She was tempted to phone him and let him know she was thinking of him, but if he was in the middle of work, her call would be unwelcome. He’d said he’d be back for them to go out, and if that wasn’t going to be possible, he’d message her and let her know. So in the meantime, she had just as well get ready to go out.
Heading up the winding staircase, she entered the main bedroom, flicking on the television as she passed through to the en suite. Her eyes looked tired in the mirror, with the skin slightly sagging. Nothing that a bit of concealer wouldn’t fix. The highlights in her hair still shone from the appointment she’d had the day before the wedding, but the stress of the last few days was beginning to take its toll.
As she headed back into the bedroom and pulled off her T-shirt, the sound of the television distracted her. On the screen was a picture of Kerry Valentine. A reporter’s voice confirmed the victim’s name and summarized what the police had said in the earlier press conference. The screen then cut to DI Vernon in his withered shirt and tie, the Yorkshire accent as thick as it had been earlier.
‘The victim – whom you can see on the screens behind me – is Kerry Valentine, 22 and local to the Boscombe area. She was last seen in the town centre around half past eleven on the night of Saturday, the 27th of July, just over a week ago. We are today appealing for witnesses who may have seen her after this time, or may have any information about what happened to her.’
The screen filled with Kerry’s face – one of the images that had been on the screen during the press conference.
‘Kerry had a difficult upbringing: in and out of foster homes after her single mum died, she spent time in a young offenders’ institute for drug-related crimes. She had cleaned up her act in recent years, holding down a part-time job at a local supermarket and earning money through her late-night dance routines.’
An image of a road now appeared on the screen with cars passing by, before the camera panned around to a small block of flats, graffiti covering several of the nearby walls, and an abandoned washing machine propped up near a rusting shopping trolley. A scroll at the bottom of the screen identified the area as Boscombe.
‘We visited Boscombe earlier this afternoon,’ the reporter’s voice continued, ‘and spoke to some of Kerry’s neighbours. They had this to say.’
A woman’s large face appeared, her cheeks puffy, eyes thick with liner, and lipstick that looked like it had been put on in a dark room.
‘Yeah, I knew Kerry,’ the woman said, glancing from the reporter to the camera like she was trying to work an angle to make some extra cash. ‘She was a good girl, not like the cops made out. Yeah she danced for money but she didn’t turn tricks or nothing like that. That boy of hers, she doted on him. Poor blighter.’
Alice slumped to the bed.
Suddenly the camera was inside a warm-looking living room, an elderly woman with grey hair perched in a tall armchair. It was obvious she’d been crying.
‘I was looking after the little lad that night,’ she said. ‘I knew something was wrong when she didn’t call me. She should have been back by midnight, and when I tried phoning her, the phone was off. I called the police as I was so worried.’
She then went on to explain how Kerry had fallen pregnant at seventeen and how that had been her wake-up call to turn her life around. She got herself clean, found a place to live and relied on community support to watch over her son while she worked.
‘She was an only child and had no other family, but she was determined to give her boy the life she never had,’ the older woman continued. ‘He was her entire world; everything she did was for him. Now he’ll never know just how much he was loved.’
The scene cut back to the reporter at the bar as he concluded his brief report into the life of Kerry Valentine. ‘There has been a lot of activity just a few yards from where we’re now standing, with Scene of Crime vans blocking the view off to our left. We’ll bring you more as soon as we have it.’
Alice muted the television as she blinked away the sting of tears. Kerry had a son. Whomever killed her had made that poor boy an orphan.
Ben and Alice had talked about starting a family, and both accepted it was the next obvious step in their relationship. They would give children a good life, but was that now fair when they had indirectly ruined the life of an innocent child? Would Kerry’s son now spend his formative years in social care, wondering why his mum had been taken from him?
In that moment, Alice made a vow to find out more about Kerry’s son, and to do everything in her power to support him, whether that be financially or in some other manner. It was the very least she could do for Kerry.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Is everything okay?’ Ben asked down the line. ‘You sound upset.’
Alice dabbed her eye with a corner of tissue, not wanting to add to his guilt by mentioning Kerry’s orphaned son. ‘I’m fine. How are you? Is everything sorted?’
‘I wish!’ Ben sighed. ‘That’s why I’m calling – I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel our plans for tonight. I’m up to my eyeballs in insurance contracts and dealing with the police investigators. You’d better go ahead and eat without me, I don’t know what time I’ll be able to get away from here.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘One of the car drivers was crushed beneath the other lorry,’ he said glumly. ‘They had to cut her out, and she died before they could get her to hospital.’
‘Oh, Ben, I’m sorry.’
‘It was difficult to watch. Thankfully, Yann is fit and well and wasn’t at fault for the accident, but because of his visa issue, it’s not as straightforward as it could have been. According to the other drivers, Yann was in the inside lane when the other HGV driver pulled out to overtake, but didn’t see one of the cars also moving into the lane. They collided and hit into the back of Yann’s vehicle, and the other cars couldn’t brake in time to stop the collision. It’s a real mess. They’ve had to shut the M3 northbound and they’ve only just cleared the backlog of cars that were stuck behind the pile-up. They’ve put diversions up, but it’ll be several hours before they’ve cleared the roadway. Doesn’t help that the other lorry was carrying some kind of hazardous material.’
