Strangers

by C. L. Taylor

  ‘Want me to pop round later?’ Lynne asks. ‘I could pick up some stuff from the chemist in my lunchbreak.’

  ‘No, no. That’s very kind but Emily’s looking after me.’

  ‘She’s home, is she? Not at work?’

  Alice coughs again, clearing her throat for the lie. ‘She’s got a day off. She’s on her way to the corner shop right now to get me some Lemsip.’

  ‘Aw.’ Lynne sighs. ‘Well I’m glad someone’s looking after you. Get lots of rest, sleep and drink lots of water. Hopefully see you tomorrow.’

  Alice sniffs. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing.’

  There’s a pause. Lynne doesn’t believe her, she can feel it, but she doesn’t want to tell her the real reason why she’s not coming into work. Lynne would want a complete rundown of exactly what happened the night before and who said what, and she just can’t face it. Not yet.

  ‘Hope you feel better soon,’ Lynne says tersely. ‘Look after yourself, bye.’

  Cringing, Alice sets her mobile down on the kitchen table and stands up, stretching her arms out to the side. She went straight back to work after Michael assaulted her and it’s utterly pathetic, calling in sick because she got dumped. It’s not as though she’s heartbroken – she and Simon only had two dates, three if you counted lunch, and they hadn’t even slept together, but it’s the not knowing that kept her up all night. She’d texted him back, as soon as she got out of the taxi:

  I understand if you don’t want to see me again, but could you let me know why?

  Seconds ticked into minutes and when he still hadn’t replied half an hour later she texted him again.

  Please, just let me know why. I can take it. Was it because I had a go at you about you not texting (yes, I can see the irony there …) or is there another reason? I can’t stop thinking about how urgently we had to leave the cinema? Was it to do with that? Or the weird messages I’ve been getting? Whatever the reason I can take it, Simon.

  She told herself she’d wait a full hour before contacting him again, telling herself that maybe he was dealing with whatever emergency had called him out of the cinema, but she cracked after ten minutes and rang him. Her call went straight to voicemail and she hung up. There was nothing to say that she hadn’t already said in her text.

  She tried to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate. She made herself soup and toast for lunch but found she couldn’t eat more than a mouthful. She tried putting her phone in her bedroom so she wouldn’t obsessively check it but ended up pacing the room instead. She turned to Google, searching for answers:

  Why did my boyfriend suddenly dump me?

  Why do men blow hot and cold?

  My stalker scared off my boyfriend

  She read some interesting theories – that maybe her boyfriend had been feeling that something was wrong for a while, that he wasn’t ‘that into her’ or she was too keen. The last explanation rang bells. She had come across as needy with all the unanswered text messages, and then confronting him about them, but that didn’t explain why he’d suddenly decided to leave the film part way through. No matter which way Alice looks at what happened, and she’s examined it from every conceivable angle, Simon’s sudden decision to dump her had to be down to the text message he received in the cinema. Everything he’d done since they’d met – running after her with her purse, bringing her flowers, offering to speak to the police, accompanying her home after her car was scratched – suggested that he was a decent, honourable man. Had Flora threatened her in some way? Had he dumped her to protect her? It was the only theory that made sense.

  She scrolls through her phone, pausing over DC Mitchell’s number, then swipes past it. She’s got nothing new to report to the police. There’s no text she can show the detective, no evidence of abuse. A slow rage builds as Alice strides around the kitchen, phone in hand. Whoever’s been stalking her has won. They got what they wanted when Simon messaged her to say it was over.

  She looks at her phone again and scrolls through her Facebook messages until she finds the one from Ann Friend.

  I hope you’re happy, she types back. He’s split up with me because of you. You won. Well done.

  Her thumb hovers over the send button. Should she send it or not? If they reply they might say something that gives her a clue to their identity. But what if they don’t? She doesn’t think she could bear the smugness of their silence.

