I Will Make You Pay (ARC)
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couragement, so I do as she says and am surprised to re-
member something almost instantly. Yes. The card had
a pink border. Lacy, like trellis work. But it was matte.
Thin cardboard. Not very professional.
‘It was one of those cheap business cards, like the
ones you can order online or print off from a machine.
It had a fussy pink border and the name was…’ I screw
my eyes closed more tightly and start to see the word.
‘Oh hell.’
‘What is it?’
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I open my eyes, shocked to picture it so precisely.
‘ Wednesday Wisdom. Say it with flowers … That’s what it said.
You know, like a Twitter hashtag. Wednesday Wisdom.
I thought it was the name of the florist. But it wasn’t,
was it? Oh, dear Lord… it was the beginning of this.’ I
can hear my voice changing; can feel myself trembling.
DI Sanders is leaning forward.
‘OK. So try to stay calm, Alice. Your mum is fine.
We’ve checked with the home too. But we need to get
to the bottom of why this person even mentioned your
mother. We’re going to help you. All of these things are
horrid. Upsetting. But it actually helps that you’re putting
it together now, because all these pieces of information add
to the picture. More evidence for us; they are all things
we can check out. The business card, I mean. But what
about the choice of flower – the peony on the car and
now the peonies in this posy. Why is that significant? And
who else would know that it’s your mother’s favourite?’
I look away to the left, frowning as I take in the three
tall stacks of newspapers on a side desk.
‘It’s not a secret. All the family know that they’re my
mum’s favourite flower.’ I find that I hate talking about
her in this context; as if sucking her into this. I think of
her with her oxygen. Her wheezing…
‘I’ve probably mentioned it to quite a lot of people.’ I
realise I have told loads of people. Too many. ‘Oh goodness, I may even have written about it in a column for
the paper. Sometimes we take turns to write a personal
column.’
‘OK. So we’ll need to take a look at those. Can you pull
up copies of all your personal columns over the past … say,
six months?’
‘Sure.’
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Next, DI Sanders – I can’t see myself calling her
Melanie again; not yet – wants to know about the light
bulb, and why I think this man has been in my house.
I know it’s going to be difficult to explain. Only now
am I remembering that I wrote about that in one of my
blessed columns too.
I need to buy time to figure it out in my head, and
so I say I feel a bit odd and ask if I can have a cup of tea
with some sugar.
As we wait for someone to nip next door to the café
for drinks, I realise that it all goes back to the rapist case.
The first thing. The light bulb. I feel a bit sick even
thinking about it.
Adam, our crime correspondent, covered the court
proceedings, but we discussed it a lot in the office and it
spooked the life out of me. There was this rapist on the
very edge of our patch – about six, maybe eight months
back – who had a particularly nasty MO. Four cases – all
in South Devon and all similar. He would watch single
women living alone to work out their shift patterns.
Then he would break into their houses while they were
travelling home from work in the winter after dark. He
would remove the first light bulb in their house – from
the hallway or sitting room – so that they would think the
bulb had gone and would move, oblivious, into darkness.
Then he would pounce. In a mask.
He was jailed – the rapist. But I got so wound up by
this horrible, horrible case that I started carrying a torch
in my handbag, sometimes even in my pocket, just in
case. Got so spooked for a while that my heart pounded
every time I arrived home after dark. And I wrote about
all that in a personal column.
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I can feel my eyes narrowing as I wonder how I could
have been so stupid. To expose my feelings to everyone. In
a local newspaper column. In print and online, too. Why
the hell did I do that? Why do we writers share so much?
I think again about me and my stupid soapbox – my
obsession with courage and cowardice. Always banging
on about it. That’s what the column was about really;
trying to assess whether the fear we feel is defining. Or
simply human. I remember using a quote from Nelson
Mandela. Probably a bit pretentious of me. Courage is not the absence of fear … I wrote that previous generations had proved themselves through wars. But most of us these days
have never had our temperament truly tested. Brave? Or
coward? When the chips are down … which will we be?
Once tea has arrived and I have taken a few sips, I
tell DI Sanders about the rapist and my column and how
three weeks back – on a Wednesday again – I came home to find that the first bulb in my rented house had blown.
It was in a light fitting high up in my entrance vestibule,
which is an odd design, covering the full height of the
two-storey property. So it was impossible to replace the
bulb myself. The fitting is a very contemporary design
– covered by smoked glass. I just assumed the bulb had
blown and it was too high for me to do anything about it.
