‘No you won’t,’ the man said, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel the heat from his breath through the knitted balaclava. He roughly shoved her legs apart with his knee. ‘If you scream, she’ll wake. And if she wakes, I’ll do to her what I’m going to do to you. I’ll make you watch. Then, I’ll kill you both. I swear.’
Clenching her eyes shut, Bev suddenly saw the footage of Tatjana Lebedev’s last moment playing in her mind’s eye. The star of the gut-wrenching snuff video had been a large man wearing a latex wolf mask. Not Jerry Fitzwilliam – the pig. A wolf. And her attacker had just identified himself as ‘The Wolf’. This must be Tatjana’s murderer.
Realising that when he threatened to kill her and Hope, he meant it, Bev bucked upwards. She rammed herself with all the brute force she could muster against The Wolf’s erect penis.
He shrank back, giving her just enough leeway to snatch up the bedside lamp, still plugged in at the wall. She flung her arm backwards, smashing the lamp’s marble base into the side of her attacker’s head. Scrambling onto the bed, she turned to face him.
He shook his head momentarily, as if stunned, then flung himself at her. But his size made him cumbersome and slow.
Bev managed to switch the lamp on, wrenching the wonky shade off and ramming the blazing filament bulb into the exposed flesh of his muscular neck. The electricity buzzed as the delicate glass shattered. When the current made contact with The Wolf’s skin, there was a loud crack. He jolted, as though he’d been punched.
They were plunged into darkness again. The smell of burnt skin and wool made Bev’s nostrils sting.
Buoyed by adrenaline, she was just about try to wrap the cord around his neck when there was a knock on the glazed door.
‘Everything all right in there?’ A woman’s voice. A neighbour perhaps.
Bev could see a stout, middle-aged woman in her dressing gown, squinting in the bright white shaft from the security light.
‘Help!’ she yelled. ‘Help me!’
The Wolf leaped to his feet and bounded towards the door, wrenching it open and pushing past the neighbour. By the time Bev had pulled her pyjama bottoms back up and stumbled into the courtyard, there was no sign of him.
‘Oh, my word!’ the woman said, touching her lips, then laying her hand on her chest so that her wedding and engagement ring glinted in the light. She spoke quickly and with a tremulous voice. ‘Are you OK, lovey? You don’t expect that, do you? Not round here. I’ll get my Des up. He’ll call the police.’
‘Mummy. What’s wrong?’ Hope was standing in the doorway to the suite in her onesie, wiping sleep out of her eyes. Her brown hair flowed over her shoulders. She was pale and looked frightened, but she was unhurt and none the wiser. That was the main thing.
‘No need to call the police,’ Bev said, straining to pick Hope up so that she wrapped her long legs around her middle. ‘It was just some chancer breaking in to nick my handbag, I think. I’ll barricade the door. I need my little girl to get her sleep. We’re fine. Honestly.’
The concerned neighbour seemed reluctant to take no for an answer, but eventually retreated to her own room, still shaking her head.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ Hope asked once they were alone again.
Bev started to empty the drawers, flinging clothes into the suitcase. ‘Get dressed, honey. We’re going on a late-night adventure.’
‘Where? Who was that man?’
Bev took her daughter’s face into her hands. ‘What did you see?’ Hoping that she hadn’t witnessed a failed sex attack by a masked intruder.
‘Just him running away. I heard noises. They must have woke me up. It sounded like when you used to fight with Daddy.’ She bit her lip. There were tears in her eyes. ‘When I felt brave enough to open your door, I just saw that guy pushing past the lady next door. Did he hurt you, Mummy?’
Examining her daughter’s delicate features, and feeling her evident bafflement as physical pain in her own chest, Bev swept Hope up into a protective embrace. ‘No. Not at all, baby. I tripped over, but that was just clumsy me. I’m so sorry you had to see that man,’ she said. ‘But he was just some nasty burglar. And that’s why we’re going to move to another hotel.’
‘Now? In the middle of the night?’
Hope had a point. Even if there was a B & B with a free twin room nearby on a Bank Holiday weekend – highly unlikely – there would certainly be nobody around at 2.45 a.m. to take her booking.
