Dangerous Promises

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Not all of it,’ he said, ‘but it should be enough to keep you out of jail.’

  Sadie traced a finger across the surface of the table. She thought about it, looked up and gave a small nod. It might not be perfect, might not be ideal, but at least there was hope. At the moment she was prepared to settle for that.

  Epilogue

  It was five days now since Sadie had turned down the invitation to have Christmas dinner with the Hunters and had gone instead to her mother’s house. There had been nothing very festive about the occasion. They had sat across the table from each other, picking at the turkey and making small talk while they tried to skirt around any subject that might cause an argument. As this was pretty much everything – politics, religion, the state of Sadie’s relationship with Joel – there had been a generous amount of dull, heavy silences. When the day had finally come to an end, they had parted with obvious relief on both sides.

  Sadie paused in her packing, her hand resting on the clothes piled into the suitcase. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she would feel that sick dread pressing against her chest again. It came in the dead of night, waking her from bad dreams, and in broad daylight too. A shudder of what might have been ran down her spine.

  The memories of her time in the cellar, her escape, Mona’s death and the long exchange with Nathan Stone were always with her. Some of it was blurred at the edges, other parts so sharp and focused she could feel them cutting like a blade through her mind. Her thoughts drifted back to the morning she had faced the police.

  Sadie had woken, washed, put on the dressing gown and walked down the stairs to the room with the sofas and the magazines. Velma had been waiting for her. There was no sign of Stone, but her coat and bag were lying on the coffee table. Beside them was the holdall that she’d left behind in Oaklands after Eddie’s funeral.

  ‘How are you, hon?’ Velma had asked. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘I think so, thanks.’

  Velma had brought a set of clothes – a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pale yellow sweater – everything slightly too big but gloriously clean. There was brand new underwear too. After breakfast, she had got dressed and they had strolled the short distance to a ground-floor flat just round the corner in Meckle Street.

  ‘Walk around, take a good look. This is where you’ve been staying for the past few days.’

  And Sadie had wandered through the sparsely furnished rooms, trying to commit it all to memory: the magnolia walls, the tiny galley kitchen, the bathroom with its cracked bath and rust marks running from the taps. There were sheets and blankets, pillows and a gold-coloured eiderdown on the double bed.

  They had left the holdall in the flat along with toiletries, more clothes and a Sunday newspaper dating from the day she’d allegedly arrived. Milk was placed in the fridge along with eggs, butter and a packet of ham. Teabags and bread were put in the cupboard.

  ‘Do you think the police will check?’ Sadie had asked.

  ‘There’s no way of knowing, hon.’ Velma had placed the key in her hand. ‘Best to be on the safe side, huh?’

  There had been a tall Christmas tree in the foyer of Cowan Road Police Station, awash with tinsel, the fairy lights blinking. While she and Velma had waited, sitting on hard plastic chairs, Sadie had found her eyes drawn continuously towards it. It had seemed out of place, incongruous, in the otherwise cold and clinical surroundings.

  Sadie’s recollection of the actual interview was broken and disjointed. She had done her best to play the part: a girl who had only just discovered that the police were looking for her, a girl who’d been mugged, a girl who flinched and became wide-eyed at the shocking news of the deaths of Mona Farrell and Peter Royston.

  There had been a lot of toing and froing, officers entering and leaving the room. She had the sense of phone calls being made behind the scenes, of information being confirmed, details being checked, before the next set of questions was thrown at her. Why had she come to London? Where had she been staying? What had her attackers looked like? Why did she think Mona Kellston had come to Kellston? She had held her nerve. She had kept it simple. She had stuck to her story.

  Eventually, she’d been released, but this had only been a reprieve rather than an ending to the affair. Back in Haverlea, she’d had to go through it all again, this time under the cool, judgemental eyes of Inspector Gerald Frayne. He had not believed her; she had seen it in his gaze and in the tight, straight set of his mouth. Over and over he had tried to catch her out, phrasing the same questions in different ways.

  ‘Why did Mona Farrell call herself Anne?’

