Date Night: An Absolutely Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Jaw-Dropping Twist

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Mrs Elizabeth Randell, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Sasha Long. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ DI Jones said, his arms folded as the female officer approached Libby, producing a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘Hold out your wrists, please,’ she said.

  ‘What? I… but… no… no… I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Libby’s head swam and her entire body shook as she felt the cold metal snap around her wrists.

  ‘You’ll be coming with us now, Mrs Randell,’ the officer said, less sternly. ‘Do you have any shoes?’

  Libby stared down at her bare feet, not even certain what shoes were any more, let alone where she’d find any.

  ‘Here, look, put these on,’ DI Jones said, pointing to a pair of Crocs by the door. They were her old gardening shoes.

  ‘The gas…’ she mumbled, looking back over her shoulder to the stove. The officer went over to it, studying the knobs for a moment before turning off the burner. Libby cast an eye over the discarded ingredients on the worktop before being led outside. And that’s when she saw the police car in the yard, parked across the gateway.

  ‘Mind your head,’ the PC said, opening the rear door of the vehicle, the sound of Mozart still ringing in Libby’s ears. As DI Jones turned the car around and pulled out onto the lane, the familiar village scene suddenly looked like an alien landscape. Libby nervously lifted her hands to her mouth, biting on her nails. And all she could taste was blood.

  Forty-Three

  Now

  I screw up my eyes as I step out onto the street, shielding my face with my arm as I stumble down the ramp. People walk past me, barely giving me a glance – the woman in jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. The woman who hasn’t washed or eaten properly in what feels like days. The woman whose hair is tangled and greasy, whose face is puffy and tear-stained. The woman with blood under her nails.

  There’s a bus stop to my left and a rack of bicycles. Neither are any use to me for getting back to Great Lyne. A taxi is on its way.

  ‘You’re free to go,’ DI Jones had said earlier this morning. At least, I think it was this morning. It could have been in the night for all I knew. I was flat on my back on the bunk, shivering, with only the thin blanket covering me, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep filled with dreams that I weren’t sure were nightmares or real life.

  I sat bolt upright, my head throbbing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re free to go,’ he repeated. ‘We’re releasing you under investigation,’ he added, as if I knew what that meant.

  ‘Free?’

  ‘For now,’ he added, his face deadpan.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bunk, slipping my feet into my Crocs. A uniformed officer came into the custody cell just as DI Jones left, striding off down the corridor with his hands pushed into his jeans pockets, his head down.

  ‘Come with me,’ the PC said, as another officer joined her. They escorted me back to the custody sergeant’s desk – a different officer on duty now – and went through the process of booking me out of custody.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said, too tired, too raw, too emotional to even feel happy about being set free. ‘You’re letting me go?’

  ‘Unless you want to stay a while longer,’ the sergeant said, his face spreading with lines, his teeth exposed. He produced a plastic bag with my belongings in: a couple of tissues, a small bag of Haribo, my house keys and my belt. ‘Sign here,’ he said, saying something over his shoulder to another officer. Something about doughnuts.

  ‘OK,’ I said, my hand shaking as I scrawled my name. Then he asked me how I was getting home and I said I didn’t know. Though I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t sure where home was any more. He asked if I wanted him to call anyone.

  ‘Sean,’ I’d said, watching as he dialled the number on file, not even asking me who Sean was. It went straight to voicemail. ‘Can you try Fran, my friend?’ But as he was dialling, I asked him to stop. If hers went to voicemail too, my mind would connect the dots. I couldn’t take that right now. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I just want to go home.’ Then he’d called me a taxi.

  I walk to the edge of the pavement as the black-and-white car pulls up, the driver winding down the passenger window, peering out at me. ‘Taxi for Randell?’ he calls out and I nod, getting in the back. I give him my address, trying to blank out the disappointment that Sean isn’t waiting for me, pulling me into his arms, taking me home and making everything OK again. I have no idea where he is.

