Safe With Me

by K. L. Slater

  But in the last day or so, further serious complaints had been received from the local hospital. Several patients living on this particular delivery route had missed important medical appointments due to their mail consistently failing to get through.

  In Colin’s experience, it was almost never down to coincidence when the trace-back indicated that the errors had occurred on the same postal worker’s round. Particularly when it was a worker who had already been spoken to about her delivery inconsistencies.

  Consequently, Head Office had requested the involvement of the Investigation Branch, known as the RMIB, and Colin’s team had been notified.

  The first stage of the official process had already been completed with the RMIB dispatching several dummy letters.

  Colin referred to his notebook and saw that of the ten pieces of mail sent recently, the non-delivery rate had been just sixty per cent. An unacceptably low rate of delivery.

  It was now Colin’s job to gather the practical evidence required for the subsequent suspension, dismissal and likely prosecution of the employee.

  Providing there was sufficient evidence, then the RMIB had the power to enter an employee’s home to recover any stolen or undelivered mail: legally, it was the property of Her Majesty The Queen.

  In Colin’s experience, the postal workers overwhelmingly always seemed to think they’d get away with it. As if they somehow believed they’d be able to catch up and eventually deliver the mail. Or in the worst cases, destroy it.

  His eye caught movement at the bottom of the hill. Colin put down the notebook and reached for his binoculars.

  The familiar fluorescent colours and Royal Mail lettering came into focus on the cyclist’s reflective jacket. When she turned her face towards the road, Colin grabbed his camera, zoomed in and snapped a few shots for the file to prove a positive ID.

  As he worked, he wondered fleetingly what had happened to the undelivered mail in this case.

  Would this one be a destroyer or a hoarder?

  They were always one or the other and it was Colin’s job to find out which category Anna Clarke belonged to.

  Chapter 22

  Anna

  Next morning, the weather is nice and dry with not much wind, and I manage to get a good two thirds of the mail delivered.

  I dump the remainder in my car boot for ‘processing’, which is how I’ve decided to refer to it from now on.

  Back home, I check on Mrs Peat, feed Albert, have a little rest and I’m back outside the Busy Bee nursery at three fifteen. There is a flurry of parents picking up at three thirty and then it quietens down again.

  At four o’clock, movement at the side door catches my eye. This time it’s Amanda but she is not alone. A man follows her outside, and they stand talking for a moment.

  He is wearing navy overalls with brown steel-capped boots and clutches a short plank of wood and a rusty toolbox. His dark hair looks dusty and unkempt.

  He leans forward, says something to her and she smiles and nods, and then he goes back inside and closes the door behind him.

  Amanda glances briefly up and down the street as she rummages through her handbag and then walks slowly down towards my car on the opposite side of the road. Her hair has been tied back more carefully today, and she walks with her head slightly down, pressing buttons on her mobile phone. She has on flat pumps and has bare, tanned legs even though it’s quite cool outside.

  I’d been so distracted when I bumped into her at the hospital, I’d not been able to take a good, long look at her but I can take my time today. As I suspected, there isn’t a scratch on her: no sign that she has been through any sort of ordeal at all. No crutches, no bruises, nothing.

  Life is carrying on perfectly normally for this woman yet again.

  You can tell she thinks a lot of herself. It shows in the way she’s done her hair, all smooth and lacquered. Diamanté slides hold the style firmly in place and tiny coloured stones glitter at her ears and throat.

  Certainly, she looks better put together than the gaunt, supposedly guilt-ridden wreck who begged Liam’s forgiveness at the hospital a couple of days ago.

  I think about the flippant comments in her online message to Liam. She doesn’t look like a woman crippled with remorse and grief to me. She isn’t that embroiled in a pit of guilt that she has been unable to tart herself up and reel off texts the moment she finishes work.

  She has no idea I’m here, watching her.

  But one day, soon, she will again know exactly who I am.

