I Will Make You Pay (ARC)
Page 30
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