by C. L. Taylor
Sunday
Gareth is on his third cup of coffee of the morning when there’s a sharp double rap on the front door. He jumps, slopping coffee onto the kitchen table and hurries out into the hall. As he gets closer to the front door he sees two shapes beyond the mottled glass and his heart leaps into his throat. If the police want to speak to him face to face it has to be bad news.
He yanks open the front door and searches the faces of the
man and woman standing on his front step. He doesn’t recognise either of them. The tightness in his belly increases as they stare expressionlessly back.
‘Is it . . . is it Mum?’ he asks.
The man on the left, dressed in slacks and a navy-blue jumper
with a white shirt collar peeking beneath the neckline, flashes 247
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a badge at him. ‘DC Forbes from Avon and Somerset Constabulary.
This is DC Merriott. Are you Gareth Filer?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘We’d like you to come into the station for a chat please.’
Gareth goes cold. He’d rather they just broke the news. He
doesn’t want to sit in a police car for ten or fifteen minutes, fearing the worst. ‘Just tell me.’
The detective looks puzzled. ‘Tell you what?’
‘My mum. You’ve found her, haven’t you? Is she dead? Is that
why you’re here?’
The detective still appears to have no idea what he’s talking
about.
‘My mum’s name is Joan Filer,’ Gareth clarifies. ‘She’s a vulnerable missing person. She’s been missing since Friday afternoon.
Lisa Read is the officer I’ve been in touch with.’
The detective glances at his colleague, who frowns and lightly shakes her head. Neither of them have the slightest idea what
he’s on about.
‘Right.’ DC Forbes regains his composure with a quick clear
of his throat. ‘I see. I’m very sorry to hear that, but we’re here about a different matter. Liam Dunford has gone missing and
our enquiries suggest that you know something about his disap-
pearance. We would like you to come to the police station with us so that we can interview you formally. You’re not being
arrested but you can have a solicitor during the interview if you want one. Your attendance at the station is purely voluntary.’
Gareth stares at him, a thousand thoughts whirling through
his head as he tries to make sense of what he just heard.
‘I, um . . . I . . . Okay, but I can’t be long.’
‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence
if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
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Gareth stares at the detective, feeling progressively more scared the longer he speaks.
‘Am I . . . am I under arrest?’
The detective shakes his head. ‘As we explained back at your
house you’re here voluntarily to answer some questions. You
are free to leave and stop the interview at any time. You may
also have a solicitor present if you wish.’
‘Then why say all that? All the stuff about evidence if I’m
not under arrest?’
‘It’s part of the interview.’
‘I’m definitely not under arrest?’
‘No, you’re not.’ The female detective sitting on the right of DC Forbes gives Gareth a look like he’s missing a few brain
cells.
Gareth feels like a fool. He’s watched hours of police dramas
on the TV but now he’s the one in the small, grey room with
a black digital device recording every word he says, he feels
completely wrong-footed. Worse than that, he feels like a criminal and he hasn’t done anything wrong. In a different universe he’d be the one sitting on the other side of the table, the one asking the questions, the one in control.
‘Is it too late to ask for a solicitor?’ he asks, then instantly regrets it when he catches the look exchanged between the two
detectives.
DC Merriott puts her pen to her notepad and looks up at
him from under her thick blonde fringe. ‘Sure. We can delay the interview until he turns up. Name and number?’
‘I haven’t got one. I’ve . . . I’ve never needed one, apart from when Mum drew up her will.’ His cheeks start to burn with
shame. They’re looking at him like he’s an idiot and he’s not.
He’s just a normal bloke. He’s never broken the law in his life.
‘We could get a duty solicitor in for you,’ DC Merriott says.
‘How long would that take?’
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‘Maybe half an hour, maybe more.’
‘Then no.’ Gareth shakes his head decisively. ‘I don’t want
one. I want this over as quickly as possible. My mum’s missing.
I need to get home.’
‘Okay then.’ DC Forbes glances down at his pad. ‘So, tell us
about your relationship with Liam Dunford.’
‘We’re colleagues. Well, I’m his superior, but I didn’t recruit him. Mark Whiting did that.’
‘You’re security guards, is that right? At the Meads shopping
centre in Bristol.’
‘Security officers,’ Gareth corrects him. ‘But basically, yeah.
That’s right.’
‘And how would you describe your relationship?’
Gareth considers the question. ‘Professional,’ he says, after a pause.
‘Professional, right.’ DC Forbes scribbles something on his
pad, then glances up. ‘Any issues, arguments, that sort of thing?’
