‘She was killed with that knife.’
‘The knife …’ Her voice cracked. She tried again. ‘The knife you left in my house?’
‘No!’ The boy looked surprised.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘The knife I found in your house.’
Jack Bright withdrew the knife from the mud-crusted hiking boot, then slowly frowned at it – confused by recognition.
The shell handle shimmered like oil on water. The blade was serrated on one edge, curved on the other to a cruel point …
He felt Pam’s grip on his wrist; heard the inhuman howl of their lives falling apart, and he knew – somehow he knew – that the knife – this knife! – had murdered his mother.
He dropped it with a panicky clatter and backed away from it on his knees, dazed by fear and uncertain memory.
Then his head snapped up at the exorcist cry:
‘WHOEVER’S THERE HAD BETTER GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS HOUSE!’
Catherine got up too fast. She winced as her tummy bumped the table side. People looked at them. She wanted to slap the boy, but instead she bent over him, trying to keep this private.
Civil.
English.
Her trembling betrayed her. ‘If you ever come near me again,’ she said quietly, ‘I’ll call the police.’
The boy looked at her with eyes that were as cold and as grey as the ice on a dirty lake.
‘No you won’t.’
Jack was electric with fury.
He had broken into Catherine While’s home and left a knife by her bed and a note threatening to kill her.
She would see them. She would call the police. The police would investigate. Connections would be made. Knots would unravel. The man who’d killed his mother would finally be caught.
None of this had been in any doubt for Jack …
Until it hadn’t happened.
Now he had nothing. Not the knife, and not the killer.
He should never have left the knife behind! He should have taken it with him. Gone straight to the cops and told them where he’d found it and what it meant … But he couldn’t do that because he didn’t know what it meant. Was Adam While the muffled voice? The unidentified male? He didn’t know, and didn’t know how to find out. Only the police could do that and he wasn’t about to ask them because, like Louis said, they always got you for something. And if he was nicked for burglary, then Joy and Merry would be in care before the day was out.
Jack couldn’t let that happen.
That’s why she was supposed to call the police. Tell them about the knife. The note. The cake on the kitchen floor. The late-night phone call.
Why wouldn’t she call the police?
‘Shit!’ he shouted. ‘Shit!’
Near the little police station was a phone box.
‘Police, fire or ambulance?’
He couldn’t speak.
The orange phone dangling on the twisted wire.
‘Hello. Police, fire or ambulance?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Hello.’
‘Do you want police, fire or ambulance, sir?’
Jack looked at the police station. ‘I want to report …’ he said. ‘I want to report …’
What did he want to report? Jack didn’t know. A murder? He wasn’t reporting a murder because they already knew about the murder. It was a murderer he wanted to report, but he had no proof. He knew where the proof was, and his gut felt it, and it all made sense in the darkness inside his head, but once he brought it out into the light so he could see it, the proof turned to dust, like one of Merry’s vampires.
He couldn’t risk losing what was left of his family for dust.
‘Sir? Can you tell me the nature of your emergency, please?’
Jack hung up.
Then he beat the phone to death against the wall.
Catherine couldn’t remember driving home from the supermarket, but she must have, because here she was, in the driveway, and shaking so hard that her teeth chattered and her fingers fumbled on the seatbelt catch, making the panic rise inside her.
Screw utmost serenity! She had to tell Adam! She had to tell the police! She got a jagged pang of regret for burning the card in the sink. She saw again the paper turned to soft ash, washing down the plug hole.
Idiot!
But she still had the knife. The knife would be enough. They could get DNA off the knife. They could get DNA off anything. Fast, too! She’d seen it on TV. Let them nail the little bastard. The lying, thieving, stalking little shit. If he’d left her alone, she would have left him alone, but now she didn’t care if they gunned him down in the fucking street!
The seatbelt finally popped open and she hauled herself out of the car.
It took her three goes to get the quivering key into the lock.
She went upstairs as fast as the baby allowed, her chest heaving from fear as much as exertion.
Chips slunk off the bed but she ignored him. She opened her bra drawer and slid her hand to the back.
She couldn’t find the knife.
She checked again, slower this time.
It wasn’t there.
She pulled the drawer out completely and tipped it on to the bed.
A jumble of silken wire and ribbon and lace.
The knife was not there.
She yanked open her knicker drawer. Her sock drawer. Her jumpers and T-shirts and jeans.
Not there.
But it must be! It must be there! She had pushed it to the back. It had fallen down inside. It must have …
She pulled all the drawers out, piling them haphazardly on the bed in a noisy wood-and-cotton Jenga, then sank awkwardly on to her knees, holding the bed for support, to check inside the dark shell of the wooden chest.
It was empty.
The knife was gone.
The little shit had broken back in and taken it. When? Why? To get his so-called proof? Or just to mess with her head? To show her he could come and go as he pleased? Just to scare her?
It had worked before and it was working again.
