by CJ Carver
Silence. Grace heard the siren growing louder.
‘Mum?’
‘I’m sorry,’ her mother said. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just hoped you might . . . create a miracle.’ She gave a soft bark of laughter but it wasn’t humorous. It was the sound of despair.
‘Mum, where are you?’
‘Darling, I must go.’
‘What’s with the siren?’ Grace asked. She felt a surge of alarm as she recognised it as a police siren, not an ambulance. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Love you.’
Grace was about to say love you too, but the line went dead. Her mother had hung up.
CHAPTER THREE
Dan watched a police car appear at the end of the street, fluorescent stripes gleaming through the rain.
He stepped out and beckoned urgently. His ears were ringing, his mouth dry.
Stella Reavey pocketed her mobile phone. He’d heard every word of her conversation to someone she’d called darling – her husband? her psychiatrist? – and didn’t discount the likelihood she’d staged it for his benefit. As if one overheard conversation would convince him she wasn’t lying.
The car switched off its siren and came to a halt. Two officers climbed out. One was in his thirties, male, close-cropped dark hair, the other younger, female, with acne scars on her cheeks. Both had epaulettes embroidered with their names and collar numbers, a new initiative by the Gwent police to try to make their officers more approachable. Jim Parsons and Vicky Cross.
‘Mr Forrester?’ Jim Parsons asked.
‘Yes. This is the woman who’s been harassing us.’ Dan pointed at Stella, who was standing there looking about as dangerous as a day-old kitten. ‘If you wouldn’t mind keeping her here, I’d like to take my daughter to my wife. She’s having her hair cut.’ He indicated the Loose Ends salon across the road. ‘I’ll come back immediately.’
‘Are you OK?’ Vicky Cross ducked down to ask Aimee, who nodded. She’d put her thumb in her mouth and her eyes were as wide as dinner plates. ‘Great,’ said the PC. ‘Let’s get you to your mum, shall we?’ She held out her hand but Aimee ducked behind Dan, clutching his knees. ‘OK,’ she said, glancing at Dan. ‘Let’s all go together. Jim can stay and talk with . . .’ She looked pointedly at Stella.
‘Stella Reavey,’ said Stella and to Dan’s disbelief, she reached into her bag, brought out a business card and handed it to Jim Parsons as though they were all networking at some high-flying corporate event.
‘Let’s go.’ Dan’s voice was brusque.
Vicky Cross walked with him and Aimee to the salon. When he opened the door, he saw Jenny at the far end with Stacey the hairdresser. The two women were chatting. Jenny was laughing, giving a funny little snort in the middle – almost a snigger – that meant they were talking about something personal, probably rude. Her hair was dampened flat against her neck, the colour of wet straw, but when it was dry it would lighten into pale yellow waves. Long limbed with blue eyes and a mischievous sense of humour, all she had to do was twitch her little finger and he came running. Jenny and Aimee. His two girls, the centre of his world. His raison d’être.
Jenny gave another snort but then her eyes went to the mirror and the reflected image of Dan, Aimee, and a uniformed officer. She froze for a moment, her face draining of colour. Then she exploded from her chair. Stacey’s scissors went flying and she stumbled backwards ‘What the . . .’
‘It’s OK, sweetheart,’ Dan told his wife, soothingly. ‘Everything’s fine. Aimee’s fine. I promise.’
But Jenny was already on her knees and holding Aimee, checking her face, running her hands over her body. ‘Honey, what happened?’ Her voice was urgent. ‘Are you OK? Please God, tell me you’re OK. Tell me . . .’
Aimee’s face began to crumple under her mother’s panic.
‘Jen, she’s fine.’ Dan squatted next to them. ‘Aren’t you, celery?’ He gave Aimee a wink.
‘Avocado,’ Aimee managed to whisper.
‘Not now, Dan.’ Jenny rounded on him. ‘Tell me what this policewoman’s doing here.’
Dan rose to his feet. Jenny stayed with Aimee, stroking her head rhythmically, making crooning noises under her breath.
