The Silent Sister

by Shalini Boland

  Don’t worry, Lizzy. Frank will be fine.

  Beneath the words is a smear of something red. Bile rises to the back of my throat when I realise it looks like blood.

  The letter and envelope fall from my hands and float to the floor.

  ‘FRANK!!’ I yell.

  ‘What?’ Joe says, getting to his feet. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Where’s Frank?’ I can barely breathe.

  ‘I… I don’t know.’

  ‘FRANK!’ I cry once more. ‘Did you see him when you came in?’

  ‘Er, I don’t know, I can’t remember. No, I don’t think so.’

  I push past Joe, tearing out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

  ‘Lizzy, wait!’

  As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I have terrible visions of my little Frank being held somewhere by a crazy nutter who won’t think twice about harming him. They’d better not have done anything. Not my little Frankie. An image of Leon Whittaker flashes into my mind. Then an image of Seb. Then George. Then Ian from next door. It could be any bloody one of them doing this to me. Why? But then, anyone who does something like this has got something seriously wrong with them.

  I make my way into the kitchen. The wash basket stands empty by the machine. Frank isn’t here. I peer out through the kitchen window but can’t see him outside either. I barely register Joe’s footsteps on the stairs. He comes through to the kitchen, now dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, damp in patches where he hasn’t dried off properly. In his hand he has the letter.

  ‘Did you read it?’ I ask.

  He nods. ‘Is Frank down here?’

  I shake my head. ‘We locked the cat flap, so how can he have got out?’

  Joe takes hold of my shoulders. ‘It’s okay, Lizzy, we’ll find him. Whoever wrote that letter said that Frank is okay. So even if… even if they have somehow got hold of him, doesn’t mean they’ve hurt him.’

  I’m finding it hard to breathe. The thought that anybody would threaten me or my pet is absolutely crazy. How can this be happening? I can’t comprehend it. What sick bastard would threaten my beautiful cat? But as I sit here, I realise something – it wasn’t necessarily a threat. It was a statement: Don’t worry, Lizzy. Frank will be fine.

  Does that mean…

  ‘Joe, last week when Frank went missing for a couple of days… he came back with a cut on his paw. You don’t think…’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That red mark at the bottom of the letter…’ Joe begins.

  ‘It could be Frank’s blood.’ The horror of it hits me in the solar plexus. I stare at Joe, my shock mirrored in his eyes. ‘We need to find out who’s doing this.’

  Nineteen

  ‘Have you tried the lounge?’ Joe asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The lounge,’ he repeats.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Frank could be in there, couldn’t he?’

  As one, we rush back down the hall into the sitting room. I’m not expecting to see Frank, though. After reading the letter, I’m expecting the very worst. So when I follow Joe through the lounge door, I sob with utter relief when I see my beautiful cat curled up asleep on the corner of the sofa. ‘Frank!’

  I cross the room and sit next to him, stroking his head before picking him up and putting him on my lap. Typical of him not to come when I called him earlier. He’s always gone his own merry way. His default position is ‘ignore’, but I still love him to bits. Even now, he doesn’t look too impressed with being disturbed, but he makes the best of it, deigning to curl up on my lap with a half-grunt, half-sigh. We’ve had him since he was a kitten. Found him mewling, half-starved at the end of our street about three years ago. Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ was playing loudly through someone’s speakers as the little guy followed us home. It gave us the idea for his name. No one came to claim him. So that’s how Frank became part of our family.

  Joe exhales. ‘Whoever wrote this… this shit, is twisted.’ He waves the letter at me.

  ‘Can you get my phone from my bag?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure. Where—’

  ‘In the hall on the floor.’

  Joe spins on his heel and leaves the room while I kiss the top of Frank’s head. Seconds later, Joe returns and hands me my phone. With a pounding heart, I call the police station and explain to them that I’ve received another letter. They tell me someone will be here as soon as possible.