‘In the morning, lovely.’
‘Are you going to call the police?’
‘Probably not, dolly.’
As she tucked her daughter back in, Bev knew she was taking an enormous risk in not reporting the attack and staying put. But the last thing she needed was a formal record of her one night alone with Hope in a year, ending in a violent break-in and attempted rape by her own personal troll, followed by an emergency bivouac in a freezing cold car. If a judge got wind of that, she’d never get her baby girl back. Most importantly, though, the last thing Bev wanted was her daughter absorbing the anxiety and drama that was part and parcel of her crazy mother’s life.
After extinguishing the main light, she picked her way to her own bed, lighting the way with the flashlight on her phone, being careful to avoid the place where the broken pieces of bulb had fallen. She knew she’d never be able to sleep now, but at least she could mull over what had come to pass. Had Jerry Fitzwilliam been behind the attack? The shadow cabinet minister was in a police holding cell or possibly even on remand, awaiting trial by now. Perhaps he’d been in cahoots with this ‘wolf’, planning their terror campaign as a two-pronged attack. At least the online trolling would have stopped now that Fitzwilliam was out of the picture and her solicitor had issued take-down notices for all the spoof sites.
Bev couldn’t resist checking Twitter, just to be sure that the @Beverley_Saunders account had gone.
‘Thank God for that.’
No such feed had come up in her search. But just as she was about to switch off and maybe close her eyes, just for a second, she noticed a new account she’d not seen before, already with over one thousand followers. She read the most recent tweet for @BevSaundersLies1.
I know you’ll read this, Beverley. I follow you everywhere.
I’m coming back for you & this time, I will kill you.
#TheWolf
CHAPTER 43
Bev
‘Why couldn’t we stay for breakfast, Mummy? I’m starving,’ Hope said.
Speeding down the motorway, pushing the Polo to reach ninety, the road seemed to undulate beneath them. Keep your eyes open, Bev. Stay alert. Make a mental note of the cars behind you.
‘I’m sorry, sugar puff. I’ll take us to a café when we get back to civilisation, I promise.’ A red saloon in the fast lane. A white van in the slow lane. A little silver hatchback hogging the middle. At this godforsaken hour of the morning, the roads had not yet started to build up with Saturday shoppers, travelling to their local DIY warehouses or supermarkets.
‘But you promised me we’d go boating.’
Bev studied Hope’s reflection in her rear-view mirror. The girl’s complexion looked as though it had been bleached of all colour, like vibrant silk left in strong sunlight for too long. And that was her fault. You’re a shitty, shitty mother, Beverley Saunders. This is why Rob got custody of her. She could hear the judge’s proclamation resounding in her ears as though she were still in that empty county courtroom : unfit ; mental health issues which make you unable to provide a stable environment ; anti-social behaviour.
‘We will, my love. I promise. Mummy just wanted to get you to a safer place because of the weirdo last night.’ She checked her mirror again. The red saloon had overtaken her now. The van had been left far behind. The hatchback was still on her tail, though. Would a murderous troll, calling himself ‘The Wolf’ drive a small silver hatchback? Was he coming to run them off the road? He’d said on Twitter that he followed her everywhere. How the hell w
as he doing that? Don’t pass your angst onto Hope. ‘I tell you what, I’ll take you to Heaton Park in north Manchester. Yes. We’ll go there. They’ve got a massive lake and rowing boats.’
Finally, her wan daughter smiled, bringing some of the colour back to her cheeks. ‘Really? Yay! Can I row the boat?’
Bev nodded, not even knowing if the rowing boats were still a thing any more. Rob had taken her there once when they’d still been students. He’d dropped an oar in the water because he’d been off his tits on super-skunk. Hypocritical idiot. The giant in the black get-up had certainly not been Rob. But Bev wondered momentarily if Rob had somehow been involved in this conspiracy to break her. She resolved to probe him about the attack and gauge his reaction next time she saw him. Was it even possible that Rob had been one of the men in the recording of Tatjana’s death? Rob in a cockerel mask? Maybe Mo in the horse? No. Neither men’s skin tones or body shapes matched those of any of the men in that film clip. It didn’t follow on that because they had a clandestine friendship with Tim, they would have anything to do with the extra-curricular interests of Jerry Fitzwilliam.
