[DCI Tom Douglas 03.0] Sleep Tight

by Rachel Abbott

Asking one of his fellow passengers on board the tiny ten-person ferry for an idea of where he might stay, he was pointed in the direction of the town. As he set off with the sea on his left, there was a smart-looking hotel, but his funds wouldn’t run to that without using his credit card. He was sure there would be some cheap rooms somewhere on the island. He could start asking around about Olivia too. He couldn’t risk leaving it too long, but on the other hand he had to have a plan of what to do when he found her.

  Because he was going to find her.

  During his journey south he had tried to think of all the reasons Olivia might have for choosing this island, but it wasn’t until he arrived that he finally understood the biggest attraction. Lack of fast and easy access. A lack of escape. She had thought he would never find her, but just in case, she had chosen somewhere that would make it difficult for him to carry out his plan and get clean away. But that was okay. He was adaptable. He would find somewhere locally that would fit the bill just as well.

  His plan had always been that if the time ever came when he had to hurt Olivia in the way he had promised, he would maximise the period of threat – the time when her pain came somewhere close to his own. And it would all lead to the final act, the denouement guaranteed to leave her in agony for the rest of her life as she realised she could have avoided it all. All she’d ever had to do was love him. That was all he had asked. He knew that he could never live without her and if he couldn’t have her, he had to make sure that until the day she died she would regret not returning his love.

  It would be more difficult to fulfil his plan here, but he would formulate a new one. He needed a route and a final place to stage the scene. He closed his eyes, and he imagined it in glorious Technicolor.

  Maybe he should make it a little different. It would be so much better if Olivia were an unwilling witness to the whole event.

  He laughed out loud. Arriving by sea had been a good idea, because one thing he had noticed was that this island didn’t lack suitable locations for what he had in mind: a finale that would be imprinted on Olivia’s mind for the rest of her life.

  But first, he had to find her.

  As he passed the hotel he saw just what he was looking for – a pub. It was time to get to know the locals.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside, eager to begin putting his plan into action.

  49

  It took me a long time to fully understand the depths of Robert’s obsession with me. To begin with, it felt as if he was simply the most thoughtful, caring and considerate man, and although nothing about him thrilled me, I had convinced myself that safety and security were the two most important features in a relationship. And Robert offered those in spades.

  He had done everything any man could do to take care of me. Losing Dan and then my parents had drained the lifeblood out of me. Robert married an empty husk and yet he tried to give me a life that would in some way compensate for my losses.

  What he failed to offer was excitement and passion. I persuaded myself that what we had was normal. Perhaps if Dan had still been with me, we too would have settled into a rut of twice-monthly sex with nothing more intimate than a peck on the cheek on the other nights.

  This wasn’t Robert’s preference, though. He wanted to touch me all the time. When he came home from work and drew me into a hug I would try to reciprocate, but I always found an excuse to pull away – the children needed something, the dinner was burning.

  How could I be married and yet recoil from my husband?

  At night, when I turned away from him in bed, Robert liked to stroke my back. I hated it, and I knew he could feel my body tighten as I silently urged him to stop. I used to hear a small sigh as he drew his hand away. For the last two years, though – ever since the night he took my children and had stood silently in the doorway of Jasmine’s bedroom, listening to me saying goodnight to my daughter – he no longer sighed. Instead he whispered softly against my neck, ‘sleep tight, my darling’. Four harmless words of love that were a reminder; a threat.

  And he watched me.

  If he was in the room with me and I glanced up, he would be looking at me. Sometimes I would be working in the kitchen – cooking a meal or doing the ironing – and Robert would be outside in the garden, but still I would feel those eyes penetrating like cold darts. And if I quickly turned my head, his face would be at the window, just looking in. Watching. He would smile, give me a small wave, and turn away. As if it were normal.

  I hated it.

  I felt as if I was wrapped in a cocoon, or maybe a straightjacket – arms pinned to my sides, feeling sweat pour down my arms and my inner thighs. But the sweat was cold and clammy, and I knew if I tried to escape, the ties would be tightened inch by sticky inch.

  I don’t know what made me realise that I couldn’t live like this, but I think it began when I was listening to some other mothers waiting to pick their children up from school. They laughed and joked, made rude remarks about their husbands being lazy sods or football mad or untidy pigs. But the love was shining in their eyes as they spoke. I couldn’t join in. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say, other than, ‘He watches me,’ and I knew how that would sound.

  I decided I had to talk to Robert, to tell him that I was just a cold fish, and he deserved somebody better. He needed somebody to love and cherish him the way he loved and cherished me. I remember he asked me about the children. If I was devoid of feeling, did that mean I felt nothing for them?

  This was a stupid question. My children are my life and I adore every single cell of their bodies. How could he ask that?

  He pointed out that this meant I wasn’t incapable of love, so was I saying that I was incapable of loving him? Was that the problem?

  It was, and I knew it. But how could I tell him I wanted to leave him? I couldn’t. We laughed it off in the end, deciding that I was premenstrual – the only excuse that men seem to accept without question, not having a clue what it really means.

