by Karen Cole
‘It must be horrible. I can’t imagine.’ I murmur. ‘What about the rest of the people who live in the building? There are three other flats, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know them well? Do you trust them?’
‘Do I think they murdered Charlie, you mean?’ He frowns and looks as if he’s considering the possibility. Then he shakes his head slowly. ‘In flat two there’s Meg Darley. She’s a lovely person and she’s disabled – severely disabled. Aside from having absolutely no reason to kill Charlie, she wouldn’t have been physically capable.’ He pauses and frowns. ‘Then there’s Ben Wiltshire in flat four. Charlie found him begging on the street and offered him a place to live free of charge.’
‘Completely free?’ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Charlie was always generous with the little money she had. I remember her in the pub buying rounds for everyone when we finished our A levels.
Adam nods and presses his lips together. ‘I warned her against taking in people like that. He’s an addict. It wouldn’t surprise me if he killed her for drug money.’
‘Was any money stolen?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know how much she had lying around, but the medicine box was out on the table and all the contents had been tipped out. Charlie had strong painkillers in there. I think he could have been looking for medication, anything to get a fix.’
‘Or I suppose Charlie could’ve been looking for a bandage, something to stop the bleeding?’ I suggest tentatively.
‘Yes, only there was no blood on the box. There was blood everywhere else but none on that box.’
I shudder, trying to block an image of Charlie dying and bleeding, desperately trying to survive. Charlie would have fought to her very last breath, I think.
‘What about the other flat?’ I say, trying not to cry. If Adam can hold it together, then I can too.
Adam shrugs. ‘Flat three is empty. They moved out a couple of weeks before Charlie died. They went to Newcastle. I don’t think they could have had anything to do with Charlie’s death.’
Then casually, carefully, ‘Where were you on Friday night?’
Immediately I regret asking him because he gives me a sharp, angry look. Clearly, I’ve gone too far. I sound almost like I’m interrogating him – as if I suspect him of murdering Charlie. Which of course I do.
‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business,’ he says coldly. ‘But if you must know, I was on a stag weekend in Paris. Turns out it was the worst decision of my life.’
‘You couldn’t have known what would happen.’
Adam continues, shaking his head, almost as if he’s talking to himself. ‘I didn’t even like the guy. He’s just some idiot I used to know at uni. One of those people you never seem to shake off.’
‘So, who found her . . . I thought—’
‘Oh, I found her.’ He winces at the memory. ‘When I got back from the trip. She’d been dead for nearly a whole day.’ His voice comes out bitter and harsh and the eyes he fixes on me are dark with anger. ‘But it took her several hours to die.’
‘She didn’t die straight away?’ I feel deeply shocked. Poor Charlie. She must have been so frightened and in so much pain – I wonder how it’s even possible that she was still alive after being stabbed four times in the chest.
‘No, she was attacked in the kitchen,’ he says. ‘But she somehow manged to drag herself through to the living room. The police think she was trying to get to her phone.’
So, she died in this room, I think with a shudder. Where exactly was the body? I think about the dream. Charlie in those white pyjamas, blood on her chest. ‘What was she wearing?’
He gives me an odd look. ‘I don’t remember. Her nightshirt, I think,’ he says. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, no reason.’
I return to what Adam told me about the police thinking Charlie was killed by someone she knew. ‘Did she have any plans to meet anyone that night?’ I ask.
‘Not to my knowledge. I called her at about eight o’clock the night she died,’ he says. ‘That was the last time I spoke to her. The last time anybody spoke to her – apart from her killer, of course. She said she was going to have a quiet night and watch a film on Netflix.’
‘And do you know if the police have any leads?’ My mouth is dry, waiting for his answer.
‘Not really,’ he wipes his nose and glares at the coffee table. ‘They don’t tell me much. They treat me as if I’m a suspect.’
You and me both.
