The Women: A gripping psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘All right, so we have an address,’ Penny says. She leans forward, peers at the screen. ‘It’s twenty-two Rosebush Road. That’s just on Richmond Hill. She won’t be far.’

  Samantha shakes her head, sniffs. ‘That’s my address. That’s where I live.’

  The air thins.

  ‘Do you have a registration number for her car?’ the policewoman asks Penny, her tone preternaturally calm.

  Penny shakes her head. ‘We wouldn’t have that information, sorry. I have her first name, though. It’s Charlotte.’

  ‘Do you have CCTV? We’ll need that as soon as possible.’

  Samantha bursts into tears.

  The policewoman has crouched down again, is looking up at her. ‘Samantha? I know it’s hard, but I need you to stay calm if you can. Can you tell us anything about this Suzanne Lewis that might help us?’

  Samantha tries to think. There is a tissue in her hand. She uses it to dry her eyes, blow her nose. ‘She was very quiet. She chatted to me last week at the nursery and persuaded me to hand Emily over to her. I let her have a hold. It was just a hold. Most women want a hold of a baby; I didn’t think anything of it. The nursery staff were there – I didn’t think there was any harm. She said she’d settle Emily while I did my photocopying. The nursery nurse was right there, there was no risk, I didn’t do anything risky, I don’t think … then this week I was rushing to see Harry about some … about … Oh my God.’ She pushes her face into her hands. Her fingers are slick with tears.

  ‘Samantha?’

  ‘There were some poems. Someone was writing dodgy poems and handing them in. They weren’t, like, death threats or anything, but they were quite menacing and they were getting to me a bit … and I think Suzanne … It must be Suzanne … I think she’s been writing weird things about me and Peter.’

  ‘Slow down.’ The policewoman is beside her. ‘She’s been writing notes to you?’

  ‘Not notes. Poems. I was teaching creative writing. I got them to write these simple poem forms in class. Then when I looked through them, there was one extra and I didn’t know who had written it and no one would own up. But I didn’t think it was her. She was so quiet. I never thought it was her. But then someone left one in our house and at that point we called the police. And you’re saying she knew our address …’

  ‘You’ve already had the police out for this?’

  Samantha’s neck prickles with heat. ‘Last week. Last Tuesday evening. They took a statement. Then this morning I saw Harry about it. It was creeping me out but I thought it was …’ She glances at Aisha and Jenny. ‘I thought it was someone else, an ex-girlfriend having a go. I didn’t think … I didn’t think it was Suzanne. I thought it was Sean for a bit. Another student. But it wasn’t him, it was Suzanne, it’s obvious. And now she’s got Emily, oh my God.’

  ‘There, there, love.’ The WPC offers her another tissue. ‘Have you got these poems, love? Do you think you can find them for me?’

  Snivelling, wiping her nose and eyes, Samantha digs out the folder from her bag. She takes out the sheets and hands them over. The WPC stands up, consults with her colleague, who has returned. Samantha hears her say, ‘Scan these and send them,’ but that’s all she hears, and then the policewoman is on her haunches, at her feet once again.

  ‘All right, Samantha. What’s going to happen now is that we’ll have a look at the CCTV, plus we’ve got her name so we can find her car details that way too and put a trace on it, OK? She’ll appear, don’t you worry. We’ll find her before she gets too far, all right?’

  ‘OK,’ Samantha says. ‘I need to call Peter, my partner.’

  ‘Is he near?’

  ‘No, he’s away. I just need to call him.’

  ‘You do that, darling.’ The policewoman stands up, walks away. Samantha hears her radio crackle, hears her talk into it, though not what she says.

  She calls Peter. Jenny is sitting next to her. Samantha can’t remember her sitting down. ‘It’s all right,’ she’s saying. ‘We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere.’

  Peter’s phone is off.

  Samantha finds Jenny’s green eyes with hers. ‘It’s not going through,’ she says. ‘He’s probably at the conference by now.’

  ‘He’s away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say whereabouts he was going?’