She wasn’t safe.
Her baby wasn’t safe.
None of them were safe!
The skin on the back of Catherine’s neck crawled with unspeakable dread.
‘Are you looking for this?’
She screamed.
Catherine pressed a hand over her heart to stop it bounding clear out of her chest.
‘Oh my God, Adam! What are you doing here?’
‘Are you looking for this?’ he repeated.
She looked down at the knife in his hand. The brutal blade. The handle of shell.
There was no lie Catherine could think of fast enough.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it doing in your underwear drawer?’
‘What were you doing in my underwear drawer?’
‘Don’t fuck about, Cath!’
Catherine was surprised. Adam had never spoken to her so rudely. He rarely swore.
She rose awkwardly from her knees, using the corner of the chest to haul herself upright, then sat on the edge of the bed and pushed her hair out of her eyes.
He looked at her intently.
She took a deep breath. ‘Somebody left it by the bed.’
‘Who?’
‘I didn’t tell you only because I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone broke in, Adam. While you were in Chesterfield.’
‘A burglar?’
‘Yes.’
‘A burglar broke in and left this knife by your bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t call me?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Did you call the police?’
She hesitated, and Adam gave a short, incredulous laugh.
Because it sounded so stupid. Catherine knew that and felt her face grow warm with shame.
‘What could they have done? I chased him out of the house with that horrible vase that Va
lerie gave us. I never even saw him. He didn’t take anything!’
‘So a burglar broke in just to leave this knife next to your bed?’
His sarcasm stung.
‘And a note,’ she said defiantly.
‘What did it say?’
‘Adam—’
‘WHAT THE FUCK DID IT SAY?’
‘ “I could have killed you.” ’
The words were shocked out of her.
There was a stunned silence and Catherine worked hard not to cry. This was all so unexpectedly horrible. Adam was being so mean to her. She looked up at him, willing him to reach out and touch her, to hold her, to tell her he loved her and she’d done the right thing and that it was all going to be OK …
But he didn’t. He just stood there, flushed with anger.
‘Where is it?’ he demanded coldly. ‘Let me see it.’
For a moment Catherine was so confused that she didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘What?’
‘The note.’
‘I … I burned it.’
‘You burned it?’
‘I burned it. In the kitchen sink.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
She blinked up at him. ‘What?’
‘You’re lying to me.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You are!’ he cried. ‘It makes no sense! A burglar breaks in and you don’t call me? Or the police? He doesn’t steal anything but he leaves this knife? By your bed? You say there was a note but you burned it? I’m not a fucking idiot, Catherine!’
‘Adam—’ She reached for his hand but he shook her off.
‘Are you having an affair?’
‘What?’ Catherine was blindsided.
‘Someone was here in our bedroom and you’re lying about it. Are you having an affair?’
‘An affair?’ She grappled with this new twist.
‘Is that why you’ve stopped having sex with me? You’re getting it somewhere else?’
‘I’m nearly eight months pregnant, Adam!’
‘Tell me the truth, Cath.’
‘I am telling you the truth!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Nobody!’
‘Just tell me who it is. I won’t be angry. I just have to know.’
‘It’s nobody. Adam, you’re being ridiculous.’
‘Don’t tell me I’m ridiculous!’ he shouted. ‘I’m trying to protect you! You and the baby! And all this time you’ve been lying to me. I know it! That phone call! The wrong number. You lied to my face! So don’t tell me I’m ridiculous, Catherine, just tell me the fucking truth.’
His lip trembled, and in a blinding flash Catherine realized that Adam was more than just angry …
He was scared.
She had lied to him, and because of that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, but it wasn’t an illogical one, wasn’t ridiculous.
Catherine’s heart ached for the man she loved.
‘This is the truth, Adam. Please believe me. I didn’t tell anyone about the burglary because I didn’t think they could do anything, and I just couldn’t face the drama. The hoo-hah. But I was being ridiculous, not you. I see that now. Believe me, I wish I’d called you. I wish I’d called the police. But I didn’t. And the longer it went on, the harder it got to tell anyone!’
She took his hand and this time he let her hold it.
‘I feel terrible about lying to you. But I just wanted to forget all about it and stay calm. For the baby …’ She placed his hand gently on her tummy under her own. ‘For our baby …’
He stood for a moment, head bowed. ‘Who is he?’
‘God, Adam! He’s just a boy!’
Adam took his hand from hers.
‘You said you never saw him!’ The accusation was back in his voice.
‘That night,’ she said. ‘I never saw him the night he broke in.’
‘But you’ve seen him since?’
Catherine sighed deeply and nodded. ‘Today,’ she said. ‘Just now, at the supermarket. And he’s just a boy, Adam. A skinny, scruffy little kid.’
‘Why did you meet him at the supermarket?’
‘I didn’t meet him! He just came up to me in the car park.’
Catherine paused.
Mentally edited.