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the news report on Kerry, he had enough on his plate.
‘I’m sorry to let you down,’ he continued. ‘I hate leaving you at home alone; is there anyone you can call to come over, or who you could go out and see? What about Tara?’
‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Just get yourself home as quickly as you can. I really need a hug, and by the sounds of it, so do you.’
‘I’ll message when I’m on my way back, but I don’t know when that will be yet. Did Dave leave the place tidy?’
She thought back to the phone conversation she’d overheard. ‘Yeah, the place was fine when I got back here. Mum and Scott came over this afternoon and passed on their best wishes.’
‘Hey, babe, I’d better go, I’ve got an incoming call. Love you.’
‘Love you, too,’ she replied as the line disconnected.
Returning the phone to its cradle, she looked around the silent house and knew staying inside would slowly drive her crazy.
One of the benefits of their home’s location was the presence of a family friendly pub two minutes’ walk away. Making her way down the road on foot, the sound of laughter and chat emanated from the beer garden at the rear of the large charcoal-coloured building, and the lights inside were welcoming. Reaching the main entrance though, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Turning quickly, she scanned the horizon, but there was nobody in sight. Pulling open the door, she entered the bar and headed straight for the dining area before being escorted by a waiter to a small table, where a tealight flickered playfully in the slight breeze from the nearby kitchen.
The dining area was large enough to feed a small army, and the same charcoal-coloured paint covered the brickwork of the various pillars and w
alls. The carpet was maroon with yellow chequered patterns, though she couldn’t tell exactly what the shapes were meant to represent. The high ceiling gave the place an airy feel, even though the tables were quite close to one another, but at the moment the dining area was only half full.
Her chair faced the rustic bar area while, over her shoulder, the large expanse of green lawn and picnic benches stretched out to the wooded perimeter. She switched chairs so she could watch the groups gathered at the picnic benches, hoping their revelry would distract her from the gloom of her own thoughts.
The waiter took her drink order – a large glass of dry white wine. She didn’t usually drink during the week, but she had a terrible fear that she would struggle to get to sleep tonight, and anything that would help was more than welcome.
Reading the menu, she settled on the barbecue chicken with a portion of skinny fries and a salad. The waiter asked if anyone would be joining her, and although she initially took this as a judgemental question, he quickly explained that he just wanted to know whether to leave the spare cutlery in place. Blushing, she told him she would be dining alone tonight.
Out in the garden she spotted a young boy with a shaved head, his face pressed up against the glass like he was looking for someone. Their eyes met and he smiled sheepishly before waving. Alice instinctively waved back, but then another woman suddenly brushed past her and approached the glass, wagging her finger at the boy and telling him to come back inside as it was time for them to leave. As Alice glanced behind her, she saw the vacant chair from where the woman had emerged, and realized the boy hadn’t been waving at her at all.
Reaching for her glass, Alice took a sip of wine and avoided looking at the harried mother as she returned to her seat and gathered her possessions.
‘Is this seat taken?’ a man’s voice said, startling Alice.
Looking up, she instantly recognized Liam O’Neill, the journalist who had approached her in the hotel on Sunday morning.
‘I have nothing to say,’ she said, taking another sip.
Dropping into the other seat, he reached for the menu, turning his nose up as he scanned the prices. ‘No Ben tonight?’
He was trying to bait her, and the best thing she could do was to keep her mouth closed and ignore him until he left.
‘What’s he up to tonight? Do you know what your husband does when you’re not around?’
The anger rose in her throat before she could stop it. ‘He’ll be here in a minute actually, so you should get out before I set him on you!’
O’Neill made no attempt to move. ‘It’s only a matter of time before the police pull him back in for further questioning. You know that, right? They released him on bail so they can get their house in order before they present their case to the CPS and charge him accordingly. His was the only DNA found on the victim’s body according to my source.’
‘He’s explained how that got there,’ she flashed, angry that she was allowing him to get under her skin so easily.
‘He always was good at formulating believable lies.’
‘Who are you? Really, I mean. What’s your interest in this story? Why are you so keen to spread lies and rumours about my husband?’
He opened his mouth to respond, before rethinking and closing it again. ‘An innocent woman was brutally murdered and your husband was one of the last people to see her. His DNA was found on her body and for a period of time on Saturday night, around the same time that she was killed, he was left unattended by his friends. Plenty of time for him to get free, kill Kerry, and then return to where they’d left him.’
She snorted with derision. ‘He was pissed and cuffed to a lamppost. He’s not Houdini.’
‘I think you’d be surprised about the situations your husband has escaped from in the past.’
O’Neill appeared confident in what he was saying, but there was something darker behind his eyes; he wasn’t just here to gloat.
‘What have you got against Ben?’ Alice fired back, desperately hoping her food would arrive so she could ask the waiter to escort O’Neill away from the table.
