Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2)

by Manda Mellett

  “I'm all right.” I tell him, trying to put strength in my voice. In truth, my throat is more swollen now, making it painful to speak, and my head throbs from where blue hoodie had banged it against the wall, but I don’t need, can’t face, medical attention. Clearly, I want my attacker caught, so I have to stay and go through this, however uncomfortable I’m feeling. I take a small sip of the tea even though it’s still close to boiling; the simple action providing some comfort and helping to settle me.

  “Okay.” Giving me an intense stare, he doesn’t seem happy with my response, probably preferring I get checked out, but he accepts my decision. My injuries are superficial; they look worse than they are.

  Opening a folder he looks carefully at the contents, and I try to see what he’s reading. He appears to have copies of the statements taken in the café, and two plastic evidence bags; one containing the envelope, and the other the note blue hoodie gave to me. He turns the envelope over, and back again, and then reads the writing on the piece of paper. Finally, he looks up, “I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a bad experience, but I need to ask you some questions so we can try to get to the bottom of exactly what’s going on here, and I’d like to do it while it’s still fresh in your mind. The first question is the obvious one. Did you recognise anything about this man at all? It was definitely a man; I take it?” he starts the interrogation.

  “No doubt he was male. I can’t even think of anyone I know with that build. He was tall,” I put my hand over my head, trying to show how much taller than me he was, “Bulky. It looked like he had muscular legs and arms, and his body was broad. I didn’t see his face, properly, only the lower half. I’m sure I’ve never come across him before. I can’t remember anything I haven’t already put in my statement.”

  “Nothing else you can remember from the assault?” He consults the notes police officers Starkey and Smith must have passed on to him.

  I think back. Ah, there was something else, “His hands were calloused. Possibly a workman? And as I told your colleagues, he had a finger missing on his left hand. His little finger.”

  He jots down the additional information. “Did you get the impression the note was from him or was he delivering it for someone else?”

  “Someone else,” I say without hesitation, “He told me ‘he’ is coming for me.”

  Lifting his head, he stares at me, tapping his pen against his teeth as he seems to be deliberating something. “You mentioned to the PCs that you thought it might be a case of mistaken identity. Obviously, we can’t discount that, there was no name on the envelope, but if he was following you from your agent’s I think it unlikely, I’m afraid. We have to work on the premise that he knew who he was after. So who do you think he was stalking, would you say? Mia Fable or Dexie Sanders? Or is it common knowledge you’re one and the same?”

  I shrug, that’s what’s got me worried. “Though it might be wishful thinking, I’d say Dexie Sanders. I protect my identity, only my publisher and agent know my real name.”

  “Hmm,” he considers for a moment, “And the Inland Revenue, your accountant, your bank probably. I expect there are more people than you think.”

  Reluctantly I nod in agreement. He’s probably right, but I don’t like thinking about that. I pick up the tea and drink some more.

  “Friends? Family? They’d know your pen name, wouldn’t they?”

  “I haven’t had contact with my family for years. But yes, my mother does know my pseudonym. And a few of my close friends, other writers.”

  He snorts as if he’s been clever catching me out. “So quite a few people.”

  I don’t like being made to feel stupid. Even if that’s not his intention, that’s the result his words are having on me. “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to threaten me. And before you ask, I don’t owe anyone anything.” The idea that someone close to me might do something like this is making me distressed.

  “Who knew you’d be at your agent’s today?” He changes tack.

  I know that I’m to blame for that. “No one knew Mia was going there, but all my fans knew Dexie was. It’s on her Facebook page.” Remorsefully, I think back to the status I’d posted last night. ‘Hey folks, off to see my great agent Val tomorrow. Lots of laughs and booze will be involved.’ I regret writing that now.

  He looks confused. “You talk about yourself as two different people.” Picking up his drink, with a hand covered in liver spots showing his early aging, he gulps it down noisily, finishing the whole mug in one go. Then he tilts his head to one side, waiting for me to explain.

