by A J McDine
‘That’s not what I said.’ I reached for his hands again and continued cutting through the rope. ‘I let him die when it was in my power to save him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I hated him.’ I shivered. ‘And he tried to rape me.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Yes.’ I closed my eyes for a second. ‘It was Eloise’s father.’
Comprehension dawned on his face. ‘So that is why you are helping her. You feel guilty.’
I nodded. ‘And because I loved her mother.’ The rope fell to the floor and Theo rubbed his wrists while I started sawing the rope binding his ankles.
‘And now you are dancing to Eloise’s tune.’
‘I am not!’
He shook his head. ‘You let me think I had been kidnapped.’
‘I thought it would stop you trying to escape until I figured out what to do with you.’
‘So, you were thinking about killing me?’
I sat back on my heels and met his gaze. ‘Cards on the table. It was an option, yes.’
‘Merde.’ He drew his legs together and began massaging his ankles. ‘But you didn’t.’
‘Perhaps you were right. Perhaps I am the fool.’
He raised an eyebrow, then said, ‘Where is Eloise?’
‘She’s staying with me for the time being. Just until she sorts herself out.’
‘And she thinks she killed me?’
I nodded. ‘Why?’
‘If she thinks I am dead, she won’t try to find me. Finally, I will be safe.’ He’d stared up at the roof of the pillbox for a moment, then he looked at me. ‘If I report you to the police, she will know I am alive, and she will come for me.’
I nodded. ‘Go back to France and start again. I’ll drive you to your flat to pick up your passport and I’ll drop you at the station. You can be in Paris before midnight.’
I held my breath as Theo struggled to his feet and staggered to the door. My future rested in his hands. If he had me arrested for kidnap and Eloise for attempted murder our lives would be over. But if he went back to France…
‘Theo,’ I said urgently. ‘You said you wanted to be free. This is your chance.’
He turned to face me. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘I will go home to France, where Eloise will never find me.’
‘You won’t report us to the police?’ I checked.
‘Eloise has wormed her way into your life now.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You’ll end up paying for what you did to me. And when that happens, do not say I did not warn you.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Time was measured in cups of tea and I’d drunk four when a poker-faced DI Paul Barrett reappeared. He pulled up a chair.
‘I’ve spoken to my counterparts in France and according to French border control, Theo Lombard did check onto the Paris-bound Eurostar earlier this evening.’
‘I thought he was buried in my garden?’
He didn’t rise. ‘But I’ve asked the French police to speak directly with him at the Lombards’ address in the morning. Our search teams have found no evidence of human remains, so I have to assume that the allegation made against you was false. Rest assured, we’ll be speaking to Miss Cavendish and if we believe an offence of perverting the course of justice has been committed, we’ll take matters further.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I said. ‘Does that mean you’re finished here?’
He steepled his fingers. The gold band on his ring finger looked shop-new. ‘We may need to speak to you again, so please don’t plan any foreign holidays for the time being. But yes, the search teams are packing up and will soon be on their way.’ He met my eye. ‘You do understand that we have to take allegations such as this extremely seriously, whether they happened two weeks or two decades ago?’
His gaze was so penetrating I felt as though he was staring deep into my soul, but I didn’t blink. He couldn’t know what happened that day in John’s flat.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t be doing your job otherwise.’
He gave a brief nod and thanked me for my co-operation. I watched from the window as he climbed into the unmarked car and followed the police van and the patrol car onto the lane and out of my life. I pictured his expression when he realised Eloise was on a British Airways flight to Punta Cana International Airport. She’d used my money to buy a first-class one-way ticket.
Suddenly I sensed her presence, and the sensation of her breath on the back of my neck was so real that beads of sweat broke out across my forehead. My eyes darted around the room, half expecting to see her standing behind me with a bloodied kitchen knife in her hand. But of course she wasn’t there. My mind was playing tricks on me, that was all.
I was safe.
Once DI Barrett heard Theo’s version of events, he would easily have enough evidence to charge Eloise with grievous bodily harm, maybe even attempted murder, let alone perverting the course of justice. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain by returning to the UK.
Except revenge.
It was like a twisted game of who blinks first.
Life slowly returned to normal and after a while the days Eloise spent with me took on an almost dreamlike quality, as if they’d taken place in an alternate universe. If it wasn’t for the fact that Dinah’s bed was empty and my bank account depleted, I might have wondered if they’d ever happened at all.
A week or so after Eloise left, I had a call from DI Barrett. He cut to the chase.
‘My colleagues in Paris have spoken to Mr Lombard, and he has confirmed everything you told us about your goddaughter, Eloise Cavendish. We’ve issued a warrant for her arrest, but unfortunately it seems she’s currently in the Dominican Republic and there’s no formal extradition treaty between the two countries.’
‘Which is precisely why she’s there,’ I said crisply. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘I’ve read the coroner’s report into the death of Danny Reeves and it appears you did everything in your power to save him. And as Miss Cavendish’s allegations have been thrown into serious doubt by her subsequent actions, I am satisfied there’s no basis for reopening the case.’