  A cramping sensation pinches at my chest as I watch her walk down the opposite side of the road, straight past my car.

  I’m trying to make up my mind whether to get out and follow her on foot but then she slows down, pushes her phone back in her handbag and stands at the bus stop at the end of the road.

  It must inconvenience her not having the car.

  I didn’t notice to what extent her vehicle had been damaged after the accident, but after my phone call to her workplace yesterday, it’s safe to assume she’s getting it repaired and will be back on the road in no time, putting more lives in danger.

  I’m trying to second-guess where she might be headed. I don’t want to follow her to find myself stuck outside the shopping centre for hours on end, but if she is going straight home it could be the ideal chance to see where she lives.

  That’s something I’m definitely going to need to know, and the glacial pace the police operate at, I’m far better to rely on my own resources.

  I manage to follow the bus, leaving several cars in front of me. I drive slowly so that when it stops I can see exactly who is getting off.

  She alights just around the corner from Rowland Street.

  I spot her turn in to the road, and I drive past her, parking up about halfway down the road, giving me a clear view of all the houses.

  I take out my new phone and press the key I’ve pre-programmed with her mobile number. I switch it to loudspeaker so I can leave it on my lap out of sight.

  A shrill ring begins, and as she walks, I watch as her hand dips into her bag and she presses the phone to her ear.

  ‘Hello.’ The car fills with her deceitful tones. ‘Hello?’

  I close my eyes and stay silent.

  ‘Hello?’ Her tone is more impatient now but I don’t say anything, I just want to check again that I have the right number. That everything is in place.

  I end the call, feeling reassured with how well my plans are going.

  There are plenty of parked cars in front and behind me and she walks straight past, dropping her phone back in her bag with not even a cursory glance in my direction.

  Another hundred yards and she turns in to a driveway with a small caravan on it. She lives in a standard semi tucked away in a cul-de-sac on Rowland Street.

  I give it a couple of minutes and then drive by slowly so I am able to note down the house number.

  I happen to know that this address is on John Burtree’s round, and he’s off sick at the moment with gout. He’s one of those people who takes time off periodically and always makes sure it is foot or leg related, so nobody can argue that he could still come into work.

  They’ve probably got an agency worker covering the area.

  The house itself looks neat enough. It looks distinctly middle-aged territory, if such a thing exists. Nets and a shabby wrought iron seat under the living room window.

  This house looks too big and well established for her; perhaps she lives with her partner, although I did notice there was no ring on her hand.

  I’ve already managed to expose one of the lies in her message to Liam:

  ‘I’ve stopped going out, I just can’t face people, even my friends.’

  Clearly, she has not stopped going out. I’ve just followed her home from work; she hasn’t even had the decency to take a couple of weeks off.

  Equally, she has managed to summon enough confidence to stroll unannounced into the hospital and upset Liam while he is strugglin
g to recover from the injuries she has inflicted.

  He had to take her on face value because of his circumstances but, luckily, he has me to act as his eyes and ears, and I’m not fooled one iota.

  I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t walked in to Liam’s room when I did. He had already issued an ill-judged invitation for her to call round which, in itself, illustrates he isn’t in his right mind.

  Liam might not think he needs protecting, but I know better.

  I wonder what her ulterior motive is? She has to have one, or she wouldn’t be going to all this trouble to visit him in hospital and construct a tissue of lies via her online messages.

  No doubt it will have something to do with avoiding paying him damages or trying to dodge trouble with the police by getting Liam on side.

  I can’t be sure what is in her mind. I only know that, without the opportunity to be alone with him, she will find it very difficult to manipulate him further.

  * * *

  After stopping off for provisions on the way home, I’ve barely bolted down my sardines on toast when it is time to leave for the hospital.

  It takes another twenty minutes to get out of the house by the time I’ve done my rounds. My essential checks seem to be taking longer but I eventually finish them all and still manage to arrive at the hospital punctually.