  ‘We can’t let Frank outside again,’ I say. ‘Not until they’ve caught whoever’s doing this. Do you really think it could be his blood on that letter? Or is it maybe someone who just wants us to think that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Joe shakes his head and comes to sit by my side. ‘Either way, whoever’s doing this has got a screw loose.’

  We wait in the lounge, both of us making a fuss of Frank, who is happily oblivious to the drama going on around him. His paw is almost healed now and he’s been walking normally again, thank goodness. But that still doesn’t stop me feeling sick at the thought of someone doing something so terrible.

  After a while, I couldn’t say how long, I hear a car pull up outside. A car door slams, and then another one. Joe stands and peers out of the window. ‘It’s them,’ he says.

  I lift Frank off my lap and put him back in his cosy corner on the sofa, where he makes himself comfortable.

  When the doorbell rings, both Joe and I go into the hall. He pulls open the door and I see two familiar faces on the doorstep. ‘Hi,’ I say, unable to manage a smile. ‘Come in.’

  They step inside.

  ‘This is my boyfriend, Joe Lawrence.’

  ‘Hi Lizzy.’ She turns to Joe. ‘Hello, I’m Sergeant Jenny Llewellyn and this is my colleague, Constable Matt Ryan.’

  ‘Hi,’ Joe replies.

  They follow us into the lounge and I gesture to the two armchairs and they each take a seat. I sit back down on the sofa next to Frank.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Joe asks. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Water would be great,’ Llewellyn says.

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ Ryan adds.

  Joe goes to the kitchen to get Llewellyn her drink.

  ‘Would you like to tell us what happened?’ she asks me.

  ‘I got another letter.’ I point to the letter and envelope, which are now lying on the coffee table.

  ‘Did you touch it without gloves?’

  I flush. ‘We both did. Me and Joe. Sorry. Stupid, I know.’

  ‘Easily done,’ she says. ‘But if you receive anything further, or see anything odd, try to remember not to touch it or disturb it in any way. The less it’s been tampered with, the more chance we’ll have of finding the perpetrator.’

  I nod.

  Llewellyn takes a small plastic bag out of one of her pockets and lays it on the arm of the chair. Next she takes out a pair of black nitrile gloves and puts them on before reaching down and picking up the envelope. Ryan gets up and goes to stand by the side of her chair. They look at the name on the front of the envelope and then she opens the plastic bag and slides the envelope inside.

  ‘Evidence bag,’ she explains.

  Joe comes back into the room with Llewellyn’s glass of water.

  ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she says. ‘Would you mind putting it on the table for now? I’ll have it in a minute.’

  He does as she asks and then comes back to sit by my side, taking my hand in his. I wish I’d asked him to bring me a glass of water, too. My mouth is dry, my skin hot and clammy.

  ‘When did you find the letter?’ Llewellyn asks me.

  ‘Joe found it, not me.’

  The two officers turn their attention to my boyfriend. I know Joe is jittery around the police after spending so much time in the local station last year because of his ABH charge. Thankfully, different officers were dealing with his case back then, but I bet these two know all about his history. It’s a small town, and everybody gets to know everybody’s business.

  ‘I found th
e letter when I got home from work today,’ he begins.

  ‘What time was this?’ Llewellyn asks.

  ‘Uh, about quarter past five. I came in and saw all the usual crap, er, flyers and junk mail on the doormat. I picked it all up and flicked through to see if there was any post and I saw the pink envelope with Lizzy’s name on the front.’

  ‘Did you open it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you did,’ Llewellyn says, ‘you should say so, because we’ll be testing it for prints.’

  Joe scowls. ‘I just said I didn’t.’

  ‘Okay, that’s great. Was the envelope on top of the flyers, or at the bottom? Reason I ask is to give us some idea of the time of day it was posted through your door.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’ Joe turns to me with an apologetic expression. ‘I wasn’t really concentrating. I just picked the whole lot up and sifted through. Not sure if I might have turned the pile over and started from the bottom.’