  Nothing else was said for a few days, but Robert started to talk about our next holiday. He said he would like to pay another visit to South Stack lighthouse on Anglesey, and he reminded me of the time we had been previously. I didn’t understand what he meant, until from somewhere came a memory – a memory of standing at the edge of a cliff and Robert telling me that some man had jumped off to his death. He had called it ‘a perfect place to die’. As I remembered that day, I felt a chill, as if a cold wind had whipped through the room.

  We struggled on for a few weeks, but then Robert gave his virtuoso performance and took my children away. Those hours when I thought I had lost them were truly terrible, and somehow I felt it was all my fault.

  As I should have expected, Robert told the police that I’d known he was taking them away and must have forgotten, but this was merely the start of his campaign to undermine my sanity. The school, the other mothers, the need for a regularly updated schedule to let him know exactly what I had been doing – which he didn’t hesitate to mention to people like my doctor, the teachers, the children’s health visitor, the social worker. I began to realise that if I filed for divorce, there was a chance that he would be able to keep my children from me due to my apparent unpredictability and instability. He was amassing evidence, and he was so clever. He was painting me into a corner, and ensuring that I would never be allowed to keep my children if I left him.

  I was trapped. I felt totally impotent. All my inheritance had been invested in our home, and I had no access to money – no means of escape. I was frozen, paralysed. Inertia set in, and for weeks I felt the weight of lethargy dragging me down.

  And if I had thought he was watching me before, I now felt like an amoeba under a microscope. The weird thing about being watched is that you don’t always know it’s happening.

  But somehow, you can feel it.

  50

  Tom’s phone was ringing as he walked into the incident room carrying two cups of coffee. Becky was hunched over her desk, her dar
k hair swinging down to cover her face, but Tom could tell from the tension in her body that something had happened. She was on the phone, and it was only as he juggled with the cups and pulled his mobile out of his pocket that he realised he was the person she was trying to reach.

  ‘Becky – I’m here,’ he said, without bothering to answer the call.

  Her head jerked up, and her eyes were dark with concern.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, grabbing a seat and facing her across the desk, pushing one of the coffee cups towards her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’ve just had a call from a man who runs a boat company in Guernsey. They operate a ferry service around the Channel Islands, including runs to Alderney. He called me because he saw an extract on the news about Olivia and the children, with the added news that the husband is also missing.’

  Tom felt an unusual sense of impending disaster.

  Becky nodded her head at what she undoubtedly recognised as Tom’s immediate grasp of the implication.

  ‘He dropped Robert Brookes in Alderney Harbour this morning.’

  Tom was instantly on his feet. Fuck, he’s found her, he thought. Gulping down a hasty mouthful of coffee, he signalled Becky to follow him as he snatched keys and phone from his desk and spun on his heel towards the door.

  ‘Grab your things, Becky. Make sure you’ve got photo ID. We’ll sort everything out on the way.’

  He knew Becky wouldn’t waste time asking questions, and she picked up her briefcase from the floor by the side of her desk, opened it and shovelled in a few files and her mobile, at the same time shouting over her shoulder.

  ‘Nic, sort out two flights for us from Manchester to Alderney. Fastest way possible. Call me.’

  Having no idea of flight times, they started to run. It would be beyond frustrating if they missed a flight by minutes.

  As they jogged towards Tom’s car – the closer of the two in the car park – he asked if the team had heard anything from the Alderney police.

  ‘Yes and no. They haven’t managed to track Olivia down, but if Robert’s on Alderney we can be pretty sure she’s there. If she’s renting somewhere it must be a private rental. Nobody appears to recognise the description or the names; but she’s a smart cookie – she’ll have changed them.’

  Tom knew this was right. If he’d been Olivia, he would have made a point of being seen around the place in April when nobody was looking for her, and now be keeping a relatively low profile. Doing nothing to stand out, and making sure the children didn’t resemble any description. Of course, photos would have made all the difference – a fact she had clearly grasped when she destroyed every single one of them before she left.

  The Alderney police would do their best, but they didn’t know Robert Brookes like Tom was beginning to, and he was certain Olivia was in danger.

  Tom clicked his remote twice at the car to open both sides, and they leaped in, attaching seat belts as they raced out of the car park.

  ‘Becky, get on the phone to Sophie Duncan. Tell her that now is not the time for being loyal to her friend. We need to find Olivia, because she’s potentially in danger. If she doesn’t know where Olivia is, you can bet your life she knows how to contact her. Get Sophie to speak to her. We’re not pissing about now. This is bloody serious and she needs to understand that.’

  Becky ran her finger down the page of contacts from her file, and dialled a number. Tom could only hear one side of the conversation as Becky spoke to Sophie. She explained that they believed Olivia could be on Alderney, and they wanted to know where.

  ‘Come on, Sophie. This isn’t a game. If you know where she is, tell us. We want to help her, and you more than anybody should recognise that Robert Brookes is dangerous.’

  There was a pause as Becky listened. Tom didn’t have to look at Becky to feel every muscle in her body tighten.

