‘Apart from Richard Masters and you, the only person I told was Caitlin.’ Melanie raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Now, if you want to go and accuse Detective Inspector Ballantyne of murder, you go right ahead.’
‘Accuse, no,’ he said firmly, ‘but I will speak to her, it is–’
‘Yes, yes,’ she interrupted him testily, ‘I know, it’s your job. She looked at the clock pointedly. ‘Please don’t let me delay you any further in the execution of your duties.’
It wasn’t until he’d left that Melanie realised, she had lied to the police… not deliberately, and not precisely lied… but there was one other person who she’d told about that night.
Liam Quinn.
She remembered the sadness and sympathy that had appeared in his eyes when she’d told him about what had happened. And hadn’t there been a glimmer of recognition when she’d shown him Hugo’s photograph? And what was it he’d said? Something about con men who wreak havoc without ever being brought to justice. His expression had been grim and his voice hard.
He was an ex-copper turned private investigator. Had he also turned vigilante?
Had he recognised Hugo and decided to make him pay?
22
Melanie was still sitting, thinking, when the door opened and Caitlin appeared, her eyes sweeping the small room. ‘So, this is it?’ she said, pushing the door open wide. ‘It’s not the biggest, is it?’
‘But it’s mine and’ – Melanie indicated the window behind – ‘I can look outside and see what the weather’s like.’ She’d been in Caitlin’s office a couple of times; it was twice the size of hers but windowless and with a low ceiling she had found claustrophobic.
Caitlin walked to the window and peered out. ‘You win,’ she said, turning. ‘You ready to go?’
It wasn’t five but suddenly Melanie didn’t care. Over the years, she’d probably clocked up thousands of hours of overtime. ‘Yes,’ she said, shutting her laptop and getting to her feet. She pulled on her coat and smoothed a hand over her hair, stopping with a hand on her head as a memory overwhelmed her… that night in Blacks when she’d been tempted to unpin her hair to attract the handsome man at the bar.
‘Don’t look so sad,’ Caitlin said softly.
Sad? Melanie wasn’t sure how she felt anymore; her emotions had been through the wringer and now the only emotion she was sure of, the one constant, was the fear that simmered beneath the surface. ‘My life’s a bit of a roller-coaster these days, Caitlin. DI Elliot was in this afternoon, not very long ago actually. He will need to speak to you.’
Caitlin’s eyebrows rose. ‘He already asked me about the phone call. I confirmed the time and that the reception had been perfect. What more does he want?’
‘You said he was a good copper; it seems you were right. He’s not willing to ignore what I suppose he’d call his gut instinct.’
‘Maybe I’m being unusually slow,’ Caitlin said, crossing her arms over her chest, ‘but I don’t understand.’
Melanie shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘I have an alibi but he hasn’t given up on his idea that revenge may be the motive for Hugo’s murder.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘He’s looking into the possibility that someone killed him in retribution for how he duped me. I told him that the only people who knew about what happened were you and Richard.’
‘More likely to have been me than Richard,’ Caitlin said, and held her hand up quickly. ‘And no, in case you have any doubts, I love you dearly but I wouldn’t kill for you.’
Melanie laughed and gave her a nudge. ‘Good to know! Let’s get out of here.’
By unspoken consent, they walked to a small Italian restaurant ten minutes from the office, a place they’d been to before where they were assured of a quiet table and good food. The Sicilian owner, Marco, hurried over to greet them, hands outstretched, heavily-accented greetings falling from his lips. He waved them to a table in an alcove, returning seconds later to hand them menus.
Melanie sat into the seat with a sigh of relief. ‘Bring us a bottle of that delicious Sicilian red wine we had the last time,’ she said to him. ‘A tempranillo, I think it was.’
‘Ah, maybe the Viña Valoria?’
‘That’s the one, thanks.’
‘You’re drinking a lot more than you used to,’ Caitlin commented, throwing her coat onto the back of an empty chair.