  Laughing softly, I try to put it into plain words so he can understand, “I am. As Mia I’m myself, quiet, shy, but Dexie is outgoing and confident. Dexie’s the one who can talk at conferences and book signings. I hide behind her. It’s like an actor on stage playing a role.” By the way he’s shaking his head I don’t think he gets it. I know it must seem as though I’m schizophrenic, but sometimes I find it easier to play the part expected of me as Dexie. Dexie’s the extrovert.

  “Your books,” he begins, and I think I know what’s coming. “There are obviously people who are offended by them. And think that you’re immoral to write the way you do. I understand your descriptions are quite explicit?”

  His words give away that he’s seen my Facebook page, or my Twitter account, already. The vast majority of comments are from fans, usually positive and full of praise. But occasionally I get the odd one on there from someone with a rather bizarre take on the content of my novels, telling me I’ve got no morals, that I’m encouraging abuse or something of that ilk, making the assumptions that I’m into the same things as my characters. The same assumption he is making. I start to get angry. “So if I wrote a story involving drugs you’d pull me in on a suspected dealing charge?” I challenge him.

  “So you’re saying you don’t have the same proclivities as your characters?”

  “I’m saying that’s none of your business!” I snap at him, starting to get outraged. Suddenly Dexie wakes up. “I’m not a suspect here. I’m a victim! Now, can you just tell me what the next steps are to find out who’s threatening me; how I can stay safe, and then let me go home?”

  He has the grace to look sheepish and his eyes turn away from me, looking back down at the documents in front of him.

  When he stays quiet, I prompt him, “What happens now?” If I know some action is being taken, something positive is being done to find who’s behind this, it might help me to keep it together. At the moment, I’m a hairsbreadth away from falling apart. Who could possibly be threatening me? And why?

  “We’ll see if we can lift fingerprints off the envelope and paper, I’ll get our forensic team to look into it.” Now he looks at me. “Would anyone know Dexie Sanders’ address?”

  I’m pretty sure they don’t. “No. As I said, the link between my pen name and my own is quite hidden, and I’m careful with my real identity as well. I don’t give it out unless I have to. I don’t use business cards with my physical address on, only details of my website.” But I still know I'm more hopeful than positive with my answer. For goodness sake, I hope to God he doesn’t know where I live.

  “Just to be on the safe side, I’ll get a squad car to take you home, Ms Fable, and as a precaution, one of the officers will check your house before you go in. But for now, I have to tell you there’s very little to go on.” He breaks off and frowns as something occurs to him. His eyes narrowing, he adds, “Assure me that this isn’t a publicity hoax, Ms Fable? It wouldn’t be the first time police time’s been wasted as a way to increase sales.”

  Pointedly rubbing the marks round my neck, I stand up, furious, and lean over the table, Dexie very much in control of my actions. “Detective Waring,” I shout, well, as much as possible with a sore throat, “I’ve been scared out of my wits today. Someone’s followed and threatened me. At lunchtime, I was enjoying myself, accepting congratulations on the sales of my recent book, and discussing the new project I’m working on w
ithout a care in the world. I’m now frightened and scared, and that’s just not fair!”

  He mimics me by also rising to his feet, but in contrast to my outburst speaks quietly. “I understand your frustration, Ms Fable, but I’ve been on the force for a very long time, and unfortunately day after day I see people like yourself, who, through no fault of their own, become victims in some way or another. You do have my sympathy, but I have no magic wand to wave and miraculously get answers. We’ll try to get to the bottom of this, and try to give you back some peace of mind. Now, for tonight, let’s just get you home.”

  As he stretches his hand across the table for me to shake, I begrudgingly reach out mine to take it. He’s right; I know. I write about victims; often my characters have something in their backgrounds that they need to recover from, abuse, and neglect. My temper evaporates as quickly as it came, but I need to make no apology. My reaction can’t be anything he hasn’t seen before. “You’ll let me know what you find out from the note?”

