I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘OK. I’ll email you to sort arrangements. Then we’ll

  see where we are after Wednesday and regroup. Yes?’

  Matthew takes a deep breath for the tricky bit. ‘And you

  know the fees…’

  ‘Just invoice me directly. Money’s not a problem.’ Tom

  is now sitting up very straight.

  ‘Tom. Please. I’m quite happy to deal with this—’

  ‘No argument. My idea, so my expense. You invoice

  me directly, Mr Hill. Whatever hours you feel this needs.

  However long it takes. Yes?’

  Matthew nods as Tom again takes Alice’s hand.

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  ‘You don’t think he truly means any of it, do you?’

  Tom’s voice is suddenly quieter. ‘I’m assuming he just

  wants to scare Alice. That’s what he gets off on? Yes?’

  Matthew thinks very carefully before he speaks.

  ‘DI Melanie Sanders is one of the best police officers

  I know. She’ll do everything she can to stop this. But I’m

  not going to lie to you. Police resources can be stretched,

  and stalker cases can be very difficult. And very stressful,

  of course, for the victims. All I can promise is that I’ll

  do everything I can to boost what the police are already

  doing.’

  Matthew does not add what he knows from his re-

  search. That the real answer to Tom’s question depends

  on what kind of stalker Alice has.

  The good news is that most stalkers are not killers.

  The bad news is that a lot of killers are stalkers first…

  61

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alice

  Tuesday. I keep looking at the shorthand – Tue – lit up on my phone. I’ve honestly not given much thought before to

  the shape of the week, but now suddenly it is all I think

  about. The day. Where we are in the week. Sleeping less

  and less, the closer we get to Wednesday.

  In the past, I never worried about the day per se; all I

  worried about was whether I was working or not. For me

  as a journalist, there’s no clear midweek-versus-weekend

  routine as we work on a rota to cover weekends. Some

  weeks I may get Tuesday off for a Sunday on duty. Another

  week it may be Monday off for working a Saturday. Never

  the same, one week to the next, and so I have always

  simply marked my days off in green on the calendar on

  my kitchen wall, and smiled over my morning coffee as

  the green squares get closer.

  It is other things that in the past have shaped my week.

  Pilates on a Thursday night. French conversation classes

  on a Tuesday.

  And now? I am sitting alone in my sister’s Dorset

  kitchen, asking myself what today really feels like now.

  Tuesday. The new answer is very simple – too close to Wednesday.

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  I Will Make You Pay

  I can’t relax because I’m wondering: What the hell

  next? What might he do tomorrow? Am I safe? Is my

  mother safe? Will having Matthew Hill watch my back

  truly solve this? Keep us all safe? In fact, have I even got

  this right – is this man going to target me in some way

  every Wednesday, or has the day been a coincidence so far?

  My editor is still insisting I use up all my spare holi-

  day. I tell myself this is him being kind and sensible but

  wonder, deep down, if Ted simply wants the problem

  moved out of the office. He won’t allow me to write about

  the stalking or harassment or whatever we choose to call

  it. He says we should treat it like bomb hoaxes were in

  the old days. Do not give these things the oxygen of publicity.

  That is what they want, Alice. We say nothing in the paper.

  No columns. Nothing.

  Ted still talks about ‘the paper’ as if the physical ver-

  sion is the most important thing – which, of course, it no

  longer is. The readership of our weekly paper is dying.

  Literally.

  Our South Devon ‘paper’, like every other, runs each

  story and photograph online first in a fruitless attempt to

  devise a new advertising and revenue strategy.

  The reality is we are in financial freefall. Our few

  remaining readers are aged. As I say … literally dying

  off. Advertisers have given up on the physical paper but

  we have yet to find a way to make adverts work for us

  online. So much competition. It means we will probably

  all be out of a job very soon. The wise ones have already

  moved into ‘communications’ – PR and marketing, or

  the mystery that is search engine optimisation.

  All I have ever wanted to do is write, and I’m not sure

  I have it in me to switch to sales.

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  Teresa Driscoll

  I check my watch. Only 10 a.m. It’s too far from

  Dorset to make my French class later, and I see a muddle

  of boredom and anxiety stretching ahead of me. I cannot

  imagine counting down the hours, just sitting here in Fort

  Knox, and so I head upstairs to my room to find my sports

  bag. Thank heavens I thought to pack my swimming kit.

  At first it feels contrary to even contemplate leaving

  the house on my own. The security blanket of the camera

  system and the alarms. Leanne would be furious. She had

  to return to London and her family, and wants me to stay

  indoors until all this ‘blows over’. I wonder if I should

  just watch another film?

  I turn the options over in my head. I glance around

  the kitchen and take in the large television in the corner.

  I think of all the blessed films I’ve watched already.

  I am rather sick of films. And I’m sick of feeling so

  cooped up. Defeated. Controlled. I hold my car keys in

  my hand for several minutes before finally deciding. Next

  there is the surreal, rich-kid novelty of the gates that open automatically for my car. My sister’s smart life.

