Untouchable: A chillingly dark psychological thriller

by Sibel Hodge

  Should I give them a helping hand? Then at least everything would be over. All the waiting, worrying, the turmoil of emotions I couldn’t control anymore. I was losing my mind, already in hell, just as Jamie had been. And I missed him so much it was unbearable. So, so much. His crooked smile. His touch. His kisses. His kindness. Everything. The way he looked at me, as though I was something special. As though I was his whole world. I ached to be with him again. Have him hold me in his arms. Tell me he loved me.

  Could I do it? Not across my wrists but upwards, one smooth, sharp line. More blood loss that way.

  I stared at the knife. It glinted back at me. Daring me. Taunting me.

  You could leave now. You could be with Jamie. It would all be over. No more pain. No more being afraid. Oblivion. They’re never going to let you live. They’re going to find out, and they’re going to get away with it.

  I stood on the edge of an abyss, looking down into darkness. My head swam with images of Jamie hanging lifelessly from a tree, his eyes bulging, spit on his chin, having his last breath stolen from him. Had he pleaded for his life? For mine? Fought back? Struggled? Or had he accepted his fate with the same fierce bravery he’d lived his life? I saw Moses and the other boy being brutally killed, their deaths and abuse captured forever in photos and video. Imagined Sean’s body beaten to a pulp to silence him. Dave battered and crushed from the hit-and-run.

  My throat tightened, as if Jamie’s noose were around my own neck.

  I wasn’t strong. I’d always thought I was, in the past, before anything like this happened. Mitchell said I was. But no, I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t strong at all.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there, contemplating the release of the knife, waiting for it all to end. I had no future.

  But despite an overwhelming hopelessness, I wanted to survive. Stay alive. At least long enough to see this through. I had to hold on a little longer before I could let go.

  I heard a voice that sounded like Jamie’s whispering in my head. Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.

  I pulled my mind away from the horrific images. I had to stay objective. Had to fight. If I allowed myself to think about what I’d seen and Jamie’s death, I would dive into that abyss and never come out.

  I shoved the knife back in the block.

  Not today. Not yet. You haven’t finished yet.

  I pulled on some trainers, slammed the front door, and started running. It didn’t matter where I was going, I just had to get rid of all the mad chaos in my head.

  I ran along the streets and found myself in Veralamium Park, running through the grounds until my calves burned and my breath came in short, sharp bursts. My head pounded, and sweat poured down my face and back. I finally stopped when a stitch twisted knife-like into my side. I bent over, my hands on my waist, massaging the stitch and waiting for my breath to get back to normal.

  A noise made my head jerk up. The crack of a twig.

  I glanced about. It was dusk. No one else was around.

  Or was there?

  A sensation of being watched prickled at my scalp. The hairs on my arms stood on end. I spun around.

  A shadow moved behind a tree in the distance, darting out of sight. Or were my eyes playing tricks on me?

  I squinted. Was anyone there? It looked like someone bulky, but had I imagined it? Was the fear making me hallucinate?

  Panic welled up in my throat. For a second, I couldn’t move. Just stood and stared into the gloom.

  Then my brain kicked in, and I took off running, away from the woods, expecting someone to grab me by the back of my top and attack. I kept glancing behind me as I ran up the hill towards the cathedral, towards people, and lights, and cars, in the middle of commuters walking home and lads and girls bundling into the pubs on an early night out. No dark shape was looming after me. No suspicious figures lurking in shop doorways.

  When I got to St Peter’s Street, I flopped onto a bench, my chest heaving in deep, unfit bursts as my eyes darted around me, taking in everyone’s face.

  Maybe I had imagined someone watching me after all.

  The sweat chilled against my skin as I walked into a newsagent to buy a bottle of water. I queued up behind a grungy teenager and spotted a headline and photo on the front page of a newspaper on the stand by the till—one of the many newspapers owned by Felix Barron.

  My heart stopped.