She shook her head, clearing the notion from her overtaxed, under-rested mind. ‘You bet. Course you can. You’ll be a perfect captain! And after that, how about we find a nice hotel by Manchester airport? Finish our weekend there. I’ll take you swimming and plane-spotting. You’ll love it!
‘Ooh, I can show you my front crawl. I’ve just gone from purple cap to blue cap in my swimming class. I’m the fastest. Are there double-decker jumbos?’ Hope held her arms out like a plane, replicating the rumble of take-off at the back of her throat. ‘They’re dead noisy, aren’t they? Will we see one?’
The silver hatchback was drawing ever closer. Gaining, gaining. She tried to push the Polo harder, but with a 1 litre engine, it wouldn’t budge and started to shake. Bev felt light-headed suddenly. Her fingertips were hot and clammy. Prickling in her lips. Stabbing pain in her newly healed arm. Freezing cold beneath her heavy winter anorak. A panic attack. You’re kidding me. Not here. Not now.
‘You sure will. Are you strapped in?’ She asked Hope, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Good.’ She had to breathe like that prick, Mo, had taught her. In for four, hold for two, out for six. Repeat.
When the hatchback was close enough for her to make out the driver in the mirror, she felt normality flooding back into her body.
‘It’s just some old guy in a pork-pie hat,’ she said, chuckling.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Take no notice of Mummy.’ Thank you, universe. Thank you.
‘What do you mean, you had to leave the Lakes?’ Rob asked as he put a territorial arm around Hope.
Bev stood on the doorstep to the grand house Rob had bought from the proceeds to their old marital home in London, wondering how the hell she’d let herself get into a situation where he had staged a raid on everything of value in her life, like a greedy magpie. The place smelled different from her old house. It had a strange floral smell to it. ‘Don’t you think Hope should go to the loo and switch the telly on while us grown-ups talk?’
She tried to cross the threshold but Rob barred her entry, pushing her back to the edge of the step. His touch felt like a punch, and for a second, she was in Angela Fitzgerald’s Gucci loafers.
‘Go inside, Hope, lovey,’ she said, trying to neutralise the acid before it reached the tip of her tongue. Her daughter didn’t deserve to get sucked into in her parents’ emotional black hole. She looked her ex-husband in the eye. ‘Let her go, Daddy.’ Spitting out the consonants through gritted teeth.
As soon as Hope had disappeared off to the living room in search of Horrid Henry on the TV, Rob rounded on her.
‘So, you couldn’t even make it through the weekend without messing up?’ He wore a supercilious smile on those thin lips that she hadn’t thought quite so mean when they’d first got together. Arms folded tightly as though he didn’t want to let her near his heart.
‘It was a brilliant weekend, if you must know,’ Bev said. Stand up for yourself for God’s sake. What kind of an example are you setting for Hope if you let him talk to you like you’re dirt? Why are you strong for the likes of Angie but not yourself? ‘We just had a change of plans because someone broke into the hotel where we were staying and I didn’t think it was wise to hang around. Me and Hope had a wonderful bonding time. And it’s none of your fucking business what I do with my daughter while she’s in my care. That’s what your solicitor agreed with my solicitor, and the judge OK’d it.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Bev spied his neighbours, twitching their vertical blinds to get a good look at the familiar spectacle of her arguing with Rob. She was sorely tempted to turn around and flip them the bird. That would get the whole of Didsbury’s senior population talking for a week. But Hope was smiling and waving at her through the living room window of the large Edwardian terrace, hanging onto the vintage-style curtains Bev had picked for their London home. Kneeling on the flea-market find swivel chair she’d bought in a British Heart Foundation shop in Croydon. Her daughter with her stuff in what should have been her house, following their relocation up north after the divorce.
‘You’ve paid someone to intimidate me, haven’t you?’ She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the burden of curiosity had been too great. ‘Because if it’s not Jerry Fitzgerald who’s been trolling me on social media and having me followed, you’re the only one left with good motive.’
