I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

by Teresa Driscoll

not to throw his arms around her waist right now and

  tell her everything. He clenches his hands into fists to stop the wrong words coming out of his mouth. Instead he

  thinks about the bird he is going to train. Yes. As soon

  as he is allowed to play out on his own, he is going to

  secretly train a bird. A huge bird with massive claws that

  can kill Brian.

  ‘I’m a big boy now, Gran. I’m fine,’ he says.

  172

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Alice

  I do realise that I’m probably unfair to London. I mean,

  I can see its appeal – the river, the skyline, the people

  and the buzz.

  My problem with London has nothing to do with

  logic; I can’t deny its very obvious pluses. My problem

  with London is the assumption by some journalists that

  it is the centre of the universe – that it has the best buzz.

  The best restaurants. The best s tories. My own take as a journalist is that it simply has all the headquarters, which

  means reporters can speak to the top dogs more easily.

  In all honesty, I am probably a bit chippy about this

  professionally. But I’ve learned from my time on news-

  papers in remotest Scotland and then Devon that stories

  are always first and foremost about people. And people

  in the countryside have as many issues and problems and

  challenges as people in London – and they have as much

  right to be noticed and listened to. And written about.

  So, yes. I do see that my problem with London is a

  question of professional chippiness. The truth is I love the

  country, and as a journalist I have to fight the assumption

  from others that I am unambitious (or simply parochial)

  and I have to work harder to be taken seriously.

  173

  Teresa Driscoll

  But this weekend, I have given London a break. I put

  Leanne, who adores this city, in charge of our schedule,

  and I have honestly had a surprisingly good time. On

  Saturday we took my niece and nephew to the Science

  Museum, and then to the Tower of London on Sunday.

  How I reached this age without seeing the Crown Jewels,

  I don’t know. It was all terribly good fun. We then had

  a very late Sunday lunch at a smart café-cum-restaurant

  close to Leanne and Jonathan’s gated home in Notting Hill.

  Turns out that London, like anywhere, is really rather

  wonderful if you have the time to enjoy it.

  And now – Monday – I have my work hat back on.

  I’ve belatedly filed my interview with the actress Melinda

  Belstroy. She messaged me to say that she had thought very

  carefully and would not ‘press the button’, preferring to accept her bipolar diagnosis and learn to live with it. Ted has emailed to say he’ll run the piece within the next couple

  of days. I’m delighted – so pleased to be doing something.

  And now I’m to meet the three campaigners who’ve led

  the charge to get Maple Field House pulled down.

  Gill, Naomi and Amy are quite a trio. Mums on a

  mission, I call them. Mid-thirties and not to be underes-

  timated. I met them a good while back when they sent in

  their initial press release about the terrible damp. I remem-

  ber so clearly the first time I visited Maple Field House.

  About fifteen minutes from Plymouth, the block of flats

  above shops is shaped around a central courtyard – like

  a square with one side missing. The mothers explained

  in their handout that all their children had asthma ex-

  acerbated by the terrible damp. But no one on the local

  council was interested.

  Maple Field House was built in a hurry after the war.

  One of many quick but ugly solutions to the housing need

  174

  I Will Make You Pay

  of the times. Owned by the local council, the leasehold

  shops were once popular and thriving. But as shopping

  habits changed, so Maple Field House changed too. Even

  the charity shops struggled for customers, and most units

  were just boarded-up shells.

  Today Gill, Naomi and Amy are meeting the housing

  charity which helped fund their campaign to finally push

  for demolition. I merely reported on their hard work, so

  am chuffed to be invited. I admire these women, and it

  was a privilege to put their story in the paper.

  At the charity headquarters we’re served coffee and

  delicious cream cakes, in a cosy green room with sunlight

  streaming in through the window. There’s excited chat-

  ter, lots of laughter and endless selfies for social media.

  ‘Of course, we couldn’t have done it without Alice,’

  Gill says, leading the charity PR Melody across the small

  room to meet me. ‘No one took much notice until Alice

  started writing stories about us.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I say. ‘Just doing my job. You ladies did

  all the work. Put together the statistics. Refused to take

  no for an answer.’