‘A woman harassed us in the supermarket, that’s all.’ Dan automatically tried to downplay it. ‘She wouldn’t go away. So I called the police. I wanted to –’
‘What woman?’
‘She’s with my colleague,’ the PC said. ‘Your husband thought it best that you look after Aimee while we talk to her and your husband about the incident.’
Jenny scrambled to her feet. One side of her hair had been cut and her fringe stuck up in an odd little quiff Dan hadn’t seen before.
‘Where is she?’ Her eyes were wild. She seemed to have forgotten about Aimee and as she began to move to the window Dan pulled her back and out of sight. She was trembling, her hands fluttering like birds.
‘I don’t want her to see you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to give her any more ammunition before –’
‘Ammunition?’
‘She claimed to know me. But she doesn’t.’
‘Claimed?’ Her voice began to rise. ‘What does that mean?’
Aimee’s lips were wobbling. Tears starting to form. He said quietly, ‘You’re scaring Aimee.’
‘Christ.’ She put a hand briefly over her eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s just that you’re scaring the crap out of me.’
‘We’re fine,’ he said. ‘Honestly.’
She looked at him for a moment and then, before he could stop her, she was at the window, looking out. She went quite still. Dan sensed a heightening of tension, like an animal catching sight of a predator.
All the hairs rose along his forearms. ‘You recognise her?’
Jenny’s mouth opened but no sound came out.
‘Jenny?’ When he touched her arm she jumped as though electrified. ‘Do you know her?’
She swung her head to look at him. Worked her mouth before she spoke. ‘No.’ Her voice was steady. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Are you sure?’ He was frowning.
‘I’m sure.’ She moved away from the window, her movements slow, her gaze unfocused. ‘For a moment . . . I thought it was someone else . . . An old school friend. But it’s not. What does she want?’
He didn’t think he’d tell her that it was to find someone called Cedric. That would really freak her out. Keeping his voice low, he said, ‘The best thing for Aimee right now is that you get on with your day as usual. Finish getting your hair cut. I don’t want this to get blown into anything it isn’t, OK? Can you do that for her?’ And for you, he wanted to add, but didn’t.
Jenny looked at Dan, straight into his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if she was seeing him. She said, ‘Of course. Aimee comes first.’ Her tone held no inflection.
Dan watched Jenny turn and give the policewoman a nod. ‘Thank you.’ She was stiffly polite. Then she ducked down to Aimee and said, ‘Time to finish my haircut, don’t you think?’
Aimee looked anxiously at Dan. He said, ‘I’ll be back soon, hunny bunny, then we’ll go home, maybe watch a movie before we go to Candy’s later. How does that sound?’
‘Can we watch How to Train Your Dragon?’
Aimee’s favourite movie of the moment.
‘Yup.’
The anxiety vanished beneath a brilliant smile.
As Dan left the salon, Stacey settled Jenny back into her chair. Aimee was chatting brightly to Stacey. As he glanced back, Dan noticed how pale and quiet Jenny seemed. He put it down to the shock of seeing a police officer with Aimee. The last time she had received a personal visit from a PC was when she’d been informed of Luke’s death. No wonder Jenny had reacted the way she had.
As he stepped outside, Dan’s pulse rate increased. Stella Reavey was standing by the patrol car, but PC Jim Parsons wasn’t with her, questioning her, or even looking at her. He was leaning his hip against the boot of his car,
talking on his mobile and holding up what looked like Stella Reavey’s business card. He seemed to be reading from it. Dan walked quickly across the road, PC Cross thudding alongside. As he neared, Jim Parsons nodded a few times before putting his phone into his pocket. Walking to Stella, the police officer returned her business card. Dan swept the card from her fingers but she didn’t protest.
Stella Reavey. DCA & Co.
Aside from a landline telephone number, that was all that the card showed. Nothing else. No address, no email, no website.
‘Very minimal,’ he remarked acidly. And pocketed it.
