by A J McDine
I made my way around the bungalow, peering into each window. The lounge, kitchen and dining room were as cluttered as the hallway, with piles of newspapers and magazines and boxes of rubbish everywhere you looked. A small window at the back of the bungalow had been covered with newspapers. I checked the date, surprised to see they were only a couple of weeks old. People did that when they decorated, didn’t they? Perhaps Sheila was giving the bungalow a makeover, although it seemed unlikely.
The next room was a small double bedroom, and it was almost as untidy as the rest of the house. A white blouse with a fussy collar that I recognised as Sheila’s hung from the wardrobe door. Relieved she wasn’t laying prone on the bed, I tramped over to the last window and drew back in surprise. A bedroom, all frills and floral prints, and as spotless as the rest of the house was chaotic. The bed was immaculately made, and a vase of cerise-pink roses had pride of place on top of a polished chest of drawers. An aluminium walking frame fitted neatly between the chest of drawers and a dark wood wardrobe.
My scalp prickled as I realised this must be Sheila’s mother’s room, kept like a shrine while the rest of the bungalow slid into decay. The screeching violins from the shower scene in Psycho echoed in my head, and I was overcome with the urge to put as much distance as possible between me and Sheila’s creepy bungalow. Then the imaginary violins were replaced with an intake of breath from behind me. A heavy weight crashed onto the back of my head and I blacked out.
Chapter Forty-Four
Pain radiated from the base of my skull like ripples on a lake. Intense, shooting pain like my nerve endings were on fire. The kind of pain caused by a dozen tequila shots on an empty stomach. And a throat as dry as sandpaper. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this hungover. No, wait, I could. It was in Corfu, the morning after the barbecue by the pool. The night Bill raped Niamh. The night I tried to seduce my husband, not realising someone else had beaten me to it.
I opened my eyes, bemused to find it was dark.
I groaned and rubbed the back of my head, gasping as my fingers found a bump the size of a bantam’s egg. I pressed the tender skin tentatively, wondering how pissed I must have been to have fallen and banged my head.
Where had I been? I groped for fragments of memory, but it was like catching snowflakes on a winter’s day. Every time my fingers curled around one, it melted in my palm.
Immy loved catching snowflakes on her tongue. I remembered this with a pang that was almost as painful as the lump on my head. But Immy was missing. Slowly, the events of the last few days came back to me. Police scouring the river. The press conference. Confronting Niamh. Stuart’s affair. Bill’s death. Driving to Littlebourne to check Sheila was all right. After that, it was all a blank.
I shifted position, wincing as yet another wave of pain washed over me, leaving me light-headed. I placed my hands palm down to steady myself, frowning as my fingers came into contact with bristly carpet. What the hell was I doing on the floor?
A noise made me stiffen. The unmistakable click of a key turning in a lock. A chink of butter-yellow light and a flurry of cool air on my cheek. Sheila towering over me, her arms folded across her chest and her face rigid with suppressed anger.
‘Where am I?’ I croaked.
Ignoring me, she flicked the light switch, flooding the room with artificial light. My retinas burning, I turned my head, whimpering as the sudden movement sent yet another bolt of pain through my skull.
‘Where am I?’ I said again. Again, she ignored me. I held out a hand, annoyed to see my fingers were trembling. ‘Help me up, will you? I need to go home.’
She glowered at me, her pale blue eyes as icy as glass. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? I am not your skivvy!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I backtracked. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
She laughed, a bitter sound that sent shivers down my spine. ‘This is a first. Cleo Cooper apologising. Better hold the front page.’
I looked around. I was in a small box room about 10ft square. Directly in front of me was a floral two-seater sofa with fussy trims and matching cushions. A folded yellow duvet and two pillows were piled on it. On a pine coffee table beside the sofa was an empty plate and a purple plastic beaker. A portable television sat on a matching pine unit. Newspaper was taped to the window with masking tape. With sudden clarity I remembered walking around Sheila’s bungalow, peering inside each room. This was the one I hadn’t been able to see inside. And now, here I was, on the wrong side of the looking glass.
