by C. L. Taylor
well-lit spots. I’m here if you need me and the local units are aware of your situation. They’ll keep an eye on your house and car whenever possible.’
‘Thanks,’ Alice says, but the knot in her stomach remains.
When DC Mitchell hangs up, Alice taps on the messages icon
on her phone and sends a text to Simon:
Just spoke to DC Mitchell. Michael has an alibi! Could your ex be the one that scratched my car?
She puts the phone down, then opens her crisps. She shovels
them into her mouth.
Simon’s busy, she tells herself when he doesn’t reply imme-
diately. He’s probably on the phone to a customer about a
claim.
Truthfully she doesn’t have the slightest idea what Simon does all day. He might not even talk to clients for all she knows.
Whenever she’s pressed him to tell her more about his job he’s swiftly moved the conversation on with an: ‘Honestly, I’d bore 135
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myself just telling you about it. Let’s talk about something more interesting.’
Crisps finished, she folds the packet into a little triangle and drops it into the bin before picking up her phone and texting
Simon again.
Are you still on for the cinema tonight?
It sounds needy, double-checking when they made the date
only yesterday, but she can’t think what else to text. He didn’t reply to her chirpy Morning! How are you? that she sent on the bus to work. I’m not needy, she reassures herself. I just want to hear back from him, to check he’s okay.
The door opens as she frowns at her phone.
‘Man trouble?’
She looks up. ‘Sorry?’
Lynne strolls across the room and takes the seat next to her.
‘I’ve seen that look on your face before and it only means one thing.’
‘What? No. Everything’s fine.’
‘So why are you gripping your phone like it’s a grenade?’
‘I’m not.’ She puts the phone down and gives it a nudge then
changes the subject, ‘Everything okay on the shop floor?’
‘Fine.’ Lynne gets up, crosses the room to the minute fridge
in the corner, and takes out a blue Tupperware tub. ‘Quiet.’ She glances back at her. ‘Heard anything from the police about your car?’
‘Yeah, they just rang. Michael didn’t do it. He’s got an alibi.’
‘Seriously?’ Lynne sits down and peels back the lid.
‘There’s no CCTV and they didn’t send anyone out to finger-
print the car or look for DNA.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘I wish I was.’ She casts a glance at her phone. The screen is dark. No new messages.
Lynne catches her looking. ‘Has he dumped you?’
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‘No! What makes you think that?’
‘Nothing you just . . .’ Lynne stabs her fork into her boiled egg and chicken salad. ‘You looked worried when I walked in,
that’s all.’
‘Wouldn’t you be if someone was sending you creepy messages
and keyed your car and the police have no idea who’s behind
it?’
‘True.’ Lynne shrugs agreeably. ‘How’s Emily?’
Alice leans back in her chair and rubs her hands over her
face. ‘I’m worried about her. Adam’s been disappearing at night, staying up late after she’s gone to bed, and then going out.’
‘I thought she stayed at yours during the week.’
‘She was but she’s been staying over at his more often; keeping an eye on him, probably.’
‘Where’s he been going?’
‘He says the pub with friends but Emily thinks he’s been
cheating on her. She’s been stalking his social media to find
proof.’
Lynne chases an errant piece of egg around the tub then stabs
it with her fork and pops it into her mouth. ‘She needs to dump him.’
‘Try telling her that.’
‘She needs to work it out for herself. When I was her age I
thought I knew bloody everything.’
As Lynne continues to share her wisdom, Alice mentally drifts
off. She’s stressing about Simon. There, she’s admitted it to
herself. Other than the handful of texts they exchanged yesterday about what film to see and what time, she hasn’t heard a peep
from him. He didn’t reply to any of the texts she sent last night or the one she sent that morning and now she’s annoyed with
herself. She’s being needy, looking to him for reassurance, but she’s been feeling unnerved ever since Lynne sowed seeds of
doubt about him being some kind of scam artist. It was a
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ridiculous suggestion, but he did leave the restaurant to make a phone call after she showed him the Facebook message from
Ann Friend, and he was very odd after the car scratching.
‘Who needs men!’ Lynne’s voice cuts through her thoughts.
‘We should all go away together – me, you and Emily. Have
you made plans for the summer yet? I’ve always fancied the
Greek islands. What do you think?’
‘Sorry, what—’ Alice is distracted as the staffroom door creaks open. A thin young woman with short blonde hair and a nose
piercing walks in with Larry following behind, one hand on her shoulder, his other hand clutching a black holdall with a load of new stock spilling out of the top.