  ‘Is it OK to grab my card when I get back?’ I ask, shuddering as I remember paying the taxi that night. ‘I don’t have my purse.’

  ‘Course, love,’ he says, giving me a look in the rear-view mirror as if to say, Don’t worry, I pick up from here all the time…

  I buckle up my belt, hugging my arms around me, feeling light-headed and unreal as the taxi pulls away and drives off. There’s not much traffic as we head north back through the city.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask him, and he tells me it’s twenty past twelve. Then I ask him what day it is and, after another few glances in the rear-view mirror, he tells me it’s Sunday.

  ‘Sunday?’

  The driver nods, a knowing smile on his face.

  Twenty-four hours, I think. Twenty-four hours of being apart. Being alone. Being separated. Being terrified. Being grilled and brought to my knees. Being abandoned. Being, strangely, the most at peace with my thoughts in three weeks. And probably the safest.

  No one could touch me in there. I couldn’t even harm myself.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the taxi slows as we enter Great Lyne – the stone urns of autumnal flowers beside the village name sign flashing purple and yellow in the sunshine. It’s a beautiful day, but not one that matches my mood. Or maybe it does. Maybe it’s over now. Maybe life can go back to normal and Sean and I can pretend none of this ever happened. Pick up from that Friday evening as we prepare to go out for dinner, each of us looking at the other, Sean saying, ‘Shall we stay home instead?’ and me nodding, wrapping my arms around him before kicking off my heels, ordering a takeaway, cancelling our reservation. Cancelling our babysitter.

  A few familiar faces – two women and a man, standing on the village green chatting, dogs on leads – stare at me as the taxi slowly passes. Almost the same scene as yesterday playing out but in reverse. Tongues will be wagging again. Gossip will be rife.

  ‘Just there on the left,’ I say, leaning forward, pointing. ‘The thatched place,’ I add, even though most in our lane are. He slows and pulls up outside, the engine running.

  ‘Twenty-seven fifty, please, love,’ he says, swinging round, one arm on the passenger seat.

  I nod. ‘Give me a moment,’ I say, getting out of the car. The air smells fresh and clean, sweet in the sunshine, as if the village has been laundered since I’ve been gone. With shaking hands, I unlock the front door to my home and step inside. All the lights are off and the house feels cold.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out, though I already sense no one will reply. ‘Sean?’ I pause in the hallway, listening at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Sean, it’s me. Are you home?’

  Nothing.

  I go into the kitchen and find my bag on a chair. I take out my purse and go back to the taxi, paying on my card. My hand shakes as I push it into the machine, trying to remember my PIN through the fog in my brain. ‘Thank you,’ I say and the driver nods before driving off up the lane. As I head back inside, I hear the crunch of his gears as he turns around.

  The house is just as I left it: my cardigan draped over a kitchen chair, a couple of mugs and the breakfast things left beside the sink, Alice’s colouring book open on the table with a few felt pens beside it, a couple of the caps left off. There’s a small pile of washing on the floor in front of the washing machine and another pile of clean laun
dry dumped on the window seat from when I didn’t have time to fold it yesterday morning. I was intent on getting into the barn kitchen to prepare for last night’s meal.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, thinking of my clients, imagining them calling my mobile over and over when five o’clock, the time I was meant to arrive to set up, came and went. I go to my bag and pull out my phone, checking the screen. The battery is dead so I plug it into the cable next to the kettle and leave it to charge, heading for the back door and out to the barn. Both doors are unlocked – my house left vulnerable and everything ripe for the taking. I didn’t even think to lock up when I was taken away yesterday, and Sean was probably too preoccupied with the search, then with trying to get me out of custody.

  The hire car is still in the courtyard, just where I left it, but there’s no sign of Sean’s Land Rover. There’s a strange smell in the barn kitchen – somewhere between delicious and disgusting as I see the half-butchered haunch of venison still on the chopping board. Blood has stained the wood, dark and dry, and a single fly walks across it. The contents of the big stock pot on the stove are cold and grey, the translucent onions floating in a skim of dirty froth and fat. A few fat carrots and sprigs of soggy herbs are stuck around the edge, the large bones protruding out of the soup. Everything is fit for the bin.