  ‘Okay. And how long were you out of the house for today?’

  ‘I left around seven thirty this morning, came home at five fifteen.’

  ‘And you, Lizzy?’ she asks.

  ‘I left about an hour after Joe, at eight thirty.’

  ‘And are these times usual for both of you?’

  Joe and I nod. ‘Yes,’ he says.

  The sergeant now has the letter between her thumb and forefinger. Her brow creases as she reads it. ‘Do you know what they’re talking about in this letter?’ she asks, looking over at me and Joe. ‘Who’s Frank?’

  ‘He’s my cat,’ I reply, glancing down at his sleeping shape.

  ‘That him?’ she nods in Frank’s direction. ‘He’s a beauty.’

  ‘We think that might be his blood… on the letter,’ Joe explains.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Llewellyn asks. ‘It could be smudged ink, or any kind of stain.’

  I notice that Ryan is scribbling in a notebook. I wonder what he’s writing.

  ‘Because,’ Joe replies, ‘Frank was missing for a couple of days last weekend. And when he came home, he had a cut on his paw.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, her frown deepening. ‘Do you remember exactly when he went missing? And when he returned?’ she asks, dropping the letter into the evidence bag.

  I cast my mind back. ‘I noticed he wasn’t home on Friday when I got back from work. But I wasn’t too worried, as it’s not unusual for him to go off for a few days. He didn’t reappear until Sunday morning. That’s when we noticed the blood on his paw. We just assumed it was an accident – that he’d trodden on a sharp stone, or broken glass.’

  ‘Who else knows you have a cat called Frank?’ she asks.

  ‘Lots of people,’ I reply. ‘It’s not exactly a secret.’

  ‘Can you write me out a list?’

  I shrug. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Although…’ Joe begins. ‘There was that time just after Christmas when we thought he was missing and we put up signs in the local area with his name and photo. He was gone for a few days, but turned up of his own accord. So anyone local could have seen the notices and found out his name.’

  ‘Do you have the other letters, the previous two you received?’

  ‘Yes.’ I get to my feet. ‘Do you want me to…?’

  ‘Yes, could you get them, please? We’ll send them off with this one.’

  I retrieve my handbag from the hall and bring it into the lounge. The letters are where I left them in the side pocket. I’ve been carrying them around with me for days because I couldn’t think of where to keep them in the house. I didn’t really want them in the house. I’d like to have burnt them, or ripped them into pieces, but thought I’d better hang on to them, just in case. And here is the just in case. I pass them both to Llewellyn, who puts each of them into separate evidence bags.

  ‘Have either of you been fingerprinted?’ she asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Not me.’

  ‘You’ve got mine on file,’ Joe mumbles.

  ‘Okay, Lizzy, Matt will do yours now, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘And Lizzy,’ Llewellyn says, ‘I don’t want to worry you unduly, but it’s best if you don’t go out alone for the next few days at least.’

  My stomach lurches at her words.

  ‘Why?’ Joe asks.

  ‘It’s just a precaution, until we know what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘You think she’s really in danger?’ Joe asks.

  ‘The important thing is not to jump to conclusions. Frank’s cut could simply be a coincidence. We’ll send the letters off to be analysed. Discover whether that smudge on the paper is feline blood, or something more innocuous.’

  But I don’t believe it’s a coincidence, any more than she does. Whoever sent that letter is responsible for hurting my cat. And if they’re fine with harming an innocent creature, then who knows what else they’re capable of?

  How far do I go?

  * * *

  Is their fear enough to balance out the lies?

  * * *

  The thrill of seeing that pale face and trembling lip. Hearing the telltale tremor in their words. The tension, the glances to their left and right. Always wondering when they talk to someone: is it you? Could it be you?

  * * *

  But it’s got to the point where I need more. What good is a letter on its own? Anyone who knew the truth would understand my point of view. My desire to hurt them is only right. Only human.

