by A J McDine
John’s room was painted dove grey with a darker grey duvet cover on the double bed. There were film posters on the walls, cotton rag rugs on the floor, a guitar on a stand and an Amstrad computer on a desk in the corner. I closed the door softly behind me and headed downstairs. The first door opened onto a cramped, windowless bathroom with rust stains on the bath and a shower curtain that smelt of mildew. My heart beat a little faster as I opened the door to Juliet and Danny’s room. It was easily the nicest room in the flat, with high ceilings, decorative coving and two sash windows with a view of Claverton Street, yet it was a tip, a virtual facsimile of Juliet’s room in our student digs. As I scanned the unmade kingsize bed, the jumble of makeup and jewellery on the dressing table and the clothes strewn everywhere, I was reminded of the jumble sales my mother used to drag me to before her stroke, only Juliet’s clothes were from Whistles, Hobbs and Jigsaw, not British Home Stores and Marks and Spencer.
Danny’s side of the bedroom was no less messy and for the first time I wondered if they were better suited to each other than I’d always thought. No neat freak could put up with Juliet’s chaos, that was for sure. I poked around in Danny’s underwear drawer and picked through the detritus on his bedside table. A mouldy apple core, a used tissue, a pile of coppers and a black leather Filofax. Without thinking, I flicked through the pages, beginning with the diary. On Friday the twenty-fifth of October Danny had written, Housewarming, ours. I thumbed through a few more pages. My heart rate quickened as I noticed that on four separate days over the next three weeks, he had written a woman’s name. Tania. Different times had been scribbled beside her name each time, but they were always in the evening, anywhere between 7pm and 9.30pm.
Who the hell was Tania, and why was Danny meeting her? I rifled through the pages until I came to the address book at the back of the Filofax, running my fingers down several pages of names until I came to a Tania Emery, an address in Knightsbridge and a phone number.
I held the Filofax in front of me almost reverentially, like I’d just unearthed the Holy Grail. Could this be evidence that Danny was having an affair? I didn’t have a chance to ponder further because at that moment I heard a door opening and Juliet’s laughter ringing through the flat. I dropped the Filofax like a hot coal and scooted out of the room.
‘Rose!’ Juliet exclaimed as I wandered into the kitchen, where she and Danny were unloading bottles of wine from Tesco carrier bags. ‘I thought we said seven?’
‘I thought I’d come early to give you a hand.’ I picked up a carrier bag from the floor and was about to set it on the counter when Danny swiped it out of my hands.
‘No need,’ he said. ‘We have everything covered.’
‘I also thought it would give us a chance to catch up before everyone else arrives. I’m dying to hear about Ibiza.’ I hated the pleading tone to my voice, but Juliet’s face softened, and she dumped the bag she was holding and crossed the room.
‘You’re right,’ she said, linking arms with me. ‘There’s plenty of time for a chinwag and a cuppa.’ She glanced back at Danny. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you, Daniel? A girl could die of thirst around here.’
Danny sighed audibly. Juliet gave me a conspiratorial wink and something tight inside me unfurled.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fatigue settled on me like a blanket as I sat in the vet’s waiting room with Dinah’s cat basket at my feet, waiting for her name to be called. Swallowing a yawn, I bent down and peered through the basket’s wire door. My little grey and apricot cat was curled like a full stop at the back of the basket, as still as a stuffed toy. Only the faintest rise and fall of her flank signalled she was still breathing. I pushed a finger through the wire and waggled it, calling her name softly. One crocodile eye flickered open, then closed again.
I sat back up, stifled another yawn and scanned the room, taking in the displays of veterinary-approved cat and dog food, a stainless steel set of scales and a noticeboard covered in thank-you cards.
I stood up, stretched my back and wandered over to a poster on the opposite wall showing the body condition scores for cats, from one - too thin - to nine, obese. My hand subconsciously crept around my own thickening midriff as I read the descriptions. Were Dinah’s ribs palpable under her fat? Debatable. Was her waist visible? Not these days. Did she have a slight abdominal distension? Didn’t we all? Taking all that into account, she scored an eight despite the weight she’d lost in the last couple of days.