  She shakes her head. Peter was on the front step only this morning. He said he shouldn’t go. She told him he must. A conference, he said. That way he has of seeming to give the whole story. A net to catch the sense, let the truth run through. Samantha doesn’t like the look that just passed between Jenny and Aisha. Just because he cheated on them doesn’t mean …

  ‘He is at a conference,’ she says. ‘I just forgot where he said, that’s all. He’s back tomorrow. I didn’t think to write it down. I didn’t think it mattered.’

  Peter didn’t say where he was going. She calls him again. This time leaves a message.

  ‘Peter, it’s me. Emily is missing. Peter, she’s been taken.’ What little remains of her voice falters, cracks. ‘I’m with the police. You have to call me urgently. Urgently, Peter.’

  She rings off.

  Jenny and Aisha have stood up. They’re talking to the WPC. Seeing Samantha look up at them, they break apart.

  ‘I need you to give me Peter’s car reg if you can, love, all right?’ the policewoman says. ‘Then we’re going to take you home. Your friends are coming with us. We’ll stay with you until we see where we’re up to, all right? Do you think you can stand up for me?’

  Twenty-Four

  Outside, bright white cloud. She screws up her eyes against the glare. The others lead her to the police car. She ducks into the back seat, feels a hand warm on the top of her head. She is in the back seat, Jenny and Aisha either side of her. They are holding her hands again, as if she is a child. The car is moving. Richmond flashes by.

  They hit the Odeon roundabout, head up the hill. She closes her eyes, feels every lurch and swing. The graunch of the handbrake. They are outside her house.

  Someone has her satchel. The policewoman is unlocking her front door. Suzanne Lewis has been here, she thinks. She walked into my house and left her sick work on the table. She pretended to be shy. And now she has Emily, the one true thing, the only true thing, in Samantha’s life.

  The WPC is beckoning her into her own house.

  ‘What’s your name again?’ Samantha asks. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit …’

  ‘That’s all right, darling. It’s Christine.’

  ‘Christine. Yes, of course. Thanks.’

  It’s chilly in the hall. Freezing. She bursts into tears.

  ‘I can’t be here,’ she cries. ‘I can’t sit here and wait, I can’t. I have to find her. I have to do something.’

  She tries to run out, but Christine and Jenny are holding her by the arms.

  ‘Let the police do their job,’ Jenny says softly. The two women guide her into the living room, ease her down onto the sofa. ‘I’ll put the heating on.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Aisha says from the doorway. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘The timer’s in the—’ Samantha stops. Aisha and Jenny know where the timer is. They know this house. They have both slept here, eaten here, listened to music here. And the rest. With Peter.

  Peter only asked her to live with him because he is afraid of growing old alone. That’s what Jenny said. He was dumped by two women just as he was nearing forty. This caused a crisis. Yes. It makes sudden and perfect sense. He met Samantha the next day. Samantha’s father had a wife and family and he threw it away for sex. Peter didn’t have a wife or a family. She, Samantha, is Peter’s family, his future, but she is also his crisis. Just as that silly schoolgirl was her father’s. Samantha is a thing. She is one of Peter’s things: the vintage car, the retro music, the old-fashioned log fire. The young wife.

  The career, the status, the credentials. The seduction. The wonder, letting her fall asleep untouched on t
he couch. It wasn’t special – she sees that now. She wasn’t, was never, special. It was no more than technique. Modus operandi. A cliché. Samantha is a cliché. She is her own grim history repeating itself, no more than a flash in some warped mirror. She is a fool, a child. And now Emily is gone. In her stress and confusion, Samantha thought Peter’s ex-girlfriend might have written those poems. She even thought he was capable of such a thing. He didn’t do it, no. But he is morally capable of it.

  Otherwise why did she think it?

  Christine’s radio crackles. She wanders out of the room, neck pressed to her shoulder. Aisha comes in with some amber liquid in a low crystal goblet.

  ‘Brandy,’ she says. ‘Peter would want you to use the correct glass.’