Again, Stella didn’t protest. Instead, she reached into her handbag and brought out another card. ‘I’d like you to have this one as well.’
It was an identical card but on the reverse side it showed a handwritten address and mobile number. The writing was small and neat, very precise.
‘My home details,’ she said.
Dan looked at Jim Parsons. ‘I’d like to get a restraining order against this woman. Make sure she never comes near me or my family again.’
‘You have my word that I won’t,’ Stella said.
‘Shut up.’ His voice was flat. ‘I’m talking to the police.’
‘And the police,’ the PC said with a sigh, ‘need a moment. Sorry, sir, if you don’t mind . . .’ Parsons took his colleague aside and started talking. Dan watched their body language. He saw the female PC’s eyes widen slightly then flick to Stella Reavey with an expression of . . . what? Surprise? He couldn’t be certain, but then she began to look interested, even intrigued. The policewoman’s gaze swept over Stella Reavey, taking in her apparel, her shoes, her bag, absorbing every detail of her appearance. Why?
PC Parsons brought out his phone and dialled. He spoke briefly before passing it to his colleague who didn’t say much, mostly listened. All the while, her gaze remained on Stella Reavey. Finally, she hung up. Gave a nod to Jim Parsons. Both police officers came and stood with Dan.
Parsons cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on a space past Dan’s shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. He said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we have to return to the station.’ To Stella Reavey, he said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t do this again.’
‘Sorry for the inconvenience,’ she said smoothly.
Both officers gave a nod and moved towards their patrol car.
‘Hey! Wait!’ Dan strode after them. ‘This woman harassed me and my daughter. I want her dealt with. I want her warned off, and if you won’t help me I won’t be responsible for my actions . . .’
Jim Parsons glanced at Stella who shook her head briefly. Neither officer looked at Dan as they climbed inside their car, buckled up.
‘What the hell is going on?!’ Dan yelled.
Jim Parsons buzzed down his window. Jerked his chin at Stella. ‘Ask her.’
With that, Parsons started the engine, shoved the stick into gear and drove away.
Dan felt a wave of anger and frustration so strong he felt sick.
‘You . . .’ He spun round to see Stella was walking away. He jogged after her.
She said, ‘Dan, you’ve got to calm down.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do.’
‘Come and see me when you’re calmer. I’ll be at home all day tomorrow.’
She turned towards the road. It was only then that he took in the black Jaguar with darkened windows pulling up next to the pavement. Stella moved to the passenger door, her hand reaching for the handle.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She didn’t respond. Opening the door, she slipped inside. The car was still moving.
‘Wait!’ he called.
But the door was already closed and the car was accelerating away. Dan stood in the street with her card in his hand, watching it go.
CHAPTER FOUR
Stella leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
‘How was it?’ Bernard asked. She could sense him studying her but she kept her eyes shut. She felt strangely grey, as though the meeting with Dan had drained her of energy.
‘Not as well as I’d hoped.’
‘No recognition at all?’ he probed.
‘Nothing.’
‘You approached him as we discussed?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Do you think he believed you?’
‘Not a word.’ She sighed. ‘But I know one thing. He won’t be able to resist following it up. Too many questions unanswered.’
‘You laid the bait well enough?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She forced herself to open her eyes. ‘But still, there could be a fly in the ointment.’
Bernard’s head turned briefly to look at the side of her face. ‘What’s that?’
‘His wife.’
‘You think she’ll be a problem?’
‘We have to hope not.’
The last remnants of Chepstow slid away as Bernard accelerated east and on to the M48. Rain spattered against the windscreen.
‘Have you told Grace yet?’ he asked.
‘No.’
She didn’t want to admit she’d just spoken to Grace, albeit about Dan, and was thankful when Bernard didn’t say any more but concentrated on his driving. He stayed in the outside lane as they crossed the Severn Road Bridge, windscreen wipers working to clear the spray thrown up by three lanes of traffic.
‘It’s got to be done,’ he said.
So, he wasn’t going to let it drop. She turned her gaze to the River Severn below, oozing smooth and brown.