Gareth sits very still. He knows his body language is being
scrutinised for any sign of discomfort or guilt and, despite the overwhelming urge to rub the back of his neck, he doesn’t move a muscle.
‘No more than with anyone else,’ he says.
‘So there were disagreements then? It’s normal, isn’t it, in a work environment? We can’t get on with everyone we meet.’
DC Merriott smiles encouragingly at him.
‘As I said, no more than with anyone else.’
‘Right.’ DC Forbes presses his lips together. ‘Then why would
you say to your boss, Mark Whiting, and I quote, “He could
be at the bottom of a lake for all I care”?’
Gareth sits forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table, then remembers his decision not to move a muscle and sits back sharply again. ‘Because my mum had just disappeared and Mark
was asking where Liam was. Right then I couldn’t have given
two shits.’
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‘Understandable. Totally understandable.’
Gareth watches the detective’s hand move over his pad. He
can’t read a word he’s writing and they still haven’t told him what’s happened to Liam, other than the fact that he’s missing.
Is he dead? Do they think someone murdered him? His heart
beats fast. Do they think he did it? Do they think he killed him and dumped him in a lake?
‘So,’ the female detective says, ‘tell me, Gareth, why would
Liam tell his friends that he was blackmailing you?’
Gareth’s jaw drops and his mind goes completely blank.
‘I’m .
. . s . . . sorry what?’ he stutters.
‘When interviewed about his disappearance, Liam’s friends
told us that he said . . .’ she glances down at her notes ‘ . . . he had you wrapped around his little finger. Those were their exact words. Why would he say something like that, do you think?’
‘He . . .’ The word catches in Gareth’s dry throat. He wets his lips with his tongue, then reaches for the plastic cup of water on the table and takes a sip. As he drinks he weighs up the
question. If he denies that Liam was blackmailing him they’ll
know he’s lying. If he tells them the truth they’ll have the motive they need.
‘Is he dead?’ He sets his cup back down, his gaze flitting
between the detectives. This time it’s their body language he’s trying to read.
The detectives exchange a glance, then DC Forbes meets his
steady stare.
‘Why don’t you tell us?’
Gareth leaves the police station on shaky legs, his back slick with sweat. He glances over his shoulder as he descends the
concrete steps. He can’t shake the feeling that, at any moment, Detective Sergeants Forbes and Merriott will come flying out of the black, glossy door and haul him back in. There was a point 251
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in his interview, as he explained why Liam was blackmailing
him, where he felt certain he was never going to leave that
claustrophobic grey room ever again, a belief that was reinforced when DC Forbes asked him where he’d been between 2 a.m.
and 4 a.m. on Thursday 28th March. He was at home asleep,
he told them, his throat desert dry. No, he admitted when asked, there was no one who could confirm his alibi but the CCTV
above the front door would show that he hadn’t left the house.
DC Forbes raised an eyebrow. ‘Not via the front door, anyway.’
When DC Merriott announced there would be no further
questions for now and turned off the digital recorder it was all Gareth could do not to slump over the table and cry. Instead
he sat rigidly in his seat, his hands on his thighs, and asked if he could leave. He followed the two police officers through the labyrinthine corridors in a daze, feeling as though he’d been
transported into another world. Was Liam dead? He still didn’t know. All he wanted was to get the hell out of that building
and run all the way home.
But he doesn’t run. Instead he walks slowly out of the shadow
of the station and into the weak March sunshine. He walks on
autopilot, crossing the road, turning left, turning right, not knowing or caring where he’s going. Only when the police station is no longer in sight do his legs give way. He sinks down onto a low wall outside a chip shop and slumps forwards, his elbows on his knees. Then he rests his head in his hands and he closes his eyes.
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Chapter 43
Alice
Monday
Wherever Alice goes in the store, and whatever she does, she
can feel the weight of Lynne’s gaze resting on her shoulders.
It was Lynne she turned to on Saturday, after she said goodbye to Simon in the car park of the Red Lion. It was an awkward
parting. A lot of the anger she’d felt earlier in the evening, when she’d had a go at him for not telling her about his stalker, had dissipated but she couldn’t bring herself to give him a hug. She had too much she needed to process. Instead, as they hovered outside the pub door, she raised a hand and pointed across the car park towards her VW Golf and said, ‘That’s my car. I’ll be in touch.’
As she sat in the car and watched Simon drive away she
deliberated about who to ring. She didn’t want to worry Emily, not when she was on a night out with her friends trying to
forget what a bastard Adam had been, and Lynne, being Lynne,
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was only too happy to chat. She drove to her house and they
sat in the lounge, clutching mugs of tea, Lynne listening intently as Alice told her everything that had happened. When she got
to the bit about the cinema Lynne clamped one hand to her
mouth and stared at her with disbelieving eyes.