  Melody agrees and applauds the trio’s work in a little

  speech, outlining the partnership with the housing as-

  sociation which is to build the replacement homes. She

  says it’s a win-win for the council, and a model the charity hopes will roll forward elsewhere too. The local authority

  is making alternative land available at a peppercorn rent.

  The housing association is putting up the funds to build.

  And then, after applause and more coffee, Gill wanders

  over to hand me a small, gold foil envelope. I raise my

  eyebrows, wondering what it is.

  ‘We would like you to be guest of honour at the de-

  molition. They’ve finally set the date.’

  175

  Teresa Driscoll

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a VIP invitation.

  I’ll just pop along and cover it for the paper.’

  ‘No argument. We want you up front with us when

  we get to press the button. See the lot go down. It’s going

  to be quite a moment.’

  I open the envelope to find a specially printed invita-

  tion with my name in gold lettering. The demolition is

  just two weeks away. And then I skim the details again

  to find everything around me changing. Suddenly the

  room feels too crowded and too hot. Suddenly my new

  appreciation of London is forgotten.

  Suddenly his voice is once more back in my ear.

  I am going to use cheese wire on you.

  Because the date on the invitation is like a cruel and

  horrible taunt, reminding me that my life – whether in

  London or in Devon or anywhere else – is no longer my

  own. No longer normal.

  The demolition is set for the 12th.

  Which is a Wednesday.

  176

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Matthew

  ‘Where’s your iPad?’ Sally is crunching into a thick slice

  of toast as she watches Matthew across the breakfast table.

  Amelie is meantime perched on her booster seat, colouring

  in pictures of fairies. Matthew leans forward to examine

  his daughter’s handiwork.

  ‘Are you sure all fairies are pink, darling?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ She reaches for an even-bright
er pink

  felt tip, as if to underline her point. ‘They’re pink so you

  can see them in the forest.’

  ‘I thought fairies were invisible.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy…’

  ‘It’s just I’ve noticed you making notes in a notebook,

  Matt. Like the old days in the police force in films. So is

  this nostalgia? Or have you lost your iPad?’

  ‘It’s been playing up. I’m thinking of upgrading.

  Getting a smaller one.’ Matthew hopes the truth will not

  blush on to his face. He’s not quite ready to tell his wife

  that he’s loaned his iPad to a man who thinks tiny people

  want to kidnap him. It’s only a temporary solution for

  Ian, as the SIM has limited data. But Matthew is looking

  into a cheap Internet package for Ian and is hoping he

  can be persuaded to sign up. Then he can give him more

  lessons so he can Skype his daughter as often as he likes.

  177

  Teresa Driscoll

  ‘But your iPad’s not that old?’

  ‘No. But as I say, it’s been playing up. Anyway, I can

  put the cost of a new one on the business. Legitimate

  expense.’ Thank heavens for that payment from the cor-

  porate client. Quite a shock how much companies will

  pay for consultancy work. Matthew stands and puts his

  notebook and pen into his backpack and checks his watch.

  It’s bonkers, of course, to consider gifting his iPad to

  a virtual stranger – a man who is not even paying him

  for his time, let alone his technology. He’ll visit Ian again shortly to see what difference it’s made. But first he needs

  to speak to Melanie Sanders. Matthew is very pleased to

  be officially back on the Alice stalker case – even if Sally

  is less enthusiastic. He spent most of the previous even-

  ing reading more articles on the Alex Sunningham case,

  and something’s troubling him. Sort of circling his mind

  like the annoying buzz of a mosquito. Matthew knows

  that he cannot fully justify following his instinct when

  this kind of thing happens. In the police force, he was

  pressed to base assessment on facts. Evidence and science.

  But now he’s his own man, Matthew likes to listen to his

  gut. And mosquitoes.

  He keeps very still, which for some reason often helps.

  And there it is – the little something niggling right at the

  back of his brain.

  ‘Gretna Green,’ he suddenly says out loud as all at

  once the mist clears.

  ‘What about Gretna Green?’ Sally tries.

  ‘Sorry. Need to go.’

  ‘Not to Gretna Green, I hope?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you later. A hunch. On the stalker inquiry.

  Love you both.’ He kisses each in turn on the forehead

  and hurries to the car, where he scans his phone for the

  178

  I Will Make You Pay

  feature he was reading last night to recheck the quotes

  before dialling Mel’s mobile from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Hi, Mel. Look – this is going to sound a bit nuts but

  I think you should check the records in Gretna Green.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Check for Alex Sunningham’s name. I have a feeling

  the girl may have been playing her parents and playing

  the media.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s abducted her. I think she was pre-

  tending to have seen the light. That this was all planned.’

