Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  Iain sat forward, and pressed his mobile hard against his ear in case he was hearing this wrong. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  After a few prolonged seconds of silence Savannah said, ‘Shit, Iain. I’m sorry. She hasn’t told you either, has she?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘That she’s not working at Harry’s any more.’

  ‘You mean she walked out?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Look, I didn’t know either until Harry told me. He didn’t say why, but he sacked her.’

  ‘What?’ He sat up straight. ‘You’ve got that wrong, you must have.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ Savannah said. ‘She’s probably embarrassed and didn’t know how to tell you.’ She paused. ‘Maybe she was scared to.’

  ‘Scared?’ he said.

  ‘Scared of your reaction. Can’t blame her, really.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said. Then he thought better of it. He was angry and didn’t want to completely lose it with her, not when it wasn’t her fault. ‘You know what? Save it. I’ll ring you tomorrow when I’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘Iain, please don’t do—’

  ‘Night, Savannah.’

  He hung up the phone and slung it across the sofa.

  How dare Charlotte lie to him like this.

  He sat there for several minutes trying to stabilise his breathing. He went into the kitchen and rinsed his mug under the tap, trying to make sense of it all.

  He flicked off the kitchen light but stopped in the doorway. He flicked the switch on again, his eyes focused on the laptop on the kitchen table where Charlotte had left it.

  He stared at it.

  He rarely used it himself. It was more Charlotte’s than anyone else’s. Elle used her tablet or mobile. He mostly used the main PC, or his mobile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used the laptop.

  ‘What else are you keeping from me, Charlotte?’ he said aloud.

  He opened the lid and the screen illuminated his face.

  He tapped in the password and the main wallpaper loaded with the desktop shortcuts. The wallpaper background was a photograph of Charlotte and Elle.

  Iain did a quick search of the document folder but there wasn’t anything suspicious. Not that he knew what he was looking for; maybe evidence of losing her job. Evidence of an affair with John.

  No. He shook that thought from his head. No, if there was anything, it’d be on her emails. He loaded the internet and went to the website. Charlotte hadn’t logged out of her emails since her last session, so he had no password to try and guess.

  He saw the usual junk and emails from Elle’s school at a glance, then typed John’s name into the search box.

  Several emails loaded for consideration.

  They were all from Charlotte’s solicitor, all dated within the last two weeks, and all of them unread. Their location was the Trash.

  Iain clicked on the latest one. It was from the solicitor’s secretary asking why they hadn’t had a response to the emails and phone messages they had sent and could Charlotte ring them ASAP.

  Iain frowned. He knew Charlotte had been ignoring them on purpose. He glanced over the rest of the emails. John’s name had come up because he had been mentioned in relation to the court case. Iain moved on without reading any more of the solicitor’s emails.

  He typed in Harry Evans instead.

  There was one email. It was from Harry himself and it was a formal notice of termination of employment as per the hard copy letter that had been issued to Charlotte in person.

  There were a few lines from Harry that said it all.

  It said he understood the pressure and shock of finding Bryony must’ve had on her, but that her constant irrational behaviour, skipping work and turning up late, despite warnings, could go on no longer and neither could her behaviour.

  It was dated one day after Charlotte had found Bryony Keats.

  Iain looked up to the ceiling, as if he could see through wood and plaster, right up to their bedroom and into Charlotte’s head.

  Why hadn’t she told him about her job?

  He felt a pang of sympathy for her to some extent – she had been in no fit state to go into work after finding Bryony, but she’d been lying to him about what she’d been doing each day.

  He imagined her sitting at home while he went to work, and how she’d pretend to have done a day’s work at the shop when he got home that night.

  What was she doing all day?

  His thoughts immediately went to John and his closeness to Charlotte.

  He thought about tomorrow.

  He debated whether to give Charlotte a fair chance to come out and tell him what had been going on. Failing that, he imagined coming back early to surprise her, catching her not in work.

  He logged off and closed the laptop.

  He went upstairs and into their bedroom. He watched her sleeping face.

  After all I’ve done for you, he thought.

  He sat on his side of the bed in the semi-darkness. The light from the landing cast a yellow glow through the gap in the door and onto Charlotte’s face. She moaned then and rolled over, facing away from him.

  She soon began to snore softly.

  Iain leaned forward and opened the drawer to his side cabinet. Under some paperwork he found another box of Diazepam.

  They were getting low.

  He popped one out and swallowed it dry.

  He sat there for a few moments before putting the remaining pills back.

  He lifted the paperwork to hide the box again. After being downstairs for a while, he fell asleep in front of the television, the light flickering and casting his face and the room in shadow.

  Elsewhere in the house, hidden from view, an Apple watch blinked once, then twice, before losing what was left of its battery.

  CHAPTER 56

  CHARLOTTE

  I wake and I’m groggy again. I need a wash and fresh air and I’m determined to do this today, whether or not I feel like it. I will do it. Somehow, I will summon the energy.

  I roll over and fumble for my mobile. I check my message inbox on the remote chance there is a text from Elle that I might have somehow missed. There isn’t of course.

