I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

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I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 30

by Teresa Driscoll


  The address is a terraced house divided into three flats

  and I realise the odds are stacked against me. I would have

  better luck with a bell and a front door. An intercom gives

  me less of a chance to plead my case. She won’t be able

  to see my face. Damn.

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  I press the small buzzer.

  ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Alice – the journalist. I phoned about your daugh-

  ter Claire. I have some new information that I need to

  share with you. It’s very important.’

  ‘I told you, we’re estranged. You need to go.’

  ‘I think you’re going to want to hear this.’ A punt. A

  fib. There is a long pause, and then to my astonishment

  there is the buzz of her releasing the door lock.

  ‘Come up.’

  Claire’s mother looks curious as she lets me into her

  small flat. It is neat and bright with a red velvet sofa and

  cream cushions. Not what I was expecting at all. For

  some reason I had imagined something sadder and more

  disorganised.

  ‘So, what’s this new information you think I’ll want

  to hear?’

  ‘I don’t want to cause offence, and there’s no easy way

  to say this, but I’m worried that Claire may be involved

  in something shady – possibly illegal.’ I watch her face.

  She does not look shocked at all. ‘OK, so my research

  suggests Claire and her partner may be using a charity to

  try to trick people out of money.’

  She makes an odd noise, letting out a puff of air. ‘Well,

  that wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I take it she’s still hanging around with Paul Crosswell?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but she’s set up a company –

  an alarm company for victims of stalking – with him.

  She told me she had a sister who’d been stalked. A nasty

  attack. She said she’d had to move abroad and that’s why

  Claire is running the charity.’

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  ‘Utter rubbish. She’s an only child, like I told you.

  He’ll have put her up to this.’

  ‘Can I sit down?’ I take out my notebook and pen

  from my bag.

  ‘If you must. But I can only give you five minutes.’

  There’s no offer of a drink, and despite my best efforts

  Mrs Bruce is clearly keen for me to leave. She doesn’t

  want to go on the record but she shares enough for me

  to know that I’m on the right track with this story.

  Paul Crosswell is the reason Claire and her mother

  are estranged. And Hardy isn’t Claire’s married name, as

  I’d assumed. Just a new cover, apparently.

  Claire and Paul apparently have serious financial

  difficulties. He first tried to set up a different kind of

  security alarm system – for business users. It went to

  the wall and there was a police inquiry which came to

  nothing. Turns out he told customers there was a call

  centre which put queries straight through to the police

  where necessary. Just like the pitch Claire gave me. But

  there was no call centre. No grand system. The calls just

  went through to Paul’s personal phone. He was charging

  customers a hefty monthly fee for a service which was

  a scam. Users would have been better off phoning the

  police themselves.

  I tell Mrs Bruce that I think they’re trying a new ver-

  sion of the same scam with the stalking charity.

  ‘How would they pull that off? Are there not checks

  and balances with charities? Regulations?’

  ‘Technically, yes. But criminals can work round them.’

  ‘That sounds like Paul. He’s certainly set up and dis-

  solved a whole string of businesses.’ There is a pause, and

  she stands as if deciding this is enough.

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  ‘Look, it’s why we’re estranged,’ she says finally. ‘I

  told Claire I want nothing to do with her until she steps

  away from that dreadful man. I made her choose.’ She

  looks sad for a moment. ‘Naive of me. Stupidly, I thought

  she would choose me. I’m sorry, but I really do need to

  ask you to go now.’

  I leave my card, and in the car to Leanne’s London

  home, I ring Matthew to update him. I feel sad for Mrs

  Bruce but am quietly excited about the story.

  He’s not.

  ‘I thought we agreed that you need to leave this to

  the police, Alice.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I’m a little shocked at his tone. We agreed

  no such thing. He just said it would be wise to let Mel

  look into Claire and her boyfriend. It’s the first time since my real name came out that Matthew has sounded truly

  cross with me.

  ‘Mel’s still looking into Paul Crosswell and he’s a nasty

  character. Not just fraud. There’s stuff you don’t know;

  he’s had a couple of charges for actual bodily harm too.

  He could be a suspect, Alice.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Matthew. I told you – I approached the

  charity, not the other way around. There’s no way this

  pair are involved with my stalking. They’re just trying

  to rip people off and they’re hoping to use my writing.’

  ‘Please, Alice. We’re still checking this out on our

  end. You need to keep a low profile. Keep yourself safe.

  And you need to leave this alone.’

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  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Alice

  Somehow the days pass. The weekend. Monday. Tuesday.

