But the stranger said nothing, and Rupert could only watch, aghast, as the man walked over to the back seat of the Lexus, pulled the door open and climbed inside.
Rupert hesitated for a few seconds, as he considered what to do, but he had no choice.
Reluctantly, he slid behind the driving wheel and then, with a curse about ever leaving the sanctuary of the vehicle, he reversed and straightened the car.
The stranger was just too bloody weird, and now he was sitting in the backseat, smelling of musty old clothes.
What have I done?
Rupert fixed the rear mirror so that he could see his passenger and smiled, almost embarrassed, when, for the first time, their eyes met.
The stranger had intense blue eyes that appeared to shimmer in the dim light of the dashboard. Now, they were watching, observing him, locking him in some kind of stare off, until Rupert tore his eyes away.
Now, thoroughly unnerved, he threw the car into gear and resumed the journey.
They drove in silence as Rupert focused on the road ahead. The fog was getting worse, and he was finding it hard to see more than five feet in front of the bonnet.
He flipped on the fog lamps, tinging the world with an eerie yellow hue.
The atmosphere in the car was almost as dense as the mist outside.
Although Rupert wasn’t looking directly at the stranger, he could feel those eyes, like giant cockroaches, crawling all over him; in his hair, on his skin.
At one point he had to suppress a scream, for he could have sworn he felt cold fingernails tracing the nape of his neck, molesting the hairs that were already bristling there.
It’s all in your mind.
But was it?
Rupert, an expert in the art of dealing with awkward clients and fabricating small talk, was unable to find words on this occasion, no matter how hard he racked his brains.
Then, finally, he heard himself stutter, “So, so, where are you going? Where can I drop you?”
There was a nail-bitingly long pause and then the stranger said, in the same monotonous drone, “Ware.”
Rupert smiled, nervously, “Ware. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” he said, with a nod of the head. “You’ll have to give me directions.”
“Soon.”
“Okay,” Rupert said brightly, trying very hard to suppress a note of hysteria. “Are we close?”
“We’re already there.”
“Really?” Rupert asked, peering into the windscreen. “I can’t see anything.”
There was another dramatic pause before he heard the stranger say something.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Rupert asked, glancing up at the rear view mirror, and instantly performing a double-take.
But the reflection was not lying to him. What he saw made his eyes water, his stomach turn over, and sent shivers scraping down his spine.
For the second time that evening, Rupert Harrison stomped on the car brakes. The action thrust him forward, into the restraint of his seatbelt, then violently back into his seat, as the car came to a screeching halt in the middle of the road once more.
He clicked himself free, yanked the door handle and fell out, onto the cold tarmac. He spun around, while simultaneously crawling backward, away from the car.
Then, he scrambling to his feet and gawked at the back passenger seat, now perfectly illuminated by the vanity light; it was empty.
The stranger had vanished.
“What the….” He breathed, incredulously.
His mind reeled, his heart throbbed and the small hairs on his body prickled as he tried to comprehend what he was, or more precisely, what he was no longer seeing.
The open door alarm chimed loudly in the still of the night, as he slowly and carefully approached the vehicle, and yanked the door open.
He saw what the courtesy light had already shown him; the back seat was empty.
“Oh God, help me,” he muttered. “Oh God.”
His legs buckled.
He doubled over, and put his hands on his knees, in an attempt to calm his breathing, for he was starting to feel light-headed, and his chest tightened.
“This isn’t possible… this isn’t possible,” he chanted over and over again as he stared at the empty passenger seat.
That’s when an icy cold breeze ruffled his hair, and he noticed, the fog had lifted.
The road and the surrounding fields gleamed, as if washed clean, beneath a clear moonlit sky in which stars winked like white diamonds.
And it wasn’t long before Rupert Harrison realised exactly where he was; in the middle of no-Ware.
41 Investigation Continues
Ashley wished she never decided to visit her apartment. What she saw there filled her with total and utter horror. It wasn’t just the devastation, but the thought that someone, unknown to her, had entered her home and been through her things, and then wreaked such devastation with such malice.
Who could possibly feel that way about her?
The police concluded, that while burglary would have been obvious motivation for the attack, it was an unlikely one, given the senseless vandalism.
The typical modus operandi for a burglar was to take as much as possible with the highest value and get out. Not hang around to cause mayhem. This was substantiated by the fact that Ashley couldn’t see anything obvious missing. The television, DVD player and other such items were still there. In fact, everything of high value was still in situ, albeit defaced or broken.
There was no doubt; somebody was harbouring a grudge against Ashley.
Which then brought them back to the latest event; someone had sent the editor a putrefying heart. Initial inspection suggested that it was actually an animal’s heart, most likely that of a pig. It had been allowed to begin decomposition, before it was carefully sealed in a Jiffy bag and mailed to her.
