his mouth.
Now the job had been done, and Isabella had been disposed of, his mother’s link to that group was risky.
Kyle and the psychologist were now his biggest problems. And they needed sorting. Fast.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Deborah
Since being asked to leave the hospital I’ve been wandering aimlessly around town – it’s better than going home to an empty house, even if it does mean I keep thinking about work, or rather not working. I’ve already passed my building several times and had to consciously force myself not to go in. Now I tread the pavements, head bowed. How did it get to this? I hadn’t thought my life could get any worse.
I knock into the woman, hard; my mind too preoccupied to notice her ahead of me. Had I seen her in time I would’ve crossed the road to avoid her because now it looks suspiciously like I’ve been stalking her.
‘Umph,’ we both say at once.
‘Sorry, I was in another world.’ Marcie holds up her mobile as way of explanation. ‘Oh, Deborah, hi!’
‘Hi, Marcie. Me too,’ I say. I go to move around her, carry on walking, but her hand’s firmly on mine. In this moment of awkwardness, I decide I should make the most of the accidental meeting. ‘You well?’
‘A bit fraught, if I’m honest – the office is madness at the moment, we’re trying to land a big new commercial deal.’
‘Oh?’ I burn with curiosity, but refrain from asking who or what. ‘A bit short on the ground, are you?’ The words are out of my mouth before I realise they could sound sarcastic.
‘Yes, actually. Look, Deborah, do you fancy coming up now? We could have a chat, work out some kind of back-to-work plan.’
‘Really?’ Damn. I sound too grateful; desperate. ‘I’m not sure,’ I add quickly. I check my watch. ‘I haven’t got the time right now, could we do it tomorrow?’ Yes, that was better. Coming across as busy is a good idea, more ‘together’.
&nbs
p; Marcie looks surprised. ‘Er, yes, that should be fine. Around lunchtime?’
‘That works for me, yes,’ I say. And then I ask the question that’s has been bugging me for a while. ‘That woman, the one you were with in Costa last time I saw you, were you lining her up for my job?’
‘God, no!’
‘Oh. She was just a friend then? Sorry, I thought …’
‘No, not a friend either. Weirdly, she was asking about you. You were popular that week,’ Marcie brushed her long blonde hair from her face, ‘a few people were asking after you.’
Marcie must’ve seen me frown, because she adds, ‘I was really pleased about the other woman asking after you, the psychologist. It’s great you’ve finally decided to seek some support – therapy – for your loss. It shows you’re serious about getting better and back to work.’
‘What psychologist?’ I push aside Marcie’s other condescending comment, for now.
‘Um … what was her name again? Can’t remember. Something about the seasons, ah yes – Summer, or Summers. I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn, Deborah. I’m honestly very pleased you’ve taken positive action.’
‘Yes, yes. It was about time.’ I smile, then leave quickly before my confusion registers with Marcie.
Why was a psychologist asking about me? I’ve never even approached one for sessions, despite my doctor’s recommendation for bereavement counselling after Sean’s murder. And why would they go digging around and asking about me at my place of work, anyway?
As soon as I’m out of Marcie’s sight, I sit on one of the metal benches running through the centre of the pedestrianised walkway in Coleton’s main shopping street. I rummage in my bag to get my mobile, and click on the Google icon. I type Summer, Psychologist in the search bar. The results show various counselling websites. I click on the one saying counselling directory. I scroll through the list of psychologists in the area.
There. This must be her.
Connie Summers, Totnes.
Whatever the reason this psychologist was nosing around, I’m going to find out.
I don’t have anything else to do now I’ve been banned from Alice’s side. I head back to the car park. This afternoon I will visit Totnes.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Connie
‘Yes, we have already spoken with Mrs Taylor,’ Mack said.
Connie put him on speaker and began pacing the room.
‘Oh, okay. I assumed you might have. Just thought I’d best mention what my Alice had said about attempting to see Deborah. Could be relevant.’
‘Yes, definitely. Thanks, Connie.’
Mack sounded as though he wanted to end the call, was about to say bye, and hang up. But Connie wanted more.
‘Did you get any good information, any leads from her?’
She heard a hiss of air; a sigh, she guessed. ‘No, not really,’ he said.
He clearly wasn’t keen on giving her anything else.
‘What about the link with her and Kyle now he’s given a name and practically confirmed someone else was involved in Sean Taylor’s murder? Does Deborah know this?’
‘Look, try to calm down. Lindsay has spoken with her about it. Suffice to say, she was upset by the implication, at least at first, but then she seemed to accept that there’d been more to her son’s murder – even back then there’d been questions, I suppose. Certainly, from what she said, she’d had the feeling that it wasn’t just Kyle Mann who was responsible.’
‘Right. Yes, all the stuff I read online, and the prison notes, all pointed to there being more than one person. No evidence though, and obviously Kyle took the fall. Is Deborah a suspect for Alice Mann’s attack?’