The room smelt musty, with another underlying scent I couldn’t quite identify, although for some inexplicable reason it filled me with a longing for home.
‘This is your house,’ I said, waving a hand at the room.
A brief nod. ‘I found you in the garden. You’d fainted and hit the back of your head. Heat stroke, I should imagine.’
‘I came to see if you were all right. I was worried about you. I thought you might have done something silly after Bill…’
Sheila plucked at the sleeve of her blouse. ‘You should have stopped him.’
‘Believe me, I tried.’
‘Why should I believe you?’ She glared at me. ‘It suits you, doesn’t it, having him out of the picture? You’ll have full control of the company now. You can do what the hell you like.’
‘If you think I’d let Bill kill himself so I could take over the company, you’re delusional.’
‘Don’t you dare call me delusional,’ she hissed, and I shrank back against the wall.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I loved Bill. I would never have let him come to harm, no matter what he’d done.’
‘He should have known I was protecting him,’ she said, talking over me. ‘There was no way I was going to let that little cow ruin his life.’
I gaped at her. ‘Niamh?’
‘The little Irish slut was blackmailing him, did you know that?’
I nodded, wincing at the fresh wave of pain. ‘He told me.’
‘She claimed he raped her. Bill!’ She stepped forwards. ‘She was threatening to tell the police!’
‘But he gave her the money. I saw him. She was planning to go home to Ireland. She wouldn’t have told.’
‘Know that for a fact, do you?’ Sheila bared her teeth. ‘Call me cynical, but she would have been back for more. Someone needed to stop her.’
I gasped as her words sank in.
Someone needed to stop her.
‘Wait, are you saying… ?’ I faltered. ‘You killed her?’
‘I did it for Bill.’
I closed my eyes and slumped against the wall as the events of the previous night rearranged themselves in my head. I thought Bill had returned to the warehouse after I’d left. I’d pictured him screeching back through the industrial estate in his powerful Range Rover, overcome with fury. Grabbing a piece of raffia from the footwell of his car and stalking towards the empty building, twisting the string around his hands to create a makeshift garrotte.
Bill had confessed, hadn’t he? I replayed his words in my head. I can’t put things right. Niamh’s dead and it’s my fault. Sheila said…
He never told me what Sheila said.
He hadn’t confessed, either. I was the deluded one. I’d seen what I wanted to see - that guilt consumed Bill because he’d killed Niamh. But I was wrong. Bill was culpable, but of rape, not murder. The tightness in my chest eased a little.
Sheila walked over to the coffee table and picked up the plate and beaker.
‘How did you know where she was?’ I asked.
She looked at me, confusion wrinkling her forehead. ‘Who?’
‘Niamh. How did you know Niamh was at the warehouse?’
‘Bill told me, of course. He wanted me to clear up his mess, you see.’
‘He said that, did he?’
She gave me a contemptuous smile. ‘He didn’t have to. He knew I always did.’
And she was right. If Bill was late filing the accounts or drawing
up a new contract, Sheila always stayed late to help him. If he didn’t want to take a call from a supplier, she pretended he was in a meeting or had been held up in the packing room, the lies tripping off her tongue. Sheila bought last-minute presents for Melanie when Bill forgot her birthday. She cleared up his messes. But this time she’d gone too far.
I reached for my mobile. Seeing my hand fumbling for my back pocket, Sheila loomed over me.
‘What are you doing?’ she barked.
‘I need to call the police. Tell them what’s happened.’
For a second she stiffened, watchful and calculating. And then her shoulders drooped. ‘I suppose you’re right. But your phone’s in the kitchen. You dropped it when you fainted. I’ll get it. Would you like a glass of water?’
‘A cup of tea would be nice.’
She arched an eyebrow but left the room, closing the door behind her. I thought I heard the click of the lock, but my head was throbbing so badly I could have imagined it.
