by Jane Holland
‘That’s the spirit.’
He kisses me firmly, then reaches into his pocket for his mobile phone. Seconds later he’s talking to a police officer as calmly as if he’s discussing work. I stand listening to his level tone, unable to take my eyes off the ruined dress while Dominic gives the police our address and a few other details. Then he rings off.
‘Could be an hour before they get here,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe two.’
‘That long?’
‘It’s not a priority.’ He sounds terse, yet seems to accept the long wait as painful but necessary. No doubt it’s something he’s used to at work. The endless frustration of lengthy waiting times. ‘Look, I’m going to check out the rest of the flat. You stay here.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Catherine, for God’s sake . . .’
‘I’m not staying in here alone. Not with that.’ I shudder, nodding towards the dress. ‘It stinks, for one thing. And for another, it’s horrible. Like something out of a nightmare.’
‘I know. Come here.’ Dominic puts a comforting arm about my waist, lets me lean my head against his warm shoulder for a moment. But I can sense his impatience. ‘All right, I won’t leave you in here. But keep behind me, okay?’
‘You genuinely think there’s still someone in the flat, don’t you?’
‘I’m not taking any chances.’
‘Right, I’m definitely coming with you,’ I say. ‘It’s always the girl left behind on her own who gets horribly murdered.’
‘You watch too many horror films.’
But he keeps a tight hold on my hand as we creep out into the hallway.
Together we check the rest of the flat, quiet, careful, listening hard. But there’s nobody here. Only us, and the unpleasant knowledge that someone else has been in our space, prowling about, touching our private things.
I feel sick just thinking about it.
Trying to regain a sense of normality, I turn off the unwanted oven, then find a bowl and decant his Chinese meal from its foil box, a tangle of lukewarm noodles and fleshy king prawns. I give it a quick spin in the microwave to heat it up again.
Dominic, who’s on the sofa, googling ‘what to do after a break-in’ on his iPhone, refuses to eat at first. ‘Not right now,’ he tells me, waving the food away.
But I insist.
He shovels chow mein absentmindedly into his mouth between Google searches, and I keep him company, peeling and eating a satsuma, perched on the edge of the armchair opposite. I try to think of something else but can’t manage it. My mind keeps flashing back to that ruined dress on the bed, the stink of blood.
Animal or human though?
The police will be able to tell with their forensic tests, I expect.
It’s well over an hour before there’s a knock at the front door to the flat.
‘At last,’ Dominic says, not bothering to hide his impatience. He jumps up to open the door. ‘In there,’ he says, directing the police officers – a male constable and a female sergeant – towards the bedroom.
The officers look shocked at the state of the place.
‘Christ! They really did you over.’ The constable sounds horrified, shaking his head as he steps over debris in the hallway.
‘Oh, no, sorry,’ Dominic says, moving a few bags to one side and picking up an old jacket that’s been on the floor for weeks. ‘This is our mess. This is normal.’
The male officer grins, moving on. But his female colleague is unamused, giving me a hard, assessing stare.
‘I’m Pauline,’ she says, and shakes my hand. ‘This is Ahmed.’
Dominic introduces himself, and then I give my name, too. Ahmed writes it all down in his notebook. Throughout their visit we all use each other’s first names, like we’re best mates already. Dominic seems easy with this informality. I find it a little creepy.
They examine the bed with its vile contents, and Pauline looks horrified. ‘Good God,’ she mutters, and nods to Ahmed. ‘Take some pictures of that, would you?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
She looks round at me. ‘The dress yours, is it? Big day coming up soon?’
I nod.
With his phone camera, Ahmed takes a few photographs of the dress, and then of the bathroom window where our intruder presumably got in. But they both seem less interested once they discover my wedding dress is the only casualty.
‘Just to be clear, the dress was torn up, but nothing was taken?’ Pauline sounds puzzled. ‘TV, laptop, electrical devices, jewellery, all still here?’
‘Yes,’ Dominic says firmly.
‘And nobody was hurt?’