She didn’t want to say that she’d bought the boy tea and cake when Adam was apparently so alert to betrayal.
‘He admitted he’d broken in.’
‘What else?’
‘Just …’ she hesitated.
‘What else?’
‘He told me some crazy story about his mother being murdered with that knife …’
She looked down at the knife, loose in Adam’s hand now – its vicious tip pointing at the floor.
‘This knife?’ He looked confused. He held it up to show her, as if there might be another one.
She sniffed back tears. ‘Yes. That’s why I came straight home to find it.’
‘What were you going to do with it?’
‘I don’t know. Take it to the police. Let them sort it out. Just … get it out of the house.’
Adam said nothing, just stared down at the knife in his hand.
‘He said he found it here,’ she said tentatively.
He nodded, focusing on the knife. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Because it’s mine. But I haven’t seen it for so long I thought I’d lost it, to be honest.’
He sat down beside her with a sigh, and took her hand in his. ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you, Cath. You gave me a fright.’
Relief washed over her like a balm.
‘I’m sorry, Ad. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you that night.’
‘I can see now how it happened,’ he said. ‘You were alone and frightened, and worried about protecting the baby … It was all too much to deal with at one time.’
She nodded vehemently. That’s exactly how it had felt. Too much to deal with at one time.
‘You made one bad choice, that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded.
One bad choice. And so many consequences.
‘It was him on the phone that night …’
‘I thought so,’ he said grimly.
‘And I think he flattened Rhod’s tyre. Jan found a note on our car. It said Call the police.’
‘He sounds psychotic,’ said Adam seriously.
‘Maybe,’ she nodded wearily. ‘Or maybe he’s just getting his own back because I chased him out of the house. Either way, if he wanted to scare me, then he’s doing a bloody good job.’
She felt her chin tremble and then Adam took her in his arms. Finally Catherine allowed herself to be comforted by him, and it felt so good and warm and safe that she wished she had let it happen weeks ago.
‘Why are you here?’ she snuffled into his chest.
‘Huh?’
‘Why aren’t you in Cornwall?’
‘Oh. The place in Hayle cancelled. I thought I’d turn round and surprise you.’
‘Well, you certainly did that!’
They both smiled small, tremulous smiles and Adam stroked her hair.
‘Should we call the police?’ she whispered.
There was a long silence.
‘Not if you don’t want to. But I think I should talk to him.’
She sat up in surprise. ‘Talk to the boy?’
He nodded firmly. ‘We need to know whether he’s actually dangerous or just a nasty little bully who can be scared off by someone his own size.’
‘Twice his size!’ said Catherine. ‘You could squash him flat!’
Adam raised a droll eyebrow, as if that might have to be an option.
‘Seriously, Adam. I don’t want you doing anything …’ She’d been going to say silly but she switched to ‘heroic’.
‘Heroic?’ he laughed. ‘Me?’
‘Don’t make me worry about him calling the police on you.’
He held two fingers to his temple. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘When
were you ever a scout?’
‘In my head, I’ve got all my badges.’
Catherine smiled and Adam kissed her.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I only want to talk to him. Just to make sure he won’t come back.’
‘You think he’ll come back?’ said Rice.
Reynolds looked at Rice over the breakfast table. She was crunching through a bowl of her infernal Frosties. He’d had to go out himself and buy yoghurt and berries and good rough oatmeal.
‘No.’
‘Then why are we still here?’
Reynolds shrugged.
‘I don’t really mind how long we stay,’ said Rice, and looked around the kitchen. ‘It’s bigger than my place. I like it.’
Reynolds put more salt on his porridge. ‘Don’t you miss Eric?’
‘No,’ said Rice.
Reynolds waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t seem to think that it needed further explanation.
Which it obviously did, so he asked why.
‘Dunno,’ she said, like an annoying teenager.
He wasn’t going to beg. But he thought it was interesting.
‘Going anywhere nice tonight?’ he said, carefully neutral. They were both going out almost every night now in the remote hope that Goldilocks would come back.
‘Movies,’ said Rice.
‘Anything good?’
‘Who cares?’ she said with an impish smile.
Reynolds got up and brusquely scraped the rest of his porridge into the bin. He would be dining with his mother tonight.
Again.
It was her birthday and he was taking her out to a restaurant that served breaded hake. Still, it was better than staying in and having to listen to her paranoia about the devil-child next door or her whine about the lawnmower.
His phone rang. It was Mr Passmore to say that the insurance company was querying his claim.
‘But I gave you a crime reference number,’ said Reynolds.
‘And I gave it to the insurance chap who came out,’ said Mr Passmore. ‘And I told him you thought it was Goldilocks and all, but now they’re giving me the runaround.’
‘On what basis?’
‘On the basis they don’t want to pay up, by the sound of it.’
‘Well,’ said Reynolds, ‘I’m afraid that is between you and your insurer, Mr Passmore. It’s nothing to do with me.’
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