‘I’m glad you’ve seen sense,’ I said, glad he couldn’t see the relief on my face. ‘While I have you, is there any word on the criminal damage at Sisterline?’
‘I understand we’ve charged a man with threatening behaviour and criminal damage.’
‘Roy Matthews?’
I heard the muffled click of a keyboard. ‘Yes,’ the DI said after a moment. ‘Looks like his prints were on the letter. Says here he’s due before magistrates next week.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can return the favour by contacting me the moment Miss Cavendish gets in touch,’ he said.
‘Oh, rest assured I will. But don’t hold your breath. I think that boat has sailed.’
He sighed. ‘I fear you’re probably right.’
Chapter Fifty
Over the next few weeks, I threw myself into work, spending long hours at the office working on my proposals to drag Sisterline into the 21st century. Corporate partnerships, crowdfunding and collaborative opportunities - I explored them all. I planned to build our digital community and start chasing legacies. I wanted to set up proper structures and practices so the charity was as professional as it could be. I even looked into the viability of recruiting volunteers in New Zealand so we could answer people’s calls around the clock. My vision was for Sisterline to be the first port of call for every woman needing support in the UK. Through the charity I could potentially save thousands of lives - more than I ever could have saved as a doctor.
To achieve my vision, I needed to be focussed and at the top of my game. So, I decided not to go back on the amitriptyline. I didn’t want the rest of my life to be softened by a pharmaceutical panacea. Once the drug had worked its way out of my system, I felt alert and in control. A force to be reckoned with. And yes, I was in a b
etter place when it came to winning battles at work, but I was also psyched up and ready to retaliate if Eloise ever turned up on my doorstep, hellbent on revenge.
And there were battles to be won. Eddie and Dorothy were open to new ideas, but the rest of the trustees were a cautious bunch who saw pitfalls in everything. I may have been chief executive, but I quickly discovered that they wanted me to justify every decision, no matter how trivial, and it took all my powers of persuasion to get the sign-off for my ambitious ten-year plan.
Every minor victory was an achievement, but victories were of little consequence when you had no one to share them with. Once I’d have told Dinah, and for a couple of weeks I’d had Eloise, too, but now the house was empty, and there was no one.
The trustees may have been a tricky bunch, but the real fly in the ointment was Rhona Richards, who voiced her disapproval at my every turn. I only had to mention the possibility of time sheets for volunteers or reducing the budget for the Christmas party and she’d be sniping behind my back and whipping up discontent among the ranks. Managing Rhona was a job in itself and I spent many sleepless nights wondering how to manoeuvre her out of the charity.
She reminded me of the limpets we used to see clinging to the rocks on family holidays to Dorset when I was a child. My father and I would spend hours crabbing at Kimmeridge Bay, scooping out the limpets’ flesh with the blade on his Swiss Army knife to bait our crab lines. But there was an art to knocking the limpets off their rocks. Accidentally nudge them and they stuck fast as if they’d been superglued, and no amount of pushing or pulling would prise them off. You had to catch them unawares, striking hard and fast with a flat stone the size of your palm. But you only ever had one shot to get it right.
Things with Rhona reached a head the day I sent out a memo announcing my intention to hold monthly performance reviews for all staff and volunteers. I watched from my office as she read the email, her doughy face growing pink with righteous indignation. She closed her eyes for a moment, tapped urgently at her keyboard, then picked up her mobile and scuttled out of the room.
I grabbed my empty mug and was out of the office like a shot, marching over to her desk.
‘Anyone for tea?’ I asked, glancing at Rhona’s screen and hoping she’d been in too much of a rush to lock it. I was in luck. I recognised the yellow and white Kent Online logo and quickly scanned the page. Contact an editorial team… and a list of newspapers, phone numbers and email addresses. I tensed. The interfering bitch was probably on the phone to the newsroom right now, bellyaching about my plans, casting a slur on the charity’s name.
‘Oo, that would be lovely, thanks. White, one sugar,’ said a voice, and I turned in surprise to see one of the new volunteers holding a mug in her outstretched hand.
‘Sorry, yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Anyone else?’
The murmurs of assent were more subdued than normal, which led me to suspect my newly unveiled plans hadn’t gone down as well as I’d hoped. Couldn’t they see I was only trying to make Sisterline the best it could be? With a slight shake of my head, I took half a dozen mugs and headed for the kitchen, bumping into Irene on the way.
‘Actually, could you make the tea, Irene?’ I said, handing her the mugs. ‘I’ve just remembered I have something I need to see to.’ Without waiting for her response, I bolted back into my office and slammed the door shut.
I paced the room, anger mounting inside me. I’d sacrificed so much to get where I was. I wasn’t about to let it slip through my fingers. As if in a trance, I crossed the room to the grey filing cabinet where everyone’s personnel files were kept. I remembered that expensive counselling session with the wide-hipped therapist from Aberdeen. The leather-topped walnut desk and the black lever arch files. Now there was only one file on my imaginary desk. Rhona. I’d dealt with everything else.
What was it the therapist had said?