  It is supposed to be a joke, to ease the tension. Samantha knows that, in some distant part of her brain that doesn’t reach her mouth. Wordlessly she takes the glass from Aisha’s hands. Sips, feels the fire trace its way down her gullet.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’ Aisha perches on the armchair.

  Samantha shakes her head. She doesn’t want conversation, doesn’t want Jenny or Aisha to tell her any more about Professor Bridges.

  ‘That picture’s new.’ Jenny nods to the ink sketch of the trumpeter on the wall.

  ‘Peter drew it.’ Samantha sips her brandy, closes her eyes to its heat. How quiet they all are. She is so tired. She could lie down and sleep, block out the world until someone wakes her up and says, Hey, we’ve found her, we’ve found your little girl.

  ‘He always fancied himself as a bit of an artist,’ Jenny says.

  ‘He’s good.’ Samantha has the impression of watching herself saying this, though she can’t say where she is exactly. ‘He knows so much about … about everything.’

  ‘Though perhaps not about how to treat people.’

  ‘Please, Jenny.’ Samantha opens her eyes, holds up her hand. ‘He’s with me now and we have a child. He cheated on you both and I’m sorry, but as I keep telling you, he’s changed – honestly he has.’

  ‘And you’re one hundred per cent sure about that?’

  She scrutinises Jenny. What the hell does she want from this? What could she possible stand to gain? Will she not be satisfied until Samantha has not one shred of dignity left?

  She steels herself, meets Jenny’s eye. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure and that’s enough. It’s all anyone ever is. Look, my dad cheated on my mum with a younger woman and he dated other women after that fell through. But he’s met someone else now, they’re having a baby and he’s left all that nonsense behind him. He has a second chance. People need a second chance. And I’m Peter’s.’

  Her father. Well, well. How odd that she should find herself arguing his corner now.

  Christine strides back into the living room. ‘They’ve got Ms Lewis’s registration number,’ she says. ‘They’ll put a trace on the vehicle now. A local unit’s been sent to her home. Hopefully we’ll hear something in the next hour or two. She’s not local. Lancashire, apparently. Ormskirk. Do you know anyone up that way? Any relatives, anyone who’d have a reason to do this? Any connections to that area at all?’

  Samantha shakes her head. ‘No. No one. Will they find her?’

  Christine gives a cautious smile. ‘I can’t guarantee anything, darling. But she’s got no criminal record. She might have a history of depression or something; we’ll have to wait and see. What I’m saying is, she’s not a pro. She’s not trafficking, by the looks of it, so I’d say they’ve got a bloody good chance. Honestly, unhappiness does terrible things to people.’ She shakes her head. ‘We see it a lot. Often, it’s not evil or malice or what have you. It’s sadness. I tell you, enough sadness in your life’ll drive you nuts. Something bad happens to you … Anyway, as I say, there’s a bloody good chance.’

  Samantha rubs her face with her hands. A bloody good chance is not enough, but there is nothing to do but wait. Aisha is cleaning out the grate with the little iron brush. She screws up rolls of newspaper and lays them out, eight of them, arranges kindling around them. Samantha feels a heaviness in her bones. She knows without any doubt that Peter showed Aisha how to do this, as he has shown her. No other way is permitted. As with so many things, Peter’s way is the best way. The only way. Those who do things differently – buy Lego for their babies, eat in chain restaurants, drink coffee from popular American coffee sellers – are morons, nothing but morons. Really, he can be quite obnoxious.

  Aisha puts a match to the paper. She waits, as Samantha knows she will, for the requisite two minutes before placing a small log carefully on top. After that, she will replace the fire guard.

  And she does.

  Christine asks if anyone wants coffee or tea. Samantha tells her she’ll make it but is shushed by Jenny, who leaves the living room to join Christine in the kitchen. Perhaps it is better not to be in the kitchen, watching Jenny negotiate the cupboards with practised ease. Everything in its place and a place for everything.

