Keep Me Close : An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Jane Holland

  ‘No, I won’t go.’ Mum shakes her head, her eyes bulging. ‘No, no, no. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.’ I turn unsteadily and walk out, and she yells after me, sounding half-deranged now, ‘My home. Mine. You can’t send me away from my own home. I won’t go, and you can’t make me. Do you hear?’

  Out in the hall, Ruby is nowhere to be seen.

  I trip over something on my way to the stairs. A half-empty packet of cigarettes. Logan had claimed he was giving up smoking, I recall. He must have gone back to collect the packet he’d thrown into the shrubbery, but then left it here by mistake. So much for that promise!

  I grab the cigarettes, rummage for a lighter among the jumble in the telephone table drawer and fling outside into the cold morning, only stopping to slip the heels back on that I kicked off on my way in last night.

  I don’t smoke and never have done except for a few teenage moments of rebellion against the clean and healthy living my father advocated. But I settle one of Logan’s cigarettes between my lips and fumble to light it in the chill wind, my hands cupped about the thin flame.

  I suck in the smoke, and cough, my lungs reacting violently. But what the hell… My whole life has gone to the dogs.

  Once, I used to go out running, make an aerobics class twice weekly, swim whenever I could. Now, I can’t remember the last time I exercised. There simply hasn’t been time these past few months, what with juggling Mum’s care with the ever-increasing demands of my job. My body is already suffering because of it, so I doubt a cigarette or two will make any difference.

  I hear the front door creak open, and turn to see Ruby there.

  ‘Thought I’d give these a try,’ I say defiantly, though I feel ridiculous, not even sure how to inhale properly. ‘I mean, why not? Ciaran’s painting’s gone forever. My mother’s lost the plot, and my career’s in the toilet. I might as well take up smoking. See what I’ve been missing all these years.’

  She watches me without saying anything.

  I take another lungful of smoke and nearly throw up again. ‘Okay, that’s enough. Maybe I’m doing it wrong.’ I dash the lit cigarette onto the gravel and crunch it out with the heel of my shoe. ‘Is Mum still upset?’

  ‘She’s crying, and asking for you.’

  ‘Christ.’ I close my eyes. ‘I’m sorry I raised my voice to her. I’ll go in and apologise. Of course I won’t put her in a home. I was just upset. That portrait…’ I rub a hand across my face. ‘It was my brother’s last painting. It’s irreplaceable. And I have no idea why she destroyed it.’

  ‘It’s not completely ruined,’ Ruby comments.

  I almost laugh. ‘Did you look at it?’

  ‘That nice-looking bloke wasn’t damaged. Maybe you could cut him out and frame that part of the picture on its own,’ she says helpfully.

  ‘I suppose.’ I shiver, and hand her the packet of cigarettes and lighter. ‘If Logan ever comes back again, give him these, would you? I think they must be his.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I think for a moment, my brain belatedly latching onto something she said earlier. ‘Ruby, you don’t think it’s possible that Logan did that to the painting, do you?’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Logan?’

  ‘You said he was here. To pick up some things he’d left behind. What if he went in there and… You were in the kitchen, you said.’

  ‘I would have noticed, love. Like I say, it was your mum. I found her with the scissors in her hand.’

  ‘But he might have given the scissors to her afterwards. To frame her, maybe.’

  I stop, confused. What exactly am I saying? That my ex snuck into my mum’s room and deliberately destroyed Ciaran’s family portrait of us in some paltry act of revenge? That doesn’t sound like Logan to me. But then, if he’s been hurting Mum behind my back, trying to force me into putting her in a home and selling the house, perhaps even such miserable spite wouldn’t be beyond him…

  Ruby peers into the half-empty cigarette packet, and then gives me a sly look. ‘So it wasn’t you, then?’

  I stop on my way back inside. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It wasn’t you who gave your mum that cigarette burn?’