Acknowledge how important it is and file it away.
As Eloise would say: Fuck that.
I was going to deal with it.
Deal with her.
I tugged open the real filing cabinet drawer, my fingers a blur as I rifled through, searching for the Rs. And there it was: Rhona Richards’ personnel file. I pulled it out and took it over to the desk, scouring for anything I might have missed. Anything I might use to prise this limpet off the rocks.
And then, buried between contact details for her next of kin and her previous employment record, I found what I was looking for.
Less than an hour later, there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ I said warmly.
The door swung open, and Rhona squinted at me.
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I did,’ I said, jumping to my feet and pulling out the chair on the other side of my desk, full of bonhomie. ‘Thank you so much for your time. I know how precious it is.’
She sat, clasped her hands in her lap, and regarded me with deep suspicion.
‘What did you want?’ she said.
‘I feel we got off on the wrong foot when I took on my new role, and I thought it would be a good idea to talk it through to make sure we’re both OK with everything.’ I smiled to show there was no animosity on my side.
Rhona gaped at me as if I’d grown an extra head.
‘Only I wouldn’t want any resentment there might be between us to reflect badly on the charity,’ I continued, still smiling. I tapped the file on my desk. ‘I’d forgotten what a long-serving member of our volunteering family you are.’
She unclasped her hands and crossed her arms. ‘You started a week after me.’
I gave a tinkle of laughter. ‘So I did. But I never achieved your dizzy heights. There are so many thank-you letters and emails on your file. Not to mention the recent tribute from the coroner. You’re a real asset to Sisterline.’
She gave a slight nod.
I gazed around the room, as if seeking inspiration, then said, ‘D’you know what my dearest friend, Juliet, once said to me?’ I played with the corner of Rhona’s personnel file, flicking it with my thumb, enjoying the satisfying slapping noise it made against the desk. ‘She said, “Oh, Rose, don’t ever change, will you?” And it was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, because it made me feel maybe it was all right to be me after all, you know?’
Rhona was silent.
‘Because I have spent my life trying to be good,’ I continued, my voice thick with emotion. ‘Trying to help people, even if they didn’t think they needed helping in the first place. Everything I have done, every decision I have made, has been for the greater good, do you see?’
She shifted in her chair, her currant eyes darting around the office as if she was looking for an escape route.
‘Anyway,’ I said, fixing her with my gaze. ‘I didn’t drag you in here to talk about me. I want to talk about you.’ I rested my chin on my steepled fingers and cocked my head. ‘Is there anything you would like to say to me? Any problems you’ve been having? Anything you want to get off your chest?’
This was her opportunity to come clean, to admit she’d contacted the local newspaper to whinge about the way I ran Sisterline. But she shook her head and said, ‘Nothing I can think of, no.’
‘Well, I don’t mind telling you that’s a relief,’ I said. ‘Because it wouldn’t do to bad-mouth either me or the charity. It wouldn’t do at all.’
A dull flush crept up Rhona’s neck. ‘I would never -’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ I said smoothly.
‘Is that all?’ she asked, standing to leave.
‘It is, thank you.’ I picked up her personnel file and tapped it on the desk. ‘Oh, there was one more thing,’ I said, as she was halfway to the door. ‘Just a silly thing, but it would be remiss of me not to mention it. Your welfare is my primary concern, after all.’
Rhona turned and frowned. ‘What?’
‘According to your records, you have asthma. I never knew.’
‘That’s because I manage
it properly,’ she said primly.
‘It would be good to know what your triggers are, so we can make sure we keep you safe.’
‘You don’t need to worry. I’m allergic to the particles in bird feathers. They call it feather dust.’
‘They do, do they?’
‘They do. So, I’m hardly likely to come into contact with it here, am I?’ Rhona said with a hint of scorn.
I thought of my mother’s beloved collection of stuffed birds.
And I smiled.
‘Hardly likely at all,’ I said.
Afterword
I hope you enjoyed The Promise You Made. It would be great if you could spare a couple of minutes to write a quick review on Amazon or Goodreads. I’d love your feedback. But please, no spoilers!
* * *
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Acknowledgments
The Promise You Made is my fourth thriller, so you’d think by now that I knew what I was doing. Not so!
Much procrastinating, belly-aching, soul-searching and faffing about has gone into the making of this book. Not to mention a few crises of confidence along the way!
As usual it’s due to my lack of planning. But, frustratingly, I’m a discovery writer, starting with the seed of an idea - and not much else! - and seeing where it takes me.
Which sounds fine on paper, but it can lead you down all sorts of rabbit holes and blind alleys.
My ‘seed’ for this book was the promise by a woman to her grieving goddaughter that she would help her if she was ever in trouble. And from that Rose and Eloise’s story slowly revealed itself to me.
Too slowly at times!
But I got there in the end, thanks to the wonderful and much-appreciated support of my family and friends.
In particular, I would like to thank Dr Penny Davies for her insights on all things medical, and to Natalie Spain, whose enthusiasm for the book gave me the lift I needed when my confidence was flagging.