‘Dinah Barton?’ said a voice, and I turned to see a middle-aged man in blue scrubs holding open the door to a consulting room on the far side of the waiting room. I picked up Dinah’s basket and hurried over. Once inside, I placed the basket on the examination table.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ the vet asked with a businesslike smile.
‘She’s been a bit under the weather. Lethargic. And she’s not interested in her food, which isn’t like her,’ I said, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the basket’s leather straps. ‘I gave it a couple of days hoping she’d get better, but if anything, she’s worse.’
‘Is she up to date with her vaccinations?’
‘She had her booster in February,’ I confirmed.
‘Worm and flea treatment?’
I nodded.
‘Let’s have a look.’ He reached into the basket and lifted Dinah out. She was as floppy as a rag doll. I held my breath as he examined her eyes, ears and teeth, listened to her heart and felt her stomach. Dinah barely seemed to register him.
‘When did she last have anything to eat?’ he asked, placing his stethoscope on the counter behind him.
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘Has she been drinking more than usual?’
‘She does seem quite thirsty,’ I said.
‘And has she vomited?’
I pictured the pile of watery sick. ‘Yesterday morning.’
‘Right.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Has she ever had problems with her kidneys?’
It was the question I’d been dreading. Lethargy, loss of appetite, vomiting and dehydration were all symptoms of renal failure, a common condition in older cats. But Dinah was only seven.
‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s always been a healthy little thing.’
‘It’s a long shot, but I don’t suppose she could have come into contact with antifreeze or lilies?’
I stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘They’re both highly toxic to cats. Ingesting them can cause the kidneys to shut down.’
I held onto the examination table to steady myself. ‘Someone bought me a bunch of lilies,’ I said. ‘But they were on the kitchen table. Dinah wouldn’t have eaten them.’
‘She wouldn’t have needed to,’ the vet said. ‘She could have simply brushed past the flowers, then groomed the pollen off her coat.’
My blood ran cold as I remembered wiping a dusting of pollen off the table.
The vet listened to Dinah’s heart again. ‘When a cat has recently come into contact with lilies, we induce vomiting and feed the cat activated charcoal to reduce them being absorbed further. Treatment should ideally start within six hours. When were they brought into your house?’
‘The day before yesterday.’
‘Right. In that case, our only course of action is to give her intravenous fluids.’
‘A drip?’
He nodded. ‘We want to reduce the long-term impact on her kidney function and try to clear her body of toxins. It’ll mean her staying for a few days. While she’s with us, we’ll carry out kidney function blood tests and monitor her blood pressure and urine output.’
‘Does it work, flushing the toxins out of her system?’ I asked.
He couldn’t meet my eye. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.
I left Dinah at the vet’s and drove home, wishing I’d brought her in sooner, wondering who the hell had left the deadly bouquet of lilies on my doorstep.
Who could hate me so much that they would poison my cat? Three people came to min
d: Rhona Richards, Roy Matthews… and Theo. Rhona had loathed me from the day I’d started volunteering at Sisterline, and now I was about to steal the top job from right under her nose. Roy Matthews thought I was the last person his precious daughter had spoken to before she killed herself. And Theo, well, Theo had more reason to hate me than the other two put together.
The flowers hadn’t appeared out of thin air. Someone had left them on the doorstep. Someone who knew where I lived. Would Rhona have accessed my personnel file to find my address? My mind whirring, I realised she didn’t have to. The charity’s Christmas party the previous year had been held at a pub in Faversham. Dorothy had given Rhona and me a lift home, dropping me off first. What about Matthews? Had Eloise been right? Had he followed the recovery truck home the day he’d slashed my tyre?
Theo knew exactly where I lived, but he hadn’t left the pillbox in five days. It couldn’t be him. I erased his name from my list of suspects.