I staggered to my feet, tramped over to the window and pulled away a corner of newspaper. It was pitch black outside, save for a scattering of stars and a curved new moon. I felt my wrist for my watch, but the strap must have broken when I fell. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious. No matter. As soon as Sheila was back, I’d phone the police and get this whole bloody mess sorted out.
I shifted the yellow duvet and pillows out of the way and sank onto the sofa. Footsteps outside heralded Sheila’s return, and I sat up, almost salivating at the thought of tea. The door swung open, and she appeared with a mug and two rich tea biscuits on a plate.
‘Thanks,’ I said, as she handed me the mug. I took a sip, eager for the liquid to moisten my parched throat even though I knew it would scald my tongue. She’d made it far too strong and sweet for my liking, and if we’d been at the office, I’d have sent her back to make a fresh cup. But I was on her turf, so I kept my mouth shut.
Instead I said, ‘Do you have my phone?’
‘I only have one pair of hands,’ she said tartly. ‘I’ll get it once you’ve had your tea and biscuits.’
I drank my tea and nibbled the biscuits and once I’d finished Sheila took the mug and plate and disappeared again. And I felt tired, so tired, so I drew my legs up onto the sofa and rested my head on the folded duvet and closed my eyes and for one ridiculous moment I could feel Immy’s presence so keenly I knew that if I opened my eyes, she would be standing next to me, her hot breath on my cheek, urging me to wake up because the sun was shining and she wanted to play Pooh sticks. And so, I opened my eyes, my heart thudding in my chest, but she wasn’t there, of course she wasn’t, because someone had taken her and I should be out looking for her, not curled up on Sheila’s chintzy sofa having a catnap. But I was so damn tired, and the thought of sleep was too enticing to resist, so I closed my eyes again. As soon as Sheila came back, I would phone the police, sort this mess out, find Immy. But while I waited, I would sleep.
Chapter Forty-Five
FRIDAY 18 JUNE
It was light when I awoke, groggy and disorientated, with a stiff neck and pins and needles in my left leg. I hauled myself upright and took stock. I must have fallen asleep while I was waiting for Sheila to bring my phone. Drowsiness was a symptom of concussion. Stuart had once slept for two days after he was knocked out during a university rugby match. I felt the back of my head. Although it was smaller than it had been, the bump was still there.
My phone lay face down on the coffee table and I snatched it up. But the screen was blank, and when I tried turning it on, nothing happened. The battery was dead. I growled with frustration and threw it onto the floor. What bloody use was a dead phone?
I pulled myself off the sofa, shuffled to the door and tried the handle, even though a sixth sense told me it would be locked. The sixth sense was right. Irritation coursed through my veins like a shot of adrenalin and I welcomed it with open arms.
‘Sheila!’ I yelled through the keyhole. ‘This is ridiculous. You need to let me out. Now!’
Silence. I hammered on the door with the palms of my hands. ‘Sheila, for fuck’s sake, open the bloody door!’
Nothing. She was ignoring me or had gone out and left me locked in the house.
I marched to the window and tore off the newspaper. The window was double glazed white uPVC with a fixed pane on one side and a window with a lock at eye level on the other. I pressed the lock to release the handle, but it didn’t move. The bloody woman had locked the window, too. I punched at it with my fist, crying out in pain as my hand bounced off the toughened glass.
Irritation morphed into rage and I picked up the coffee table and bashed one leg hard against the window, aiming for the bottom right-hand corner. Even though the impact sent a shock wave through my arms and shoulders like the kickback from a rifle, the glass remained stubbornly intact. I kept going, using a swinging motion and the weight of my body to pound the glass, blow after blow. After half a dozen hefty wallops, the first pane shattered. I stopped to take a breath and push the hair out of my eyes, then started the battery again until sweat ran down my face and my shoulders were screaming. Eventually the second pane yielded, leaving a circle of jagged glass as lethal as a shark’s jaws. Using the table leg, I pushed out the shards, then draped the duvet over the opening, set the coffee table on the floor underneath the window and climbed out.