  ‘Libby?’ I hear someone call. ‘Is that you?’

  I whip around, half expecting to see DI Jones and another officer standing there, ready to arrest me, to take me away again. But there’s no one. When I poke my head around the barn door, I see Arn’s face over the wall.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asks, looking me up and down.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say automatically, though I know I look the opposite of OK. Released under investigation… echoes around my head as Arn tells me about his daffodil bulbs and how he’s been pruning shrubs.

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘That’s good,’ I add, wishing he would go away. ‘They’ll be pretty in the spring.’ I turn to shut the door.

  ‘Couldn’t help noticing the police car here yesterday,’ he says. ‘Everything all right? I didn’t see any lights on in your cottage overnight either. I tried to call you and Sean but couldn’t get through.’

  Arn. Ever the good neighbour.

  ‘Yes, yes it’s all fine, Arn. Thank you. It was just to do with the investigation,’ I add. ‘There’s no more news.’ Which, as far as I’m concerned, is true. DI Jones never revealed they’d found a body, and the supposed evidence they had against me was, apparently, not enough to charge me with. I could have told them that at the beginning. I did tell them that at the beginning.

  But what’s more disturbing is that Arn didn’t see any lights on in the cottage. Where was Sean? I shake my head, forcing out the nagging thoughts – not of where he was, so much as who he was with.

  * * *

  With the meat and food in the barn disposed of, I go back inside the cottage and check my phone. There’s enough charge in it now to last a while and all I want to do is get to the farm, to fetch Alice. Before I leave, I call Sean but it goes straight to voicemail – and there are no messages from him, either, which is unusual. I’d have thought he’d have at least updated me on the search yesterday, before he realised I’d been arrested.

  I get into the hire car and drive out of the courtyard, turning left up towards Marion and Fred’s farm. The route takes me past the area where Sean and the others would have been yesterday – past the eastern gatehouse of the big estate. I imagine them all tramping across the dewy fields, their boots wet and muddy, shots of hot breath in the cold morning air, the gun dogs scampering about eagerly – running off at the slightest scent, before turning back to their masters, tails wagging, tongues lolling, silky ears flapping.

  I slow down as I pass the open gateway where Sean would have parked. It leads into a small, flat area where, on a shoot, the beaters congregate early in the morning, getting into their gear – their sturdy dark-green trousers and jackets, tweed hats – as they sip from hip flasks and munch on snacks ready for the off. The area is empty, of course, though there are fresh tyre tracks in the mud, possibly from yesterday. I pull over, stopping in the gateway, almost hoping to see Sean’s Land Rover still parked there, that perhaps he got a lift to the pub afterwards because he didn’t want to have to drive later.

  And then I see it, lying on the ground where the gateway opens up into the field. Sean’s stick – longer than most walking sticks and perfectly straight apart from the top third, which is gnarly and twisted right up to the embossed silver top. He’d fallen in love with it the moment he saw it in the artisan’s workshop. I’d secretly told the sales person to reserve it, that I’d be back to collect and pay for it the next day. It hadn’t been long until Sean’s birthday.

  And here it is, lying in the mud. Discarded.

  I go and fetch it.

  ‘Sean?’ I call out, knowing that if the Land Rover isn’t here, then he’s unlikely to be either. ‘Sean, are you here?’ There’s nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the flapping of a couple of pheasants as they fly, almost vertically upwards, out of the thicket, their long tail feathers billowing behind them.

  I take one last glance around before putting the walking stick in the boot and heading off.

  It’s when I’m passing through Chalwell, driving past the Old Fox pub, that I spot a couple of cars I recognise – Phil’s estate Jeep, Tony’s once-white van, plus Dean’s wife’s car, which he’s obviously borrowed.

  The shooting crowd are inside.