  ‘Oh my God, of course not.’ I stare at her, speechless and appalled. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  But before I can demand to know how she could ever suggest such a horrific thing, there’s the crunch of tyres on gravel, and we turn to see a police car crawling down the drive towards us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  My first thought is that Calum Morgan has already decided to report me for that tweet. Though surely a lawsuit would be more usual than getting the coppers to call round? Unless he’s decided it can somehow be categorised as ‘hate speech’. I wouldn’t put it past him to manage such an insane escalation. The vulnerable victim being oppressed by a cruel world. Or in this case, a cruel editor.

  My heart rate accelerates, my stress levels peaking, and I feel ill again. The taste of smoke in my mouth is not helping. After the most appalling start to my day, this is the last thing I need…

  ‘Now, what the hell do you reckon the police want with me?’ I mutter, but Ruby has vanished inside, taking Logan’s cigarettes with her.

  I turn to face the police car, hugging my arms across my chest in the bitter weather.

  To my relief though, the officer who climbs out is PC Plimley. At least that suggests she’s not here in connection with Calum Morgan.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, trying to sound friendly even though I feel far from it. ‘This is a surprise. Though a welcome one. Have you made some headway with those threatening letters?’

  ‘Actually,’ PC Plimley says, looking awkward, ‘that’s not why I’m here.’ She settles her hat more squarely on her head, and then glances past me through the open door into the house. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Puzzled, I lead the way down the hall into the living room, and spot Ruby standing in the doorway to my mother’s room. She’s still holding Logan’s cigarettes, with that strange expression on her face that was there when she asked if I was the one who’d burnt Mum’s shoulder.

  Disturbed, I look away quickly. How could she have asked such a thing? Even as a joke it’s horrible and distasteful. I’ve barely smoked before, and would never dream of hurting my mother. Let alone torturing her with a lit cigarette…

  But as I turn to close the door behind me, Ruby’s still there, watching me closely, cigarette packet in hand.

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ I ask PC Plimley with forced cheerfulness, and take up a position in front of the mantelpiece. She too is standing about, studying the room without bothering to conceal her interest. ‘Please, sit down.’

  She sits on the sofa, perching uncomfortably on the edge, and then takes off her hat and balances it on her knees.

  ‘Can you tell me, Miss Kinley,’ she begins in a stilted manner, and I interrupt her at once.

  ‘Kate, please.’

  PC Plimley smiles. ‘Kate, do you know a person called Giorgios Baros?’

  Of all the things I might have imagined she was here to ask me about, Mum’s previous carer would not even have made the list.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I blink, confused. She says nothing, not even repeating her inexplicable question, but sits and waits for me to answer it. ‘Erm, sure. Giorgios is… was… my mother’s carer. A day nurse, you know? He used to come round and sit with her during the day while I took the train into London for work. And a few evenings too, if I ever had to go out. I don’t like leaving Mum alone, you see. She’s… not well.’ I pause, uncomfortable in the silence that’s fallen over the room. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You used the past tense. So he no longer looks after your mother?’

  ‘He stopped coming, so now I have Ruby. She’s with my mum right now, in fact.’

  ‘Ruby,’ the constable repeats, gazing up at me.

  ‘That’s right.’ I fold my arms across my chest, feeling defensiv
e and distinctly confused now. ‘I’m sorry, what’s all this about?’

  ‘When did Giorgios stop coming? And why? Did you have a falling-out with him?’

  ‘Of course not. He just didn’t turn up one day. One evening, in fact. I can probably find you the exact date if necessary.’

  ‘I’d like that, thank you.’

  I’m amazed, and a little concerned. ‘Why is it important?’

  ‘May I ask, did you make any effort to find Giorgios when he didn’t turn up? Did you call him? Send him any texts?’ PC Plimley is looking at me enquiringly, and I get the feeling she sees me as a monster for having simply abandoned Giorgios after one no-show. ‘Maybe visit his home?’

  ‘All three, actually.’

  She gets out her notebook and flips it open. ‘Are you able to find me that date, please?’

  Dumbfounded, I reach into my jeans pocket and consult my schedule on my phone. It takes a few minutes but finally I find the correct date and give her the details.