‘I know,’ she murmured.
Bernard gave a sigh of exasperation.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll call her the minute I get home.’
‘If you say so.’ His tone suggested that he didn’t believe her but she didn’t pursue it. Grace must already be surprised that she had called up out of the blue – and with such an odd request – but she’d be even more shocked at the next topic of conversation. How would Grace react? All she had to do was think of the bombshell she was about to drop and Stella’s mouth turned dry. She couldn’t believe she was feeling so apprehensive and she had to remind herself that she wasn’t going to confess everything over the phone. All she had to do was get Grace to see her, which sounded simple but – knowing Grace – it might prove impossible to do this without giving something away.
She closed her eyes again. With the steady shhhush of the Jaguar’s tyres on the wet road, and the way the leather cradled her, she felt as though she could drop off to sleep at any second. Talk about unnerving. She’d never napped during the day.
‘Are you OK?’ Bernard asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, irritated by his anxious tone. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’ She hated the feeling. She only used to feel like this when she was jet-lagged.
‘You need a holiday.’ He smiled at her and she knew he was trying to lift her mood. ‘Somewhere nice and warm.’
‘I’ve heard the British Virgin Islands are nice at this time of year.’ She smiled back, suddenly feeling better.
By the time Bernard dropped her off at home, darkness had fallen. 6.30. Both her neighbours had their lights burning and their TVs on, indicating they were home. Stella unlocked her outer door and stepped into the tiny porch before unlocking the front door and punching in her alarm code. Normally she didn’t get home until after eight and the heating had yet to come on. Dropping her bag on the hall table, she went into the kitchen and pressed the override button on the boiler. Seconds later it kicked in with a comforting whoosh.
For the next hour or so she pottered, checking her emails, half-watching the news, putting on some washing. Yet all the time at the corner of her vision stood Suzie Lui protesting: No! The young woman would stay there, haunting her soul until Stella died – a constant reminder of her appalling miscalculation.
Stella was ironing a shirt for the next morning when the phone rang. She looked at the display.
Grace.
Her stomach hollowed.
The phone continued to ring.
She didn’t have to tell Grace tonight, Stella told herself. She could do it tomorrow. But she’d been using that excuse for the past three weeks and time was running out. She had to see her daughter.
The phone clicked to the answer machine and at the same time, Stella snatched up the phone.
‘Gracie,’ she said.
‘Hi Mum.’ Grace sounded surprised. ‘For a moment I thought you weren’t there.’
Stella muted the TV.
‘Is everything OK?’ Grace asked.
This was the perfect opening, but she didn’t have the courage to take it. Instead she said, ‘Absolutely.’
There was a brief silence.
Stella opened her mouth to say something, she wasn’t sure what, but Grace spoke first.
‘I’ve been thinking about you and your friend all day. How did he lose his memory? Do you know?’
Should she tell the truth? Or should she lie? She was so used to living in a shadow world that the truth had become an elastic thing, twisting and stretching over the years until . . . well. One day, obviously, it broke. For the first time she could remember in years, she spoke the truth without pausing to weigh her words.
She said, ‘I rather suspect he was given an amnesia drug.’
A brief silence.
‘A what?’
‘It was probably for his own good. His three-year-old son was killed in front of him and his mind snapped. He was locked up in a mental institution.’
Stella could picture Dan from that time as if it were yesterday. Unshaven, eyes rimmed with red, angry and bloodshot. His hair a matted tangle. When he spoke there had been no sound; his throat had been made raw from screaming. She closed her eyes, praying she hadn’t tripped him back into that world of insanity. The last thing she wanted was to affect his mental health now, when he appeared so stable.
‘Who on earth would dispense an amnesia drug?’ asked Grace.
‘A private hospital, probably.’
Another silence.
‘I’ve never heard of an amnesia drug being used in any hospital, private or not,’ Grace said. ‘As far as I’m aware, that sort of thing is still very much in the research phase. Which hospital?’