There’s a pause. Adam frowns and stands up abruptly. ‘Right,’ he looks at his watch again. ‘Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Catherine. Thank you for this photo. Let me know how you get on.’
Thirteen
Outside Adam’s flat I wipe away the tears of anger and fear that are welling up in my eyes. I can’t imagine what kind of pain and terror Charlie must have experienced in those last few hours of her life. Did she know she was going to die, or did she keep hoping and clinging on until the last minute? It doesn’t bear thinking about. One thing is clear – whoever killed her is dangerous and it’s more important than ever that I find out who it was.
Adam obviously believes, or at least is pretending to believe, that the man that lives in the flat upstairs could have murdered her. And I wonder if the police have been looking into him as a suspect. Surely, they must have at least interviewed everyone in the building. But have they missed something? I ball up the tissue in my hand, shove it in my pocket, take a deep breath and climb the carpeted stairs to the first floor and flat four. There’s no answer when I ring the bell, so I thump loudly on the door until it flies open. Loud rock music blares out and a thin, young man eyeballs me suspiciously.
‘Ben Wiltshire?’ I shout over the music.
‘That’s me,’ he says. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Er . . . I’m Catherine Bayntun. I flash my press card. Hopefully, he won’t notice that it’s out of date. ‘I’m from the Wilts and Gloucester Standard. I just want to ask you a few questions about the death of Charlotte Holbrooke.’
‘No journalists,’ he says, shaking his head firmly as he starts to close the door.
‘I can pay you for your time,’ I say desperately.
He opens the door again just a fraction. ‘How much?’ he asks.
I rummage in my purse. I have sixty pounds cash in there. I hold it out to him, and he grasps it eagerly.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure,’ he steps back to let me in.
His flat is the same layout as the downstairs one, but the walls are plain white and the furniture is bland – Ikea standard. From what Adam told me, I’d expect it to be a dingy, sordid drug den, but in fact, it’s quite clean and tidy, if rather bare, and the large windows let in a lot of light. In the living room the music is deafening, and I put my hands over my ears.
‘Sorry,’ he says, and he presses a button on a remote and the music stops.
‘Thanks, that’s better.’
Now I can hear myself think I examine him more closely. He has a stubbly brown beard and a solid covering of tattoos on his neck and arms. At a guess, I would say that he can’t be much more than twenty-five, but he’s stringy and haggard-looking and there’s a dull, disillusioned look in his eyes that you’d expect from a much older man.
Aside from his skinniness and his eagerness to accept my cash, there are no obvious signs of drug addiction. He seems with it, and his hand is steady as he moves a PlayStation controller from the one chair in the room. ‘Take a seat,’ he says, and I hover uncertainly.
‘Where will you sit?’ I ask.
‘I’m sorry – I don’t get many visitors,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
He fetches a chair from the kitchen and sits on it back to front, legs straddled, hugging the back rest and gives me a direct, challenging look.
‘Well. What
do you want to know?’
Did you kill Charlotte Holbrooke? I think. Did you murder my friend just so that you could get high?
‘Did you know Charlotte Holbrooke well?’ I ask out loud.
He jiggles his leg. ‘You could say that, yeah.’
‘What was she like?’
He gives a deep, sad sigh. ‘What can I say about Charlie?’ he says. ‘She was one of a kind. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.’ He winces in what looks like genuine pain and to my surprise his eyes fill with tears.
‘How do you mean?’ I ask gently.
He taps his fingers on his knee. He doesn’t seem to be able to keep still. ‘She was an angel, that’s all. If it weren’t for her, I’d still be on the streets. In fact, I’d probably be dead by now.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah. I was fucked up when Charlie found me. There’s no doubt about that.’
He stares down at the carpet.
‘How did you meet her?’ I ask.
He turns to look at me. ‘It was about two years ago. I’d just been kicked out of my flat and I had nowhere to live. I was mainly couch-surfing and staying in hostels. Anyway, I was sleeping rough in Cheltenham and I got talking to Charlie. She said she had a place empty and that I could use it if I wanted—’ He breaks off. ‘Why aren’t you writing any of this down?’