‘A temporary crutch.’ Melanie didn’t tell her about getting hammered on whisky, that wasn’t going to happen again. ‘So much has been going on, it’s an easy way to unwind.’
Caitlin leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin on cupped hands. ‘Have you given counselling some thought?’
Thought about it, done it, didn’t like it. ‘Are you hoping if you keep mentioning it, I’ll eventually give in?’ Melanie cocked her head but when her remark was met with silence, she added, ‘I’ve thought about it.’ The arrival of the wine interrupted any further comments.
Wine poured and their food order taken, Melanie sat back and tried to relax. It would be so much easier if she could tell Caitlin the whole truth, but it wasn’t an option she wanted to take. ‘These days my imagination runs away with itself all the time and paranoia seems to lurk around every corner, I think even a counsellor would find me difficult to sort out.’
Caitlin’s expression softened and she stretched a hand across and laid it on Melanie’s arm. ‘You’ve been through a tough time, Mel. And no doubt, having the police calling around at three am didn’t exactly help either.’ Over dinner, as if determined to lighten the conversation, Caitlin talked about her new romance, a doctor she swore was the image of George Clooney. ‘In his ER days, of course,’ she insisted with a grin. ‘And a body to die for too.’
‘I suppose you did a full background check on him?’
Caitlin slurped a string of spaghetti. ‘Of course, I know everything there is to know about him.’
It was the perfect opportunity. ‘Did you get a chance to ask around about Liam Quinn?’
‘Aha, that private investigator you asked me about. I didn’t, not yet. Tell me, why are you so keen to find out about him? And don’t give me any mumbo-jumbo about maybe needing to use him in some dim and distant future.’
Melanie couldn’t tell her she’d already used Quinn’s investigative services, nor could she voice her suspicions about his involvement in Hugo’s death without telling her that she’d met Quinn in the pub. What a dreadfully tangled web she was spinning. Instead, she smiled and lied. ‘Okay, you’re right. I like the look of him. But I’m not risking my fingers being burned again.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Caitlin said, reaching out to pat her hand. ‘I’ll do a search on him, find out where he worked, see what his reputation was like. He could be what you need. Give me a day or two and I’ll find out everything there is to know about him.’
The conversation turned to holiday plans, Caitlin’s work, and general chat about life until the wine was gone and both were covering yawns. ‘No stamina anymore,’ Melanie said, putting her credit card down to pay the bill, insisting on it being her treat when Caitlin wanted to split it. ‘I owe you this meal, at least.’
Marco had rung for taxis, one pulling up as they went out onto the street. ‘You take this one,’ Caitlin said, giving her friend a quick hug. ‘You look like you’re falling asleep on your feet.’
Melanie didn’t argue, getting in and sinking onto the seat with a grateful smile.
‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything, okay,’ Caitlin said, shutting the door and waving as the taxi pulled away.
Traffic was heavy, barely moving at times. It would have been nice to shut her eyes, instead Melanie stared out the window at the pedestrians milling about and the neon lights of the city she loved. She felt as if she was in a state of suspended animation, waiting for something to happen, something she had no control over. It was unsettling. No, she needed to be honest with herself… it was terrifying.
The taxi had turned into Bloom Park
Road before she noticed the flashing lights of a police car up ahead, her eyes widening when she realised it was outside her house. What now? The taxi pulled up behind it, the driver appearing totally unconcerned by the scene or her distress as she handed over the fare and clambered out.
The noise of her house alarm was deafening, the alarm box flashing blue in tandem with the lights of the police car. The two uniformed officers standing on her doorstep turned when she pushed open the gate. ‘It’s my apartment,’ she said quickly, waving at it as if they might perhaps have misunderstood her.
One of them nodded. ‘Your name?’
‘Melanie Scott.’ She reached into her bag and rummaged for something with her name on it to prove it was indeed her home, pulling out a bank statement and handing it over. Her initial frightened reaction had faded and she looked at her house, puzzled. There wasn’t any window broken and the front door was still shut. ‘It doesn’t look as if there’s anything wrong,’ she said, taking the statement back.
