The Silent Sister

by Shalini Boland

  ‘So you think someone came here with that ashtray deliberately?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t attempted robbery, or spur-of-the-moment vandalism,’ I say, ‘then it could be something more personal. An angry customer, perhaps.’ I don’t dare voice my biggest fear – that it has something to do with me. That it’s the stalker who has done this. Possibly even Leon Whittaker. Would he be so vindictive? I have no idea.

  The other officer pipes up. ‘Could have been an attempted robbery, but they got spooked when the alarm went off, or maybe someone disturbed them before they could break in.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ I ask.

  ‘It doesn’t look like anyone actually made it inside the shop,’ PC Ryan says. ‘Both doors were locked and that hole isn’t big enough for someone to climb through, but you should check nothing’s missing, just in case. Do you keep cash in the till?’

  ‘No, and we always leave the drawer open overnight – so if anyone does break in they can see there’s nothing there but small change. We keep the float in a little safe.’

  ‘Better check it’s still there.’

  I make my way to the stockroom and unlock the safe with one of my keys, but it looks like all the cash is untouched. I do a quick count-up – four ten-pound notes, six fives and twenty one-pound coins. The small change is still in the register. ‘It’s all here,’ I confirm.

  ‘If it was thieves, they would have gone for the cash first,’ PC Ryan says. ‘Will you be claiming on insurance for the door, and the broken unit?’

  ‘It’s not actually my shop,’ I say. ‘I’m just the manageress.’

  ‘Okay, well, if the owner wants to get in touch with us for an incident number for insurance, tell him or her to give us a call.’

  I nod. ‘Thanks. So, you’ll check the CCTV?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll let you know if we find anything.’

  ‘Okay, great. You don’t think…’ I trail off.

  ‘Go on,’ he prompts.

  ‘Could it be something to do with the letters I’ve been getting?’

  ‘We can’t rule it out,’ he replies.

  ‘What letters are these?’ the other officer asks.

  Ryan fills him in.

  The other officer listens to his colleague and then turns to me. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much. I doubt the two things are connected. If it was targeted at you specifically then I don’t think they’d have thrown that chunk of marble through the shop window.’

  I realise he’s probably right. They would have aimed it through my house window instead. I let out a sigh, which turns into a yawn.

  ‘You should go home,’ PC Ryan says. ‘Leave this mess until tomorrow.’

  ‘You might want to board up the door first,’ the older officer adds. ‘Make sure it’s secure so no one else tries to get in.’

  I thank the two officers, who eventually leave with the bagged-up pieces of broken ashtray. I’m tempted to ignore everything and go back home to bed, but we’ve got that family lunch later today so I won’t have time to clear up the mess later. I check the time on my phone. Almost 5 a.m. It should only take me half an hour or so to sort this lot out, then I can be home by 6 a.m to hopefully grab three or four more hours’ sleep.

  Joe has left me a text to see how I’m getting on, so I tap out a quick reply before heading to the stockroom to hunt for some kind of board I can use to cover the hole in the door. But before I open the stockroom door, I notice something on the floor outside one of the fitting rooms. A small box of some kind. I lean down and pick it up. It’s a box of magnetic letters. We sell them in the shop. I wonder what it’s doing all the way over here. Funny I never noticed it when I was closing up yesterday, or a minute ago when I was checking the cash. I guess I was too preoccupied. The cardboard is ripped, the cellophane hanging off. The box has been opened.

  I swallow. The curtains to this particular fitting room are closed, which is also strange, as they’re only ever closed when someone is using them. All of a sudden, my heart is beating painfully. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, my back, my armpits. There wouldn’t be anyone hiding back here, would there? Surely not. Every particle in my body is screaming at me to run. To call the police back. But what if the fitting room is empty and I call them here for absolutely no reason?

  This is silly. Of course there won’t be anyone in there. The doors were locked. No one broke in. I draw back the curtain, ready to bolt if I see anyone.