  She deletes the message. Her stalker has only won if she lets them. If she gives up. She didn’t fight for her marriage when Peter told her he was seeing someone else. She let him walk away. She didn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to work out why he’d cheated on her. There was a conversation to be had about what had gone wrong in their marriage but she didn’t want to pick over the bones of their relationship so, rather than find closure, she chose to shut down emotionally instead. But this is different. This isn’t about infidelity or a failure to communicate. It’s about control, and she’s going to take it back.

  Why, Alice asks herself, head in hands, did she never think to ask Simon his surname? She had so many opportunities – in the cafe, over dinner and during their many text marathons. How had it never come up? Or maybe it had? She can vaguely remember asking him his surname, so why doesn’t she know it? He must have changed the subject or distracted her with a joke.

  She types Simon Insurance Bristol into Google and looks at the results. There’s a Simon James, a Simon Lancaster, a Simon Perkins and a Simon Kelly but they’re mostly company owners or in very senior roles and, more importantly, they’re not the Simon she’s looking for.

  She enters a new search Insurance Company Bristol and raises her eyebrows as she scrolls through the results. One hundred, there are exactly one hundred insurance companies listed in Bristol. She’d had a half-baked idea that there might be thirty, forty tops, and she could spend the day ringing them to ask if they employed a Simon. But a hundred? She’d have to book time off work to get through them all. And that’s assuming a receptionist would share employee information with a complete stranger. If anyone rang her at work to ask who she employed she’d tell them that was confidential and give them short shrift.

  She texts her daughter: Emily, if you were trying to track someone down on the internet where would you look? I’ve already googled Simon + insurance companies in Bristol but there are a hundred results. How can I narrow it down?

  A few seconds later her phone pings with a response: WHAT … ARE … YOU … DOING … THAT … FOR?

  Alice texts back: I’m trying to find out who sent me the weird text messages on Facebook and scratched my car and I can’t do that unless Simon talks to me.

  So ring him.

  I can’t. He won’t answer my calls.

  Why? What have you done?

  Nothing as far as I know. He dumped me last night.

  There’s a pause then: Oh, sorry to hear that, Mum. I know you liked him.

  So? How do I track him down?

  You don’t. You let it go.

  What about the weird Facebook messages?

  Have you had any new ones?

  Not since he dumped me.

  Well then. Forget about it, Mum. He’s obviously got a psycho ex-girlfriend – and you don’t want to be a part of that. If anything else happens, contact the police.

  Do you think anything else will happen?

  NO! Now step away from Google and forget about that loser. You’re getting obsessed.

  But Alice can’t step away from Google. She has to find out the truth, or at least try.

  She searches her brain for the tiniest sliver of information that will aid her. She doesn’t know Simon’s surname or where he works but he did tell her he lives in a three-bedroom house in St George’s. But surprise, surprise, he didn’t mention the name of the street. What else? He was engaged to a woman called Flora, an actress.

  Alice tries imdb.com. That’s where all actors and actresses seem to be registered. If she can’t find Simon
then maybe contacting Flora is her next best bet. A few results are returned but the women are either too old or too young. Maybe Flora isn’t successful enough to be on IMDb or, like a lot of people in the profession, she’s got a different stage name. Alice searches Facebook next, looking for Floras in Bristol and dozens of tiny Flora profile photos fill her screen.

  She discounts any that are too old or too young to match the woman she’s looking for, then clicks on the first possible match and hits the message button.

  Hello, my name is Alice Fletcher. Are you an actress and were you ever engaged to someone called Simon? If so I need to talk to you. Please message me back.

  ‘Urgh.’ She runs her hands over her face as she copies and pastes the message into the next profile. It’s going to take her hours to contact them all. It’s almost as though Simon deliberately withheld any facts that would help her track him down. But why? What was he trying to hide?