‘Caught her in the act.’ He gestures for the woman to continue through the staffroom to Alice’s office.
She scowls, then tries to twist out of his grasp. ‘Fuck off, you old perv.’
Alice jumps out of her seat and hurries into her office, sweeping her desk for any potential weapons. She doesn’t take any chances with shoplifters, not since one snatched up her stapler and threw it at her head before making a break for the door.
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Chapter 23
@onthecliffedge:
Any update on the Harbourside murderer?
@DiddleyBopDee:
What do you mean? Has someone else disappeared?
@realmadwife:
My husband might if he doesn’t put the bloody bins out
on time this week.
@onthecliffedge:
Are the police looking into it?
@refrigeratorcar:
Nope. They said no foul play suspected.
@onthecliffedge:
But the bodies of the two men who disappeared
haven’t been found yet, have they?
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@MotobkeBob:
Nope, that’s because they’re buried in the garden of
someone who has loads of cats.
@refrigeratorcar:
What have cats got to do with it?
@MotobkeBob:
People who have loads of cats are weirdos.
@gemzy9:
OI! I’VE GOT FOUR CATS.
@MotobkeBob:
Point proved.
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Chapter 24
Ursula
Ursula shoves the last piece of toast into her mouth then washe
s up her plate and puts it back in the cupboard. She sniffs the air.
The musky smell she noticed the first time Edward showed her
the kitchen has grown stronger. It’s at its most pungent by the basement door. She tries the handle again. Still locked. She hasn’t once seen Edward go down there since she moved in. Not that
they’re in the house together very often – other than when they ran into each other the other lunchtime it’s only first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. They’re like ships
that pass in the night.
‘What are you up to, Edward?’ she mutters as she drifts from
room to room, opening drawers and lifting sofa cushions before dropping down to her knees to peer under pieces of furniture.
She’s on a later shift today and Edward has already left for
work. She was already awake when he got up, and listened from
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as the floorboard on the landing creaked then the bathroom
door clicked shut. She wasn’t going to confront him about the
newspaper clipping he stole back because she knew he’d only
lie. Who was it? A relative? An ex-lover? She’s pretty sure Edward isn’t gay. When she moved her things in he was so taken by an
attractive blonde walking past the house that Ursula had to ask him three times to move out of the doorway so she could bring
in her suitcase.
Besides, what gay man would have a dartboard on the wall
of his living room? She runs a hand along the top of the side-
board, the wood cool and smooth under her fingertips until she reaches the neat line of three darts. She taps at the flight, flipping it to the left, then the right then, completely without thinking, closes her hand around it and puts it in the pocket of her coat and glances at her watch. The van’s loaded with parcels but if she doesn’t get a move on she’ll be late.
There’s no light on in the window of number six, no baby sitting on the carpet in a sea of plastic toys, and no television flickering in the corner of the room. The window – the one she normally
passes parcels through – is closed and the curtains in the bedroom above are still pulled. Has the owner gone out, Ursula wonders, her agoraphobia magically cured? She crouches down and peers
through the letter box. There’s a buggy, propped up against the hallway wall, and a pair of small, blue children’s shoes beneath a tiny jacket on a coat rack. They’re in. She feels sure of it.
‘Hello!’ she shouts. ‘Courier!’
She listens for a response – for the wail of a child or a female voice – but the house is completely silent.
‘Helloooo!’ She shouts louder this time. ‘Is there anyone
home?’
There’s a startled yelp in response and a pair of bare female
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Ursula sees that she’s carrying the toddler, who is naked apart from the towel around her waist. As the woman reaches the last step her gaze flicks from the mottled glass panel of the front door to the letter box and her eyes meet Ursula’s. She makes a strange strangled sound and her whole body jolts. Her heel slips on the edge of the step and she falls, landing with a thump, half on the bottom stair, half on the floor, the child tipped sideways in her arms.
‘Oh my God!’ Ursula grabs at the door handle. She turns it
and pulls. Locked.
She crouches back down and peers through the letter box.
The woman’s still on her bum. She groans loudly as she
awkwardly sets the wailing child onto her feet.
‘Are you all right?’ Ursula asks. The child has started crying, plucking at her mother, trying to get back into her arms. ‘I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I gave you a shock.’
The woman doesn’t reply. Instead she closes her eyes as the
child scrambles around her legs, her pudgy little hands grabbing at her mother’s shirt, her chest and her hair.