  Even as I pull up the first hill, I am wondering when

  there will be an end to these push-pull questions now

  controlling my life. Is it madness to leave this safe haven?

  Possibly. Probably. Should I turn around and stay home?

  Possibly. Probably.

  I turn up the radio a little too loud and drive a little

  too fast. By the time I reach the main road, I fancy that

  a red sports car is tailing me. Five minutes and my heart

  is starting to beat faster and faster. Then the car suddenly

  turns off at the traffic lights and I feel foolish.

  My own gym back in Devon is much too far, so the

  only option is the public swimming pool. I can’t remember

  when I last used a public pool but I seem to recall my sister 64

  I Will Make You Pay

  saying her children had top-up swimming lessons here

  and it’s good. It’s unlike Leanne to use anywhere without

  private membership, so that means it really must be OK.

  The satnav makes it an easy find. Plenty of parking.

  And I am starting to feel that it is a good idea to be some-

  where busy – somewhere with lots of people around me.

  No one can target me in a crowd, surely? I change quickly,

  surprised to find a smart row of single
cubicles as well

  as the communal space. No shortage of lockers. Lots of

  room. The water is warmer that I expect and very soon

  I am relaxing into the rhythm that always transports me.

  Stroke, stroke and breathe … Stroke, stroke and breathe.

  I complete one length very fast, using the ‘serious lane’

  which is separated from the rest of the pool by bright

  orange rope with small blue buoys. On the second length

  I slow a little and let my mind wander.

  For some reason I am picturing Jack, trying to appease

  the divorce woman when I took that first phone call in

  the office. I am going to use cheese wire on you. I remember how steady Jack was. Worried eyes but measured and

  sensible – just concerned enough to make me feel less

  stupid, but not so much to make me feel worse.

  Not for the first time I wish with all my being that

  I had not crossed the line with Jack. Made that stupid

  spectacle of myself. What was it – seven, maybe eight

  months back? Just before I met Tom.

  Lord knows what I was thinking. The poor man had

  barely lost his wife – the hell of ovarian cancer. Less than

  a year as a widower and there I was, practically asking him

  out. Put him right on the spot. Just Italian if you fancy it, Jack. You know – save us cooking one night. What do you think?

  Maybe he just said yes to be polite. Who knows. We

  got along so well in the office and I felt so sad for him.

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  Teresa Driscoll

  Losing his wife like that. But yes, I’m going to be honest

  here. Stroke, stroke and breathe … I really fancied him too, so I was probably being a bit selfish as well. Shameful of me.

  Whatever. It was a complete disaster. We had gin and

  olives. I found that I was incredibly nervous, being with

  him away from the office. I hadn’t thought it through at

  all and so I talked too much. Asked too many questions.

  Drank too much too quickly. By the time the main course

  arrived, Jack was pale and I was getting tipsy. Then, hor-

  ror of horrors, I could feel myself starting to properly

  flirt. Somehow I knew it was the alcohol and I knew,

  deep down, that it was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t

  stop myself. At one point, I reached across the table and

  touched his hand. Poor Jack. He looked puzzled and then

  embarrassed. I drank more wine. I reached for his hand

  a second time and he pulled it back as if burned. I was

  much drunker than I realised; he was suddenly morti-

  fied – mumbling about mixed messages and a terrible

  misunderstanding.

  I’m so sorry, Alice. But I shouldn’t have said yes. I can’t do this. This feels … I don’t know. All wrong. I think it’s best I go.

  He didn’t even finish his meal. Paid the bill. Ordered

  me a cab and then disappeared.

  For a good while afterwards, it was excruciating in

  the office. Me blushing. Him blushing. So that when

  Tom suddenly appeared on the scene a few weeks later,

  I started dating him with almost ridiculous enthusiasm.

  An out…

  I finally bought Jack a coffee and openly apologised.

  I’m sorry, Jack. That Italian restaurant thing the other week?

  I honestly didn’t mean for you to think it was like a date or anything. God, no. I didn’t mean that … I have a boyfriend, 66

  I Will Make You Pay

  actually. Tom. Lawyer. You must meet him. We’re having drinks soon. I’ll introduce you.

  That’s great, Alice. I’m sorry I was a bit odd at the

  restaurant…

  Don’t be. Entirely my fault. I had way too much wine.

  Anyway – I wanted to say sorry so that things can be OK

  between us again. Mates, I mean. And you must meet Tom.

  You’ll like him.

  * * *

  I duck under the little rope of blue buoys and swim to

  the side of the pool. I take off my tinted goggles and hold

  on to the side as my eyes adjust to the brightly lit room.

  I scan the crowd, taking in the faces of all these strang-

  ers. There is a man with two small children in armbands

  and I wonder why he isn’t at work and why the children

  aren’t in school.

