by Amanda Fleet
‘Good evening. Police Scotland. How can I help?’
‘Oh, good evening. My name is Summer Morris. I called earlier today to report an incident and I wondered if there was any update on it. I have a reference number if that’s any help.’
‘Yes, Ms Morris. Could I get that number from you, please?’
She reeled it off and waited.
‘One moment. I’ll just put you through to someone who was dealing with it.’
The line went quiet. Just as Summer was contemplating hanging up, a man spoke.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, hello. Is that PC Collins?’
‘No, this is PC Andrew McGinty. How can I help?’
Summer wondered why she had been asked for all the details since they hadn’t been passed on. She bit down her irritation—it wasn’t this man’s fault—and repeated them all.
‘One moment. Oh yes. Edinburgh is dealing with it. That’s about as much as I can tell you, I’m afraid.’
‘Who’s dealing with it in Edinburgh, please?’
‘Er… doesn’t say. It does say to contact you with any updates, though.’
‘Right.’
‘Okay. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Thanks for calling. Bye.’
He rang off, his chipper voice annoying Summer and dusting the edges of her feelings with brimstone. She sighed and looked up the number for the police station closest to Patrick’s flat. Her call to them yielded even less information than the one put through to PC McGinty. Yes, the information had been logged. No, they couldn’t tell her any more. Summer thanked the woman and hung up, feeling frustrated and helpless. Maybe if she talked to someone face-to-face, she might get somewhere. It was going to be too rainy for good photos tomorrow anyway. She smiled thinly. There would be the wrong kind of clouds, as Patrick had always said to tease her.
Of course, the downside of talking to someone in person was that it involved stepping inside a police station—something Summer had sworn she would never do again.
***
Patrick’s eyes scraped open. His shoulder was sore where it had hit the floor and he was cold. The sacking hood still covered his head and his wrists and ankles were still bound. He listened. Was he alone? He could hear nothing save his breathing against the hessian cloth, and cautiously rolled until he was sitting up. Nothing happened. He brought his hands up and started to pick at the knotted rope around his neck, his frozen fingers stumbling over it. Slowly, he felt it loosen, until finally, the rope was free and he could yank the sack off his head.
He peered at his watch in the gloom, but it was smashed and broken. There was no light in the room other than a tiny grille almost at ceiling height with a green blur of grass beyond. He stared at his surroundings. Concrete stairs with no rail on the open side led up to a door. In the corner of a room was a bucket. His toilet, presumably. Other than that, the room was empty and uniformly grey. It smelled fusty, but from a lack of use, not damp.
His ankles throbbed and he tugged the cuffs of his trousers up to look at them. The plastic cable tie bit deeply into his skin and the area around it was an angry red. His wrists didn’t look much better.
Why was he here? What had he done? He acknowledged that although he was generally well liked, he did have a tendency to really piss people off. Particularly husbands. Like Kate’s for example. Who, like Kate, had rung him up and threatened to kill him. But surely that was just an empty threat? When people said, ‘I’ll kill you,’ they didn’t mean it literally.
Or had he got too close to the truth about what was happening in Malawi? There were much bigger players involved with that. People who wouldn’t take kindly to him revealing the truth.
He shook his head. Surely it couldn’t be that. It was too far away. Unless…? Unless someone at the MSA was involved?
Patrick shivered again, fighting down the panic. He would probably die here. No one would find him and he couldn’t escape. How long would he survive without water? he wondered. Days? A week? It was beginning to get dark outside. Had he been left down here to die?
He shuffled up the steps, his progress painfully slow as he sat on each cold step, balanced with his bound hands then pushed himself up to the next, feeling like a small child who hadn’t yet mastered walking. When he reached the top, he was met with an inward-opening door. He tried the handle but although it turned, it didn’t open. Even if there was space for a run-up to batter the door down, his bound ankles made the idea ludicrous. He inched his way back down to the floor again on his bottom, despair creeping through him.
***
Kate worked slowly, polishing the cutlery with a tea towel, setting the table carefully. Dinner was simmering away nicely on the range cooker in the kitchen, the house was neat and tidy and her phone was off. She needed no disturbances tonight if she was going to mend things. The dining room set, she went upstairs to shower and change, sweeping her long dark hair up into a twist and choosing subtly scented, luxurious products for the shower. Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a fluffy robe, she contemplated her lingerie drawer, trying to remember if any of the pieces could potentially bring disaster down on the evening. Kate picked through the lace and silk. What had she never worn for Patrick?
Suddenly she felt dragged down into a swirling murk and sank on to the end of the bed, shoulders hunched, head bowed. How could she have done all that? Made such a mess of everything? Because he was a charmer, a rake, a bit of fun, where Paul was always so serious. She had been flattered by the attention. It had started with silly flirting and then all of a sudden, she’d found herself in a hotel in the middle of the afternoon discovering how good he was in bed. After that… well, after that Kate seemed to have entered a parallel world where none of it felt real or to have any consequences. It had been so liberating to shake off the shackles of her upbringing; so invigorating to step outside the cage of her life and be who she craved to be. And then, like an addict chasing a high, she had gone back for more. And like an addict, the highs were never high enough and she was never quite satisfied.