  I fumbled in the zip of my jogging bottoms and shoved a five-pound note at the guy behind the till, then I walked out of the shop in a daze without waiting for my change.

  Standing on the pavement, I read the story…

  Chief Constable of Bedfordshire Police Discovered Dead

  The former Chief Constable of Bedfordshire Police, Sir Colin Reed, was found dead at his home in Barton-le-Clay yesterday after taking his own life. A police spokesperson said that there were no suspicious circumstances.

  Sir Colin was Chief Constable of Bedfordshire Police from 1994 – 2005, before retiring. In January, he was appointed to investigate Operation Target, an enquiry into alleged wrongdoing by the Metropolitan Police. His review of Operation Target was to be used as a case study to improve a new police complaints system.

  The present Bedfordshire Chief Constable, Michael Fullerton, said, ‘Sir Colin’s death is a shock to his former colleagues. He was an outstanding police officer and will be sorely missed by all. As well as being a loving husband and father, his commitment to public service, both as a police officer and a senior member of numerous government reviews, spoke volumes about his values and integrity. My thoughts are with his wife and two daughters at this difficult time.’

  I ran back home, ignoring the pain in my fatigued muscles. I didn’t stop to change my clothes or have a shower. I just grabbed my bag and car keys and drove to Mitchell’s house. When I knocked on his door, there was no answer. I tried to call him, but his mobile kept ringing until it went to voicemail. I left him a message and then sat on his doorstep, reading the story over and over again.

  Had Colin Reed committed suicide because he knew he would now be under police investigation, or had he been bumped off to shut him up? To contain the fallout?

  I phoned Alistair on the Samsung while I waited for Mitchell. ‘Have you seen the story in the paper about Colin Reed?’ I blurted out before he could even say hello.

  ‘No. What story?’

  I read it out to him.

  ‘Jesus.’ He exhaled a long breath. ‘No one told me about this. I’m going to see what I can find out.’

  ‘Do you think they murdered him, too? Kill the lesser offenders and any investigation gets squashed and covered up and then everyone can all live happily ever after?’ I didn’t give him the chance to reply and carried on, ‘Not that they seem to be actually investigating anything, anyway. No arrests have been made. Nothing has been done. It’s a farce. A smokescreen.’

  ‘I agree. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I tapped my fingers on my knee manically, jigging my leg up and down, waiting for Mitchell to arrive. It was about an hour later when he pulled up on the drive.

  He smiled as he got out of the car, picking up a couple of shopping bags from the passenger seat.

  I leapt up. ‘Were you in St Albans earlier? Following me again?’

  He frowned. ‘No.’ He held up the bags. ‘I’ve been to the supermarket. Why, was someone following you?’

  I thought about what I’d seen in the park. What I thought I’d seen? Of course there hadn’t been anyone there. My imagination was going into overdrive.

  ‘No, it’s just me. I’m so stressed out and tired I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe I’m hallucinating.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ I thrust the newspaper towards him. ‘Read this. You won’t bloody believe it.’

  Frown lines appeared on his face the more he read. ‘It says no suspicious circumstances? Yeah, right. This newspaper is owned by Felix
Barron. It’s just spin.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Mitchell glanced around the street then swept his hand towards his front door. ‘Come on. Let’s go inside.’

  I followed him into the kitchen.

  ‘Do you want a brew or something stronger?’

  ‘As strong as you’ve got.’

  He nodded, poured out two shots of whisky, and handed one to me. I paced up and down the floor, taking hits of it in between my mind reeling.

  Mitchell leant against the worktop, his arms folded, his biceps flexing, staring at a spot on the floor with narrowed eyes, as if deep in thought.

  ‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ I said. ‘Part of me thinks he deserved what he’s got. But the other part of me knows there won’t be any justice now. He won’t be exposed. His reputation will stay intact. Everyone will say how wonderful he was, and no one will know the truth.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s also the alternative. If he’s dead, maybe it will come out.’

  ‘They can’t expose him without exposing the rest of them, can they?’

