I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ALSO BY TERESA DRISCOLL

  Recipes for Melissa

  Last Kiss Goodnight

  I Am Watching You

  The Friend

  The Promise

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Teresa Driscoll

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542092234

  ISBN-10: 154209223X

  Cover design by Ghost Design

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  ALICE

  ‘I am going to use cheese wire on you.’

  That’s what he says. The first time the voice is in my ear. In my head. In my life.

  It is a Wednesday – 3 p.m. – but I do not yet realise the significance of the day because the truth has not yet dawned on me that it all began earlier – that this is actually the third Wednesday.

  At first it simply feels unreal. The voice on the phone is distorted through some kind of mechanism. I’m so thrown by this – the robotic echo – that I hang up immediately. Later I will regret this, wishing I’d listened more carefully, for very soon the police will be asking a lot of questions – Did he use your name? Background noise? Rhythm of voice? – and I will feel embarrassed that I do not have the answers.

  Me – supposed to notice things for a living.

  For now I sit, suddenly alone in this busy, noisy office, not at all sure how I’m supposed to react. I am shocked to feel not just afraid, but also that most British of responses – embarrassment. Yes. Inappropriately and maybe even ridiculously, I feel embarrassed to be this easily shaken. There is still this strange disconnect between me and the room. An over-awareness of the physical so that I can feel my pulse in my fingers, still gripping the phone, returned to its stand.

  I look at the flesh on the back of my right hand and the echo of the robotic voice – cheese wire – makes me draw my hand back into my lap. I picture the staff in my local deli using the razor-sharp wire to slice through an enormous slab of cheese. I think of that same wire cutting into . . .

  No. I straighten my back. I wonder why anyone would say such a horrible thing. Even think such a truly horrible thing . . .

  I turn to my right to see Jack walking back into the newsroom. He moves quickly to his seat next to mine, a coffee cup in his hand. A light is flashing to signal a new call. He picks it up and I hold my breath but it is clearly not the same caller. Jack’s expression moves merely from puzzlement to irritation. He rolls his eyes, switching the phone from his right to his left ear, to explain that we do not cover divorce cases routinely, madam . . .

  He clears his throat, pausing to listen to his caller again for a moment before continuing.

  Yes, I’m quite sure it is all very desperate for you, but I’m sorry; we just don’t cover divorce. Not routinely . . . not unless—

  I can hear the response; someone shouting. Jack holds the receiver away from his ear, the caller’s swearing bleeding into the room, then he puts the receiver back to his head. I wish you well with the case, madam, but I’m going to have to ring off now.

  As Jack takes a final slurp of his coffee before firing the cup into the bin, I turn to my left, where Adam, our crime correspondent, is hunched over his keyboard. He is on a deadline, typing furiously; a court report wanted right now for the online edition of the paper. I don’t like to interrupt him or Jack or anyone, because I still don’t know how to process this. How I’m supposed to feel.

  We get weird calls all the time. Last week a woman came in complaining that a cloud was following her . . .

  ‘Are you all right, Alice?’

  ‘Yes. Course.’

  No. The problem is I have never had this kind of call before. I turn my head back towards the question; towards Jack. I am still thinking of cheese wire. Razor-sharp. Cutting slowly and easily . . .

  ‘Jeez, Alice. You don’t look all right. Do you need water?’

  Only now do I hear how laboured my breathing sounds.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I take in a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth, trying to steady myself. ‘Just picked up a dodgy phone call. Threw me for a minute.’

  ‘What kind of dodgy?’

  Finally I look Jack in the face. ‘A nutter. Just got a call from a nutter. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing. So, what did they say – this nutter?’

  I pause, realising that I don’t want to repeat the words because I don’t want to give them life; I don’t want to take them forward.

  ‘What did they say, Alice?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Please. Tell me . . .’

  ‘A man. It was a man using some kind of voice changer. He said, I am going to use cheese wire on you.’

  ‘Jeez.’ Jack rakes his hand through his hair and stands up. ‘Bloody hell. A voice changer? Right. I’m getting water and we’re going straight in to see Ted.’

  He darts to the water cooler and returns with a cup which he places into my hand, staring right into my face.

  ‘Drink this. Sip it. Slowly . . .’

  It is ice cold, and I look at the cup and think of the contrast – the cold water on my tongue and the warmth of the flesh of my fingers against the plastic.

  Cheese wire . . .

  Jack is watching me closely.