‘They didn’t . . . the stalker . . . they didn’t really sniff your hair?’
Alice shook her head. ‘There were a couple of young girls sitting behind us. We’re pretty sure it had nothing to do with them. But it freaked Simon out so much he thought we should leave.’
‘And that’s why he dumped you? Because he thought his
stalker was going to hurt you?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Aren’t the police doing anything?’
‘He’s reported it but they haven’t got a clue who’s behind it.
Whoever’s been stalking him has been careful to cover their
tracks.’
‘Shit.’ Lynne put down her cup and rubbed at her arms, her
gaze drifting towards the closed curtains at the windows. ‘That’s scary.’
‘I’ve freaked you out.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . it’s one thing to be stalked by someone you know, but to have no idea at all . . . it could be anyone, anyone you meet on the street.’
‘Exactly. I think that was part of the reason he was so cagey
with me when I asked him about his job. For all he knew the
stalker could have been me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Alice gave her a long look. ‘I’m going to help him find out
who’s doing this. We’re going to set a trap.’
Now, as she unpacks the new stock in the back room and hangs
the dresses, shirts and jumpers on a rail, she mentally rehearses the plan to catch Simon’s stalker. When she left Lynne’s and
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arrived home a little after midnight Emily was curled up on the sofa under a blanket watching Gogglebox on demand.
She laughed as Alice walked in, then peeled back the blanket
so she could sit down. ‘Dirty stop-out! I got home over an hour ago. What time do you call this?’
For the second time that evening Alice recounted her conver-
sation with Simon, her daughter’s eyes growing bigger and bigger as she told her about the plan that they’d made.
‘I can’t believe he’s letting you go along with that. It could be dangerous, Mum.’
‘How is it dangerous? We’ll be in a public restaurant.’
‘What if the stalker’s got a knife? They could do way worse
than sniff your hair.’
To be fair to Simon, he said no, straight away, when Alice
suggested laying a trap. It was too dangerous, he said, and there was no way he was going to agree to her setting herself up as
bait. She explained that it wasn’t just about him any more.
Now she was going to be looking over her shoulder too, regard-
less of whether she saw him again. If either of them were ever going to move on with their lives they had to find out who the stalker was. Her plan was for Simon to reactivate his social
media with a tweet saying he was taking his date to a certain
restaurant in town. Alice would arrive early, sit at the back and take photos of everyone who walked in. When Simon arrived,
she’d be able to show him the photos to see if he recognised
anyone.
‘That�
��s a shit plan,’ Emily said. ‘Whoever spotted you going
into the cinema and knew you were wearing a blue skirt, could
have been anywhere. They could have been on a bench or in
the car park, or they might have been in the lounge area of the cinema drinking coffee. Same when your car was scratched. They weren’t necessarily in the restaurant, were they? But they knew where you’d parked.’
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‘Oh.’ Alice felt deflated. ‘Lynne thought it was a good plan.’
‘Lynne agrees with everything you say, Mum.’
‘So? What’s the alternative?’
‘Look, if you were right and someone was following us home
from the pub the other night then he, or she, knows where we
live. And that’s where we lure them. Simon should put a post
on his Twitter account saying he’s looking forward to a romantic dinner at his girlfriend’s house. I’ll go and speak to Helen across the street, explain what’s going on, and ask if I can camp out in their front bedroom for the night. If anyone does hang around our house or park up their car I’ll take photos with my phone.
Then we show them to Simon, and if he doesn’t recognise them,
we take them to the police.’
‘What if the stalker tries to break in?’
‘Into our flat? Good luck with that on the second floor!’
‘Okay then, what if they don’t show up at all and just send
another message?’
Emily grinned. ‘They’ll come, because Simon’s going to tweet
something that will really wind them up.’
Now Alice glances at her watch. Seven hours until he comes
to the shop to pick her up. She wonders if their hello will be as awkward as their goodbye was last night. She’s not angry
with him any more, not like she was in the pub. She understands why he cut off all contact with her, but her feelings have definitely shifted. She wants to help him, not rip off his clothes and drag him to bed. As she hangs another pale pink jumper on the
rack and pulls off the plastic dust jacket, she wonders what
they’ll talk about in her house and whether it would be a better idea to put on a film instead.
Nothing violent, she thinks as she reaches into the cardboard
box for another pink jumper. Something funny. Something that
won’t make them jump out of their skins if they hear a noise.