  He took a slow swallow of whisky. ‘Maybe he’ll be the fall guy now he’s dead. The lions could be turning on themselves.’

  I downed the last of my drink in one swift gulp, the alcohol burning my throat. ‘I wonder who will be next.’

  Chapter 41

  A few weeks later, I returned home after having dinner with Ava and Jackson. Ava had been hassling me to come over and wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was ten p.m. when I parked the Jeep on my drive. The street lamp outside Jamie’s house had suddenly stopped working, plunging the front garden into shadowy darkness.

  As I walked up the path, I again had that eerie feeling of being watched. I glanced around, up and down the street. A car parked at the top of the cul-de-sac switched its headlights on and drove off onto the main road, a young teenage couple were arguing on a doorstep three houses down—my neighbour’s daughter and her boyfriend—but apart from that, I couldn’t see anyone else around.

  Then I noticed the light that I’d left on in the lounge when I went out at six was no longer alight. At first I though maybe the bulb had blown, but after I slid the key into the lock, warily opened the door, and turned on the hallway light, I knew something was wrong.

  It was that same disturbance of air, the faint tang of cigarette smoke that I’d smelt in the house the day Jamie had been murdered.

  From where I stood, frozen in the doorway, my gaze travelled down the hallway into the kitchen. I stayed there just long enough to register the drawers pulled out from the units and their contents scattered on the floor.

  Then adrenaline hit me in a heart-pumping rush. I backed away from the door and stood in the middle of the street, fumbling in my bag for my iPhone.

  I dropped it once. Misdialled three times. Then, finally, I was dialling 999.

  My finger stopped on the second 9.

  What was the point of calling the police? They wouldn’t investigate. For all I knew, it could’ve been the police. Special Branch. Or one of the security services. And whoever had been inside would’ve been clever enough not to leave a trace of evidence.

  I knew what they were looking for. Copies of the photos and videos I’d taken at Mitchell’s. Which meant…somehow they’d found out what I knew.

  I glanced back up the street. The teenage couple were sitting on the front wall of the house now. He had his arm around her, her head lolling against his shoulder.

  I turned back to my front door, debating whether to go inside. They could still be in there, waiting for me. And then what would happen?

  Another suicide? An accident in the home? A fire? Beaten to death by an intruder?

  If I screamed, would those kids hear me? Would I even get the chance to scream?

  I walked towards the teenagers. Safety in numbers. Hopefully.

  When I reached them, they were having an argument about Justin Bieber. Now what?

  In front of me, the entrance to the cul-de-sac fed into the main road. I spotted a young guy walking a Staffordshire bull terrier, wearing a hoodie, the hood pulled up, his face just a shadow in the dim street lights.

  I stopped just after the teenagers, leaning against the wall of another neighbour’s front garden. I thought about calling Ava, but a vision of Jackson giving me a cheeky smile swam into my head. I pictured Ava’s kind, sympathetic face. A surge of love for them both squeezed my heart. I wanted to just pour the whole thing out to her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring my troubles to her door. I’d been stupid enough to think that if Alistair knew about everything, then they’d be arrested and I’d be safe. Now I didn’t think that would ever happen.

  I stood on the path and dialled Mitchell, keeping one eye on the teenagers.

  ‘You need to get away from there,’ he said. ‘Drive to my house.’

  The dog-walker sauntered past with a cocky swagger, glanced at me, and gave me a leery smile.

  I held my breath.

  ‘Hello? Maya? You still there?’

  I breathed out, my pulse hammering in my veins. ‘I’m here. I want to get some things from the house. Some of Jamie’s things. I can’t leave them in there, Mitchell.’

  He paused. ‘Okay, but you’re not going in there on your own. I’ll come down, but it’s going to take me a while to get there. Can you wait somewhere safe with lots of people around?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a pub called the Oak Tree in town. I’ll drive there and meet you inside.’

  ‘Okay. See you soon.’