  “We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, I suggest you have a think about who might have a grudge against you. As I said; we haven’t got a lot to go on at the moment.”

  “You think blue hoodie will contact me again? Or the person who’s putting him up to this?”

  He seems to be considering his next words carefully and then tells me gently, “I’m afraid the wording of the note and the verbal message suggests there’s more to come. Be very careful, Ms Fable, and don’t publicise your or your alter ego’s whereabouts or plans anymore.”

  I nod. At least that’s one area where we’re in total agreement. I’ve certainly learned that lesson today.

  ****

  The one benefit is I get to travel home in comfort, sitting in the front of a police car instead of battling with the crowds on the tubes. A different police officer is driving, a young constable. He’s not exactly talkative, which suits me. I’m happy to stay silent as I’m driven away from the city, through the suburbs and out into the countryside near Epping, to the house that I call home; a small cottage, dating back over two hundred years. It sits on the edge of the forest that nowadays is a mere shadow of its former self, yet still a beautiful area. I was able to move here from the flat I was sharing with my student friends, with the proceeds from my first four novels and, of course, a hefty mortgage to my name. But notwithstanding the substantial amount I owe to the bank, it’s mine.

  When we pull up outside, I obey the instruction I’m given to wait in the car. The police officer takes my keys, and my eyes follow him as he unlocks my front door and disappears into the house. It’s a traditional two up two down with an extension on the back, giving me a large kitchen and conservatory that would be perfect for entertaining if I had many friends living nearby. The sad fact of the matter is that my closest friends are mostly virtual, and we connect more via instant messaging more than we do in person. Writing isn’t a job with a lot of socialisation involved, except for the occasional conferences I attend.

  I see lights appearing in each of the rooms, as he methodically goes through the building top to bottom and watch as he puts on the security light in the garden, using a torch to peer into the darkened areas, appreciating his thoroughness. He’s back in a few minutes and opens the car door for me.

  “You’ve not got a security system, ma’am?” he asks me as I step out of the car. I notice he doesn’t make the unnecessary statement that he’d found nothing of concern in his search.

  “No,” I confirm, starting to frown, “I never thought I needed one.”

  “Might be a good idea to get one installed,” he advises.

  I nod. The idea had already gone through my mind on the drive back. I’ll have to look into it. The lack of security never bothered me before, but after today, well, I have to give it some serious thought. But where the heck would I get one from? What type will I need? And then I’ll have to find someone to install it for me. I think of asking the constable for help, but he seems anxious to get on his way, and I’m just too tired to take in many details tonight. I’m also angry; I was so pleased to find this cottage affordable in my price range, and it’s always felt a comfortable haven to me. Now I’m unnerved at the prospect I might not be safe in my own home. I’m banking on the hope the person was following me because he doesn’t know my address. God, I hope that’s true!

  “You’ve got decent locks front and back, ma’am,” he continues, looking back at the house. “Make sure the doors are locked and bolted, and if you’ve got window locks, use them too.”

  To be honest, his recommendations are making me even more nervous; it’s almost as if he expects someone’s going to break in. As he prepares to go, I turn and thank him for the lift home, take back my keys, and then, at long last, make my weary way to my front door. It’s been one heck of a long day.

  At least the heating has been on, and the house is warm and cosy despite the rain that is still coming down heavily, blowing against the windows and making them rattle. Walking through the house drawing the curtains shut, checking the window locks, and bolting the doors following the instructions the police officer had given me, I start to jump at each little noise from outside. I’m a bloody bundle of nerves! Trying to get myself together I take a bottle of wine from the fridge, a glass from the cupboard, and make my way to the lounge where I collapse onto the sofa. I pour the first glass of that Chardonnay I’ve so been looking forward to, and down half of it in one go, feeling I deserve it. Only then do I take my phone out of my bag, but before making my call, top up my glass expecting I’ll be on the phone for quite a while.

  I press the pre-set number, the phone rings a couple of times, and then the familiar voice answers. “Hi?”