‘The alarm company contacted us,’ the same officer said, as the other moved to peer in through the window. ‘They insisted that both the door contact and a motion sensor had triggered an alarm but it looks pretty tight to me.’
Her alarm system was top of the range and she’d never had a problem. If any of the contacts on the door or windows were broken the monitoring company was automatically alerted, their policy in this situation being to send one of their staff to investigate. But if a motion sensor was triggered, they automatically involved the police. In the years she’d owned the apartment, the alarm had never gone off and she had it serviced every year. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, searching for her keys. ‘I’m assuming there must be a fault of some sort.’
The officer reached for her keys. ‘Best if we check inside. You have alarms on the rear windows?’
‘Yes, but access from the back is very limited.’
Opening the door, both officers looked inside before waving her in. ‘Perhaps you could silence the alarm.’
With the bell clanging in her head, she keyed in the four-digit code and sagged against the wall in the ensuing silence. Motioning her to stay where she was, the officers headed down the hallway and went from room to room. She heard them opening and shutting cupboards, relieved that they were being thorough.
Within a few minutes, they returned, their faces and posture relaxed. ‘Everything looks satisfactory,’ the one with the speaking part said. ‘Perhaps you should have the alarm company in to service the system.’ He resumed his stern manner to add, ‘I must warn you, Ms Scott, two more false alarms and you’re struck off our list.’
And with that, they gave a wave and left. She watched the car pulling away and went inside, locking the door, putting the safety chain on. Two of the lights on the alarm panel were flashing red; it indicated what the officers had told her, that the contacts on the front door had been broken and an internal motion sensor triggered. And yet there’d been no break in. She reset it, lost in thought.
Shrugging off her coat, she went into the bedroom and hung it up before heading to the kitchen. A whisky might have helped reduce the stress but, remembering the last time, she settled for tea, making a mug and bringing it through to the lounge. She sat and looked out of the French windows with a sigh. The view over the garden had lost its magic; her beautiful apartment no longer the oasis of calm it used to be. Hugo had spoiled it for her.
Self-pity shot through her, making her weak. She reached to put the mug of untouched tea on the low table beside her, freezing before completing the action. The table should have been clear, there shouldn’t have been a sheet of white paper on it.
Putting the mug on the floor, she turned in her seat and looked at the paper. It was blank. At least on this side. She reached out and picked it up, carefully, delicately, by the edge as if afraid to contaminate or be contaminated by it, by whatever was written there. Because she knew something had to be. She brought it to her lap, flipped it over and dropped it, her eyes widening to see what was written.
Anne Edwards, it’s time to do what Cherry did…
23
Melanie didn’t know which frightened her the most, the message or the fact that someone had been inside her apartment, her home. A shiver shot through her and she wrapped her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to keep it together as the terrifying truth dawned… whoever was sending the emails had a key to her home. They could get in whenever they wanted.
The police officers had checked and found nothing wrong. They probably wouldn’t rush back if her alarm went off again that night; they’d assume it was a fault. There was a safety chain on her door but a good bolt cutter would quickly deal with that.
It was impossible to stay there. She felt tears well and shook her head, there was no time to weep, she had to get out of there. But still she hesitated; the thought of leaving, of going out into the street suddenly frightened her more. What if they were waiting for her to do that? They would have known she’d find the note and might have anticipated her running away.
‘Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,’ she muttered, still hugging herself. She thought about ringing Caitlin who would insist she went straight over. Melanie’s reluctance wasn’t down to the size of her friend’s studio apartment, although it was seriously small, it was down to the repercussions. If she went, she’d have to tell Caitlin why she was there and reveal the sordid truth about her past. Melanie’s lower lip trembled. Was it so wrong to want one part of her life free from the taint of what she had done?
But it was impossible to stay in her apartment knowing that someone had a key.
Fear blinded her. There seemed to be no way forward.