  I look at the time. It’s early still.

  I hear cupboard doors banging, so I assume Iain must be in a bad mood. I glance over to his side of the bed.

  The Diazepam is gone.

  I look at my empty glass and tilt it this way and that. Did I imagine the chalky residue at the bottom? Was I dreaming?

  I slide open the drawer to my bedside cabinet. Nothing there that shouldn’t be. I lean across to Iain’s. His side of the bed is very cold, I notice. How long has he been up? I take a moment to look at the space he normally occupies.

  It doesn’t look like he’s slept here. The sheets aren’t crumpled and are still tucked in tight on his side from where the bed was made, one or two days ago. I can’t even be sure when I last made the bed or when I was last downstairs.

  I lean over and try his bedside cabinet drawer.

  The Diazepam box is there.

  I pick it up, check the contents and try to work out how many tablets should be left in the blister packs since I picked up Iain’s prescription.

  ‘You awake, Charlotte?’

  I shut the box back away in the drawer. This bed creaks a lot. He must have heard it through the floorboards so there’s no point pretending.

  ‘I’ve just woken up,’ I shout.

  I hear his feet on the stairs and am disappointed to see him in his work overalls when he comes into the bedroom.

  He holds a mug of tea and hands it to me.

  ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Tired still.’

  ‘Well, drink that and it’ll wake you up, hopefully.’

  I look over the rim of the mug. I hesitate and think of the tablets in Iain’s drawer. I am more than aware what side effects can be caused by Diazepam.
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  Memory loss, confusion, muscle weakness, headaches . . . among other things.

  I look at Iain and he returns my gaze. His eyes are sad and ringed black from lack of sleep.

  ‘Drink up while it’s hot.’

  I take a sip, then set it down on the bedside cabinet. ‘I feel a bit sick, I don’t think I can manage any more.’

  He looks at the tea, then me. His eyes are probing.

  ‘Too sick for work again?’ he says.

  I shrug. ‘Harry will understand.’

  He gets his mobile from his pocket. ‘Shall I call him for you to say you won’t be in?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll do it in a bit.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, Char.’

  ‘I’ll do it after I’ve had a shower.’ I sniff at my hair. ‘I need to feel human.’ I smile but he doesn’t. I look him over. ‘You’re going to work?’

  He sets his mobile down on the bed. ‘Someone has to.’

  Ouch.

  ‘I would if I was—’

  ‘Feeling better,’ he interrupts. ‘Yes, I know, you’ve said that before.’

  I cock my head, eye him seriously now. ‘Don’t have digs at me. It’s not helpful.’

  ‘Have you heard any more from your solicitor?’ he says.

  I’m a little taken back. This is out of the blue. ‘Erm, no, not lately.’

  ‘You should check your emails.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  ‘I called DI Wood earlier,’ he says, and now I feel a glimmer of hope, that he’ll tell me something good. ‘There’s still no news on Elle. They’ve still got John in custody. He’s saying he’s been set up somehow, although how he expects anyone to believe that is anyone’s guess.’

  He lets that hang in the air between us and I know it’s because he wants me to feel stupid for putting my trust in this man.

  I already feel a fool for believing John always had my interests at heart. I already feel empty, like a dried-up husk, a shell of who I used to be, so I don’t need Iain’s passive-aggressive bullshit.

  My thoughts must show on my face because he frowns at me. I try to ease the tension in my body, aware of the vibes I must be giving off.

  ‘I’m going to work to clear my head a bit and keep busy.’ He pats my leg. ‘I’ll call you lunchtime.’ He moves to the bedroom door. ‘Charlotte?’ he says, turning to look at me. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you? No matter what, I do love you.’

  Where is this coming from?

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘Anything. I really mean that. I’m here to protect you. Always.’

  What does he want me to say?

  He takes a moment to look at me from head to toe and once again I’m conscious of my unwashed state and greasy hair.

  He leaves and when I hear the door to the garage slam I rush to the en suite.

  *

  Now I’m showered and my hair has been washed and blow-dried, I feel more awake than I have in the last few days and my head feels clear enough to see what’s been going on right under my nose.

  Iain’s been acting strange, even more so since he confronted me at John’s house after Savannah had called to tell him where I was.

  Everything about John’s arrest has got me spooked and feeling like I can’t trust anyone. It’s also got me thinking about how Bryony’s lip ring could’ve got into John’s house.

  John might be a lot of things but I know in my heart that he’s no killer.

  I have to face the fact that Bryony’s lip ring could have been planted there. Iain was in John’s house, in his living room. I’m also sure he’s been crushing pills into my drinks.

  I love my husband but I’m not sure I know who he really is any more.

  I need to look at what I know to be true, the facts.

  My daughter and her friend are missing. All the dead girls are from surrounding villages. Jade Reid is from ours and is my daughter’s friend. I found Bryony’s body and things have got more intense with Iain at home. Ruby Tate has gone missing since she attacked me in that restaurant.

  This killer is close to me, to us, my family and friends. I can feel it

  I know I need to start looking closer to home.