‘Tell me something, Alice. Have you always been so naive?’
‘Don’t pretend to know anything about me.’
‘I know you’re a teacher at St Michael’s School, you teach French and Spanish and you graduated with honours from Southampton University.’ He paused, fixing her with a quizzical look, trying to read her reactions. ‘Does the name Mary mean anything to you?’
She shook her head as a fog of confusion took hold.
Standing, he said, ‘Find out what you can about Mary, but watch your back – Ben won’t like it if he finds out you’re digging into his past. And we both know what he’s capable of when he’s not happy.’
With that, he spun on his heel and headed back to the bar area, leaving Alice alone to contemplate his warning.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was only Alice’s lack of a proper meal all day that ensured she finished the barbecue chicken dish. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was, but it had done little to satisfy her appetite.
Who the hell did Liam O’Neill think he was to be harassing her at odd times and places, making accusations against Ben but not following them up with anything resembling proof? It was like he’d mixed up her Ben with some other Ben Goodman. Ultimately, if he was as bad as Liam made out, why wasn’t he still in police custody?
He was trying to drive her insane; that was the only reasonable conclusion she could draw. Clearly, there was bad blood between Liam and Ben, though she couldn’t even begin to fathom what that might be. She wanted to phone Ben and ask him why Liam O’Neill was making such accusations, but something was holding her back.
Watch your back – Ben won’t like it if he finds out you’re digging into his past. And we both know what he’s capable of when he’s not happy.
Had Liam meant it to sound so sinister? In Alice’s experience, when Ben wasn’t happy about something he tended to vent his anger verbally, usually with a side order of Scotch. He’d never been violent, certainly not towards her, and Liam’s warning felt like just another feeble attempt to push a divide between them.
The question was why.
Checking her phone, she was disappointed to see Ben had yet to message her again, which meant he still wasn’t on his way home. Dropping cash on the table, she picked up her handbag and left the dining area, heading back through the bar and out into the warm night air. Although the sky was still quite bright, the treeline at the edge of the road was much darker now, and it would probably be less than half an hour until sunset.
The car park had more spaces as she made her way past it in the direction of home, but once again she couldn’t escape the unease of someone watching her. Circling around, she returned to the doorway of the pub, looking left and right, searching for anyone who looked out of place or was paying her undue attention, but the street was empty.
The lamppost across the street flickered to life, brightening the treeline, but there was nobody there. She was being paranoid, that’s all it was. It had to be a result of the stress she was under. She closed her eyes, took two sharp breaths and forged forwards, determined not to allow her paranoia to get the better of her.
The gates of her home came into view, and with them momentary relief. As she neared the gates though, she immediately noticed a small packet crudely stuck to the locking mechanism. Hurrying towards it, she saw it was a yellow envelope with her name scrawled on it. The envelope came away from the gate with a tug, having been taped in place. Looking around for any sign of who may have left it there, she suddenly felt vulnerable.
If it was a late wedding card, why hadn’t they put it in the letterbox at the side of the gate? Why use tape to attach it to the gate directly?
A twig snapped from somewhere in the trees across the road, and suddenly she desperately wanted to be in the safety of the house. Using her remote, she opened and closed the gate before sprinting up the driveway, not daring to l
ook back in case some stranger was following her. As she crashed into the front door, panting, she finally dared to turn around.
The driveway was empty.
Once inside, she locked the front door just to be safe, leaving her key in the lock. Heading through to the kitchen, she flicked on the light and tore at the envelope. Inside she found an A5 piece of paper with Ben’s face on it. It was a crude photocopied image of a much younger looking Ben. His hair was longer, his cheeks lacked the designer stubble he now wore, and there was a hardness to the eyes she’d not seen before, even at his most angry. Next to the front-facing image was a sideways profile, showing his hair hanging over most of his ear.
A police profile picture of Ben – a mugshot – but it had to be at least a decade old. Turning the image over, she gasped as her eyes fell on the typed message on the back.
Dear Alice,
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Your husband’s a killer,
And you haven’t got a clue.
The message wasn’t signed, and because it was typed there was no way to be certain of who had sent it. Given the run-in she’d had with Liam O’Neill at the pub though, she assumed it must have been left by him, to toy with her emotions even more.
She still couldn’t understand what was motivating him. Also, why would he leave the note on the gate when he knew she was in the pub? He could have just as easily handed her the mugshot. It wasn’t exactly news; Ben had told her he’d had trouble with the police before and had admitted to her there was a reason they had his DNA profile on record. So what did Liam hope to achieve by sending her this picture?
There was an alternative conclusion that she was desperately trying to ignore: what if someone else had left the envelope?
A shiver rippled down her back as she pictured a faceless character in the shadows, watching as she’d left the house, making his move and then creeping back to wait and watch.
Panic flowed through her at a second thought: if he had been watching her out there, did that mean he was still nearby? Before she could begin to dismiss the panic rising in her throat, a loud thumping echoed off the front door.
Till Death Do Us Part Page 13