  ‘What?’ she yelled into the phone. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  She listened some more and hung up.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  Tom glanced at her white face, her eyes looking like black holes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sophie. She doesn’t know where Olivia is, but she can and will contact her. She’s going to text Olivia’s number to us as well.’

  Tom waited.

  ‘She says Robert won’t hurt Olivia. It’s not Olivia he’s going for. It’s the children.’

  51

  Becky had known for some time that her level of fitness had dropped considerably since she’d started her disastrous affair with Peter Hunter. She’d stopped going to the gym just so she could be sure of being at home on the off-chance that he might try to call. Pathetic. But now it was catching up with her as they charged through terminal one of Manchester airport to catch their flight. It would have to be bloody terminal one.

  Following as closely behind Tom as she could, Becky wove her way through the shoppers in duty free, nearly sending a woman holding a bottle of Chanel perfume flying. If they missed this flight, there was nothing for hours, and they still hadn’t worked out the timings at the other end to get from Guernsey to Alderney. But one thing at a time.

  Since speaking to Sophie, Becky hadn’t really had time to think. All she was focused on was trying to get hold of Olivia. But the phone just kept going to voicemail. What if Robert had found her?

  She had talked to the Alderney police again, and they were doing everything possible, including trying to contact Olivia on the number that Sophie had provided. None of their investigations had revealed whether Olivia was living on the island or not, but the sergeant did say he had a plan and he would explain what he was doing when they arrived.

  As they reached the gate, Becky bent over to try to get her breath back. The monitor had said ‘Final Call’, and she was stunned to see that there were at least twenty people still waiting to board the plane. They could easily have walked and now she wouldn’t be feeling so sick. Even Tom was puffing and panting a bit. He grinned at her pain.

  ‘Made it,’ he gasped, leaning one hand on the back of a row of plastic chairs as if he needed holding upright.

  As they made their way on to the plane, they both got their breathing under control, and the moment’s euphoria at having made the flight collapsed under the reality of what was about to happen.

  Tom and Becky spent the flight going through every little detail they knew about Olivia’s home in Alderney, from the conversations with Robert about the view from the window to Sophie’s comments about the location. They were few and far between, but she had mentioned a bench nestled in a sand dune, with the house in the background. Surely that would help?

  The flight took ninety minutes, and there was nothing they could do but discuss the case – or, in Becky’s mind, go round and round in circles and always end up back at the same conclusion.

  After the first half hour had passed, Becky was desperate to find out from the cabin crew whether there would be a flight they could catch to Alderney. God, planes were frustrating places to be when you needed to be in contact with earth!

  The flight attendant came back up the aisle and crouched down by Becky’s side.

  ‘The next flight to Alderney takes off fifteen minutes after we arrive. We’ll get you straight to the plane.’

  The ground crew were as good as their word when they arrived in Guernsey, and Tom and Becky were invited to disembark first and then jump in an airport car which whisked them to the waiting plane.

  Under any other circumstances, Becky would have enjoyed the flight. Flying over the sea at such low altitude was wonderful – especially when they saw Alderney in the distance with its white beaches and turquoise seas. But the closer they got, the more agitated Becky began to feel.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered, as the little plane made what seemed to be remarkably slow progress towards the short landing strip.

  Once again, they were first off the plane and they rushed into the tiny arrivals
hall where they were met by the local police.

  ‘Have you found her?’ Tom asked as he shook the sergeant’s hand.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Nothing yet. Have you any more idea of where she might be?’

  ‘We’ve been thinking about this on the plane,’ Becky said, ‘and the only thing we know for certain is that she’s near a beach.’

  The sergeant gave her a look that said, ‘You have to be kidding me,’ but it wasn’t until they were in the car and speeding away from the airport that Becky understood why. Every corner they turned, there in front of them was the sea.

  The sergeant relented slightly by commenting, ‘At least we can rule out the town,’ but it was obvious that it wasn’t much help.

  Tom was sitting in the front passenger seat, and Becky leaned forwards to listen to the conversation.

  ‘How do you propose we go about it, Sergeant?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I’ve resorted to bush telegraph,’ the sergeant said. ‘My wife and my constable’s wife have been on the phone for the last two hours, talking to everybody they know – asking if anybody knows anything or has any idea where we should be looking. Trust me, this is our best plan. In the meantime, we’ll take the coast road. As far as I can find out, your man hasn’t hired a car. He could have hired a bike, but without using a credit card a car would be difficult. There’s always a chance he’s nicked one. Nobody locks their cars around here, and they all leave the keys in. That might help us, or it may be that the owner won’t realise it’s missing for a couple of days if your man’s been smart about it.’

  Great, thought Becky. Bloody excellent.

  52

  Today has been another perfect day. The sun has been shining, and yet we were the only people on this bit of beach. We spent hours this morning exploring the crystal-clear rock pools, and we’ve just finished building Billy’s ‘best-ever sandcastle’.

  I’m taking a moment to be lazy, and I lie back in the soft sand, gazing up at the blue sky overhead, listening to the children squabbling amicably about how to construct a drawbridge.