Mack gave a nervous cough. ‘Er … Connie, I can’t—’
‘Sorry. No, of course.’ Connie sat back down and put the phone to her ear. She hadn’t spoken to Mack since he ‘saved’ her, albeit unnecessarily, from Scott in the pub on Saturday and had made a weird comment. One Connie hadn’t known how to react to. At least this call had broken the awkwardness. She hadn’t expected to speak to Mack, she’d asked for Lindsay.
‘Anyway, with luck, we might hear it from Alice Mann herself soon.’
‘Oh? Is she out of the coma?’
‘Her consultant informed us that the plan was to begin the process of bringing her out of it slowly today, run the necessary tests to see if her vitals remain stable, check how she copes. Fingers crossed, eh?’
‘Brilliant. I know it’s likely to take some time before she can tell you anything – and it depends on whether she’s suffering from memory loss; post-traumatic amnesia can be common after a head injury. But yes, fingers crossed.’
The buzzing of the intercom brought a halt to the conversation.
‘Sorry, Mack, got to go. Speak soon.’
Connie pressed the button. ‘Hello, can I help?’ She wasn’t expecting a client for another hour.
‘I hope so, yes. Are you Connie Summers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Right, I’d like to know why you were asking questions about me?’ The female voice was hard; accusatory. Connie’s heart dipped, her mind scrambling for a memory.
‘Who is this?’ she asked.
‘Deborah Taylor. My boss informed me you’d told her you were my psychologist.’
The penny dropped. Connie hadn’t specifically told the woman she was Deborah’s psychologist, but when she’d assumed that, Connie hadn’t put her straight.
‘That’s not strictly true.’ Connie spoke the words as quietly as she could, given she knew the conversation might be heard by passers-by on the street.
‘Maybe you could let me in and we could argue the point face-to-face?’
Connie wrestled with the part of her brain screaming at her to not let this woman in, just in case the encounter became confrontational. But right now, Connie didn’t see that she had much choice. She had wanted to meet Deborah, so this was as good an opportunity as was likely to befall her.
She pressed the door release button and waited.
CHAPTER NINETY
Angela
Luckily I hadn’t got anything frozen from Morrison’s – my impulsive detour making the return journey longer than expected. Now, as I stagger inside the house with my bags, throwing them onto the floor just inside the door, I pause to catch my breath. The taxi driver had been helpful in deviating from the route when I asked, but less so when it came to assisting me with my shopping.
I sneak the hardware store bag away from the others and hook it on the coat stand underneath my long raincoat. I’ll retrieve it when I know the coast’s clear and then conceal it in my room somewhere until I need its contents.
The shopping trip was uneventful – no tricky meetings with people I knew, no stares from strangers. Maybe this will all blow over, like last time. We could be all right. I note the disarray of the kitchen as I place the bags on the worktop, but no sign of Tom. I begin putting away what I’ve bought; I’m on automatic pilot, not really thinking as I place the tins in the cupboard. I have this weird empty feeling: a hollowness in my stomach, a void where my heart should be. I’m so very tired. My arms ache with the repetition of reaching into the cupboards and suddenly my entire body feels heavy. I’ll finish this later. I need to sit.
My laptop beckons as I seat myself at the table. Half fearful, half curious, I fire it up. I have numerous notification emails, all from the support group, stating that I’ve been tagged in topics or threads. I also have private messages waiting to be read. A shudder rocks my body. It has been so quiet since Wendy’s private messages to all the members. No one’s spoken to me. Why are there so many messages now? My curiosity wanes. I don’t think I want to know. The fear of what they might say is overwhelming.
I can’t catch my breath. A pain grips my chest.
I can’t deal with this now.
My legs shake as I walk towards the basement door. Tom’s left it unlocked again. I open it, then stand and listen for a while. It really is
quiet with the soundproofing he’s got, although it’s not like he’s making much noise. I descend the steps cautiously, then knock at his bedroom door. This door has never been left unlocked. Tom swings it open.
‘Have you only just got back? Where the hell have you been? Why were you gone for so long?’ His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated like a cat about to pounce.
‘Calm down, Tom,’ I say, wearily. ‘I was shopping.’ Before he can question me further, I add: ‘You must be so hungry. What would you like me to cook you?’
He visibly relaxes. Maybe he’d got himself worked up about where I was, who I was speaking to. Hopefully he’ll be satisfied now – happy I wasn’t up to anything to put him, his freedom, at risk. His reaction to my absence makes me realise it’s not going to be easy. Imprisoning him in this room will take more than restraints. He’s too strong for me. I’ll have to use something to drug him. I have unused packets of sedatives, although they are probably out of date by now. Or, maybe if I knocked him out, I’d have enough time to tie him up. If I do it so he has just enough length of chain to get from his bed to computer, that should be fine. Although on second thoughts, I’m sure he could still inflict damage via the internet, so maybe not too long a chain. Then I’ll attach the locks and bolts to the outside of his door.
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