Whoever it was, they were sending Ashley a clear message; they felt wronged and they wanted her to know about it.
The most frustrating part of the whole sorry affair, was that regardless of the UK’s CCTV obsession, none of the cameras in nearby streets actually recorded anything. Nobody loitering in the area, no one entering or leaving the flat. At least, nobody who couldn’t be accounted for, although the investigation was ongoing.
So how the hell did they get in?
“Miss Marshall?”
“I don’t know what could have motivated it, Detective. I’ve already told you that today,” Ashley said, making no effort to mask the irritation in her voice.
They were sitting in exactly the same place they had been earlier in the day, only now it was dark outside, and Mark, the Detective Sergeant, was on his own.
He looked quite handsome with his dishevelled hair, stubbly strong jaw and a now rumpled navy blue suit.
“And you don’t feel different even after visiting your flat? Nothing has jogged your memory or anything?”
“No, nothing. I just know that whoever it was needs hanging. I mean, Jesus Christ they even crapped all over my bed!”
“You saw that?”
“No Detective, I smelt it. In fact, the whole apartment reeks of it. Do you mean to tell me that none of your men noticed it?”
“No, not that anybody reported. This only substantiates the theory that it’s got to be somebody with a grudge, an ex, maybe even someone you may be…”
…Ashley cut the man’s sentence short with a glare and then stood up.
She was agitated now, and Mark could see this.
“What is it with you people? Something’s unexplainable and you instantly assume I’m fucking someone, is that it?”
Mark was taken aback. For as much as Ashley looked feisty, it was only tonight that he noticed that she wasn’t afraid to speak her thoughts.
He liked that.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying anything, Miss Marshall. I’m just investigating all possible angles.”
“I told you, there isn’t anybody, nobody obvious anyway. For all I know,
it could be one of you lot.”
Mark cocked his head, not comprehending, “One of us?”
“Yes,” Ashley said.
She was pacing now.
“It’s not like you lot didn’t make it clear you’d do anything to stop Harrison publishing this book.”
Ashley challenged him with a smug smile, which was returned by the young man who said, “Well, there you go, there’s a suspect after all. You just said you couldn’t think of any.”
She threw him a look.
“Why do you think somebody from the Met would risk breaking into your home…”
“I thought you said they didn’t break in.”
“They didn’t.”
“So why are you now saying that they did?”
Mark was about to come back with another remark, but he stopped himself and, after taking a deep breath, said, “Miss Marshall…”
“Jesus, could you sound any more condescending? Just call me Ashley.”
“Ashley, I’m not sure exactly what your experience has been with my colleagues, but I can assure you, I’m here for one reason, and one reason alone, to find the truth.”
“Oh good, because I was starting to wonder,” she said flippantly, and then stopped.
Why the hell was she being so mean to this man anyway? He was only doing his job.
But he’s one of them! One of who?
And he’s annoying!
She ran her hand through her hair, rolled her aching shoulders, as if switching into a different gear and said, “I’m so sorry, Detective. I don’t even know why I’m taking it out on you. It’s just, well, it’s terrifying. Just the thought that there’s someone out there who hates me enough, to go to the length of trashing my flat, and breaking in here, just to scare the shit out of me, well it’s...”
Ashley trailed off here, realising what she had just said.
“Here?” Mark asked.
Their eyes met.
There was a pause. “Ashley, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I’ve already told you all I know.”
“Are you sure about that?” He asked, seriously.
They looked at each other for the longest time, during which, Ashley noticed his eyes.
He had very kind eyes.
“It’s nothing,” she finally said.
She couldn’t see any point in discussing the fact that she thought someone had broken into the penthouse.
It was nigh on impossible for anybody to get into the building, without being noticed by security, and even if they did manage to get through, they’d have to have known the code to the penthouse, and their movements would have been recorded on CCTV.
“Really.” She reaffirmed. “I just thought someone had broken into the apartment but, well, you’ve seen what security’s like here.”
Mark observed her and then, eventually, he asked, “What about Jackie Harris?”
Ashley looked surprised, “What about her?”
“Why did you visit her home?”
“What?”
“We learned from neighbours that a woman, fitting your description, was found outside her home and taken to hospital with a head wound.”
Mark nodded at her wound.
“And pain in her arm.”
He looked at her arm, where she was subconsciously rubbing a dull ache.
Ashley snatched her hand away, but it was too late. She may as well come clean. “I was looking for the manuscript.”
“What manuscript?”
“The one you lot are trying to get blocked.”
“And did you find it?”
“No, you got there before I did and formatted the hard drive.”
Mark appeared impervious to the jibes to the point that Ashley suddenly felt childish.
“So, how did you get those?” he asked, referring to her wounds once more.
“Somebody was in Jackie’s house with me.”
“Who?”
Ashley allowed her shoulders to slump and eyed him as if he were the most naïve of men. “I don’t know.”