  ‘When we bumped into each other on the train, she told me that she didn’t like the name, that everyone called her Anne now.’

  ‘Really?’ Frayne said. ‘Only her family claim that no one ever referred to her that way.’

  ‘It’s what she told me.’ Sadie had given a light shrug. ‘I hadn’t seen her for years so…’

  ‘You didn’t think it was odd?’

  ‘Not everyone likes the name they’ve been given.’

  It had gradually become clear to Sadie that the inspector had nothing on her. Oh, plenty of suspicions, that was for sure, but nothing he could prove. There were witnesses to her being at the fairground, but no one had seen her with Mona Farrell or Peter Royston. In the end, unable to charge her with anything, Inspector Frayne had let her go.

  Although Sadie had finally managed to walk free, she had not escaped unscathed. Sometimes there was damage that could never be undone. The twisted mind of Mona Farrell had left a legacy and nothing could ever be the same again.

  She remembered the look in Joel’s eyes, the horror and the pity when he’d seen her again for the first time. But over the next few days, as the initial shock subsided, his concern had been replaced by confusion and an endless barrage of questions: What had she been doing in London? Why hadn’t she told him about Mona Farrell and ‘Anne’? Why hadn’t she called to let him know that she’d been attacked?

  ‘I was only away for a few days. None of this makes any sense, Sadie.’

  And he was right. It didn’t. It was a tissue of lies, but she had no choice. She couldn’t tell him the truth. To do that would have meant asking him to keep secrets, to scheme and deceive, to go against everything that made him who he was.

  Joel had known that she was hiding something and the knowledge was a barrier between them, a wall that grew higher by the day. Her silence only made things worse. By refusing to talk, to explain, she fed his suspicions, creating a distrust that ate away at their relationship. As Christmas approached it had become clear to both of them that something had been broken – and could never be fixed.

  Sadie finished her packing and took a final look round. Was there anything she’d missed? Her gaze skimmed the room, alighting on the framed photo on the dresser: her and Joel standing in the back garden with their arms round each other. She crossed the room and picked it up, a pain pulling at her heart as she ran her thumb across the glass, a final touch of his face before she left for ever.

  Before the tears could start, Sadie put the picture down again. She fastened the suitcase, took it down the stairs and left it by the front door. Then she went back up to the flat, stood by the window and waited for the taxi to arrive.

  Only a fraction of Gerald Frayne’s attention was on the Nine O’Clock News – unemployment down, a new Honda factory to be built in Sunderland; most of it was focused on the file balanced on his lap. He glanced up at the TV, sighed and returned his attention to the thick sheaf of papers.

  Nina looked over at him. ‘You’ll wear that file out. How many times have you been through it this week? I thought the case was closed.’

  ‘There’s something we’ve missed. I’m sure of it.’ Frustrated, he flicked back a few pages. ‘It doesn’t add up. I mean why would Mona Farrell kill Eddie Wise? There’s no rhyme or reason to it.’

  ‘But you said they found her fingerprints in his flat. And wasn’t there a receipt for a
knife in her purse?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not disputing that she actually killed the man, I just can’t figure out why. I mean, Peter Royston I get – he was sniffing round, threatening to expose her – but Eddie? What did she have against him?’

  ‘Did she need to have anything against him? I thought she had a history of psychiatric illness.’

  ‘Yes, but nothing like this. And he wasn’t just some random victim. According to Sadie Wise, she and Mona bumped into each other on the train, had a brief chat, a bit of a catch-up and then went their separate ways. That was on the Friday evening. By Sunday afternoon, Eddie Wise was lying dead on the kitchen floor with a knife through his chest.’

  Nina took a sip of cocoa while she pondered on this. ‘Maybe, in some kind of twisted way, Mona thought she was doing Sadie a favour. There were problems, weren’t there, over the divorce? Hadn’t Eddie been avoiding the issue for quite a while?’

  ‘Years, apparently.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘But how did Mona even know where he lived? London’s a big place. And fine, Sadie might have told her that she was starting the search in Kellston, but at the time – or so she claims – she didn’t even know where he was living herself.’