  A dark figure staring back at me makes me scream and jump backward, bashing my arm against the sharp edge of the counter. But then I realise, it’s only my own reflection in the fitting room mirror. I put my hands on my hips and exhale, letting out an expletive and allowing myself to relax. Thank goodness I didn’t call the cops back to the shop. That would have been embarrassing.

  And then my eyes stray to the fitting room floor.

  Spelled out in colourful magnetic letters are the words:

  Hello Lizzy. Me again.

  Fourteen

  My mouth is dry as parchment, my stomach turned to slush. They were here. Whoever it was, they came into the shop. I grip the edges of the fitting room walls. There’s no getting away from it – I really do have a stalker.

  My mind races. Did they come in before closing time? Or did they come in afterwards? And if it was afterwards, then they must have had a key, because the doors were still locked and the hole in the glass was only the size of a fist. I fight the urge to reach down and mess up the letters. To erase their taunting words. But I have to leave them as evidence. The police need to see this. What will PC Ryan make of the message? Will he do something? Pass it on to a detective, who will try to find out who’s behind all this? Surely they’re going to take me more seriously now. I hope so.

  After I call the police, the squad car pulls up outside the shop within a matter of minutes, back again having only just left. I open the door to greet the officers, realising that the dark strip of sky is already lightening. Dawn is here.

  PC Ryan and his colleague follow me into the shop and I take them straight to the fitting room to see the letters. They glance down at the colourful pieces of plastic, and then they look at one another.

  ‘And you just noticed this after we’d gone?’ Ryan says.

  I nod. ‘I was going out the back, to look for something to cover the broken glass, and I noticed there was this cardboard box on the floor by the fitting room.’ I hold the box out for them to see. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have touched it, but I didn’t know what it was at the time. Anyway, it’s been ripped open, as you can see. Then I saw that the fitting room curtain was closed, which is unusual as we leave them open unless someone’s getting changed.’ I’m speaking really quickly. Too quickly, almost manically. But I can’t seem to slow my words down. ‘So, I opened the curtains – I was nervous, thinking there might be someone hiding behind them, that maybe they’d been hiding back here the whole time – but when I opened the curtains… well, there was no one here, but then I saw the message. It’s creepy. Don’t you think it’s creepy?’ I babble.

  ‘It is a strange thing to find,’ the older officer says. He glances at PC Ryan once more, and I get the feeling they don’t think it’s as serious as I do. ‘Could it be the work of a colleague? A prank, maybe?’

  ‘What?’ I’m not impressed with this suggestion at all. ‘Ripping open an item of stock? Leaving the empty box on the floor, and then writing a threatening message directed at me? Not a very nice prank.’

  ‘No, okay,’ Ryan says. ‘We take your point.’

  ‘And the other thing is…’ I say. ‘You know Sergeant Llewellyn went to have a word with Leon Whittaker yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘She did mention it,’ Ryan says.

  ‘Well, straight after that, he came into the shop to apologise to me.’

  He frowns. ‘After Llewellyn asked him to keep his distance?’

  ‘And then he got angry, because I asked him to leave.’


  ‘Was he threatening?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything threatening, but his demeanour was threatening.’

  ‘And you think it could have been him who left this message?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know… But it feels a bit too coincidental.’

  ‘Was he left on his own in the shop at all? Would he have had the opportunity to write the message?’

  I shake my head, knowing that it was unlikely he did this while I was there. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does everybody call you Lizzy?’ Ryan asks. ‘Or do some people know you as Elizabeth? Because whoever left the message knows you well enough to call you Lizzy.’

  ‘Everyone calls me Lizzy,’ I say. ‘The only person who calls me Elizabeth is my mum when she’s cross with me. Which is most of the time,’ I mutter.

  ‘Okay,’ Ryan replies. ‘I’ll ask Sergeant Llewellyn to have another word with Mr Whittaker. Tell him it’s best that he leaves you alone.’

  ‘Thank you. Will you also ask him if he knows anything about this message?’

  ‘I’ll speak to Sergeant Llewellyn,’ Ryan says.