  What do people even mean when they say that? Closer as in right next to you? Or closer in a spiritual sense? I don’t know.

  All the evidence that has been in the papers is swirling around my head constantly.

  I focus on the main one right now – the white van seen in the area.

  Iain drives a white van. It’s stupid, I know. Plenty of people drive white vans, and Iain’s is for our plumbing business. It’s been looked at and dismissed by the police, along with others from the village. At least as far as I know they have.

  Jason has a van and then there’s Harry and Dale’s, and that’s just for starters.

  I know there’s something not quite right, though.

  It’s this gut feeling that has me on my knees right now, hands rifling through the drawers in Iain’s bedside unit again.

  I feel bad for doing this, but I need answers. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I keep telling myself I’ll know if or when I find it.

  I push the Diazepam box out of the way, and then some paperwork.

  I pause. My fingers are touching another box of pills I didn’t know he had. I look at the date they were dispensed.

  I realise this is the first box he was prescribed when I had the accident.

  So, he never took them back then?

  I check the contents.

  There are a few tablets missing; that’s something, I guess.

  But, wait . . . does this mean Iain’s been stockpiling them? If so, what for? Who for?

  I put them to one side and dig deeper.

  I open an old notebook. I sit back and unfold my legs from underneath me, giving my knees a rest. I flick through the pages. Except for a few telephone numbers jotted down on the first few pages, it’s empty. I tip the notebook on its side, give it a shake in case there’s anything lodged between the pages.

  There isn’t.

  I put the notebook aside and dig deeper into the final drawer.

  I find a half-empty packet of indigestion tablets among his socks, but, apart from that, the drawer’s empty of whatever it is I’m looking for that might not even be there in the first place.

  *

  I feel a headache coming on. This is getting too much for me. I’ve been searching around for nearly an hour.

  I head back downstairs, checking my phone on the way. There’s still nothing from Elle.

  I’d give anything to hear her voice right now, telling me she’s all right. Safe and well.

  I find some paracetamol in one of the kitchen drawers and pop two from the blister pack. I swallow them dry, and nearly gag. I fill a glass with water quickly and drain it, slamming it down hard on the worktop.

  I look down at my nails. They are dirty. I scrubbed them earlier in the shower, but can’t seem to get them clean.

  I pick at them as I go to the living room and try to stop tears from falling when I see photographs of Elle on the wall.

  I stare out of the window, my eyes lingering on what I can see of our garage.

  So far this morning, since Iain went to work, I’ve checked his wardrobe, rooting through every pocket in his various pairs of jeans, trousers, joggers, and the pockets of the only other jacket he owns. Apart from the odd sweet wrapper, scrunched-up receipt and lint, there’s been nothing out of the ordinary.

  The only clothing I haven’t been able to check are the work overalls he had on before he left this morning.

  I’ve searched the bedroom, including the box in the wardrobe. I didn’t linger on that.

  I searched the built-in cupboard where we keep our suitcases (nothing in them either, I checked) and put my head up in the loft. There’s nothing but insulation up there that hasn’t been disturbed.

  My eyes linger on the garage, extending from the right side of the house.
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br />   My head feels too thick to really concentrate.

  I head back through the kitchen, through the utility room and unlock the door to the garage.

  I walk down the steps, flicking on the lights as I go.

  It’s cold in here, and I shiver, bringing my arms up and across my body. I stare at the shelves that run along both walls either side of me.

  Elle’s bike is propped up against the back wall and there’s a big, empty space where the work van should be. Next to that space is my Ford MPV. Its tyres are caked with mud and I don’t remember them being like that when I drove to John’s house.

  Has Iain taken my car out while I’ve been all but comatose in bed?

  The thought makes me shiver.

  I look around the shelves, head to the ones on the left. I open a few old ice-cream tubs we’ve used to store various tools but find nothing out of the ordinary. My gaze wanders to the shelves on the right.

  There are boxes lined up, two deep. Most are empty.

  I ease a heavy box off the shelf and check inside. More odds and ends.

  I drop the box beside my feet, and then I see it.

  The black-and-red toolbox Iain never uses. The one I bought him for Christmas some years ago. The one he told me wasn’t as good as the one he already had, although he thanked me for the effort anyway.

  I stand on tiptoes, stretch my arms as far as I can until my fingers brush against the plastic, hooking the corner. I ease it down from the shelf and place it on the floor.

  At first glance it looked like the toolbox hadn’t been touched in some time, but now I can see the lines of dust that have been cleared around the catch and the lid, fingerprints in the grime.

  I squat down and then ease myself onto the cold concrete floor. I cross my legs and pop the catch on the lid. I hesitate for a few seconds, no more, then pull the lid back on its hinges.

  I see what anyone might expect to see in a toolbox.

  I run my fingers over some pliers and various socket heads, a few nails and random wall plugs spilt from their packets.

  I sigh and shut my eyes.

  What the hell am I doing?

  My headache is getting worse. I massage my temples, realise too late that I’ve smeared dust and oil on my skin.