  ‘I needed Giorgios to sit with my mum that night while I went to dinner with… with a friend.’ I put my phone away, staring at her bent head while she notes down the date. ‘Constable, why are you here, asking about Giorgios? Is he all right?’

  PC Plimley looks up then, her eyes cautious. ‘I’m just doing some paperwork for a colleague. Though I expect he’ll want to talk to you himself at some point. As you’ll appreciate, Giorgios had quite a few regular patients and contacts in this area, and we need to speak to all of them.’

  ‘But why?’ I stumble over the words, catching a look on her face. ‘Oh my God. What is it? Please tell me.’

  ‘I’m afraid a body’s been found in a stretch of woodlands not far from here,’ she says quietly, ‘and it’s been formally identified as that of Giorgios Baros.’ She pauses, her gaze fixed steadily on my face, as though monitoring my reaction. ‘I’m terribly sorry to be giving you such bad news.’

  I sink into Mum’s armchair, staring at her in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand. Giorgios… He’s dead?’

  She nods apologetically, and makes a quick note in her pad before looking up again. ‘So you can see why we’re making inquiries in the area. And especially talking to people who were connected to the deceased.’ When I flinch, she adds quickly, ‘To Giorgios, I mean.’

  ‘I see.’

  I struggle with the news, remembering Giorgios’s friendly, smiling face and his ever-cheery manner.

  ‘Did he… Was it natural causes?’

  ‘I can’t say, I’m sorry.’ PC Plimley checks her notebook again. ‘Right, you said you went round to his flat. Could you confirm which day that was?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Let me think.’

  I stare at the carpet, my head whirling. If Giorgios had died of natural causes, she would simply have said so, surely? Which means it wasn’t natural. And the opposite of natural would be… murder.

  ‘It would have been on the Monday,’ I stammer, and feel my cheeks go hot as she studies my face. I have no idea why I feel so instinctively guilty when this is nothing to do with me. But just being questioned makes me feel like a suspect. Which is ridiculous. Isn’t it? ‘Giorgios was supposed to sit with Mum on the Friday night, but didn’t show. So I had to find someone else to cover for him. Then he didn’t arrive for his usual Monday morning session with Mum, and I desperately needed him to look after her while I went into work.’

  ‘Which is where? Your work?’

  I give her the address of the publisher, and watch blankly while she writes it all down. Why on earth does she need to know that?

  ‘Though I may not work there anymore. I think… In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve just been fired.’

  She stares at me in surprise. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Somebody hacked my Twitter account during the night and wrote something awful about one of the authors I work with.’ The words are just tumbling out and I can’t stop them. ‘That’s actually what I thought you were here for, when I saw the police car. I thought…’

  I stop, confused.

  ‘No,’ the constable says slowly, a note in her voice that suggests she thinks I’m mentally unstable. ‘You thought I was here about your Twitter account?’ Her eyebrows rise steeply. ‘That must have been one hell of a tweet.’

  I shiver, suddenly and inexplicably cold. ‘I guess so. I’ve deleted it now. But too late. It’s everywhere.’

  ‘That’s too bad. And you were fired over it?’

  I nod, looking away.

  ‘Well, I hope you can sort it out and get your job back. There are ways to prove your account was hacked. I suggest you look into that.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’

  She taps her notebook. ‘So, to get back to that Monday morning when Giorgios didn’t turn up, what did you do?’

  I describe how I took Mum with me in the car to visit Giorgios’s flat. ‘That was when I discovered he’d gone on holiday.’

  Her attention is arrested. ‘Holiday? Who told you that?’

  ‘His next-door neighbour. She said he’d put a note under her door or something, telling her he’d be away for a while. I can’t remember exactly, I’m sorry. I tried calling him, and texted several times, of course, asking when he’d be back.’ I shrug helplessly. ‘But I never got a reply.’

  ‘And those messages are still on your phone?’