  The older officer clears his throat. ‘How did you manage to miss this when you were checking the till earlier? You walked right past the fitting room. Wouldn’t you have noticed the closed curtains and the box lying on the floor?’

  I stop myself from glaring at him. I much prefer PC Ryan; at least he seems to believe me. ‘You think I did this? You think I wrote a creepy little note in magnetic letters to myself? You think I want to be here at my workplace, talking to you at five thirty in the morning, instead of tucked up at home in bed, asleep?’

  ‘Please don’t upset yourself,’ the officer says. ‘We don’t “think” anything, we’re simply trying to work out the sequence of events.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ I say, scratching the side of my head so hard it hurts. ‘Just forget it. I shouldn’t have called you. I should have said to myself, oh well, some nutter is writing me creepy letters, but it’ll be absolutely fine. What I’ll do is wait until he confronts me face-to-face – maybe with a knife, or maybe with a—’

  ‘Okay, Lizzy,’ PC Ryan interrupts, his voice annoyingly calm, highlighting my own increasingly hysterical tone. ‘I can see what you’re saying. In light of all the other recent events with the letters and so forth, I think you’re right.’ He turns to his colleague. ‘CSI?’ he asks.

  His colleague gives a brief, reluctant nod.

  PC Ryan turns back to me. ‘We’ll get CSI to come down to the shop and photograph the letters in situ, take prints.’

  I’m surprised by their change of heart. My anger deflates and my nerves flare up once more. They must be worried if they’re getting CSI involved.

  ‘It’s a pity you touched the box,’ the older officer says.

  ‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t realise what it was. How long will it take to get the results back?’

  ‘A rushed submission with the labs takes around three to four days for analysis,’ he says.

  ‘So this will be a rushed submission?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t promise, but probably,’ he replies. ‘I should imagine we’ll also be briefing the neighbourhood team who covers where you live and also the town centre team. That way, if anything else happens, you won’t need to spend time getting them up to speed.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I tidy up the front of the shop and board up the door before they arrive?’ I stare at the broken glass and the smashed display case. The last thing I feel like doing is clearing it all up, but the quicker I get it done, the quicker I can go home.

  ‘You’ll need to leave all that until CSI have been,’ Ryan says.

  ‘When will they get here?’

  ‘Hopefully within the next few hours.’

  ‘Okay. So, do I need to stay?’ I ask, my heart sinking at the thought of waiting around for hours.

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ PC Ryan replies. ‘We can wait for them. I’ll call you when they’re done.’

  It feels strange leaving the officers in the shop without me there. But I suppose the place is in safe hands. I wonder if CSI will find anything incriminating. I wonder if Leon Whittaker really could be involved. After my earlier adrenalin rush, I’m suddenly exhausted. I need to get home and lay my head on a pillow. Although whether or not I’ll actually be able to get to sleep is another matter altogether.

  Fifteen

  After showering, I go into the bedroom and open the wardrobe door. I love this little cottage, but its one downside is the lack of storage space. All my clothes are crammed into one half – okay, two thirds – of a double wardrobe. Joe’s clothes are squashed into the remaining third. He doesn’t seem to mind, thank goodness. I pull out a suitable dress, ease the material over my head and smooth it down, watching it flare out over my hips. The burnt-orange colour brings out the reddish lights in my chestnut hair. Even so, I gaze critically at myself in the mirror. It needs a belt, so I root through the crush of clothes in the wardrobe and settle on a cream leather one that will go with my tan and cream Mary Janes.

  I’m surprised that I actually look half decent. I suppose that’s the miracle of good clothes and make-up. Inside, I feel frayed and unravelled, as though I’ve aged ten years. I barely managed one extra hour’s sleep this morning after last night’s episode, which all seems like an outlandish dream.

  I haven’t heard back from the police yet, so I assume they’re still waiting for the crime scene officers to show up. I called George earlier this morning to break the bad news. Told him I’d sort out a glazier tomorrow on my day off. He thanked me and said he’d give me a bonus on top of this month’s wages. So I guess at least that’s something.