Was this the way it had gone for Cherry? Had she been so beaten down and defeated that the only solution lay in leaving it all behind? As Matthew Thomas had done by the riverside all those years before. Whoever had destroyed Cherry, was trying to destroy her; they were enacting the perfect revenge for his death.
But Melanie wasn’t ready to give up yet. A spurt of anger blew a hole in the terror that surrounded her and suddenly she saw a solution. It was a stupidly simple one. She’d have the damn locks changed. It took only seconds using the internet to find a twenty-four-hour emergency locksmith. ‘How soon can you come out?’ she asked when she rang the number, giving a grin of relief when she was told within the hour.
In fact, it was forty minutes later that she heard a van pull up outside, peering through the shutters to check, breathing more easily when she saw the logo, London Locks. Without fuss or questions, the job was done in less than twenty minutes. The locksmith tested each of three keys before handing them to her. ‘Don’t forget,’ he said, ‘to replace any you’ve left with friends or key-holders.’
‘Of course and thank you for the prompt service.’ She shut the door behind him and turned with the new keys clinking in her hand. Three new ones to replace the three old. It took seconds to swop the one on her keyring. One spare should be here, in her bedside locker drawer, and one in the back of a drawer in her office. Should be. If her intruder had a key, they had to have obtained it from somewhere.
The drawer of her locker was filled with paraphernalia that had gathered over the years but she found the key lodged in a corner. She tossed it into the bin and replaced it with a new one. In the morning, she would check if the spare she’d left in her office was still there.
Even with the new locks, she didn’t feel completely safe. That horrible detective, Burke, had taken the longest knife Melanie had, but she felt safer with something so she took a shorter one back to her room and shoved it under her pillow. To be even safer, she pulled the chest of drawers across the door. Then with a grunt of frustration, she pushed it back and went into the living room for the sheet of paper, taking it back to her room, replacing the chest of drawers.
The message on the page hadn’t changed, the words still simple and stark. Anne Edwards, it’s time to do what Cherry did. It was a message they could have
sent by email; they’d chosen to deliver it as they had done simply to terrify her. And they’d succeeded.
She sat heavily on her bed. Poor Cherry, the job she loved had been destroyed by Facebook and Twitter trolls and the wicked graffiti daubed in the school and around Wethersham. Perhaps she’d received a similar message that had given her that final push. A dart of anger shot through Melanie. All these years living with the guilt of what she’d done, all these years listening to her mother’s constant sniping and put-downs… she hadn’t gone through all that only to give up now.
Taking the sheet of paper, she tucked it into the frame of a painting on the wall opposite her bed. It was the last thing she saw before she switched out the lights but now, instead of terrifying her, the words seemed to strengthen her resolve. Someone wanted her dead. They were going to have to do their own dirty work, she wasn’t going to make it easy for them.
Surprisingly, she slept well, waking before her alarm went off. After a quick shower, she pinned her hair up. She wanted… no, she needed… to wear her favourite suit, the Armani she’d bought when she’d been promoted to senior associate three years before. It made her feel good, an armour of success and achievement. Classic, smart, it hadn’t dated and provided the perfect façade to get her through the day.
With a final check in the mirror, she tugged her raincoat on over her suit and picked up her briefcase. She unlocked the front door, then hesitated with her hands on the safety chain. What if someone were waiting out in the street? Her fingers tightened on the door handle. What if they were at the station, waiting to push her under the tube? Trembling, she stepped backwards into the kitchen, sat onto a chair, and rested her head on her hand. ‘Idiot,’ she muttered, lifting her chin and gritting her teeth. Sadistic bastards. Were they watching and enjoying? Maybe she should get a taxi?
She couldn’t live like this. Shaking her head, she stood and this time, set the alarm and left the house. She walked a bit faster, her eyes continuously darting around. On the platform, she stood back against the wall as she waited for the tube to arrive, only moving when the doors opened and the mass of people moved forward, joining in with them, feeling safer in the crowd.
The Deadly Truth Page 14