She cradled her head in her hands. How could she expect forgiveness? How could she have been so naïve as to think there’d be no consequences? Or so vain as to think Patrick had actually found her attractive as a woman and not just groomed her to be a meal ticket? She scowled at her reflection. The empty side of the bed behind her mocked her. Paul hadn’t left, just moved into the spare room. He hasn’t left yet, she corrected herself and flopped backwards on to the satin bedspread, rehearsing lines in her head, trying to get the wording just right. She needed the evening to go well or she would be sunk.
After dithering for an age over her clothes, she finally dressed, dabbed perfume behind her ears and in her cleavage, put on enough make-up to look attractive but not overdone and clicked her way over the polished wooden floors to the lounge to wait.
She was fidgety, nervous. Really, she should be doing a million other things right now, ready for next Thursday’s vote. For a start, she should probably be on the phone to her party leader to tell him what had happened and offer her resignation, but she was still hoping that none of it would come out. If Paul could just stay until the votes were counted and if Patrick could keep his mouth shut, maybe she could get back in, and then in the inevitable reshuffle that would follow, she could step down without anyone being any the wiser. She had tonight to work on Paul. She still hadn’t managed to reach Patrick. The little shit was probably screening his calls, and leaving a message that would cover what she needed to say would be akin to writing a political suicide note. She was not about to give him more ammunition to kill her with.
She jiggled her foot and started to flick listlessly through a magazine although her brain was still running through phrases. She tossed the paper down and paced the room. She daren’t call to see what time he would be back in case this triggered another row and he left without her managing to talk to him. Dinner had been planned accordingly—something that could simmer for half the night and not ruin. She need
ed the night to go perfectly.
At last she heard the front door open and she turned, trying to get her smile just right. Paul came in, looking suspicious.
‘Didn’t expect you to be home.’ He held up a bag. ‘I got a takeaway on the way back. Assumed you’d be working late. As usual.’
‘Oh. Well, I thought we could have an evening together. I cooked.’
He didn’t advance any further into the room.
‘I can smell it. Smells nice.’ He sounded grudging. ‘But won’t the party need you for something?’
‘Not tonight. I’ve said no calls. We need to talk.’
No, no, no. This wasn’t how she had rehearsed things. He wasn’t supposed to have bought a Chinese on the way home and none of the lines were coming out right. And now he was scowling.
‘Do we? I thought we’d pretty much covered everything already.’
She crossed the room to take his hands but he stepped back, leaving her stranded in empty space.
‘Paul. Please? I really want to try and work things out with you.’
‘Isn’t that all a bit late?’
‘I hope not. I had a mad few months; we have years of marriage and two children. I was wrong, utterly, utterly wrong to do what I did and I really want to try and mend things with you. Please, can we have dinner together and talk?’
Paul studied her, the bag of takeaway clutched in front of him like a barrier.
‘What about trust? I can’t trust you any more. How can we mend things if I can’t trust you?’
She swallowed, focusing on keeping her expression conciliatory. ‘I know and I understand that, but can’t we at least try?’
‘What, with you busy all the time and working late so much? How would I ever manage to believe you were genuinely at work and not shagging some toy boy in a hotel?’
Kate breathed steadily, garnering phrases, trying to wrest back control of the conversation. ‘Please, can we sit down at least?’
She sat, even though this ceded physical equality, and looked up at him. He stood for a moment and she held her breath. He would either walk out right now, or he would sit. If he sat, she would manage to talk to him and sort things out. Paul looked down at the bag in his hand, his jaw hard, and then looked at her before finally putting the bag on the coffee table and perching on the edge of a chair. She smiled. She hadn’t been a politician for twenty years for nothing.
‘Paul, I know you won’t believe me when I say that I love you, but I do, and I am appalled at what I’ve done to you and to us. Even discounting what happened with Patrick, which I know is impossible,’ she said hurriedly, seeing the expression on his face. ‘I was damaging our marriage with work. The balance was all wrong. I was hardly home and always distracted.’
She paused, monitoring every aspect of him. How was he breathing? How tense was he? How angry was he? How was this playing?
‘And assuming that I get re-elected next Thursday, I’m going to resign as minister. So I can spend more time with you. If you want that.’
‘Are you really resigning for me or because that bastard you were shagging was going to tell the press and you’d have to fall on your sword anyway?’
‘I’m really resigning for you. What’s happened… it’s made me take a good, hard look at my life and sort out my priorities and my priority is you. I would do anything to save what we have.’
‘Anything? Including keeping your knickers on when some strapping young man wants to rip them off?’
Kate lowered her eyes and looked at her hands, calming herself. ‘Anything.’ Her gaze swept up over her husband.
‘I don’t know, Kate. I think I want some time away from you. I need some space to think about things.’
He started to rise. Panic rippled through Kate.