  ‘I’m
fine, Jack. Honestly. Just a wind-up. A fruitcake.’

  ‘What line? Your line or a general line? I mean – was it random? Did they use your name?’

  The first of the sensible questions that I will struggle to answer. I glance at the little row of lights by the phone. Middle light? Yes.

  ‘Line 301. I use it for my column but it’s listed as general too. I don’t think he used my name.’ I pause, trying to remember for sure. ‘No. Look. Come to think of it – probably just an attention-seeker. I shouldn’t have let it throw me.’

  Jack shakes his head. ‘Random swearing we ignore. Direct threats with voice changers we take to Ted. Come on. Protocol.’

  I pick up the cup of water and follow him to the editor’s cubicle in the corner of the office. Jack knocks on the open door.

  ‘What now? I hope this is a new lead because I’ve just had the lawyer on and he’s giving me an ulcer . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Ted. Alice just picked up a phone call from a nutter. Threat from a guy using a voice changer. Thought we’d better report it.’

  I repeat what he said and watch Ted suck in his face.

  ‘Right. So did he ask for you? Did he use your name, Alice?’

  ‘No, Ted.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ Relief on his face. ‘Probably some random loon who hates something we wrote. And did you answer using your name?’

  I feel a frown as again I rewind. ‘No. Just the name of the paper.’

  ‘And he definitely didn’t use your name?’

  ‘No.’

  Ted is nodding. ‘Good. OK. Random fruitcake, then. I’ll put this on the log, but good that it’s not personal. Nasty though. The voice changer. Was it software then? Can you do that on a phone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I wonder why I hadn’t considered this myself. For some reason I had imagined some physical device. But maybe Ted is right. Voice change software? An app perhaps?

  ‘You OK, Alice?’ Ted says. ‘You want to finish early? Get yourself some air?’

  ‘No, no. Course not. I’m fine. Just thought we’d better mention it in case he calls again. Upsets someone else.’

  ‘Sure. Like I say, I’ll log it so it gets shared across the departments. If it happens again, we’ll report it to Alan. In fact, I’ll probably mention it to him anyway.’

  Alan is the press officer for the local police. A drinking pal of Ted’s. A good egg.

  ‘Thanks.’

  And then I go back to my desk, and already the distance between the call and this new place where Ted needs to get back to the lead story makes me feel better. They’re right. It’s random. Probably someone with a grudge against the paper – someone who didn’t like a story. Court case maybe? Back to work . . .

  ‘Sorry, Jack. I should have shrugged it off.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Just don’t answer 301 for the rest of the day. I’ll pick it up. Just in case he gets off on it and tries again. Bastard probably gets a wank out of it.’

  I grimace.

  ‘Sorry, Alice. TMI.’

  ‘No. You’re right. I’m fine now, honestly. Think I’ll fetch a decent coffee from next door. Fresh air. Want another?’

  ‘Yeah. Cappuccino, please. Want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. I’m good now.’

  I lean left to nudge Adam, making a cup-tipping motion, but he shakes his head, still engrossed in his story. I grab my bag and head downstairs, grateful at last to be out on the street. There is a soft breeze, the buzz from the traffic. The roar of a motorcycle. The bleeping of a pedestrian crossing. Familiar sounds and a familiar bustle, which make me feel settled again.

  It is only when I get to the café next door and see through the window the owner writing my name on a small cup – my usual order – even before I step inside, that I feel a shift again in my stomach.

  ‘You psychic suddenly, Giovanni?’

  ‘No. Guy just rang in your order. Said, Alice will need a double espresso. She’s on her way . . .’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Dunno. One of them in your office playing prank. You nice girl, Alice. You want to tell them boys to grow up.’ He is wagging his finger.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. What guy? What prank?’ I am thinking of Jack but he’s not one for messing about.

  ‘The joker with one of them voice changer thingies. Creepy.’ He snaps a lid on my drink and pushes it towards me. ‘You tell them boys in that office of yours – they can ring in orders but no pranks. What if one of my girls picks up the phone? Eh? Not nice.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ALICE

  Just a few hours later and I am home, waiting for Tom. This new and paranoid version of myself.

  I have checked both doors and all of the windows. I have set the landline to caller display. I have turned off location services on my mobile, I have reset my passwords for Facebook and Twitter and have switched my Instagram account to private. I have made an appointment for a security company to check over my rented two-bed first thing tomorrow. I have ordered a ‘police-approved personal alarm’ which should arrive in the morning post. In short, I have done all the things the police have advised – along with googling pepper spray, which they most definitely did not.