‘Have you hurt your back? Can you move?’ Ursula whips
her mobile phone out of her pouch. ‘I’m going to call an ambu-
lance.’
‘No!’ The woman’s eyes fly open and she winces as she uses
her arms to push herself back into a sitting position. ‘No, don’t!’
‘You might have broken something.’
‘I’m fine.’ Her voice breaks on the last word and tears spill
down her cheeks.
The fear and guilt Ursula feels is unbearable. She clutches the door handle again, as though her desperation might magically
have released it, but it’s still locked. She glances around the cramped hallway. There’s a set of keys hanging on a hook to
the right of the child’s coat. ‘Can you unlock the door? I
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could . . . I could . . .’ She tails off. She has no idea what she could do but she feels completely useless stuck on the other side of the door.
‘No.’ The woman grasps the banister and slowly, agonisingly
drags herself to her feet, bent double like an old lady. When she tries to right herself she yelps with pain, one hand clutching her back, and sinks down to the floor.
‘What’s your husband’s number?’ Ursula asks desperately as
the child throws herself at the curled shape of her mother. ‘He needs to come home and look after you.’
The woman stares at her for the longest time – a raw, desperate look in her eyes.
‘Let me help,’ Ursula says. ‘Please, just tell me how.’
‘No.’ Her face hardens. ‘Fuck off. Just fuck off and leave us
alone.’
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Chapter 25
Gareth
Gareth parks up outside his house and turns off the engine but, instead of opening the door and marching up the path to the
front door, he remains in his seat, his hands lying loosely in his lap. Beyond the windscreen the world continues as normal: a
ginger tom slinks down the street unperturbed by a lone jogger, face flushed red, speeding along the pavement in the opposite
direction. Gareth is barely aware of his surroundings. Fear hasn’t just rendered him myopic, it’s completely paralysed him.
Twenty-five years he’s been a security guard, six as a super-
visor, and tomorrow it could all be over. He didn’t tell Whiting on the phone why he wanted a meeting with him and Liam. He
wants to explain what happened face to face. There’s a part of him that’s desperately hoping his boss will hear him out and,
taking his exemplary record into account, let him off with a
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imagine the look of delight on Whiting’s face. He just hopes the man asks Liam to leave the room before he officially lets him
go. Seeing Liam’s smug grin would be the final kick in the teeth.
Gareth’s stomach growls with hunger. He couldn’t face making
a trip to McDonald’s after he called his boss; just the smell of food would have made him retch. But it’s after seven now and
his mum will need dinner. And so will he if he’s to stand any
>
chance of getting a good night’s sleep.
‘Mum!’ Gareth glances up at the newly installed CCTV camera
as he walks into his house. ‘I’m home.’
He shrugs off his jacket then unties his boots and takes them
off. He frowns as he stands up again. The house is too quiet.
Something’s not right.
‘Mum?’ He walks into the living room. She’s not in her chair,
the television is off and her glasses case is missing from the side table.
‘MUM!’ He powers up the stairs, his arms pumping, his feet
pounding the worn carpet runner. ‘Mum, where are—’ The word
catches in his throat as he pushes at the door to her bedroom.
‘What are you doing?’
Standing at the end of the bed, dressed in her best church
coat, a small veiled hat he’s never seen before and what looks suspiciously like half a fox around her neck, is his mother.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ she says brightly as she bends
over the open suitcase in front of her. ‘I’m packing to go on holiday.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going on holiday, Gareth. It is allowed you know.’
‘Where? With who?’ As the relief at finding her alive and well wears off, his mind switches itself back on. He stands up
straighter and takes a step towards the bed. The contents of his mother’s suitcase make him want to cry. As well as packing
socks and underwear she’s added a framed photo of his father,
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a spatula, the TV remote control, a bottle of toilet bleach, an ornamental frog, the silver cup he won for cross-country when
he was fourteen, a blue paperweight and a dinner plate.
‘Mum,’ he says again. ‘Where are you going and who with?’
She doesn’t look up from the pair of socks she’s repeatedly
balling and unballing. ‘I’m going to the seaside.’
Gareth’s mouth opens but he swallows back the truth that
would break her heart. ‘Who with?’
‘Your dad.’ The bright smile reappears on her lips. ‘It’s a
surprise, but Ruth let it slip.’
It’s been so long since that name was said aloud that it takes Gareth a couple of seconds to register who his mum is talking