Rob retreated into the hallway. ‘This again? You’re tapped. The social worker’s going to have a field day when she hears this. And my solicitor’s going to be interested in that kind of slander and harassment too. Nice one, Bev. Maybe I should be calling into question if you disclosed all your assets honestly. You seem to have a lot of money sloshing around for trips to the Lakes.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Colin.’
‘You shouldn’t be swearing around Hope. And don’t call me that. I hate it.’
She smiled sweetly, keeping the anxiety and sorrow out of her voice. Maintaining a deadly, cheery air. ‘Yeah. I know. See you next week. And the week after that. And the week after that, until Hope comes home with her Mummy permanently. Because I’m not scared of you.’ She reached beyond the door and poked him in the chest. Nothing but venom in her delivery, now. ‘You’re like a verruca. I never wanted you but I ended up stuck with you. You’re an unsightly, shitty parasite. But even the most stubborn verrucas shift in the end.’
With Hope safely delivered, Bev hastened to Doc’s place.
‘We’ve got to find out who’s posting this crap,’ she said, scrolling on her phone through the pornographic smut that had sprung from the new Twitter feed. ‘I think if we can work out who’s posting this, we’ll know who attacked me. We’ll find Tatjana’s murderer.’
Pulling another Jaffa cake from the half-empty box that sat among the flotsam and jetsam on his crumb-strewn desk, Doc rammed the biscuit into his mouth whole and opened a tab on his new computer. His long, slender fingers were a blur of movement, putting Bev in mind of a concert pianist who had lost his way.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Doc said, mouth full of half-masticated biscuit. ‘I thought when Fitzgerald got arrested that we were safe. That was the whole bloody reason I moved back in and forked out for new gear. All that time spent at my folks, bored stiff in the land that time forgot . . .’ He turned to Bev with accusation in his bleary eyes. ‘I got burgled while I was away, you know.’
Perched on a scuffed up PVC footstool at his side, Bev laced her hands together in her lap. Looked at her knees, feeling her cheeks blaze with mortification. ‘What did they nick?’
‘That’s the weird thing,’ Doc said. ‘They didn’t. But the place was a mess and there was the obligatory burglar’s turd on the lounge carpet.’
Bev turned to look at the stained beige carpet and realised for the first time that a small square had been cut out. She w
rinkled her nose. ‘Sorry to burst your bubble, Doc, mate, but the place was a mess to begin with. How the hell did you know the difference?’
Doc glared at her. ‘I didn’t shit on my carpet before I left. And I certainly didn’t smash all my Lego to smithereens. And I don’t make a habit of breaking in through my back door. I thought it was kids.’ There was hard frost in his delivery. ‘But now I come to think of it . . .’ He suddenly turned a sickly shade of putty. ‘Maybe it was this guy. The Wolf.’
The silence and dawning dread that passed between them made the air thick.
‘Did he look like the kind that would do a shit on someone’s carpet?’ Doc finally asked.
Shrugging, Bev looked at Doc and saw he was little more than an oversized vulnerable kid. Close to her in age, no doubt, but a small-town boy nonetheless, whose only street smarts involved selling the odd bag of home-grown, computer hacking and picking litter from motorway sidings. Her own life had always been chaos and loss and continued to be a struggle of epic proportions. But she had put a man-boy, who cared only for junk food, heavy metal and Lego, in this situation. ‘He said he was going to rape and kill me and Hope, so I’m guessing that puts him in the, “likely to take a dump on the Wilton” category. Yeah.’ She remembered the most recent tweet, intended for her. ‘I don’t like this, “I follow you everywhere” bullshit that he tweeted, either. What do you think of that for arrogance? He knew exactly where to find me and Hope, right in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Phone.’ Doc held his hand out. ‘Give it here.’
‘No! You don’t think, do you . . .?’ Bev unlocked her screen and handed her mobile phone to her friend. Tugging at her braid.
Frowning, Doc thumbed his way through several screens. Found an app on his computer and downloaded it via a USB cable to Bev’s phone. ‘This can identify well-hidden spyware on your phone, yeah? If he’s tracking you, I reckon you’ve been hacked. And if it’s an app on your phone, there’s a good chance he’s had access to it. I mean, physical access to your device. You left your phone unattended?’
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