  I walked back towards my driveway, pulling from my bag the pepper spray Mitchell had given me a while back, clutching it in my sweaty palm as I reached the teenagers. They were arguing now about a girl called Sam who fancied the boy. Young love. I wanted to bang their heads together and scream at them that they didn’t know how lucky they were to have each other. That they should make the most of every second of every day because they never knew when it would all be snatched away. They ignored me as I walked past, oblivious.

  I got into the Jeep and backed out of the driveway. There was a quiet stream of traffic as I sat at the junction to the main road, carefully scanning the area. No cars that might attempt to follow me were parked suspiciously anywhere. I turned right without indicating and drove a circuitous route to the Oak Tree, regularly checking my mirrors for a tail of some kind, but no one was following me.

  At least I didn’t think so.

  When I finally drove into the car park, a young couple were standing outside by a picnic table, smoking, laughing about something. I locked up the Jeep under a lamp and pushed open the pub’s door with a final glance over my shoulder.

  I stood in the entrance, surveying the interior. Inside was pretty quiet. Most people were in the beer garden at the rear, smoking under a pergola, visible through the windows. I ordered a vodka and Coke and sat at the bar.

  I picked up the glass, my hand shaking so hard I spilled some onto the bar mat, and gulped it down, keeping one eye on the few people inside. An old man in the corner reading a paper. A group of thirty-something men in suits, shirt collars loosened, arguing good-naturedly about football scores.

  The barman kept sneaking glances at me. I was starting to become suspicious about why he kept looking when I caught my reflection in a mirror behind the bar and thought it was someone else at first. I looked like a mad Medusa—my knotted hair all over the place, big, dark smudges under my sad, red eyes, my skin sickly and anaemic-looking, my cheekbones protruding sharply. I looked as if I was fading away.

  Fading into nothing. How long would it be before I disappeared completely?

  One of the football guys sidled up to the bar to order a round. He smiled at me and said something inane about the weather. I ignored him, pulled out the Samsung, and pretended to send a text, my fingers sliding over the keypad, writing the words You’re fucked!

  Before I could delete my own text to no one but myself, the phone beeped with an incoming text.

  Expecting it to be
Simon or Alistair on this phone, I clicked on the new message that didn’t show a number and read: I warned you to be careful!

  I dropped my phone on the bar as if it was a bomb, staring wide-eyed at the words on the screen. A face swam into my head. The guy who’d bumped into me when I was out shopping with Ava. What had he said?

  You should be careful. You’re going to get hurt if you don’t watch out.

  Who was he?

  And I knew, without any doubt then, that it wasn’t a random burglary. My life was in danger.

  The pub door opened, and I spotted Mitchell at the same time he saw me. In a few strides, he was next to me, his meaty hand on my shoulder, concern clouding his eyes. ‘You okay?’

  I blinked back tears. I was fucked. I shook my head. ‘They know who I am.’

  He took my hand and pulled me off the barstool. ‘Let’s go.’ He led me out to the car park, where his pickup truck was parked next to my Jeep. ‘I just checked over your car with a bit of kit I have, looking for any GPS transmitters or bugs they may have put on the Jeep, but it was clean. We’ll leave it here, though, take my truck back to the house and get what you need, then we can pick up the Jeep again and you can follow me back to my place.’ He held his hand out for my keys.

  I handed them over. He unlocked his pick-up and wedged his bulk behind the steering wheel.

  I slid in the passenger seat and glanced over at him. ‘It’s not a coincidence that they broke in,’ I said, fighting the hysteria welling up inside. I showed him the anonymous text I’d just received on a number no one was supposed to know about except Alistair and Simon.

  Mitchell hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have gone to Alistair. From the moment he handed over the evidence and dossier, they’ve been watching him, monitoring his communications. Whether intentional or not, he’s led them straight to you!’

  ‘I don’t know what to do or where to go! I can’t stay at Ava’s. I can’t put them in danger.’

  ‘You can stay with me for as long as you need.’