  ‘I’m so sorry we stressed you out about Peter.’ Aisha has come to sit beside her on the sofa. ‘It was with good intentions, I promise. You’re probably right, he’s probably turned a corner. We shouldn’t have slagged him off like that. We got carried away.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  Aisha opens her mouth – an intake of breath. ‘It’s just, there’s—’

  ‘Aisha?’ Samantha feels her blood heat. ‘You need to stop talking, all right?’ Anger has made her voice loud, deep. ‘I’ve lost my kid. You get that, don’t you? I’ve lost my baby, so you and Jenny need to stop fucking talking, all right? I don’t give a shit, frankly, about you and your scorned-woman agenda, all right? My baby is missing and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again, so if you don’t mind, I need you to stop. I really need you to shut the fuck up.’

  Visibly chastened, Aisha gets up. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘You didn’t mean, you didn’t mean … Why don’t you and Jenny just fuck off, actually? Fuck off and leave me alone.’

  Samantha’s face burns. She doesn’t, cannot look up. Shocked silence rushes at her. She senses Aisha stealing out of the room. Minutes later, in a small, subdued voice, she calls goodbye from the living-room door. Rustling, whispers in the hallway, the latch. At the click of the front door closing, Samantha shuts her eyes a moment in relief. Madwomen, the pair of them.

  Christine comes to sit with her on the sofa.

  ‘I told her to fuck off,’ Samantha says.

  ‘Apparently.’ Christine pats her leg. ‘Don’t worry about it, she’ll understand.’

  ‘I lost my temper.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  It is better, now, with this woman she doesn’t know, who is here only in a professional capacity, whose motives Samantha doesn’t have to guess at. It is almost calm.

  ‘Listen,’ Christine says. ‘They’ve spoken to most of your students over the phone. PC Davies, do you remember him from the office? He made a house call to Mr Worth and had a chat.’

  ‘Sean?’

  ‘Sean Worth, yes. He admitted to being outside your house last week and the week before. He was worried about you because he’d been sitting next to Suzanne, he said, and he’d seen her writing mean things on her notepad.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Just words, he said, and some doodles. He didn’t see her write anything specifically about you, but he said that when you mentioned the poem, he was worried. He followed her to the car park and took a note of her registration and went to check if her car was anywhere near your house. He said he saw it parked in the next street.’

  That is so Sean, Samantha thinks. The precision of it.

  ‘Oh, Sean,’ she says, tears spilling.

  Christine pulls out yet another tissue. ‘Second thoughts, have the lot,’ she says, handing over the whole packet. ‘He’s got a bit of a soft spot for you, I think.’

  Samantha shakes her head, tries to take it in. ‘He tried to tel
l me. He started to say something but then he got all muddled and stressed.’

  Christine nods. ‘Could be that he wanted to tell you but couldn’t find the words, do you know what I mean? Perhaps he didn’t want to cause trouble, you never know. He’s quite highly strung, apparently. Anyway, it’s looking likely that Suzanne’s your dodgy poet, although we can’t know until we hear what she’s got to say, obviously.’

  ‘Poor Sean. Bless him.’

  Christine sighs. ‘Like you say, bless him. Might not have gone about it in the right way, but his heart was in the right place, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was.’

  For a while, Samantha and Christine sit in companionable silence. A siren out on the street causes Samantha to run over to the window, listen to the atonal whine as it passes. She sees Emily in the ambulance, tiny and helpless on a white stretcher, tubes up her nose, a needle in her arm, paramedics with set faces bent over her fragile form. A strange growl escapes her. She buries her face in her hands.

  ‘Come on, love.’ Christine puts an arm around her and leads her away, back to the sofa. ‘Try and stay calm if you can.’

  Minutes become hours. She calls Peter again, but his phone is still off. She has left three messages. The sky darkens. Christine asks if she could eat something. She shakes her head, tells her to help herself. A moment later, there are sandwiches on a plate on the coffee table. Samantha stares at them. There is tea too. It is sweet, and she drinks in sips while the bread triangles harden and curl. Time is slipping. It has been slipping since the nursery assistant frowned at her and asked if she’d forgotten something.