‘I’m recording it on my phone,’ I say.
He looks dubious. ‘Well, I don’t want you misquoting me.’
‘I won’t, I promise.’ I’m wondering what brought about this change in Charlie. True, she was always generous, but the Charlie I knew was more interested in having a good time than in charities and causes. Plus, it seemed reckless, even for Charlie, to invite someone she didn’t know into her home.
‘I thought there’d be a catch,’ he continues. ‘There usually is. But with Charlie there wasn’t. Not only that, but she persuaded me to go to rehab. She paid for me to go to this expensive clinic and well . . . here I am now. Three months clean. All thanks to her.’
Clean. This isn’t the picture Adam painted.
‘What about her husband, Adam? Do you know him?’ I ask.
He frowns. ‘Not so well. And I don’t really like what I do know, to be honest.’
This is interesting. Adam didn’t like Ben and clearly the feeling is mutual. ‘Why not?’ I ask, leaning forward.
‘He wasn’t good enough for her. He didn’t appreciate her like he should have.’
Ben looks furiously angry for a moment and it occurs to me that he was jealous of Adam. His feelings for Charlie seem to be stronger than the usual tenant–landlord relationship. I even wonder if he was a little in love with her.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I ask.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he sighs. ‘Probably nobody deserved her. She was . . . Well, I can’t explain to someone who didn’t know her.’
But I did know her. Sighing, I stand up and walk over to the window. From his living room I can see the park, the wide, straight path flanked by chestnut trees, a family trailing dogs and children striding up to the top of the hill. There is also a clear view of the road outside the front entrance.
‘What about the night Charlie was killed – did you see or hear anything?’ I ask, turning back towards Ben.
He gives me a sudden sly look and I supress a shiver of fear. What if it was him who provided the police with the description of me? But that’s nonsense. He doesn’t even know me. What reason could he have to want to frame me?
‘Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. I didn’t hear anything, but I heard a car drive up and park outside at about one o’clock in the morning. I assumed it was Adam back from his trip.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘I don’t know. Who else would visit so late at night? And anyway,’ he bites his lip. ‘Whoever it was didn’t ring the buzzer. They let themselves in with a key.’
I inhale sharply. ‘Really? Are you sure? How would you know?’
He looks annoyed. ‘Yes, I’m sure. I heard the sound of the key in the lock.’
‘You could hear it from up here?’ I say doubtfully.
‘Yes, it was hot that night and the windows were open. I couldn’t sleep so I came in here to have a smoke.
I sit down again, feeling winded. If he’s telling the truth, this is dynamite. It suggests that someone in the Cecily House flats killed Charlie. But it couldn’t have been Adam. He had an alibi. The police must have checked that, surely.
‘Who else had a key to the front door?’ I ask as casually as I can.
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs. ‘As far as I know, just me, Meg and Sophia in number two and Charlie and Adam, of course.’
‘Sophia?’
‘Meg’s care worker, companion or whatever you call it.’
I grip the armrest tightly. My hands are shaking with excitement. ‘Did you tell this to the police?’
‘I did. But I don’t think they believed me. Police don’t tend to take people like me seriously.’
I’m not surprised. He comes across as shifty and untrustworthy, though I believe that his feelings for Charlie were genuine.
‘Did you hear anything else after that?’
‘I went to bed and finally got to sleep. But later I was woken up by a scream.’ He shudders. ‘I didn’t realise what it was at the time, but now I think it must have been Charlie.’
I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept seeing her face in my mind, smiling and waving by the side of the road. When I did finally get to sleep, I had nightmares. I dreamed I was walking along the street, a child’s small hand clasped in mine. I’m not sure where I was going but I knew I had to get there quickly and that there was something very important I had to do. Something terrible had happened and I had to put it right.
