Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Bev blushed, recalling the countless times she’d jealously guarded her drinks in nightclubs to lower the risk of being spiked, but had been laissez-faire in the extreme about leaving her phone lying around in cafés, bars, sex-clubs . . .

  Moments later, Doc held her phone up. An app icon she’d never seen before shone on the screen. ‘Yep. As I thought. Some Trojan shit.’

  ‘Jesus! Get rid of it. Get it off!’ The words almost caught in Bev’s throat.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Doc’s raised eyebrow finally softened into a half-smile. ‘There. It’s gone. I’ve uninstalled it and done a scan. No more spyware. Now, let’s shut this moron down.’

  Bev scrolled through the photos she’d taken of Hope over the lost weekend, and the myriad selfies of them grinning into the lens of her phone like buffoons – in the car ; at the service station ; by Ullswater. Then, on the boating lake in the sprawling municipal mess of funfair, woods and topless thugs that was Heaton Park on a Bank Holiday, where they had narrowly missed colliding with a flock of Canadian geese. As she did this, Doc brought up tab after tab of coding she couldn’t possibly begin to understand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Infiltrating Twitter’s database,’ he said, opening a bag of Monster Munch, which he started to devour noisily. ‘I’m trying to see what email address this spoof account is registered to. If I can then hack the email provider, I should be able to get to the truth.’

  Eight hours later, the sun had gone down and Bev had made three origami shapes – a duck, a frog and a carp – with some paper she’d pilfered from Doc’s printer. Now she stood in his basically equipped kitchenette, trying to avoid looking at the mess of cornflakes strewn across the worktop, while she stirred boiled water into two plastic Pot Noodle containers.

  She was just pondering the nutritional value of her chicken and mushroom flavoured reconstituted meal when Doc appeared in the doorway, even more wan-faced than usual, wearing an unconvincing half-smile.

  ‘You look like someone puked on your best keyboard, James Shufflebotham,’ she said. ‘You want soy sauce in your chow mein?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘It was an absolute nightmare tracing the owner of that email address. I hope you appreciate my talents, Beverley Saunders.’

  ‘Get on with it. What have you found out?’

  ‘I know who’s behind your trolling, and it’s not Jerry Fitzgerald or any identifiable spook, doing it for a backhander.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! Spit it out!’

  Bev could sense the hormones rushing around her body. Adrenaline and cortisol, mainly, but with just a small dollop of dopamine at the thought that they’d perhaps finally got to the bottom of a sinister mystery. Lord knew, she’d slept with enough crazy men to shorten the odds of attracting the wrong sort of attention from a dangerous psychopath. Would it be anyone she knew?

  She wasn’t prepared for Doc’s answer.

  CHAPTER 44

  Bev

  ‘Good luck!’ Doc had said as she’d left his place with a stomach full of butterflies.

  The Mancunian sun had just reluctantly started to rise, like a teenager trying to drag herself out of bed. The down-at-heel street where Doc lived was empty but for the odd stolen car and some weeds, swaying in the stiff breeze.

  Bev had instinctively grabbed him into a bear hug, wondering at the pang of grief that permeated her tired body. It had felt like a goodbye. ‘I’ll call if it gets sticky.’ Slapping him on the back had seemed the easiest way to end that uneasy intimacy, especially when he’d seemed reluctant to let go. Slapping was matey. Non-committal. But part of her had acknowledged that Doc meant something to her – entirely different to a throwaway lover ; much more than just a friend.

  ‘You should call the pigs first if it gets sticky. I wish you’d let me come with you.’ The furrows in his brow had spelled out just how concerned for her safety he’d been.

  She gave a brief, mirthless laugh. ‘Oh, yeah. You’d really be a tonne of use against a man-mountain with murder on his mind. No.’ She’d patted her cardigan pocket. ‘You’ve rigged me up. I know you’ll have my back remotely, and that makes me feel a damn sight better about what I’m doing. If I’m gonna stop this lunatic, the main thing is that I get concrete evidence. I want him on record, admitting to what he’s done. If I’ve got you in tow, he’ll clam up or kill us both.’ She’d taken a step down the path towards her car. Then another. Reluctant to leave the relative safety of Doc’s marijuana and Pot Noodle-scented dump. ‘Let’s just see how this plays.’