  Chapter 30

  Gareth

  Gareth shifts his weight in the hard-backed plastic chair, putting his hands on the arms so he sits up taller. He looks across at the clock on the wall and taps the soles of his leather shoes on the floor: left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Mark Whiting looks up from his computer screen.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Gareth presses his feet into the floor. It’s 1.42 p.m. The meeting was scheduled for 1.30 p.m. and Liam Dunford is twelve minutes late. Maybe he’s ill, Gareth thinks. Really ill. So ill he couldn’t ring in that morning to explain why he wasn’t coming to work. Maybe, an evil little voice whispers in the back of his head, maybe he’s dead.

  ‘Well.’ His boss stops his one-fingered typing and sits back in his chair. ‘It’s not looking hopeful, is it?’

  For one terrifying moment Gareth thinks he’s talking about his job prospects but then Mark adds, ‘I think he’s a no-show, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Gareth moves to stand up then slumps back as his boss waggles his hand, indicating that he should stay where he is.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what this is about? This urgent meeting that you requested?’

  Gareth rubs his palms together. ‘Liam’s not said anything to you?’

  Mark sits forward, elbows on the desk and his chin on his hands and fixes Gareth with an enquiring look. He’s a good ten years younger, all designer suits, shiny shoes, gelled hair, tanned skin and eyebrows that are suspiciously tamed. ‘Liam’s not said anything. I sent him a text yesterday, reminding him about the meeting. He replied saying he’d be here but I haven’t heard anything since.’

  Interesting that Liam didn’t get in first with his version of events. Gareth had assumed he would.

  ‘You did ring him when he didn’t show up this morning, didn’t you?’ Mark adds.

  ‘Of course I did but there was no answer on his mobile or his landline. I assumed he’d been out drinking and slept through his alarm again …’ He pauses, letting that little nugget of information sink in. ‘I rang him again an hour later and there was still no answer.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me what all this is about?’

  ‘I um … no. I’d rather wait until we’re both in the same room, if that’s all right with you?’

  Mark nods his head wearily. ‘Look, whatever this is about I’m not going to pursue it unless Liam can be bothered to turn up. Give me a ring or send me an email when he’s back in work. And when he does come in, tell him he’s got a verbal warning for not ringing in.’

  Gareth coughs into his hand to hide his smile. ‘Yes, boss, of course.’

  Chapter 31

  Ursula

  ‘I’m not going to steal anything,’ Ursula tells herself as she strides across the Meads landing, sweating under her thick woollen coat as she heads for Mirage Fashions. ‘I’m just going to look.’

  It was all she could do not to head straight there after she’d walked back to her van, feeling Paul Wilson’s eyes burning into her spine. She hadn’t though, she’d forced herself to finish her round, trying and failing to push the desperate expression on Nicki’s face out of her mind. She’d thought she was helping her by calling the police to report a suspected domestic abuse situation but she’d only made things worse.

  She keeps an eye out for the security guard as she walks through the entrance of Mirage Fashions but surprise, surprise, he’s nowhere near the doors. He’s hovering by the checkout, watching the shop assistants as they work. He’s definitely the laziest security guard in the whole mall. Unlike some of the others, who trail after her everywhere, the old bloke at Mirage Fashions seems to be counting down the days to retirement. Ursula heads for the back of the shop. She doesn’t slump or move furtively. At six foot three she’s visible whatever she does and to try and shrink herself down would only draw unnecessary attention. Instead she walks confidently, shoulders back, as though she’s got a wad of cash in her pocket and a burning desire to spend it. Her eye is drawn by a rail of pretty, multi-coloured skirts. They’d be mid-calf on most women and knee-length on her but she could carry one off with the right top and her favourite boots. She runs a hand up and down the material then plucks at the elasticated waistband. They only go up to a size twenty and she’s a twenty-four but there’s enough give in the cloth that it might actually fit. She keeps her eyes on the security guard on the other side of the room as she unclips the skirt from the hanger and swiftly folds it up. The flatter she can make it the less likely she’ll be noticed once she shoves it under her top. Her gaze flits to the CCTV cameras on the ceiling. She’s standing so close to the rail there’s no way they can pick up what she’s doing. Her heart beats faster as she pulls at the elastic at the bottom of her sweatshirt. Two, three minutes tops and she’ll be out of the shopping centre and well on her way to the van.