  * * *

  Inevitable, really

  Twenty

  ‘Well, it’s official,’ Pippa announces outside the shop as I’m opening up, unlocking the side door. Her usual buoyant manner is subdued, her face pale. Even her normally glossy hair is lank and dull.

  ‘What’s official?’ I ask, as she follows me through the side passage while I deactivate the alarm.

  ‘Bloody Toby. He dumped me last night. By text!’

  I turn to face her, my expression suitably sympathetic. But all I can think is that I can’t possibly quiz her about the thefts after her new boyfriend has just dumped her. George would have no such qualms about bringing it up, I’m sure. But I’m not George.

  ‘Oh, Pippa. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I know I’m bonkers for thinking it,’ she says, ‘but I really thought he was the one. We got on so well. We were perfect for one another.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll change his mind,’ I say, flicking on the shop lights one by one.

  ‘Doubt it,’ she says glumly. ‘I’m destined to die a spinster.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. And anyway, that word should be banned from the dictionary – spinster.’ I tut. ‘You might find a man to share your life with, you might not. But either way, you’ll be fine, Pippa.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You’ve got Joe.’

  ‘You don’t even like Joe!’ I say with a smile.

  ‘What? Of course I do… Well, I hardly know him. But that’s not the point. The point is that you like him, and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Finding someone you like, or love even, whatever love is. I thought I’d found my Joe. But all I’d found was another liar.’

  We head into the main part of the shop and I try to comfort Pippa while we go about our early-morning routine of unlocking the front door, setting out the A-board, putting the float back in the till and generally preparing for the day ahead. But we’re both subdued. Pippa because of Toby, and me because of yesterday’s letter. I barely slept last night and I could tell Joe was really shaken up, too. And I hated the idea of leaving Frank alone in the house. Even though we’ve locked the cat flap and changed the locks, I’m sure someone could find a way into our house if they wanted to. I can’t bring myself to tell Pippa about the new letter. I want to try to put it out of my head if I possibly can.

  I text Joe to tell him I’ve arrived at work safely. He wanted to drop me in this morning. Part of me wanted to say yes. Part of me was terrified to drive in alone. But I
told him that I didn’t want to make him late for work. That I’m not putting my life on hold because of some weirdo who wants to freak me out. So he reluctantly agreed, as long as I let him know I got in to work okay. I feel like a child again.

  After texting Joe, I notice I’ve got a voicemail so I have a quick listen. It’s George calling from the airport, reminding me to speak to Pippa about the thefts. I can’t face calling him back, so I send a text instead:

  Don’t worry, George, I’ll speak to her. Enjoy your holiday. Catch up when you get back.

  I’m hoping this is enough to keep him off my back. He responds instantly:

  Text me when you’ve done it.

  I text him a thumbs-up emoji, hoping he’ll be too wrapped up in relaxing to bother me again. However, I know George. He’s a workaholic, and never truly switches off.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Pippa comes into the stockroom and I move my phone out of her eyeline.

  ‘Fine,’ I lie, thinking how she doesn’t know the half of it. Why on earth did she have to go and start stealing? Now I’m going to have to fire her, lose a friend and hope that the repercussions aren’t too awful.

  The morning goes by so slowly that I keep thinking my watch has stopped. Pippa is miserable, and I feel like I have a bag of sharp stones in my stomach. Just before one o’clock I’m helping a customer decide on a necklace to go with a dress when I see the familiar figures of Sergeant Llewellyn and Constable Ryan walk past the shop window. I want to drop what I’m doing, run outside and ask them if they’ve made any progress on my case, but I can’t abandon my customer.

  ‘Do you think the silver or the rose gold?’ she asks, holding both necklaces against her throat and staring critically at her reflection in the fitting room mirror.

  ‘Definitely silver,’ I say, with one eye on the front of the shop. My heart simultaneously lifts and drops as both officers walk into the shop. ‘The rose gold is too close to your skin tone and gets lost, look.’