  Still I do not feel safe.

  Though the police were thorough and kind, the bottom line as I sit here alone is sinking in.

  Alan from the press office brought a woman detective sergeant from CID. She took statements from me and the coffee shop staff next door. At first all this official fussing felt good; as if it would lead to something positive. I’m not sure precisely what I expected – but a full stop of some kind? Pretty soon I realised, as Alan and the policewoman exchanged knowing little glances, that they were going through the motions as a favour to my editor.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I asked.

  The awkward pause and their expressions said it all.

  Turns out that unless I can suggest an obvious suspect – someone I’ve upset through a story or someone who’s been hassling me – nothing much happens now. The report goes on file. And we just wait . . .

  The important thing from here is to be vigilant and gather evidence, Alice. If he calls again or anything unusual happens, you must keep very precise records. Bring us right up to date. The best hope, of course, is that this was just some random nutter who guessed about the coffee shop.

  What surprises me most of all is they don’t seem especially worried he might be actively watching me. I am. That’s what’s worrying me most of all.

  I mean – how did he know I’d be at the café? What my order would be? The police say these kinds of individuals often punt a bit. It wouldn’t take rocket science to guess reporters use the café next door. The guy may have phoned previously with an excuse to check on my regular order, to spook me. Or just made a guess.

  But he used my name when he phoned the café. Knew I was going to the café . . .

  And yes, they said, this made it more of a worry and they were taking it very seriously. That was when they gave me this big to-do list of general precautions. The security visit and personal alarm, blah blah blah. They gave me leaflets.

  But since arriving home I’ve been surfing websites about this – stalking and anonymous threatening calls – and it makes pretty depressing reading.

  Seems these callers know very well that they have the upper hand.

  The police can’t give you a bodyguard. Or a new car. Or a new address. And unless and until things ‘escalate’ (I don’t even like to think what the hell that means), it seems they can’t actually do very much at all.

  Basically, I’m on my own with this.

  I look around the room again and then stand up to pace. I draw the curtains, even though it won’t get dark for another hour. I make another coffee and then realise, even smelling it, that I have drunk far too much coffee today and pour it down the sink.

  Finally I am sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the bolt that is pushed across the top of th
e back door, when I hear the key in the front door.

  I find that above all I am deeply disappointed in myself. So that by the time Tom walks into the house, I have burst into tears.

  ‘Hey, hey. I came as quick as I could. So, what’s happening with the police? What did they say?’

  I let him hold me for a moment but then pull away, wiping my face with my sleeves. Once more I feel both ridiculous and embarrassed; I don’t like anyone, not even Tom, seeing me like this.

  Jack phoned him from the office, apparently, while I was with the police, and he’s keen for more details now.

  ‘Look, I still don’t know if I’m simply overreacting, Tom. To be honest, I’m all over the place.’

  I babble that it is probably just some saddo who’s hoping for this precise reaction, which is why I wish I could buck up.

  I sit down on the sofa, and Tom sits alongside me and takes my hand. At first he is reassuring. He seems to think it was probably random. Someone who hates the paper. But as I share more of the story, about the call to the café, he suddenly looks more alarmed.

  ‘So you’re saying they phoned the café as well? This guy knows your name? Could actually be watching you?’

  ‘Possibly. Probably not. The police reckon it could be a lucky guess. Or the caller may have done some research just to spook me.’

  ‘But he used your name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is a pause, and Tom’s expression is changing. He stands and is at first still. He seems to be thinking and then starts pacing.

  ‘So this guy targets you – you specifically – and the police just let you drive home in your car on your own? To just wait and see what happens?’

  I tell him that the office offered to arrange a taxi but I didn’t want to leave my car behind. And I felt reassured by the police. A bit, anyway. I explain that at this stage there isn’t really anything they can do. It may just be random. He may never call again.

  ‘No, no. I don’t like that he knew you were at the café. What if some nutter is watching you? Followed you here? They shouldn’t have let you just drive off, Alice. Not after two phone calls like that. A voice changer, for Christ’s sake.’

  I don’t tell him that Jack offered to bring me home and wait with me.

  ‘Can’t the police give you some kind of protection? Surveillance or something? At least until we know if this is a grudge against the paper. Or a grudge against you personally.’