  Now, she stood on the driveway of the house with a heartbeat so thunderous, she was sure she’d wake the entire family and trigger the street’s burglar alarms. But apart from the odd builder, passing on his way to some big job in Bowdon, Hale was still sound asleep.

  Steeling herself to traverse the gravel driveway as silently as possible, she opened the side gate and crept along the utility area where the bins were stored. Time to turn the tables. Opening the lid to the blue bin for paper recycling, Bev leaned right inside to rummage through the discarded junk mail, not really knowing what she was looking for. There was nothing but leaflets for overpriced plantation shutters, advertorial brochures for some frozen organic food, letters from the children’s private prep school . . . Nothing whatsoever that might help Bev.

  When she got to the back garden, however, she immediately spied something out of place in the normally pristine manicured scene. A steel drum had been set next to the summer house – the sort that the homeless burned firewood inside in a bid to keep warm. Where had it come from? She crept forward, looking behind her to see that there was nobody peeking from the windows above. All the curtains were drawn. The only company Bev had were the birds and the heady almond scent of a giant mock orange bush that was in full bloom.

  Feeling the blood leech away from her face, Bev peered inside the drum. Was she too late? Were there ashes in the bottom that would provide the proof she sought? Maybe it was inside the house. Maybe she was wasting her time entirely.

  ‘Let’s try your little man cave,’ Bev muttered under her breath.

  At a glance, she could see that the summer house was padlocked. Except on closer examination, the combination lock that hung from the door of the cedar-clad outbuilding was open. Stealing another glance around the garden, she let herself into her attacker’s home office. How was it that he had left the place unlocked? Had he been at the pinot grigio before downing tools for the day? Had he been distracted and in a hurry? On the desk, however, there was nothing of interest save for a family photo. The drawers were locked shut.

  ‘I bet you’ve got the laptop inside, haven’t you?’

  Bev drummed her fingers on the desktop, wondering what to do next ; drinking in the expensive smell of his leather desk chair and the rich musky aroma of the cedar. As she mulled over her options, she peered at the walls on which hung several old team photos from the Durham University Rugby Team.

  There was Tim in the front row, wearing his kit – the beefcake Bev remembered bedding her in her first year, on a night when she’d been so very desperate to get away from a tripping Rob. Back in the days when she’d been Boo and he’d been Mitch, and Tim had just been a poorly chosen exit-strategy that had turned into date rape. Bev knew it for what it was, now. The dirty little secret that neither of them had acknowledged or ever talked about. Not a week later. Not a month later when he’d started to see Sophie. Not years later, when he had married his Holy Jo.

  Remembering that there was a black CCTV orb on the front of the summer house, in addition to the one on the back of the main house, which would certainly be watching her movements like the all-seeing eye of Tolkien’s Sauron, Bev slipped out, replacing the padlock.

  She was just about to give up the ghost and repair to her basement flat, when she caught sight of the compost bin. The lid was slightly askew as though it had been recently disturbed. Except that the gardener came on a Friday and today was Tuesday. Feeling like th
e pungent smell of the mock orange was sharpening her senses, Bev approached the bin. Held her breath. Had a sudden inkling of what she might find there. Yes, it was a good hiding place.

  She lifted the lid ; looked inside. There, beneath a thin layer of grass clippings was a pair of black jogging bottoms, a black long-sleeved T-shirt and a black balaclava. She picked up the balaclava and held it close to the tiny camera concealed in her cardigan.

  ‘This is it, Doc,’ she whispered. ‘Bingo.’

  She lifted the garment to her nose and inhaled. It reeked of her vanilla deodorant.