“So, you were attacked?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Not exactly? Either you were or you weren’t. How did you get those injuries?”
“I fell.”
“Must have been a pretty bad fall.”
“It was.”
Mark paused for a few seconds and then, in his most professional tone said, “breaking and entering is a serious offence, Miss Marshall.”
Ashley tried hard not to scoff at his tone and retorted, “I didn’t break and enter.”
“How did you get in then?”
“I had a key.”
“Did Jackie Harris give it to you?”
“No.”
“Then how did you get hold of it.”
She hesitated. “I knew where she hid it.”
“And took it upon yourself to go in?”
She was feeling suitably chastised. To her surprise, the detective was actually starting to make her feel bad about what she had done. As if she had betrayed him, personally.
“What do you know about the Stantons?”
Ashley paused, surprised by the sudden change in his line of questioning. “What most of the nation knows, he’s a racing driver and she’s an actress.”
“You never met them?”
“Only a few times, in the lobby, they seemed friendly. Or at least, he did. She was always a bit of a cold fish.”
“And you never had any other dealings with them, other than meeting them in the lobby?”
Ashley screwed up her nose, “Detective, I’ve already had this conversation with you and your boss.”
“It isn’t such an unusual question; considering you live in the same building.”
“We share a building and that’s about it. People here like their privacy.”
Ashley closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“I can’t even begin to imagine what they must be going through right now. So, while we’re on it, how about you stop interrogating me, and I ask you a question. Are you any closer to finding out what happened?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Now, where have I heard that before?”
Ashley allowed herself to look into his eyes once more.
Mark continued, calmly, “It’s still early days. Hence why I’m here.”
“Oh, and there’s me thinking you were here because you were worried about me…” there was a pause and Ashley quickly added, “and what happened in my flat.”
What’s wrong with me?
If Mark read into the comment, he didn’t show it. Instead he asked, earnestly, “Do you really think that the Met has something against you?”
Ashley pretended to think about this, and then said, “Um, yes. The Met are worried about this book by Jackie Harris, and have sought to silence anyone who is instrumental in publishing it.”
“You know, Ashley, you should really watch what you say. Those kind of comments could get you into a whole world of trouble.”
“Is that a threat?”
Mark smiled. “It’s a warning, Ashley. Some of those MET lads are fanatical.”
“Fanatical enough to trash my home?”
It was another throwaway remark, but this time Mark noticed that it was accompanied by a faint smile.
He watched her for a while. Her long auburn hair, that looked much darker in the lamplight, her long legs and those fiery eyes. As obnoxious as this woman was, he could see why Rupert Harrison had fallen for her.
There was a silence until she noticed the way he was looking at her.
“Are we done, Detective?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“You could say that. My fiancé has not returned my calls and is late home; I’m worried.”
It was the first sign of vulnerability that Mark had seen since he’d arrived.
“Almost. Just a few more questions. You started to tell me about how you believed
somebody was in Jackie Harris’ house with you. Tell me…”
…they were interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
Ashley froze, like a rabbit in the headlights, while Mark jumped to his feet. Then Ashley’s eyes lit up when Rupert walked into the room.
“Oh my God, where have you been?” she asked, flinging her arms around him.
She hugged him tight, but emerged when she felt that he wasn’t reciprocating.
She studied his face. He looked pale, haunted.
“Rupert,” she said worriedly, feeling his arms and his face, “What’s wrong? What happened?”
He shook his head. “It’s just freezing outside.”
“Are you sure? You look pale.” She felt his forehead like a worried mother. “Do you feel okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, really,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day.”
“Me too. I’ve left messages with Maria because you weren’t here.”
“I had to go to the flat. I wanted to see for myself.”
It took Rupert a few moments to realise. “You know?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried. But I didn’t get a chance.”
Ashley hugged him. “Oh God, I’ve missed you. I was worried. Everything’s turned so ugly.”
Rupert was about to respond when he noticed Mark standing by the sofa.
Ashley spoke, “Oh, this is Detective…”
“Warner,” Mark said.
They walked over to him.
“It’s the Detective and his colleague that came to see me earlier today. They told me about the apartment.”
“I see. Any ideas?”
“As you can expect, we’re looking into it. One of the reasons I’m here.”
“One of the reasons?” Rupert asked. His head was fuzzy. He still hadn’t recovered from his encounter on the road, and he really wanted to talk to Ashley, but now this guy was here.
“How well do you know the Stantons?”
“We’ve already had this conversation, Detective,” Rupert said, dismissively. “I’ve told you, they’re a private couple, kept themselves to themselves.”
“Yes, ironic really,” Mark said.
“What is?”
“Well, that you should share the same apartment building, and that your company has published books about them, yet you’ve never actually met them.”
Unspeakable Page 28