‘At least stay until next weekend?’
He turned, fury and abhorrence in his face. ‘Anything, huh? Except lose your seat in parliament. I’m going.’
The rehearsed words abandoned her, leaving her with pure desperation.
‘Paul, please! I need you to stay. I’d hoped you might help me sort all this out. If you go, Patrick wins and I have nothing! We are ruined!’
He paused, looking at her with complete loathing. ‘You should have thought about that before you shagged a bastard like him. It’s not my fault that you messed up. God, you really are a piece of work, Kate. I might have stood by you in the past but why should I help you this time?’
‘For our marriage? For the kids?’
‘For your career?’ he spat back.
‘I’ve already said that I’ll step down.’
‘Step? I think Patrick’s going to push you, isn’t he?’
Kate tightened her grip on her emotions and tried to recapture control. She had played it badly and she needed Paul to stay.
‘That’s all over. Behind me. I want to make it work with you. I know I haven’t spent enough time and energy on you and that I’ve been too focused on work. Please? I want to try and make it work with us.’
He stared at her, his gaze levelling. ‘When would you have told me? If he hadn’t written to me? If I hadn’t read your emails?’
She paused, fiddling with her nails. ‘Probably the weekend you found out. It was all over with him; I realised what a fool I’d been and what I would be throwing away.’
‘Your career.’ His lip curled.
‘Yes. But more than that. You. Us. Everything.’
‘I can’t stay, Kate. I’m too hurt.’ He shook his head. ‘How could you have been so stupid?’
She chewed her lip, her eyes pleading with him. ‘Please stay?’
‘No. I can’t be sure if you want me to stay so that you get re-elected or because you want to be with me. I’m going to pack.’
He turned on his heel and she listened to his footsteps on the stairs, a lead weight in her guts. She’d lost. She felt as if she was sitting inside a house of cards that was slowly collapsing around her, and she was powerless to stop it. A few minutes later Paul returned, an overnight bag in his hand. He stood in the doorway.
‘I’ll come and get more things tomorrow, when you’re out. I’ll be at a hotel. I’ll let you know which one.’
She nodded, her tears only just in check.
‘Good luck with the election,’ he sneered.
She smiled bitterly and looked away. Paul leaned over and picked up the bag of takeaway. A moment later the front door banged and Kate sank down into a chair, her head in her hands.
‘Patrick, you fucking shit.’
Wednesday Morning
A cloud of paparazzi thronged the route to the car. When had they arrived? Had they camped there all night? It was only 7 a.m. Why had they arrived? Kate’s mind raced. She didn’t believe in coincidence. Someone had told them to be there. She swallowed. Going out the back wouldn’t help as in the end she would have to run the gauntlet past them. She watched them as they lounged by the gate, smoking, chatting among themselves like it was all a lark. It probably was for them. The thought made her seethe. Her life was falling apart and they were enjoying not only watching, but participating in its downfall.
Kate stepped back from the window, shoulders bowed, and glanced at her image in the mirror. She looked tired and haggard despite the careful application of make-up. A strand of hair had fallen loose from her chignon but she left it hanging free. Her bag was ready by the door and she checked through it, taking her time. To have to make a return journey through the crowd because she’d forgotten something would be beyond bearable. Her phone still had no new messages from Paul. She tucked it back into a pocket and ran her eye over her diary, groaning at the itinerary ahead. Straightening up, she grasped the door handle, fixed a smile to her face and prepared to brave the onslaught.
The second she opened the door, the clamour started.
‘Mrs Hampton? Mrs Hampton? Where’s your husband, Mrs Hampton? Has he left you?’
Kate fought hard to keep the thin smile plastered to her face and marched
past them, trying to keep her head high despite being jostled from every side.
‘Mrs Hampton? Was your husband having an affair? Have you thrown him out?’
Oh dear God, they really don’t know yet. She kept her lips clamped firmly together and struggled to her car. A feeling of security flowed over her once she was inside and the doors were locked. She turned the engine over and started to creep through the journalists, wishing that they’d get out of the way, knowing that she really couldn’t clip any of them with the car. Eventually they peeled away and she put her foot down.
At the party offices, she was relieved to be able to park near the back entrance and so escape the scattering of journalists hanging around the front. She headed straight for her office, glad to see that her stalwart personal assistant, Penny, was already there. With a quick gesture, she beckoned Penny into her office, waiting until she’d closed the door behind her before speaking.
‘Penny. Do you want to sit down? Before we get on to today’s things there’s something I need to tell you.’ Kate waited until Penny was seated, her elegant legs crossed at the ankle, her face alert. ‘Last night, Paul and I had a huge row… it doesn’t matter what about… and… well… he’s moved into a hotel for a few days.’
Penny’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Kate carried on briskly.
‘I have no idea how the press found out, but this morning there were some journalists sniffing around, looking for a story that isn’t really there. The phone will no doubt be jammed with them wanting some kind of interview or comment, but really, it’s a storm in a teacup. The official line will of course be “no comment”.’