  When I get up to the ward, I bump into Maureen at reception.

  ‘Thanks for supporting Liam and his gran.’ She recognises me right away. ‘I don’t think Mrs Bradbury quite realises the implications of Liam’s head injury on his aftercare, although the doctor has tried to explain the difficulties several times.’

  Ivy hasn’t mentioned a word of this to me. If the doctor had any sense he’d involve me in discussions, too.

  ‘Difficult in what way?’ I ask.

  ‘The possibility of mood swings and the memory loss, both of which can be hard for family members to deal with. He appears to have stopped taking his earlier medication, so the doctor has said it is imperative he restarts those tablets as soon as possible.’

  I blink at her.

  ‘Anyway, I shouldn’t really be discussing it with you but just so you’re aware of some of the issues.’ She gives me a tight smile and waddles off without another word.

  I wonder what medication she is talking about. . . His painkillers, perhaps?

  Trying to help Liam and Ivy feels like working in the dark.

  The nurses have packed up everything Liam is taking home and, in total, I make three trips from his hospital room to the car.

  Despite her earlier protests to Maureen, Ivy now seems quite happy to let me do all the fetching and carrying.

  I can’t help wishing she would make herself scarce for a few minutes, though. Time and time again, I try to speak to Liam and Ivy interrupts.

  I see Liam’s eyes flicker with annoyance, so I know he feels the same way.

  No matter how much Ivy insists she can manage at home, I’m going to have to stick around for Liam’s sake.

  When all the stuff is loaded into the boot and I’ve collected his hefty prescription from the hospital pharmacy, all three of us make our way down to the car.

  Liam has instructions to use a wheelchair loaned from the hospital until his leg has been checked by Dr Khan in a week’s time. Ivy is too weak to push him much of a distance; she can’t manage more than a few steps without struggling for breath herself.

  So I push a sleepy Liam uphill and downhill through the seemingly endless hospital corridors until we reach the lift. It takes twice as long because I have to keep slowing down and waiting for Ivy.

  ‘I’ll bring him back in for his check-up,’ I say, while we wait for the overworked lift. ‘There’s no sense in dragging you through all this again.’

  ‘It’s the palpitations,’ she gasps, leaning against the pale-green glossed wall. ‘Once they stop, I’ll be fine.’

  Ivy is herself now under hospital observation. It turns out she has a weak heart which can be aggravated by stress.

  It’s painfully clear to everyone but her that she isn’t going to be much good to Liam under the circumstances. Still, she remains infuriatingly stubborn about keeping super-active all the same.

  When we get to the car, Liam wakes up briefly and insists on standing up and shuffling out of the wheelchair and into the car himself.

  ‘What medication have you stopped taking?’ I ask him as he struggles into the car.

  ‘What?’ Ivy grasps the headrest from her seat in the back and leans forward to listen.

  ‘Maureen said you’d stopped taking your medication, Liam.’ I address him again, ignoring the old woman. ‘Surely not your painkillers?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Ivy sabotages our conversation yet again. ‘Yes, one of the tablets they gave him made him feel sick but they’ve swapped it now.’

  ‘We can go through all his medication at home, Ivy,’ I say when I finally get myself installed in the driving seat. ‘Just so it’s clear in your mind what he has to take and when.’

  ‘It’s already sorted, Anna,’ she says. ‘We’ll manage fine, but thank you.’

  * * *

  When we get to the house, Boris paces up and down the path.

  ‘That poor cat,’ Ivy sighs. ‘He thinks we’ve deserted him.’

  ‘I popped over here while you were in hospital,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. ‘I looked around for him but I didn’t like to leave food outside in case it attracted rodents.’

  ‘That was kind of you but I rang my neighbour, Beryl, and she fed him for me.’

  I hope Beryl didn’t spot the lights when I spent time inside the house on my fruitless search for the police business card.