The sun was high in the sky and the air without a breath of wind as I jumped down, landing awkwardly in an overgrown flowerbed. I scanned the garden, but the only sign of life was Bill, Sheila’s tabby cat, sunning himself under the bird table. I marched around the side of the bungalow, clenching and unclenching my fists. I had never raised a hand to anyone in my life - I won arguments with intellect, not violence - but I knew that if I walked into my secretary right now, I’d happily punch her lights out.
I stopped to look through Sheila’s bedroom window. The blouse with the fussy collar I’d seen hanging from her wardrobe the previous day had disappeared, and I wondered if she’d gone to work as if nothing had happened. Because, as the fog in my head cleared, it was becoming obvious she’d had no intention of letting me phone the police. She hadn’t locked me in her box room by accident.
I continued on my way to the front door. As I passed Sheila’s mother’s room, I stubbed my foot on something hard. Reaching down to rub my toe, I saw an old iron lying in the long grass. The cord was frayed, and the soleplate was scorched black. I’d seen it before in Sheila’s hallway. Unconsciously, my hand crept to the bump on the back of my head. She wouldn’t have, would she? And then I laughed at myself. The woman had strangled Niamh. Of course she was capable of hitting me over the back of the head with an old iron.
I picked it up, winding the cord around my hand, noticing for the first time that the salmon-pink curtains in Sheila’s mother’s room had been drawn closed. Perhaps I was wrong to assume Sheila kept the room as a shrine and she’d appropriated it when her mum died. I peered through a chink in the curtains. The walking frame was still there, slotted between the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. A couple of the roses had blown, their petals discarded on the polished wood like pieces of pink confetti. A shape was huddled under the floral bedspread. Something about its form made my heart rate quicken. Something achingly familiar. And I remembered what Bill had said before he died. She’d do anything to have even a little bit of me.
But it couldn’t be, could it?
I took one last lingering look at the figure under the covers and sprinted to the front door.
Chapter Forty-Six
The door was locked, as I knew it would be, but with a swift swing of the iron I smashed one of the stained glass panels, felt inside and turned the latch. Inside the hallway, I paused as I tried to get my bearings. To the right were doors to the front room and dining room, and the kitchen was ahead. The bedrooms were all on the opposite side of the house. I sidestepped a teetering pile of boxes and followed the hallway as it turned left and narrowed. Every door was cl
osed. Aware Sheila could be crouched behind any of them, my grip on the iron tightened.
I calculated Sheila’s mother’s bedroom must be the first door on the left. I tried the handle and pushed the door with my shoulder, but it didn’t budge. If I was right, Sheila would have locked it, of course she would. I considered trying to kick the door down, but I had a feeling it wasn’t as easy as it looked in the films. Think like the enemy, I told myself, as I gazed around the cluttered hallway. Whenever I asked Sheila to lock up my office, she always left the key on top of the doorframe. ‘Out of harm’s way,’ she said the first time she’d done it. I set the iron on the floor, stood on tiptoes and felt along the top of the frame, grinning when my fingers came into contact with a key. Bingo.
The key turned smoothly in the lock, and suddenly I was in the bedroom. The air was heavy with the scent of the wilting roses. I crossed the room in a second, anticipation making me breathless. When I reached the bed, I closed my eyes, almost too afraid to look in case I was wrong. But when I opened them again, the first thing I saw was Immy’s dark red hair pooling on the pillow. The curl of lashes on a waxen cheek. Chubby fingers entwined around the top of the floral bedspread. She was still, so still. Bands of fear coiled around my heart, making it hard to breathe.
I touched her shoulder and whispered, ‘Immy?’ She didn’t stir. I held a hand against her cheek, preparing myself for the coldness of marble, and I almost sobbed with relief when my fingers touched warm skin. I bent down and whispered, ‘Immy, wake up, baby. Mummy’s here. Mummy’s come to take you home.’