‘No.’
‘We weren’t even at home,’ I point out.
We follow the two police officers into the living room.
‘So you’re sure nothing was taken?’ The sergeant takes off her cap and smooths back short red hair, glancing round at the mess. ‘Must be hard to tell. You’ve checked all your documents? Passports, birth certificates, that kind of thing?’
I look at Dominic, uncertain.
‘Sometimes people take the oddest things,’ she continues. ‘Not just TVs and iPads, but bank statements and credit card receipts. Even diaries and old birthday cards. Anything that will help them find your personal details. Your mother’s maiden name, your favourite colour. For hacking personal accounts and identity theft.’ She pauses, looking from Dominic to me. ‘You’re positive no one’s mucked about in your papers?’
‘Let me take another quick look,’ I say.
Rather wearily, I traipse back into the bedroom to check. My diary is still in the bedside drawer, my bank and credit card statements look untouched in our tabletop file holder, and I rarely keep old correspondence anyway. I had my phone with me, of course. And my iPad is still safe in my top drawer.
‘Nothing taken. So this looks increasingly like a malicious attack,’ says the constable, who’s followed me into the bedroom. He stops to write something in his notebook, then bites the end of his black pen. He’s stout, with a thin goatee. ‘A grudge, maybe? A personal vendetta against one of you. Something like that.’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant agrees, drifting into the room with Dominic behind her. Her cap is tucked under her arm now and she’s holding a clipboard, the top sheet folded over. ‘Can either of you think of someone who might bear a grudge against you? Maybe a friend who isn’t happy about the two of you getting married?’
Dominic laughs. ‘Not at all.’
‘What about ex-girlfriends?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘I’m not in touch with any of them. And besides, none of them were that serious.’
‘How about you?’ The constable glances at me.
I shake my head.
‘What about old school friends?’ Pauline asks. ‘Or enemies?’
‘I was mostly home-educated,’ I say reluctantly. Dominic knows about my unconventional schooling, of course, but it’s still uncomfortable to be the centre of attention. ‘We had a nanny who taught us.’
The two police officers glance at each other. I know what they’re thinking. Posh bitch with a nanny. The old silver-spoon prejudice.
Then Pauline frowns, looking about at our meagre furnishings. It’s obvious she’s wondering what went wrong in my life. Where all the money went.
She asks an unexpected question.
‘Us?’
Too late, I realise my slip.
Chapter Thirteen
I never talk to people about Rachel. Or as little as humanly possible. It might seem cold, but I’ve found silence the best protection against bad memories that might otherwise swamp me.
When Dominic looks at me too, his gaze searching, I scrabble for the right thing to say. ‘Me and my older sister.’
‘How’s your relationship with your sister? Could she have done this?’ The sergeant considers me, fiddling with her clipboard.
I shake my head.
‘How does she feel about your marriage?’
My throat seems to be
silted up with sand. Somehow I manage to say, ‘She’s dead.’
Pauline shifts from one foot to the other. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Right.’ She glances at her colleague, then asks more confidently, ‘So how about college friends? Or someone at work?’
‘I didn’t go to college. Or university.’
Another silence.
‘I was never very academically . . .’ I shrug, not looking at Dominic. ‘I volunteer at a food bank. But I doubt anyone there would have done something this nasty. They’re all thrilled about the wedding.’
Dominic nods. ‘Same here.’ With a wry smile, he indicates his scrubs and ID badge, not having had a chance to change yet. ‘Nurse in A & E, as you can see. Triage, mostly. I’ve got no enemies there.’
‘That you know of,’ I say.
He raises his brows. ‘That I know of,’ he repeats slowly, looking at me. ‘Yes, true enough.’
‘Though this attack looks like it was aimed more at you, Catherine,’ the sergeant says. ‘It was your wedding dress that got cut up, after all. Not something belonging to Dominic. Pretty vicious attack, too.’ She studies the dress on the bed. ‘Looks almost . . . frenzied. Like whoever did this really hates you and wants you to know it.’