‘Are we nearly there?’ the child asked plaintively, and I looked down and saw that it was Daisy looking up at me with her innocent blue eyes – those eyes that grab on to me like claws and won’t let go.
‘Daisy!’ I exclaimed, my heart bursting with joy and relief. ‘But I don’t understand . . . you’re alive. How are you alive?’
She didn’t answer. She just grinned at me revealing the pink gums where her baby teeth had fallen out.
‘It’s your fault,’ she said airily. Then she let go of my hand and before I could stop her, she ran out into the road.
‘Daisy, no!’ I screamed, as a huge truck loomed out of nowhere and ploughed into her, shattering her small body. I watched in horror as the pieces turned into jigsaw-puzzle pieces and scattered in the wind.
I woke up silently screaming, my pillow drenched in tears. Daisy is dead and nothing will ever bring her back. Somehow, I have to live with that.
Fourteen
Ben Wiltshire is probably full of shit, I think, as I climb down the stairs.
Even so, I stop thoughtfully outside flat two and I notice that the patio doors are flung wide open. The radio is blaring and there’s a woman sitting in a motorised wheelchair on the patio under the shade of a maple tree. Her grey hair is neatly bobbed, her mouth is hanging open slightly, her head tipped to the side and her hands resting limply on the edge of the chair.
I recoil slightly at the sight of her and am immediately ashamed of myself for my reaction, so I overcompensate by smiling broadly and saying an unnecessarily loud ‘Hello.’
She doesn’t respond immediately, just makes a strange gurgling noise in her throat and I think she can’t speak or that maybe she’s mentally disabled. But her eyes seem to be flicking up and down, looking at the monitor on the portable stand next to her computer and then the computer next to her speaks in a cheerful American woman’s voice.
‘Hi there.’
‘I’m Catherine,’ I say, taking a cautious step towards her, holding out my hand for her to shake, then I drop it, flushing
with embarrassment as I realise that of course she can’t lift her arm. ‘I’m an old friend of Charlotte’s – the woman who lived in flat one. Did you know her?’
Again, there is an unsettling silence as her eyes move purposefully across the monitor.
‘Nice to meet you, Catherine. I’m Meg. Yes, Charlie was a good friend,’ she says at last. ‘She was a special person,’ the machine voice continues.
‘Yeah, Charlie was one of a kind,’ I agree. ‘I still can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her. I mean who could do something so despicable . . . so . . .’ I search for the right word. ‘So evil?’
‘Why don’t you take a seat for a minute? I’d offer you a drink, but I can’t move. I’m paralysed from the neck down in case you hadn’t noticed.’
I’m not sure if this is meant to be a joke and I smile awkwardly.
‘It’s okay, I’m not thirsty,’ I say, perching on the edge of the garden chair. As I turn and face the road, it occurs to me that this is a good vantage point to see anyone coming and going. Meg has an even better view of the entrance than Ben.
‘I wish I knew what happened to her,’ I sigh.
‘Yes, me too.’
‘You didn’t see or hear anything the night she was killed? Or in the days before she was killed, anything out of the ordinary?’
There’s a silence. I watch a sparrow flutter down to the bird feeder hanging from the maple tree and a car crawl past along the road.
‘I went to bed early that night. I had a headache,’ Meg says at last. ‘The only unusual thing about that weekend was that Adam was away.’
‘Did Charlie have any visitors?’
‘Just the man who came that afternoon.’
‘The man?’ I lean forward. My heart is thumping with excitement. ‘Who was he? What did he look like?’
‘He had dark hair, dark complexion. Good-looking. He brought flowers – a bunch of irises.’
‘And do you know who he was?’
‘No, but I’ve seen him here before.’
So, someone Charlie knew, a friend, then. Or maybe even . . . Is it possible Charlie was having an affair? It seems unlikely. She and Adam hadn’t been married long.