  As for the hand-delivered letters and the magnetic letters message, I can hardly bear to think about them. I’m pinning all my hopes on the police finding the culprit, but I know this isn’t a realistic hope. Even with the authorities taking things seriously, there’s no guarantee they’ll find any fingerprints. If someone is going to the trouble of freaking me out, they’ll probably have worn gloves to create their creepy letters and messages. To top it all off, I’ve got a potentially stressful family lunch to look forward to today, so my nerves would be frayed even without the break-in and the lack of sleep.

  I take a breath and wonder if I could get away with a quick gin and tonic to settle my nerves. But the risk is I’d have a second, followed by a third, which would render me halfway to drunk, and then I’d end up saying something I shouldn’t to my perfect sister and my critical mother. At least Dad will be there – a mellow port in stormy seas.

  Another thing that’s got me worried is Frank’s disappearance. It’s been almost two days now. And, yes, he’s gone roaming for longer than that before, but I can’t help worrying that something might have happened to him. If he’s not back by this evening, I’m going to go out searching for him and put posters up. I twist my hair up into a French roll, pin it in place and then make my way downstairs, where Joe is waiting for me in the kitchen, dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt.

  I told Joe about the magnetic letters and about CSI, but I haven’t mentioned that Leon Whittaker asked me out yesterday. If I tell Joe about him, he won’t stop to think – he’ll go round to Whittaker’s wine bar and start throwing punches at Leon. And that will be that; he’ll be sent to jail without passing Go.

  Anyway, aside from all that business, Joe looks as miserable as I feel this morning.

  ‘It’ll be over in a few hours,’ I say.

  ‘Do we have to go?’ His eyes are wide, pleading. ‘Can you go without me?’

  I give him my death glare and he holds his hands up. ‘Joke!’ he cries. ‘You know I’d never let you suffer through it on your own.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Joe. I know how awkward this is for you.’

  But it’s Mum’s birthday today, and every year we always go out for lunch and pretend to be this wonderful, loving family. I wonder if Mum would still think my sister was such a golden gir
l if she knew the truth about what she did. That she tried to steal my boyfriend. I wonder if Emma will ever own up to it? Maybe it’s easier for her just to pretend it never happened. Pretend I don’t exist. But I can’t deny that it still hurts.

  ‘Come on then,’ I say, putting my phone in my handbag. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Joe asks. ‘After last night… that was pretty stressful for you. I’m sure they’d understand. I mean, you’ve had no sleep, a break-in at the shop, you’re being harassed. Do I need to go on?’

  ‘Nice try, Mr Lawrence, but you know as well as I do that nothing barring death keeps anyone from attending Mum’s birthday lunch. I’d never hear the end of it. It’s three hours of pain, and then we can come home and relax for the rest of the day.’ I turn at a sound from the back door, my breath catching in my throat. But I relax when I see who it is.

  ‘Frank!’ I’m flooded with such joy at the sight of his marmalade face and white socks.

  ‘Hey, Frankie boy.’ Joe leans down and picks him up, scratches behind his ears while Frank purrs like a washing machine on its spin cycle.

  ‘Where have you been, you naughty creature… is that blood?’

  ‘Where?’ Joe frowns and looks down at our errant cat.

  ‘There! On his left, no, on his right paw. Looks like dried blood.’ I gingerly reach across and pick up his foot, but Frank isn’t happy about this. His ears flatten and he gives a low yowl like a dog. He’s never done that before. Never. His paw must be hurting. ‘Put him down a sec.’

  Joe does as I ask and Frank walks straight over to his food bowl. But I notice he doesn’t bear any weight on his bad foot.

  ‘He must have cut it on something,’ Joe says. ‘Poor guy. Nothing wrong with his appetite, though.’ Frank is tucking into his breakfast like he hasn’t eaten for days, which I suppose he hasn’t. I’ve been putting fresh food out twice a day since his disappearance.