  If Ivy is eternally grateful that Beryl has fed the cat, you’d think she would be ecstatic that I am here to help her with Liam’s return home and his subsequent appointments.

  But of course there is no evidence of that.

  She has zero gratitude and, for some inexplicable reason, seems to be spending all her available time turning down my many offers of help.

  Chapter 23

  Thirteen years earlier

  Daniel Clarke’s hands were sweating and he felt so tired he could just lay down his head and sleep for the rest of the day.

  He wished he could run next door to Mrs Peat the way Anna did the moment she got home from school. But Mother didn’t like Daniel out of her sight; she didn’t trust him not to do something evil.

  He had been sitting waiting quietly in his bedroom for just over half an hour when his mother shouted up to him.

  Father MacCarrick had arrived at last, and John Peters, the seminarian he knew from church, was here too. Daniel listened to their muffled voices as he walked slowly downstairs.

  There were some marks on the top of his arms, hidden by his school shirt, and his throat was really sore but he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.

  Mother had set the table with china teacups and matching plates. She had bought six French fancies from the bakery around the corner and arranged them neatly on the white porcelain plate that had a faded gold trim tracing the edge.

  There was a proper teapot complete with a strainer, and the milk wasn’t in a carton. Mother had poured it into a small white jug with a tiny chip on the handle.

  Pride of place in the middle of the table was her heaviest, beeswax-polished mahogany cross complete with an impressively detailed suffering Jesus.

  ‘Daniel has been excited about your visit all week, Father,’ his mother told the priest. ‘He’s nervous but very keen to make a good impression on you.’

  Her voice sounded higher than usual, and she didn’t drop any letters at the end of her words.

  Daniel stood in the doorway and studied his feet. He could feel John Peters watching him.

  ‘There you are,’ his mother said in her strange voice.

  ‘Hello Daniel,’ said the priest.

  ‘Hello Father.’

&nb
sp; ‘Hello Daniel,’ the seminarian said.

  ‘Hello John.’

  ‘Well, don’t stand back there in the shadows now, lad,’ Father MacCarrick chided in his soft Irish accent. ‘Come and sit with us. Look at this fine fayre your mammy has put together in our honour.’

  His mother giggled like a young girl and refolded the napkin at the side of her plate again. When she poured the tea, she talked to Father MacCarrick about the East Coast trip that was to take place during Holy Week.

  John Peters pushed a whole French fancy into his mouth and, while Father MacCarrick and his mother were in conversation, he slyly showed Daniel the chewed up fondant mess on his tongue.

  Daniel was given his tea in one of the ordinary chipped mugs.

  ‘Now, will you have a cake, Daniel?’ Father MacCarrick offered him the plate where one fancy remained. Daniel had been told to refuse the cakes, if asked.

  ‘No thanks, Father,’ he said, breathing in the sugar and imagining the sweet, smooth fondant melting on his tongue.

  ‘I don’t mind another if there’s one going spare,’ John said, snatching it from the plate.

  ‘Remarkable restraint, Daniel,’ Father MacCarrick said with approval. ‘A good quality to have, wouldn’t you say so, Mrs Clarke?’

  ‘We do our best to discourage greed in this house, Father,’ his mother agreed.

  ‘Very admirable,’ the priest murmured. ‘And what other qualities does young Daniel think a good altar server might require?’

  A static noise filled Daniel’s head. He knew all the right answers but they were lost in his brain fog.

  ‘Come on, lad, we won’t bite.’ Father MacCarrick winked at his mother and she smiled but Daniel saw that her face was tight and pale.

  Silence.

  John Peters pulled a face at him over the priest’s shoulder.

  At last, Father MacCarrick spoke again. ‘John, could you help our man Daniel out here? We’re wanting to know the qualities of an altar server.’

  ‘Don’t stumble, don’t fall asleep, don’t yawn and work as a team,’ John rattled off. ‘Keep yourself smart and upstanding at all times, Father.’