  “Hey, Val. It’s Mia.”

  “Hi, kiddo! How’s it going?” My agent seems puzzled to hear from me when I only saw her earlier today.

  Then she sounds even more perplexed when my only answer is to burst into tears, sobbing my heart out on the phone. It surprises the hell out of me as well. I’ve managed to hold it together all afternoon, and all it takes is one friendly voice, and I’m a complete mess. But this is Val. As well as being my agent she’s become someone I’d call a friend, close enough to stay on the line for the few minutes it takes for me to compose myself, staying silent until I’m ready to tell her what’s got me in such a state.

  By the time I’ve finished explaining she’s lost for words herself. “Val?” I prompt her.

  “Just give me a minute.” Again there’s silence. I suspect she’s pouring her preferred brand of fortification. I top up my wine again. Half the bottle’s already gone, but I’ll need some help to sleep tonight. Tomorrow can go hang itself.

  Back on the line, she makes me go through the afternoon’s events again and again until we’ve thrashed the very little we know to death, going round and round in circles, asking the same questions and coming up with no answers. In the end, I know we’re just repeating ourselves when she asks for the umpteenth time, “Mia, are you okay? Is this going to set you back?”

  Val knows something happened to me in my past, but she doesn’t know any details. No one does. When I first met her, I was a mess, jumping at everything, scared of people brushing past me, suspicious of their intentions. Gradually I’ve become stronger and what I do know is I’m not going to let anything or anyone chase me back to that dark place. I refuse to let them, so I reassure her, “I’m fine, Val.”

  There’s a moment’s pause, and I suspect she’s considering my sincerity before she leaves that avenue there and gets back to the main topic. “And you’ve absolutely no idea who could want to hurt you, Mia?”

  “None at all.” And that’s the honest truth. I don’t know anyone I’ve upset, or at least not to the extent they’d want to hassle or stalk me. Okay, maybe I was a bit abrupt when I was shortchanged at the newsagent’s last week, but I can’t see the shop assistant taking that to heart.

  Eventually, she tells me, “I’ve got a friend who might be able to give us som
e help. Can you leave it with me tonight, while I try and contact him, Mia?”

  I’m a bit puzzled, “What friend? What could he do?”

  “He has a security firm. He’ll be able to give you advice if nothing else. Are you okay if I contact him?”

  Knowing any help might be better than none, I tell her, despondently, “There’s not a lot else for me to do, is there? At the moment I’m just stuck with the police seeing if they can find anything from the little they’ve got.”

  By the time we’ve said our goodbyes and Val’s off the phone, it’s getting on for midnight, and the bottle of wine is almost empty. I finish it up, double check all the locks, switch off the lights and make my way to bed. Having eaten nothing since lunch, the effects of the alcohol on a nearly empty stomach make me a little woozy as I climb the steep cottage stairs and stumble into the modern bathroom. Doing just the absolute necessary, I get ready for bed and then settle in for a restless night, expecting the old familiar nightmares from my past to resurface tonight, as well as new ones conjured up from my horrendous day.

  I’d wanted to get home, to the place where I have always felt safe. But the thought someone might be after me makes me toss and turn, unable to relax. Then, when I force myself to lie still, I’m alert to every creak in the old building, having to try to convince myself it’s nothing more than the usual sounds of the aged timbers settling. I hear owls hooting in the distance, the sound of the rain still lashing down against the window panes, and gradually, despite my nervousness, my eyes start to close as I give into the stress-induced exhaustion and eventually drift off to sleep.

  ****

  Tuesday morning, I awake after a surprisingly good uninterrupted rest. Even the bottle of wine only left me a bit fuzzy, and the expected and well-deserved headache is happily absent. Refreshed, the events of yesterday seem like just a bad dream. Safe and cosy in my bed, with the sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains, memories of being stalked through the rainy streets of London seem far, far away. But my bruised throat, and the lump on the back of my head, remind me what happened yesterday was all too real and I shiver. Is someone really out to get me?