  Letting herself into her flat through the patio doors, she slowly examined the layout of her furniture, her things, even her bedding. She’d left the duvet messily arranged. It was now much neater. She’d been careful to leave her typing chair abandoned at an angle in front of the desk drawers. It had been rolled neatly into the aperture where her legs went. She’d righted all of her origami on the shelves and had laid her latest folded work-in-progress facing northwards. Those too had been disturbed. Yet again, it was clear that someone had been in the place, not least judging by the lingering smell of aftershave – Creed, if memory served. It had a distinctive lemony smell to it, and Bev recalled Sophie boasting that she’d bought Tim a £200 bottle for Christmas so that he’d smell like a proper Hale man. The Wolf clearly liked to smell right, even when he was rifling through his tenant’s home. Or perhaps he’d deliberately left signs of his intrusion this time to freak her out. She calculated that if he’d dumped his clothing from the Lakes in the compost bin, and the place still honked of his overpriced party-perfume, Tim must have broken in after the attack.

  ‘All this time, I’m wondering how the hell Jerry Fitzwilliam or one of his cronies had got into my space,’ she said, shaking her head whilst filling the kettle in her dingy kitchenette. She switched it on. Opened her cup cabinet to find it empty. Retrieved a dirty mug from the sink and rinsed it out absent-mindedly. ‘You had a key, didn’t you? Of course you did! You’re my landlord! How frigging convenient. I bet you planned this from the moment you heard I was getting divorced and heading north.’ She mimicked him, adopting a high-pitched mewling voice. ‘“Why don’t you move into the basement flat? You can keep Soph company while I’m working in London. You girls will have such fun.” Yeah, so you could have your fun at my expense, you psycho dick.’ She shuddered. Wiped the cold sweat from her top lip.

  Sitting stiffly on the edge of her sofa, cradling her coffee as though it might turn out to be her final drink, Bev contemplated her next move. Call the police or confront him? As if she’d been thinking aloud, her phone buzzed. There was a message from Doc.

  U getting on wiv it then?

  She texted back.

  It’s still early. Not so easy either. Thinking of calling cops but don’t want a big scene with Sophie & kids in house. Use proper grammar!

  Moments later, as she’d gone back into the kitchen to make some toast, deciding that she’d do better to confront a man who murdered and stalked on a full stomach. She slipped two slices of bread into the toaster – a hand-me-down from Sophie. Knew enough by now to be swift in depressing the lever, stepping back as the little white sparks made it fizz and crackle white like a sparkler. Some bloody housewarming present! Charity like that, she could do without.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Got bad feeling. U can’t handle this on own. Either call pigs or I come over.

  ‘I can’t handle this on my own?’ she said aloud, knowing Doc would pick up her voice on the tiny microphone that was incorporated into the spy-standard camera. ‘Cheeky sod! You think I’d let a rapist and a murderer threaten me and my child in our beds and not have the guts to face him down on my own? Then, you don’t know the ferocity of a mother when she’s cornered, mate.’

  Her friend’s lack of faith had switched on her inner heroine. Abandoning the toast, she made her way up the narrow, damp stone staircase to Sophie and Tim’s house above, being careful to leave her door on the latch in case she needed to beat a hasty retreat. Not really knowing how she would corner Tim in a way that wouldn’t endanger her, or what she would say to him when she did, she padded through the pristine interior. Drank in the smell of furniture polish and the top note of Sophie’s favourite Jo Malone room spray that gave the place a wealthy aroma.

  In the living room, she noticed that one solitary coffee cup still sat out on the coffee table. No lipstick around the rim. There was no evidence of Sophie or the children in there, though Sophie often cleared up once they were in bed. In the kitchen, there was one spent wine glass on the island with red wine dregs at the bottom. A half empty bottle of Shiraz next to the Nutribullet. A copy of Men’s Health on the centre island, open at a page where the reader was told how to cultivate the perfect six-pack.

  Bev’s skin puckered into goosebumps. She glanced at the oversized clock on the wall. It was approaching 6.30 a.m. Cocking her head to one side, she wondered that she couldn’t hear the children thundering around at this hour, since they always woke early. Sophie continually complained that Tim wouldn’t allow them into their bed, and that they had to be placated in the playroom by CBeebies and beakers of milky tea.