  There’s no sign of Sean’s Land Rover, but he may have left it at Fred and Marion’s – again – and got a lift down if he wanted a pint or two, perhaps ordering a Sunday roast with a couple of the guys. Though with me being arrested, I can’t imagine him doing that.

  I pull into the car park, knowing it’s worth checking before I head to the farm. And someone may have news from the search.

  As I get out of the car, I look at where Sean and I stood several weeks ago as he phoned for the taxi after our meal. My insides knot as I head for the door, opening the latch to be confronted by a warm, beery smell. The fire is blazing in the inglenook, and the flagstoned area is crowded with locals, most of whom I recognise.

  And then I spot Sean’s usual group standing at the far end of the bar, but not before they’ve spotted me. It’s almost as if the entire pub falls silent as I walk inside – a lamb to the slaughter without realising it. I manage a small smile before I realise that every one of the group is glaring at me, their faces sour, their eyes bitter. News travels fast.

  Forty-Four

  I stumble as I approach the men. A couple of them turn their backs on me, while another ignores me. Two of them, Dean and Tony, face me squarely, their expressions blank. Sitting behind them, I see Eric in his usual spot on a stool at the end of the bar, leaning over a spread-out newspaper.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, feeling small next to these giants of men. ‘Is Sean here?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dean says, taking a sip of his pint.

  ‘And neither should you be,’ Tony says, edging me out of their group with his shoulder.

  I lower my head, giving a small nod, and walk around them, approaching Eric. He lays down the pen he’s holding.

  ‘Eight down,’ he says, pointing to the crossword puzzle. ‘Missing,’ he adds, looking directly at me. ‘Four letters, second one is W.’ Eric stares at me over the rim of his glass as he drinks.

  ‘Erm…’ I lean forward to take a look but my eyes glaze over. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, aware that the others are staring at me, their eyes burning into my back. ‘I’m not good at crosswords.’

  ‘Do you want a drink, love?’ Eric asks. ‘Look like you could use one.’

  ‘No, no thanks,’ I say, relieved he’s being friendly. I could easily knock back a couple of shots to steady my nerves, but on an empty stomach it would wipe me out. ‘I was just wondering if you’d seen Sean today. And if the search turned anything up yesterday?’

&n
bsp; Someone makes a noise behind me – a cross between a growl and a laugh.

  ‘I’ve not seen Sean since yesterday,’ he says, scratching his nose and clearing his throat. ‘Sorry, love.’ He turns back to the crossword, tapping his pen on the bar. ‘Missing, missing, missing…’ he mutters to himself.

  ‘Did you and Sean search out near the Dentons’ place?’

  Eric looks up again, giving a loud smoker’s cough. ‘No, no, love. Sean and Phil went up that way, towards the big feed store on the crest of Cotton Hill, but didn’t turn nothing up as far as I know. I went with the others, past Blake’s Hill and over the rise. Covered a good few miles between us. We found a couple of things, a glove and a belt, but no one knows if they belong to the lass. The police have them.’

  I nod, thinking.

  ‘It’s like the land harbours everything,’ Eric says, coughing again. ‘Layer upon layer of history trampled into the earth. Keeper of all secrets.’

  ‘Oh… I—’

  ‘Every time someone takes a step out there, they’re leaving their mark one way or another. Hiding things.’

  ‘I see,’ I reply, unsure what Eric is trying to tell me.

  ‘That man of yours, he’s a good man, Libby. I’ve known him since he was born. I remember young Marion being pregnant, ripe as a peach. You won’t believe it, lass, but I had a thing for her back in the day.’ He coughs out a chuckle.

  I force a smile, just wanting to go. Someone knocks into me from behind and then I feel wetness down the back of my leg. I doubt it was accidental.

  ‘She’s not well, you know,’ Eric says, the look in his eyes turning serious.

  ‘Marion? I know she’s had a few health problems but—’

  ‘I found her lying on the ground earlier that night, you know. Before I saw you out in your car looking for the lass. Remember?’