  On a raised chair, a lifeguard is scanning the pool too.

  He looks bored stiff and I fancy he may almost enjoy the

  odd drama, to at least feel useful. No. That’s cruel.

  I wonder how Matthew Hill truly feels about his

  work. Trailing after me on Wednesday. Does he hope

  that nothing happens? Or secretly hope to be useful?

  Like a journalist when we make our routine ‘check

  calls’ to the police and the fire brigade – morning, noon

  and night. We hope that no one is hurt; we wish no ill.

  And yet? We secretly want a story all the same.

  67

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Matthew

  Matthew Hill glances at the door as a woman with a buggy

  negotiates the small step into the café. He wonders if he

  should help – or at least hold the door? He tenses for a

  moment and watches carefully, but no. A man nearer the

  entrance holds the door and she’s fine. Better than fine,

  actually, as the child – dummy in mouth – is still asleep.

  It’s Tuesday and he’s booked to watch Alice tomor-

  row. He’s feeling unusually anxious about this case and

  badly needs a steer of some kind. He checks his watch,

  turns back to the pyramids of sugar sachets and checks

  the table for stability. The napkin under the right-hand

  table leg has done the trick. He has four pyramids on

  the second layer already and is starting to think he may

  actually achieve a third tier today. Great that this coffee

  shop has not switched to those skinny, straw-shaped sa-

  chets. He gently picks up two new paper squares, shakes

  off the stray sugar granules and leans forward…

  ‘So, you don’t change, Mr Fidget Fingers.’ Melanie

  Sanders’ voice right alongside the table has a smile in its

  tone. She must have followed the mother in without him

  noticing. He turns too abruptly – his pyramids collapsing.

  ‘Mel!’ He immediately regrets the shock in his tone

  but the sight of her is difficult to take in.

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  I Will Make You Pay

  ‘Yes – I know. I’m huge. A whale. And I still have a

  month to go at work. Don’t even pretend not to be appalled.’

  ‘I’m not appalled. But seriously – are you sure it’s

  not twins?’ He kisses her on the cheek, eyes wide at her

  enormous bump.

  ‘If I had a pound for every person…’

  ‘Sorry. But really? No twins in the family?’

  ‘I had an extra scan to check. Just a very large baby. It

  may even be a mistake. Maybe I’m carrying an elephant.’

  He smiles and stands to signal the counter. ‘Coffee?

  Cake?’

  ‘Both please. Carrot cake if they have it. Stuff eating

  for two. I’m eating for Britain. Maybe that’s why the

  baby’s so big.’

  Once back at the table with her drink and cake,

  Matthew decides to wait for Mel to take this forward.

  They have worked together unofficially before – a
nd very

  successfully – but it is still a risk for her to meet him.

  Swap info on a live case. He knows this. She knows this.

  Melanie dips her finger into the froth of her cap-

  puccino and sucks the milk and chocolate powder off it

  before sighing. ‘OK. So tell me again – how come you’re

  working on the Alice Henderson stalker case?’

  ‘Boyfriend Tom hired me. I suspect you know that

  he doesn’t think the police are doing enough.’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s made his dissatisfaction very clear. And what do you make of him – this Tom? We’ve checked

  him out, of course. No record. No obvious flags – and

  cast-iron alibis. But should he stay on my list? I found

  him pretty straight myself, if a little irritating.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. Bit spoiled. Bit of a silver spoon there,

  I suspect. I get the feeling he’s keener on her than vice

  versa but he seems genuinely concerned and she seems

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  Teresa Driscoll

  happy to have his support. I’ve tried to explain to both

  of them about police resources.’

  ‘Yes. Well – we both know that we can’t do as much

  as we’d like. They only put me on this because the chief

  knows the paper’s editor and I’m supposed to be winding

  down to maternity leave. They seem to think this is one

  I can run mostly from my desk.’

  ‘What’s your instinct so far then, Mel?’

  ‘Well, as I say, your Tom’s in the clear. We’ve done

  the full checks and found absolutely nothing. A high-flyer

  by all accounts. Popular. Squeaky clean. And he was in

  court each time Alice has had hassle.’

  ‘So where are you looking? Anything on the cheese

  wire angle? Alice told me you pressed her on that. Certainly

  an odd threat.’

  ‘We’ve checked staff at her deli and supermarket.

  Nothing there. To be honest, I’m thinking we’re look-

  ing for an ex-boyfriend or someone she’s upset with one

  of her stories. But the latter is a needle in a haystack.

  Unbelievable the amount of stuff each reporter writes. I

  had no idea they were so prolific. She writes quite per-

  sonal columns sometimes which may have stirred some

  nutter’s nest. So what’s your brief then, Matt?’

  ‘To keep an eye on her every Wednesday and see if

  the day really is significant.’

  ‘Security gig, you mean?’ She raises both eyebrows. ‘A

  bit Kevin Costner, isn’t it? Didn’t think that was your style.’