  Moving like a wraith around the house, she entered the dining room and saw the family photos, standing to attention on the stylish Danish rosewood sideboard. She hesitated. This was trespass. Even though her profession now demanded snooping into people’s business, and Tim had given no such thought to invading her own privacy, nosing around her friend’s house like this added to her unsettled feeling, making her skin crawl and her stomach flip. It was so uncharacteristically silent that Bev wondered if the curtains hadn’t just been closed to give the impression they were home, when in fact they’d gone away.

  None of this felt right. Had Tim bumped off his own family and then absconded? Bev felt sickened by the thought. Imagined a scenario where Sophie had uncovered his terrible secret and had confronted the man she’d thought was her loyal husband, but who turned out to be a philandering, sadistic Wolf. Don’t talk rubbish, she castigated herself. Maybe they’re just having a lie-in for once.

  Heading back into the kitchen, Bev sought out the pinboard – the only place in the room where Sophie allowed mess. Among the church family fun day and Sunday school notices, as well as the long receipt for an overpriced shop from Booths, she spied the National Trust calendar. Read what was written on the preceding and today’s date.

  Sophie & kids to Mum.

  The floorboards creaked directly above her. Tim. She was alone in the house with him. The creaking moved rhythmically away from her but then became audible through the open kitchen door as he started to descend the stairs. Squeak, squeak. The wood complained beneath the considerable weight of a rugby player gone partly to fat.

  Bev held her breath, tiptoeing at speed to the utility room in the far corner of the kitchen. In there, there was no place to hide apart from behind the door or else the tall cupboard, where Sophie’s cleaner stored the ironing board, mop and bucket.

  Squeak, squeak.

  Tim was near the bottom, now. Bev tried to squeeze next to the ironing board, one foot in the mop bucket, but found the cupboard simply wouldn’t accommodate her. She opted to stow away behind the door to the utility room instead.

  Pad, pad, pad. Tim was in the kitchen, now, bare feet slapping on the porcelain tiles. There was that smell of his aftershave again, lingering around him like a cloud of persistent gnats in summer. From her hiding place, Bev could hear him fill the kettle and put it on. He took something out of the dishwasher, judging by the rattle of crockery as he pulled the basket out. The clink of metal on glass. He was making coffee. If only he would go. Better still, if only she was brave enough to step out and take him to task over his terrifying misdeeds.

  She could hear Rob speaking in her imagination : ‘You’re a wimp, Bev Saunders. You catfished an MP but you can’t hold your own landlord to account for murder? Pathetic. No wonder you don’t have custody of our
daughter. You don’t warrant that privilege.’

  But she wasn’t ready yet. And her breath came short. Bev doubted she’d be able to speak at all.

  When Tim’s footfalls grew closer, she closed her eyes, praying he wouldn’t sense an intruder. He’s clearly going to the fridge for milk, she counselled herself. Calm down. I hope Doc doesn’t call or text.

  Suddenly the door bounced off her chest as Tim bumbled into the utility room, flinging open the door to the very ironing board cupboard that she had tried to stand in. He couldn’t have been more than thirty centimetres away. If her stomach growled, it was game over.

  Go back in the kitchen, for Christ’s sake!

  His aftershave tickled her nostrils as he pulled out the ironing board and the iron, setting them up in the utility room. A basket of freshly laundered shirts stood at her feet. She bit her lip, waiting to be discovered. Tim’s arm was visible suddenly as he pulled a pale blue shirt from the basket. His head bobbed into view only a hand’s breadth away. If he looked sideways, he’d spot her. The iron clicked off, fully heated. Bev reasoned that death by scalding iron was not the way she’d hoped to go.

  But his mind was clearly elsewhere and he didn’t notice her at all, standing in the shadows, holding her breath and digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

  Time passed improbably slowly but once his shirt had been ironed, he padded back into the kitchen, humming tunelessly to himself. As he creaked back up the stairs, Bev emerged from the utility room. Listened carefully as the sound of falling water came from above. He was running a bath. She would wait until he’d got in, and then what? Should she take the Scandi-style candelabra from the dining room and threaten to club him to death with it if he didn’t explain himself? No. He was too big and strong. He could easily wrench it out of her hand and turn it on her. How about a knife? No. Same problem. She would only be endangering herself. Then, the perfect plan occurred to her.