‘Because of the rapist case, it spooked me. I mean, I
knew the guy was in jail but it was such a horrible co-
incidence, and it really unnerved me not having a light
at the entrance. So I emailed my landlord straight away,
asking him to arrange for it to be replaced,’ I tell the
policewoman. ‘That’s how I realise now that it was a
Wednesday. I just checked the email.
‘The landlord hasn’t sorted it yet and I’ve been really
cross. I’ve sent a couple more emails. But now I’ve seen
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the message on that card…’ I nod to the card in the evi-
dence bag on the desk. Did you miss the light bulb, Alice?
‘I’m worried that this man, whoever he is, read my col-
umn and somehow got in my house and took the bulb
to upset me. Frighten me.’
DI Sanders’ face changes completely, and she turns to
the male detective sergeant beside her. His face changes
too. ‘OK. So we’ll need to come back to the house to
check this light fitting. Whether the bulb is still in place, I mean – just blown. Or actually missing. You say it’s up
very high?’
‘Yeah. It needs a special ladder.’
‘I’ll get our CSIs on to all of this. The cake box. The
card. Your home. I’m wondering…’ Again she glances at
her partner. ‘Once we’ve done the checks for fingerprints
and so on, is there somewhere else you could
stay? Just
for a bit? While you get the locks changed and so forth,
and we finish all the tests we need to do? And if that light
bulb is missing, we’ll need to know who else has had a key up to this point.’
I feel this sinking deep in the pit of my stomach. I had
a private security firm do a check on my home last week,
not realising that someone may already have been inside.
A part of me was hoping she would simply counter my
theory. No. It’s unlikely he’s been in your house. I had wondered if I was being overly dramatic. Paranoid. The fact she is
taking this theory seriously makes me feel so much worse.
‘Um. Keys? My landlord, obviously. A neighbour keeps
a spare for emergencies. And my partner Tom has a key.’
‘We’ll need to talk to your partner and neighbour.
And the landlord about their security over the storage of
keys.’ Again she is looking at the sergeant, who is mak-
ing notes in a book.
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Right, yes. Of course. Tom will be keen to help—’
‘And now’ – the policewoman’s face is even graver – ‘I
want to talk about the reference to cheese wire, Alice.’
I feel extra fluid in my mouth suddenly. Have to
swallow. Cough.
‘It’s a horrible thing to say. Deeply unpleasant. But
it’s also unusual, Alice. And I want to know if there is
any reason – any person or any incident that you think
could be connected? Someone who works in a deli? On
a cheese counter? Does anyone come to mind?’
I shake my head, not wanting to think about it. The
image of cheese wire – razor-sharp – slicing not just
through cheese…
I am going to use cheese wire on you.
‘I’m sorry. Could I have some water? There’s a dispenser
in the newsroom.’ I glance at the partition glass, and the
detective sergeant moves from the office to fetch a cup.
DI Sanders continues. ‘So – have a think, Alice. Have
you done any stories on any cheese companies? A delica-
tessen? Anything like that?’
Again I shake my head.
‘And you don’t use cheese wire at home, Alice?’
I find myself rubbing my hands suddenly. I really,
really wish she would stop talking about this. I mean, I
know she has a job to do. But…
‘No, no. Goodness. I just use a knife. I mean – I’ve
seen it used. Cheese wire. They use it at the local deli.
And at my supermarket. But I’ve never seen anyone use
it at home.’
‘Right. We’ll need to take the names of the super-
market and deli that you use, Alice. Just a long shot. Just
ticking boxes.’
‘Right.’
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The sergeant reappears with a plastic cup of water,
which I sip.
‘Thank you. I appreciate what you’re doing. Really
I do. It’s just…’ I try to sound calm but find that it sud-
denly all feels too much. I try pinching my lips tightly
together but it’s no good.
‘It’s OK, Alice.’
Her kindness makes it worse.
‘Sorry.’ I put the cup down and start scrabbling in
my pocket for a tissue. I glance up again at the window
through to the main office. Two people turn away as if
embarrassed, but I can’t make out who.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s a lot to take in. But we’re here
for you. We’re going to check all of this out, and we will
find this man. And stop this.’
She is looking me right in the eye and I see that she
means this. Or rather that she wants to mean it.
But I am still struggling to believe she is any more in
control of this new nightmare than I am.
37
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alice
Four days later – a Sunday – and I am staring at my sis-
ter, thinking how much she looks like our mother. I can
almost predict what she is about to say. I ready myself
for the little punch of indignation at the word I so hate.