My skin crawls and I say nothing, horrified.
Ahmed clears his throat.
‘Do you mind if we take the dress away?’ Pauline nods to her colleague without waiting for permission. ‘Bag it up, would you? We’ll get forensics to check out the bloodstains. But my guess is, it’s animal, not human.’
‘Hold on, aren’t you going to dust for prints?’ I ask, staring at her. ‘The bathroom window must be where they got in. There may be fingerprints.’
‘It’s not really a big enough priority,’ she says apologetically. ‘Nothing was taken, after all. Feels like a prank to me. A nasty prank, agreed. But with so many more serious crimes on our caseload, I’m afraid there isn’t enough here to justify calling a crime scene investigator.’
‘Seriously?’
Pauline sighs at my tone, and puts a hand to her radio. ‘I can let forensics know, if you insist. But I can’t promise when it will happen. There was a shooting earlier. You may have seen it on the news. Some kid, only fourteen years old, shot dead on his way home from school. His mum’s in the hospital, too. Our duty forensics officer is on scene. It could be several hours before she can get here. In fact, you may not even get a visit until tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Dominic glances at the bed, aghast. ‘But . . . we don’t have anywhere else to sleep.’
The sergeant shrugs, waiting. ‘You still want me to make the call?’
I study Dominic, who is clearly exhausted, his shoulders slumped, then shake my head. ‘No, it’s okay,’ I tell her reluctantly. ‘You do what you have to do.’
I’m not happy though. I can’t believe that someone can invade our home and it isn’t considered a high enough priority for the police to check for fingerprints.
‘Whoever did this must be sick in the head,’ Dominic mutters, watching as the constable puts on thin latex gloves and starts to bag up the sticky shreds of wedding dress.
Ahmed is sympathetic. ‘Not the first time we’ve seen something like this, mate. There are some sick people out there, trust me. Usually turns out to be a disgruntled ex, though.’
Dominic makes a helpless gesture. ‘I told you, I don’t have any ex-girlfriends who’d be that bothered about me marrying Catherine.’ He holds out a hand to me, his smile wry. ‘Not exactly God’s gift, am I, darling?’
I say nothing, but lace my fingers with his.
Pauline takes us briefly through a witness statement. First she suggests what we should say and then scribbles our responses on her clipboard. When she’s written down all the details, she reads out the finished statement and asks us to confirm it’s correct. I sign first, then Dominic.
‘That’s about all we need at this stage,’ she tells us briskly. ‘We’ll check if there are any CCTV cameras covering the back of the building, and let you know if we find anything.’
Ahmed strips off his gloves and pushes them into his pocket. He smiles reassuringly as he shakes both our hands. ‘Good to meet you. And good luck with the wedding.’
‘Thanks,’ Dominic says, grinning.
The sergeant’s radio crackles with another call-out. Pauline turns away to speak into it briefly, then comes back into the room.
‘Okay, we have to leave urgently, I’m afraid. But someone will be back in touch soon.’ She nods to Ahmed, then smiles at me. ‘It’s a real shame about your wedding dress. But it could have been worse. A dress isn’t a person; you can always replace it. All the same, I’d seriously suggest fixing the lock on that bathroom window as soon as possible. Crime prevention, yeah?’
On his way out, Ahmed hands me a police incident reference number in case I need it for insurance purposes.
Dominic cuddles me in silence for a few minutes after they’ve gone. His strong arms feel comforting and familiar. But it’s going to take more than a hug to wipe out the memory of what happened to my wedding dress.
‘It’s finished now, okay?’ Dominic peers into my face. ‘I don’t want you to fret about this. That policewoman was right. It was horrible to come home to, but I’m sure it’ll turn out to be a one-off.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I see all sorts of wacky shit at the hospital. This isn’t so crazy. People can behave very strangely when they get an idea in their heads.’
‘But what idea has someone got about me?’
‘Christ knows.’ He squeezes me tight. ‘There’s probably no logical explanation. Don’t get hung up on it.’