  ‘Careful. That rail’s really loose. If you flick through the clothes too fast it collapses.’

  Ursula jolts as a woman, dressed in the store uniform, appears to her left. She’s young, barely out of her teens. Her gaze flicks to Ursula’s waistline and the size twenty skirt in her hands. Where did you pop up from? Ursula thinks as she frantically tries to decide what to do. She really wants the skirt but making a break for it would be too risky. But she doesn’t want to leave without it. The dark cloud she’s spent the last two years running from will descend the second she makes it back to the van and she can’t let that happen, she won’t.

  She looks at the shop assistant and smiles brightly. ‘Could you point me in the direction of the changing rooms? I’d like to try this on.’

  Ursula glances at her reflection in the changing room mirror, the skirt hooked over her arm. Her cheeks are flushed, there are dark circles under her eyes and her damp fringe is clinging to her forehead. She hastily looks away, peeling off her coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall. She plucks at the hem of her sweatshirt and moves it back and forth to try and get some air to her clammy skin. She wants to sit down to catch her breath but there’s no chair in the cubicle so she sinks onto the floor instead and gathers her knees up to her chest. The sound of voices, and clothes being arranged on rails, drifts from beneath the swing door. The young sales assistant is chatting to a colleague at the entrance to the changing rooms.

  ‘You know someone else has gone missing? Another man.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yeah. Last seen heading for the Harbourside at about three in the morning. I heard from Kaisha who heard from someone who works in Costa that he was one of the security guards that works here.’

  ‘Not Larry!’

  ‘No! He’s out there, you massive twat.’

  The sound of laughter rings through the cubicles.

  ‘God, that’s really scary. His poor family. That’s the second bloke to disappear on the Harbourside in how many weeks?’

  ‘Actually it’s three now. I had a look on the internet and there’s been two go missing, a month between them, and then this guy. And the police are still claiming that there’s no Harbourside Mur
derer.’

  ‘But if someone is pushing them into the river how come they haven’t found their bodies yet? Surely they’d wash up eventually.’

  ‘Who says they went into the water? There’s no CCTV there, that’s why the police have got no leads. They could have been bundled into a van then chopped up and buried in Leigh Woods for all we know.’

  The young woman gasps. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I’m just saying what other people are thinking, that’s all. Just promise me you’ll stay with your friends on a night out. Don’t get any stupid ideas about walking home alone.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Jeez. Thanks for that, Lynne. I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight now!’

  As the voices drift away Ursula slowly gets to her feet, the conversation she just overheard still ringing in her ears. She looks down at the skirt in her hands and makes a decision. With no one manning the rack at the end of the cubicles she’ll be able to walk straight out with it. She can easily get to the exit without being caught.

  ‘Seriously? You let her use the changing rooms!’ She jumps at the sound of a raised voice and hurried footsteps on the lino flooring. ‘Kaisha, she’s a bloody shoplifter. Her face is on the staffroom wall!’

  ‘You!’ The door to her cubicle is yanked open and a pink-cheeked woman with a short brown bob glares up at her. The grey-haired security guard appears beside her, swiftly followed by the younger shop assistant. Before Ursula can say a word, the skirt is snatched from her hands. ‘I’ll take that, thank you very much.’

  ‘I’m sorry, miss.’ The security guard steps forward and takes Ursula by the elbow. ‘But you’re going to have to leave. You’re banned.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done,’ Ursula protests as she’s frog-marched along the line of cubicles and onto the shop floor, ‘but you’ve got it all wrong. This is my favourite shop.’