As I approached the junction with the A2, I glanced in the mirror, my heart lurching as I saw the sun glinting off a white bonnet behind me. I pressed hard on the brakes, and the Land Rover shuddered to a stop. I looked left and right, searching for a gap in the traffic, hoping someone would let me out. But the steady stream of cars surged past, a river of steel and glass, as impenetrable as a wall. I dragged my gaze back to the rear-view mirror, but the sun shone on the tinted windscreen, hiding the driver’s face, and the car was too close for me to see the badge on the bonnet.
All at once it seemed unbearably hot in the Land Rover and I turned off the fan heater with a flick of my wrist. But still heat suffused me, beads of sweat breaking out across my brow, my fingers slippery on the steering wheel. Too late, I realised I’d missed a chance to pull out and the car behind blared its horn and edged closer to my back bumper. My heart beat faster.
I was gripped with paranoia. Had I somehow conjured Roy Matthews up just by thinking about him? Or, more likely and infinitely more disturbing, had he been following me all this time, unnoticed until now?
I felt claustrophobic in the airless Land Rover, but I didn’t dare open a window in case Matthews appeared by my door brandishing a knife. Instead, I plucked at the neck of my blouse, leant back against the headrest and forced myself to breathe deeply. But it was impossible through clenched jaws, and my breathing grew shallower still.
Another toot of the horn made me jerk forwards, and I gripped the steering wheel, my eyes darting left and right. At last, I spied a break in the traffic and hit the accelerator. As the Land Rover bunny-hopped forwards and was swallowed up into the line of traffic, my heart rate slowed and my grip on the steering wheel eased.
But my relief was short-lived. As I turned onto the Eastling road, I realised the white car was still following me. Shit. I stamped on the accelerator and the Land Rover shot forwards, the seatbelt tightening across my chest. Dizziness made my head spin, and I closed my eyes to ground myself. When I opened them again, I saw a line of parked cars bearing down on me, and I wrenched the steering wheel to the right, missing them with seconds to spare.
The car behind was flashing me now, and the driver had stuck his arm out of his window and was gesturing me to pull over. I ran through my options. The shops and café at Brogdale were coming up on my left. I could stop in the busy car park and see what Roy Matthews’ problem was in front of a dozen witnesses, or I could drive back to my cottage in the middle of the woods with him tailing me.
I indicated left and turned into the car park, the car behind still following. I pulled into a space but left the engine running. Winding down the window, I waited, my heart in my mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘One of your brake lights isn’t working,’ said a polite voice. I stared at its owner. A slight man in his eighties was smiling at me through the window. As I stared, his smile faded, and his brow creased. ‘Are you all right?’
I found my voice. ‘I thought you were someone else.’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ he said, the smile back in place. ‘Only Jeanie - my wife,’ he turned and waved at the woman in the passenger seat. ‘Jeanie said we ought to let you know. She said she’d never forgive herself if the police stopped you.’
‘The police?’ I said, only half-listening. I was too busy gaping at the man’s car. It was a silver Fiat Doblo, one of those ones that takes wheelchairs in the back. As I stared, Jeanie waved at me through the window. I gave a half-hearted wave back.
‘It’s the left one,’ the man said.
‘The left what?’
‘The left brake light that’s not working. Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked, peering at me.
‘Sorry, yes, I’m fine. I’ll see it’s fixed. Thank you,’ I added as he headed back to his car. ‘You’re very kind.’
He waved my thanks away, climbed back into his silver car, and drove out of the car park. I pulled a handkerchief from my bag and dabbed at the sheen of sweat on my forehead. Had a trick of the light made me think the car was white, or was I becoming paranoid, seeing things that weren’t there? Of course Roy Matthews wasn’t tailing me. To think it was even a possibility said more about the state of my mind than his. I suddenly craved my vitamins and the way they calmed my racing thoughts, blunting the rough edges and dulling my emotions.