  And now here we are again … Wednesday. Every week

  now I ricochet between fear, anger and boredom. I’ve

  endured well over a month of this and I’m exhausted.

  I’m fed up especially with feeling so isolated. Too

  many people telling me I can’t be a journalist just now

  is extra salt in my wounds. I fire an email to the head of

  HR at my paper, telling them that I have now used up

  all my spare holiday as requested and I demand to re-

  turn to work. I reiterate that I’m prepared to take every

  Wednesday off, as we agreed, but warn that I’ll take my

  case to an employment lawyer if they continue to keep

  me from my desk.

  As soon as I’ve sent the email, I slightly regret it. A

  part of me can see their point of view. In our last meet-

  ing, I cited cases of much higher-profile journalists fac-

  ing trouble with stalkers. They weren’t stopped from

  working. ‘We’re not the BBC,’ was the response. ‘We’re

  a local paper in financial difficulties, fighting to survive.

  We don’t have the resources the BBC has. We don’t even

  have someone full-time on reception, Alice. We can’t just

  get all the mail X-rayed. It’s difficult.’

  Difficult? They think I don’t know this is difficult?

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  I stare at the screen of my phone. Wed – white let-

  tering on a blue background … again. So soon. I am at

  Tom’s flat and the agreement for today is that he will

  keep an eye on me until Matthew turns up at 10 a.m.
<
br />   It’s very early still but I have been awake since the early

  hours and so he brings me coffee. He is as patient as ever

  but I’m like a cat on a hot tin roof. Pacing. Sounding

  off. Wound up.

  I am just updating Tom about the email to work when

  the intercom buzzer sounds. It’s an early courier with a

  parcel. Tom is visibly relieved. He’s expecting important

  papers for a tricky contract he’s negotiating. He tells the

  courier to bring the parcel of papers ‘up to the second

  floor, please’ . But the guy says he’s wearing a motorcycle helmet and the company rule is they’re not allowed to

  visit upstairs flats with their helmets on. People complain.

  Tom tells him to take his helmet off. But the courier says

  he’s pushed for time – Do you have any idea how little time they allow for each delivery? – and either Tom has to come down or he’ll mark it as a non-delivery.

  Tom tries arguing but the guy says he’s not paid to

  argue.

  ‘Oh, just go down, Tom,’ I say.

  ‘No way. I don’t like to leave you.’

  ‘The flat’s secure. You need the paperwork. Are we

  saying we can’t receive any deliveries any Wednesday

  ever now? Even for your work? I mean, this is no life, is

  it? It’s getting ridiculous. Just go down. Get your papers.

  Stop fretting.’

  I move through into the kitchen and flick the switch

  on the coffee machine. It’s still dark outside and I check

  the time on my phone as I wait for the green light for an

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  espresso. There are a few emails. I flick through them

  one by one. Nothing very important.

  It is as I am still turned towards the worktop that it

  happens.

  It is all so fast that I have no time to think. Or to hit

  back. To grab anything to stop this.

  There is suddenly this gloved hand cupped round

  my face with a large cloth over my mouth. I can smell

  chemicals. And leather.

  I struggle hard, flailing my arms and trying to reach

  the worktop. But it’s no good. I can smell something

  sweet now. I expect to collapse but this does not happen

  immediately. I feel my brain numbing and am suddenly

  being sucked into this dark tunnel. I keep flailing my

  arms. I struggle hard and I try to scream through the

  cloth. I know that I must not go into the tunnel but the

  lights are fading into the distance until I am so far, far

  away that they are gone completely. Consumed by the

  darkness.

  * * *

  When I wake up, my head is thump-thumping and I can-

  not see properly. Still there is this strange smell. Slightly sweet. My mouth is covered but my eyes are not. But I

  cannot see anything at all. Somehow I cannot make my

  vision work properly and so I close my eyes, trying to sense

  how long I was out, where I am and what is happening.

  Am I still in Tom’s flat? I can’t tell. Oh dear Lord. What has he done to Tom?

  I am sitting. I can feel a hard surface beneath my bot-

  tom. My hands are tightly bound at the wrists. I’m on a

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  chair? Yes. It’s a wooden chair of some kind. I can’t think

  of a chair like this in Tom’s flat. So I’ve been moved?

  I try opening my eyes again and this time they slowly

  begin to adjust.

  I am in a room that I do not recognise. At least not

  at first. I look around. Some kind of kitchen-cum-sitting

  room with the curtains drawn and a main door to the right.

  I try to take in other details. To place where I might be.