  ‘You think she’s lying about that?’

  Gerald gave a snort. ‘I think the truth and Sadie Wise parted company a long time ago. None of it adds up. According to Joel, Sadie was trying to avoid Mona Farrell, refusing to take her calls, and yet she still went to meet her at the fair. Then there was all that business at the funeral. And why did she suddenly take off for London as soon as her boyfriend’s back was turned? No, it stinks; it’s rotten to the core.’

  ‘What’s Ian McCloud’s take on it all?’

  Gerald’s old colleague at Cowan Road had kept him in the loop as the London side of the investigation had progressed. ‘His theory is that Mona had some kind of obsession with Sadie. There were press clippings found in a shoebox in her bedroom, pictures of the happy couple on their wedding day, except Eddie had been cut out of them all. And there were other items that had been taken from the Haverlea flat – not valuables, just personal stuff, an empty perfume bottle, a lipstick, strands of fair hair pulled out of a comb.’

  Nina inclined her head, gazing at her husband. ‘But if Mona was fixated on her, it’s hardly Sadie’s fault.’

  ‘Unless she used that obsession to her advantage.’

  ‘Which was what, exactly? Even if she did somehow manipulate Mona into murdering Eddie, then why turn up at his flat? Why go and talk to him about the divorce? She was putting herself in the frame when she didn’t need to.’

  ‘Maybe it was too late by then.’ Gerald pressed on his temples with his fingertips, feeling the start of a dull, throbbing headache. ‘She was already in London and people knew she was looking for him. By getting Eddie to sign the papers, it would look like she didn’t have a motive. And maybe… maybe the timing was off. Perhaps Mona made her move earlier than she was supposed to. Another few hours and Sadie Wise would have been completely in the clear.’

  ‘But if she had his signature, she had her divorce – so why have him killed at all?’

  ‘Bitterness, revenge? Your guess is as good as mine. The guy walked out on her, don’t forget, and fleeced her in the process.’

  ‘Years ago,’ Nina said. ‘Do you really think she’d risk everything she’s got now, a home, a fiancé, a future, just to get her own back? It seems pretty extreme.’

  Gerald’s gaze floated back towards the TV for a moment. He stared at the screen, but all he was really seeing was Sadie Wise sitting in the interview room. Her face might have been battered and bruised, but her eyes were full of grim determination. ‘So perhaps there was another motive, something we don’t know about.’

  ‘Like what?’

  But Gerald was at a loss. All his instincts told him that Sadie was lying, that he couldn’t believe a word that came out of her mouth, but proving her guilt was a different matter entirely. It always got under his skin when he had a case with loose ends, and this one was virtually unravelling at the edges. There were too many unanswered questions, too much left up in the air.

  The only part of the investigation that he’d had any real control over was the murder of Peter Royston and, other than the fact that she’d been at the right place at the right time, there was no solid evidence that Sadie had actually colluded in the killing. Witnesses had come forward to confirm that she’d been standing by the Big Wheel for over fifteen minutes, that she’d gone nowhere near the back of the fairground and that she’d left alone after the police and ambulance arrived.

  Gerald looked at his wife again. ‘And Mona Farrell being knocked over. You don’t think that’s a touch coincidental? The one person who could have filled in the gaps and suddenly she’s dead.’

  ‘You think it was deliberate?’

  Gerald briefly dropped his gaze, staring down at the papers as if by a sheer effort of will he might be able to read between the lines. He looked up again and shrugged. ‘Let’s just say it was convenient for Sadie.’

  ‘So they haven’t found the driver yet, the person who did it?’

  ‘It’s still under investigation.’

  Nina yawned, lifting her fingers to cover her mouth. ‘So what now?’ she asked. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Gerald shook his head. The more he thought about the case, the more his temples ached. ‘What can I do?’ It seemed to him that the end of the story was as shrouded in mystery as the beginning: Sadie’s trip to London, the mugging, the hit-and-run. Nothing was clear. It was all smoke and mirrors. ‘Unless some new evidence comes to light, the case is closed.’