‘And why wouldn’t they dust for prints?’
‘You heard what she said. Nothing was taken. Nobody was hurt. It wasn’t a high enough priority. And they got a call to go elsewhere.’ Dominic makes a face. ‘Policing is like nursing. It’s a high-pressure job, you’re constantly reacting to circumstances, and some things will automatically take precedence over others.’
‘But there was someone here, for God’s sake. In our flat.’
‘I know, and I’m angry about it too.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s not a reflection on how upset it made you, babe. That’s just the way things go sometimes. The police made a judgement call based on the evidence to hand. Enough said.’
Staring into the bedroom, I shudder. I’ll have to lie down on that bed tonight, knowing that our flat has been invaded, my privacy violated by some crazy person or persons. How can I even think of sleeping here? It’s too horrific.
‘I could have been attacked if I’d been in the flat at the time. Do you realise that?’
‘But you weren’t.’
‘I need to change the bedding,’ I mutter, and pull away from him. ‘We can’t sleep under that duvet cover tonight.’
‘Good idea. I’ll find a fresh cover.’
‘There should be one in the airing cupboard. Bring a clean sheet too. And matching pillowcases, if you can find them.’
I strip off the duvet cover with loathing, then the sheet and pillowcases, and carry them in a bundle to the washing machine. It’s late, but I put the machine on anyway, then wash my hands thoroughly with soap and hot water.
By the time I return from the kitchen, Dominic is already making up the bed again with clean linen, his movements deft and professional, as though he’s at work.
‘What if the police are wrong,’ I ask, leaning against the door frame to watch him, ‘and whoever did it comes back for another go? Only next time they take a pair of scissors to me, instead of my clothes?’
‘Not going to happen, baby.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’re rarely here on your own. And you’re a man. I’m no weakling, but I’m not exactly built to defend myself against crazies, either. It didn’t seem like the police cared about that.’
‘There is another possibility, of course.’
; I take a deep breath. ‘Go on.’
‘Maybe,’ Dominic says carefully, bending to smooth out creases in the bottom sheet, ‘the police didn’t bother taking it seriously because they think one of us did it.’
‘One of us?’ I repeat blankly.
‘I just got that feeling at the end there, didn’t you? Like they felt this could be a domestic. Rather than a break-in by a third party.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I cut up my own wedding dress? I only just bought it. And you weren’t even here. They can’t have thought that, surely?’ I groan, a sudden realisation hitting me. ‘It’s going to cost a fortune to replace the dress. And at such short notice too. The wedding’s less than three weeks away.’
‘Then we’ll make a claim on the contents insurance,’ he says, and shakes out the duvet to fill the cover properly.
‘The new dress will have to be completely off the peg. No time for alterations. And it has to match the bridesmaids’ dresses.’ I’m thinking out loud. We only have two bridesmaids, one of them Louise, the other a second cousin of mine called Jasmine. She lives in Birmingham and I barely know her, but Mum insisted I should have a family member as a bridesmaid. Their dresses have sequinned bodices just like the dress that was bagged up and taken away. ‘Though I suppose it won’t be the end of the world if they don’t match exactly.’
‘It’ll work out fine, stop worrying so much.’ Dominic finishes plumping up the pillows, then turns to take me in his arms. I close my eyes, leaning thankfully into his warmth. His voice deepens. ‘I love you, Catherine. That’s all that matters.’
‘I love you too.’
And I really do love him. With all my heart.
‘Don’t tell my parents about this, okay?’ I add. ‘Not until we know for sure what’s going on, anyway. They’d only freak out. I couldn’t bear that. Not on top of everything else.’
‘Whatever you say.’
I try to relax, enjoy being cuddled, feeling safe again. But behind tightly closed eyes, I’m still fretting. And not only about my wedding dress. I should have told Dominic about the snow globe. The truth about Rachel, too. We’re going to be married soon, he deserves to know the worst. But I love him too much to cause him worry, especially after tonight’s horror show.