  There is a strange mix of pictures on the wall. The

  Queen. A rather kitsch print of some rural setting with

  ducks and geese, and alongside it a large framed school

  picture of a boy with a big smile and a big gap between

  his front teeth. I glance around, my head still pounding,

  but there is nothing else to help me. A wooden magazine

  rack. Empty. Some kind of bag on the floor by a tall-

  backed chair. Shelving in the corner of the kitchen area.

  Only now do I take in just how tightly my mouth is

  covered. Taped. I move my hands instinctively to try to

  reach up to take the tape from my mouth but they are

  tied firmly to the arms of the chair.

  True panic is rising now. Sometimes, at night, I struggle

  to breathe through my nose – especially during the hay

  fever season. I start to feel this deep, deep dread. What if

  my nose gets blocked now? If I can’t breathe through my

  nose, I will simply suffocate. I will die. I look around this bleak and terrible space and imagine that this is where

  everything could end for me. I can feel my breathing

  quicken with my panicked thoughts and I tell myself that

  I have to find a way to calm myself. Have to keep my

  nose clear. You have to breathe, Alice.

  And that is when he appears from an adjoining room.

  He’s dressed all in black. Black trousers. Black jumper.

  Black gloves and some kind of black balaclava.

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  And this is when I realise that what I thought was fear

  before was nothing of the sort. All those weeks – afraid

  of my stalker? That wasn’t real fear.

  I let out this strange animal noise, stifled through the

  gag as the dark figure sits on the high-backed chair across

  the room from me.

  This is what real fear is.

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  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Him – before

  He is shown his gran’s suicide note at the police station.

  It is in a plastic evidence bag. A single line on a sheet of

  white paper. Her familiar neat writing in blue biro. They

  let him take a photograph, using his phone, but he’s told

  that he cannot have the note and file back until after the

  inquest.

  ‘What file?’

  They produce an A4 folder in another, larger evidence

  bag, and tell him that his gran was collecting cuttings

  from the local newspaper about the future of the flats.

  She had also just received a final notice to quit from the

  company responsible for the housing block, along with

  a letter from the local council urging her to agree to a

  meeting with the housing association which would offer

  alternative accommodation.

  The police officer tells him that his gran did not

  respond to any of the letters about sorting out her new

  home. All this will be set before the inquest.

  He struggles to compose himself in front of the police

  officer. He had talked with his gran in the past about the

  stupid local campaign to get the building demolished.

  It’ll come to nothing, she had said. They’re always sounding off. Been moaning for years. But I’ll be fine.

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  He’d been busy at work. He’d not visited his gran as

  often as he should. A little part of him was worried be-

  cause of the inquiry into Brian’s death. But he consoled

  himself that his gran was happy. She was in the place she

  loved and he had promise
d that she could stay there. He

  had helped make it safer. He had got rid of the putrid

  infection who lived next door. He had done his bit.

  Two months later, at the inquest, he is the only per-

  son to attend. No press. No other friends. There are just

  a few people waiting for the next hearing.

  Only now does he alone fully understand what really

  happened .

  He received a package from his gran two days after her

  death. A long letter and her diary. She must have posted

  them to him before she…

  He closes his eyes during the hearing, picturing her

  writing the letter at the table. The police said he must

  hand over anything relevant – but no. He will not give

  the letter or the diary to the police; he will give them

  nothing more of his grandmother. What do they care?

  Justice is his job now, not theirs.

  The A4 file found at the flat contained cuttings from

  six months back, when a local journalist suddenly took

  up the campaigners’ case. Alice Henderson.

  The coroner is shown the many cuttings from the A4

  folder and seems puzzled. Questions are asked. Was this

  elderly woman tired of waiting for a new home? Was that

  it? Was she struggling with the poor conditions in the flat?

  The police say neighbours were questioned but had no

  helpful insights. The elderly woman was a very private person.

  Kept herself to herself. She was not involved in the campaign and was not known to have discussed it with anyone. There

  was no record of correspondence with the local authority.

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  The post-mortem confirms severe arthritis and there

  is speculation that the pain from this might have been

  magnified by the damp conditions.

  There are no neat conclusions. All the court has is the

  short suicide note left on the kitchen table.

  I can’t go on. I’m sorry.

  He watches the coroner looking through the pages

  of newspaper cuttings once again. And then the man

  rereads his gran’s note – not out loud but quietly. His

  face is grave and sad.

  The coroner leaves the room for a bit, then returns

  to say that he is satisfied that his gran took her own life,

  though the precise reason remains unclear. The verdict

  is suicide. The horrible truth is his poor gran took many

  pills and then put her head into the gas oven. The gas

  eventually cut out apparently, but not before she had

  suffered. Vomited. The reason her face was so red and

 

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