  ‘And can you live with that?’

  Gerald gave her a wry smile. ‘I’m going to have to, aren’t I?’ He allowed himself one last glance at the page, his eyes quickly scanning the list of items found in Mona’s bedroom in Hampstead. It included a Liberty silk scarf and a paperback copy of a novel called Strangers on a Train. He shook his aching head. No, there was nothing to help there. He closed the file and placed it neatly on the table beside him.

  Petra Gissing stood at the sink, gazing out at the back yard. Her arms were wrist-deep in the bowl, but she’d forgotten all about the washing up she was supposed to be doing. Sometimes, without any warning, it all came back to her – the girl appearing out of nowhere, the screech of brakes, the dull thud as Mona Farrell’s body hit the car – and suddenly she was back on Station Road with the panic coursing through her veins again.

  She swallowed hard, her jaw clenching. But it hadn’t been her fault. Already she had dismissed the version where her eyes were on Sadie Wise instead of the road, where she didn’t even bother to look before she put her foot on the accelerator. No, that wasn’t how it had happened. The girl had run straight out in front of her. It had been a done deal. There hadn’t been a chance of her stopping in time.

  Anyway, there were rumours flying round that Mona Farrell had been sick in the head and that she was the one who’d killed Eddie. It wasn’t public knowledge yet – her family were rich and influential and busy trying to sweep it all under the carpet – but if it was true, then surely Petra had done the world a favour. One less nutter on the streets had to be a good thing.

  Wayne came in through the back door, interrupting her thoughts. He brought with him a gust of chill winter air and the attitude of a sulky schoolboy.

  ‘Don’t start,’ she said.

  He stamped his wet boots on the mat and glared at her. ‘I didn’t say nothin’.’

  ‘You don’t need to. Just get over it, huh? It’s been weeks now and you’ve still got the bloody hump. You can’t change what’s done so just grow up and deal with it.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. ‘Twenty fuckin’ grand you cost me. Do you know what I could have done with that?’

  Petra raised her eyes to the ceiling – she’d heard it all before – and let her breat
h hiss out through her teeth. ‘Frittered it away on beer and fags, probably. Jesus, you should be thanking me, not having a go.’

  ‘And how do you figure that out?’

  ‘Because if it wasn’t for me, you’d be six foot under by now. Do you really think Nathan Stone was going to pay up? Well, I’ve got news for you – he wasn’t. What he was going to do is come round here and blow your bloody head off your neck!’

  ‘Says you,’ he grunted.

  ‘Says anyone with half a brain.’ Petra didn’t have any regrets about releasing Sadie Wise. The girl, as she’d promised, hadn’t gone to the law, not about the kidnap and not about the accident either. At about eight o’clock on the morning after she’d let her go, Petra – who hadn’t been to bed yet – had received a phone call from Stone. His instructions had been curt and to the point.

  ‘There’s going to be a car arriving in ten minutes, a grey BMW. Give Sadie’s coat and bag to the driver.’

  Petra didn’t have a problem with that. She knew where they were. While she’d been cleaning out the cellar, she’d found them stuffed into a crate in the bigger room. ‘And then what?’ she’d asked. ‘What happens next? I don’t want more trouble. I didn’t even know about… She shot Wayne, don’t forget. She could have killed him. Why don’t we —’

  But Stone had hung up before she’d had the chance to finish. The BMW had duly arrived and Petra had hurried out to hand the things over. She’d thought about asking the driver to pass on a message to Stone, but had second thoughts when she saw the evil look in his eyes.

  The rest of the morning had been equally tense for her, trying to act normal when the kids got up while all the time stressing over what Stone might do next and wondering whether the law would come knocking on the door.

  Petra took her hands out of the bowl and dried them on a tea towel. She gave her son an impatient, irritated glance. ‘And don’t ask me to say I’m sorry ’cause I’m not. I’ve got better things to do for the next ten years than stare at the four walls of a prison cell.’