Don’t be so stubborn.
I close my eyes and hear the echo of my mother’s
voice; buzz-buzzing right up close as I pouted my way
through all those petty childhood disputes – anything
from a challenge to try a new food to a row over house-
hold chores. I remember even when I was really small
feeling this fury building inside me whenever the label
was applied. Not brave. Not heroic. Not all those things
I wished I could be…
Stubborn.
Back then , and again right now, I want to rip the
word right off me – to feel the sting of its removal, like
a plaster worn too long.
I feel the same hurt and the same defensiveness as I
dig in deeper and deeper, while my sister Leanne stares
back at me with the familiar exasperation that bridges
love and every sibling argument we have ever had.
‘You’re going to have to tell them.’ Leanne tops up my coffee mug from the large cafetière on the table. I stare at
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I Will Make You Pay
her coffee jug and think that it sums up every difference in
our lives. It is designer. Beautiful. A sleek stainless-steel, double-skinned wonder which keeps the coffee hot while
simultaneously looking magnificent. My plastic cafetière
is from the local supermarket. Cheap. Cheerful. Serves
me cold coffee with an orange, plastic grin.
‘It’s not relevant, Leanne.’
‘How can you be so sure – so bloody stubborn – about
this, Alice?’
I wince. Buzz, buzz.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ She raises both arms
as if surrendering. ‘I didn’t mean to sound cross. With
everything you’re going through – but I’m so worried
and I think you’re wrong about this. You need to tell the
police absolutely everything.’
We’ve been going round and round in circles like this
for maybe half an hour, and I need her to move on from
this. It’s bad enough being grilled by the police and not
having the right answers.
For now we have decided not to move Mum from
her home near me in Devon. In the initial panic, we
thought this might be necessary. Urgent, even. Leanne
was especially keen to have Mum in London but the
police seem happy with the Devon home’s security.
And we don’t want Mum upset, not unless she is truly
in danger.
‘So. Are you still OK to drive us to see Mum, Leanne?
Is that OK?’ I hold her stare as a warning that I need her,
please, to stop grilling me on what I have and have not
told the police. I am so tired of thinking of nothing else
but this wretched and faceless man. This stranger who in
such a short spell has turned my life upside down. Turfed
me from my home. My job.
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Leanne nods and I reach out to touch her hand as a
thank you. My olive-branch fingers brushing hers ever
so briefly. I wonder how love can nestle so close to hate
dance always between the two – me and Leanne. Love –
and something other.
As we finish our coffees, I look around her huge
kitchen. Black polished marble worktops gleam in contrast
to the white cupboards with their stylish handles – twisty
knots of stainless steel. The blue double-width Aga displays
no evidence of cooking. Not a single fingerprint on its
perfect surface. My sister’s shiny life.
Am I jealous? No. It isn’t jealousy…
‘I’m so grateful for you driving down, Leanne.’ I mean
it. She has dropped everything to join me here – leaving my
niece and nephew with their nanny and their dad Jonathan
in London. This is their second home – a gorgeous thatched
cliché in Dorset. Security gates. Security cameras. Safe.
‘You can stay here as long as you need, or come up
to London. Whatever you prefer. I’m just sorry I can’t
stay down here longer myself.’ She pauses. ‘Jonathan was
wondering if you wanted someone else here? I mean, the
cleaner pops in a couple of times a week but I don’t really
like the idea of you here alone once I go back to town.
Until they find this guy. Sort it out.’
‘Who do you mean – someone else?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She blushes. Clearly she’s been
discussing a range of options with Jonathan. ‘Security
guard? Bodyguard? We could put the cost on the com-
pany. You mustn’t worry about the cost.’
‘And now you’re sounding like Tom. I’m not a bloody
pop star. I don’t want a bodyguard. I want my life back,
Leanne.’
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‘I know that, honey. It’s just, we’re all so worried.’
‘Yeah, I know. But four days. No word from him for
four days. That’s good, don’t you think? Maybe he’s given
up.’ I try to sound hopeful but am convincing no one.
It’s Sunday, I remind myself. The day we visit mum.
A good day. A safe day.
It’s not Sundays this man seems to be interested in.
* * *
In the car, I try very hard not to glance behind us; this
new and constant worry that someone may be following
me. Leanne is playing classical music. I don’t know the
composer but it is soothing. Beautiful.
I turn to look out of the passenger window – the blur
of trees and sunshine blinking through the gaps as we
head south. The pulse of the flashes of light makes me