‘Pull yourself together, Rose,’ I muttered, slamming my foot on the clutch and thrusting the gearstick into reverse.
The stench of faeces hit me the moment I pushed open the door of the pillbox, and I gagged. Theo watched from the corner as I pinched my nose with one hand and gingerly picked the bucket up with the other. When I returned a moment later, the bucket empty, he had bum-shuffled halfway to the door.
‘If you want this, you’ll get back right now,’ I growled, dangling the bag of food in front of me.
For a minute he held my gaze, his eyes burning with defiance, then he lowered his head and slowly retreated until his back was once again against the wall. I dropped the bag on his lap, and he scrabbled through it, pulling out a packet of pork pies. His wrists were still bound, so he ripped off the plastic wrapping with his teeth and, with a small moan, rammed one of the pies into his mouth.
He must have seen the revulsion on my face because he finished his mouthful and said, ‘You look at me as if I am an animal.’
I said nothing.
He took a huge bite out of a second pork pie. This time he spoke with his mouth full, spraying crumbs towards me. ‘You look at me as if I am an animal, yet that is exactly how you are treating me. A caged animal. What have I done to deserve such treatment?’
I shook my head. ‘If you don’t know, then you are a fool.’
He took the bottle of water from the bag and cursed roundly in French as he struggled with the screw-cap lid. I would have opened it for him if he’d asked, but he was too proud for that. Eventually, he managed it, raising the bottle to his mouth and drinking deeply.
‘I have a lot of time to think in here,’ he said. ‘And I have been thinking about you. Who you are. Why you are punishing me.’
I picked up the pork pie packet, folded it into eight and popped it in my pocket.
‘You cannot be Eloise’s mother, because Eloise’s mother is dead. Unless that was another of her lies.’
Blood pounded in my ears. ‘It wasn’t a lie.’
‘So perhaps you are an aunt, or a friend, or someone she paid,’ he continued. ‘Because I know she is behind this.’
‘How dare you blame Eloise when she’s the victim?’ I exploded.
His eyes widened. ‘Eloise, a victim?’ He shook his head ruefully, then met my gaze. ‘Eloise is a bad person.’
I knew I should walk straight out without listening to his lies, but I couldn’t bring myself to move.
‘What d’you mean, bad?’
He held up his hands and started twisting his wrists against each other, so the sleeves of his chef’s whites slipped down.
‘Look,’ he said, holding both hands towards me. ‘See that?
’
Curiosity got the better of me and I bent down to look. There were small areas of red, puckered skin on both his wrists, just above his cuffs.
‘They are burns,’ he said. ‘She flicked hot oil at me because she thought I was having an affair with someone at work.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re a chef. You work in a kitchen. You must burn yourself all the time.’
‘I was holding up my hands to protect my face. That is why the burns are on the insides of my wrists. When I asked her to move out, she poured acid over the bonnet of my car. She is fou.’ He shook his head. ‘It means crazy in French. Insane.’
‘You’re the crazy one if you think I’m going to believe this codswallop. You were the jealous and controlling one. You were the one who was violent towards her. She told me everything.’
‘Did she tell you about the time she smashed a mirror over my head? The plates she threw at me? The black eye she gave me on my birthday because I went to the pub after work without her?’
‘She said you were the one who gave her a black eye.’
‘She was lying.’
‘If what you say is true, why didn’t you call the police?’
‘I did not think they would believe me. Women do not attack men.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘Also, I was ashamed. What kind of man lets his girlfriend scratch him, hit him, kick him?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve had enough of your bullshit.’ I headed for the door.
‘You say I am the fool,’ he said calmly. ‘Trust me. If you believe Eloise, you are the bigger fool.’
Eloise’s face crumpled when I relayed the vet’s prognosis. She turned away, shielding her face so I wouldn’t see her tears. I laid an arm around her shoulder and pulled her awkwardly towards me, holding her tightly as her whole body shuddered.