  ‘Sure.’ When she looks at me expectantly, I flick through to the messenger screen and show her my history of text exchanges with Giorgios. ‘So that was his last text to me, a few days before his no-show for the Friday evening,’ I explain while she scrolls through them, ‘and after that, it’s just my messages to him. With no replies. I also left voicemail messages for him. So if you found his mobile…’

  She nods, and hands back my phone before making more notes.

  I re-read my messages to Giorgios, scrolling slowly backwards until I reach his last cheery message to me. It hits me then that he’s dead. There can be no doubt about it. Formally identified, she said. But how did he die? And when?

  ‘Did he ever actually go on holiday?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t discuss it, sorry.’

  I stare down at his last message and feel awful, ashamed of my own increasingly irate texts that follow it.

  ‘You think Giorgios was a no-show on that Friday evening because… because he was already dead, don’t you?’

  PC Plimley gives me an awkward smile. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’ Which is as good as her saying yes, as far as I’m concerned. ‘Now, if I can take you back to your conversation with his neighbour on the Monday morning, could you possibly describe this lady in detail, to the best of your ability, and also which flat she lived in? Just so we can build up a picture…’

  She’s a uniformed officer, I think, studying her covertly as we talk. Not a detective. So maybe Giorgios did die of natural causes. Because if they were investigating a murder, I would be talking to a plain clothes detective, surely?

  This thought helps me relax a little. Giorgios was a little overweight and not particularly healthy. It’s possible he went jogging in the woods and dropped dead of a heart attack or suffered a fatal stroke. If he’d been in a very remote part of the woods at the time, that would explain why his body had only just been discovered. Though it wouldn’t explain why his neighbour would claim he’d put a note under her door about some fictitious holiday.

  Or maybe he did go on holiday, and died of natural causes or through some dreadful accident while out in the woods on his return.

  Though if so, why did he never respond to any of my messages? Giorgios was such a happy soul, and usually very reliable. He wouldn’t have ignored my texts and voicemail messages.

  PC Plimley shakes my hand at the end of the interview. ‘It’s possible a detective may wish to speak to you. They’ll probably ring first to arrange a time to call round, or you may be asked to go into the station to make a formal statement. Would that be okay?’

  I hesitate.

  In th
e silence, I catch a tiny tell-tale creak from outside in the hallway, and turn my head slightly to listen.

  ‘I suppose so, yes. If it will help sort out what happened to Giorgios.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her smile is wan. ‘I’m sure we’ll get there eventually. And I hope you get that thing sorted out at work. The hacked Twitter account. We did look into the letters you gave us, but there wasn’t much to go on and my sergeant decided to take no further action. Not at this stage, anyway. Though if you receive any more—’

  ‘I’ll let you know straightaway.’

  ‘Good,’ she says firmly, and puts away her notebook. ‘You should be careful. Those nasty letters, and now the social media thing… Sounds to me like someone at work has got a real grudge against you.’

  I show the constable out, glancing nervously along the hallway as I do so. That barely perceptible creak I heard is still playing on my imagination. Was it just a floorboard relaxing, as they sometimes do? Or was it the sound of someone moving away, having stood outside the door to listen while I was being questioned?

  But the hall is empty.

  When PC Plimley has gone, I close the front door and lean my forehead against it.

  I feel ill.

  My legs have a slight tremble and my insides have that grim, hollow, hungover feeling that tells me I should go back to bed and simply sleep it off.

  Except I can’t.

  I have to apologise to my mother first. And then draft an apologetic explanation to Calum. And maybe plead for my job to Mark and the other top executives. Or hire a lawyer.

  I close my eyes. Hire a lawyer? Someone like Mr Adeyemi, for instance? I want to laugh but I can’t muster the effort. Is there anyone left in my world who can be trusted?

  Perhaps returning to bed isn’t such a bad idea. I’ve about reached the end of my ability to deal with the minefield that’s my life now.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  I turn to find Ruby behind me, her sewing box under her arm.

  ‘Giorgios is dead,’ I say dully.

  Her brows tweak together. ‘The guy who looked after your mum before me?’

  When I nod, she makes a little noise of surprise under her breath. At least, I think it’s surprise, though her expression doesn’t change.