  There is a beat of silence and Matthew waits.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting she’s still under his

  spell? Gretna Green. Are you thinking that they’re still

  planning to get married? Are you mad? It’s been all over

  the telly. He’d never get away with that…’

  ‘But what if he really is that arrogant, Mel? And what

  if the officials at Gretna Green haven’t checked the rec-

  ords? Is there software cross-referencing applications with

  parole records? I doubt it. And no one would be looking

  out for his name. I was rereading the interview she gave

  long after the court case, claiming to have seen the light.

  It all sounded a bit too pitch perfect, to be honest. What

  if Alex put her up to it? What if they’ve somehow stayed

  in contact? Their original plan was to marry at Gretna

  Green, remember.’

  ‘But she gave evidence against him, Matt.’

  ‘Yes. Persuaded by her parents and the police. But

  what if Alex has somehow got under her skin again since.

  Been in touch. What if he set all this up?’

  ‘Oh Jeez. I have to admit it never occurred to me.

  But it does actually tie in with the CCTV update this

  morning.’

  179

  Teresa Driscoll

  ‘What update?’

  ‘You’re not hearing this from me but we’ve picked

  him up hiring a car under a false name.’

  ‘Heading north?’

  ‘Yes. Petrol station off the motorway. But no one else

  in the car. And he must have dumped that car now or

  changed the plates because we haven’t picked it up on

  any other motorway routes since.’

  ‘He may have switched to the train. And I bet you’ll

  find the girl heading to Scotland by train too. Worth

  trawling the railway CCTV for her. And him.’

  ‘On it. Long shot, if you ask me – Gretna Green. But

  we’ll check it out all the same and I’ll ring you back. No…

  better still. Let’s meet at the café. I’ll text you a time, and let you know if we find anything meantime.’

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Matthew is in the café, trying the

  carrot cake Mel so likes. He is thinking it’s actually a bit

  stodgy as he again googles the Gretna Green rules. It’s no

  longer possible to just turn up and hurry a marriage through.

  Twenty-nine days seems to be the absolute minimum notice

  but the process doesn’t seem to involve cross-checking prison or parole records so it’s possible Alex’s plan could be to lie low for a month and then get married. All Gretna Green

  demands of British citizens are birth certificates and legal

  confirmation of divorce if they’ve been married before.

  The dates fit Matthew’s theory. Alex was released

  just before Alice’s stalking started. He could have filed

  the paperwork for a Gretna Green wedding soon after

  he was released. If so – the four weeks would be well up

  by now and the wedding could be at any time. Which

  180

  I Will Make You Pay

  might explain why Alex had suddenly stopped seeing his

  probation officer. And why the girl had run off.

  Matthew again scans the girl’s interview, which ran

  while Alex was serving his second year inside. He notices

  how often she mentioned her regret and her new life after

  Alex. The quotes were impressive but, on careful reflec-

  tion, too impressive. Extremely mature. That was what

  had rung an alarm bell with him. There was this strange

  air of ‘protesting too much’. Something rehearsed about

  her comments. It sounded to Matthew as if she were rather

  too keen to reassure her parents and the world that she />
  had put Alex Sunningham behind her.

  Now he’s more and more suspicious that the quotes

  came via her from Alex himself. More grooming. Had

  Alex found some way to renew contact with the girl and

  resumed his control over her during his time in jail? It

  was certainly possible. Prisons were sadly awash with

  mobile phones.

  Matthew sips his drink and thinks of the dreadful

  Alex and why on earth he might still want this relation-

  ship. Alex must know he’ll be found out and sent back

  to prison eventually, to serve his full sentence. Licence

  terms include telling your probation officer about getting

  married. Permission would never be given while on parole

  to marry his victim. So why do something that will get

  him sent straight back to jail? To stick his finger up to

  the authorities? To get himself a legal young bride as a

  cover to chase even younger girls down the line? Maybe

  he doesn’t think he’ll be found out. Or maybe he doesn’t

  even care about being found out and serving the balance

  of his sentence. Maybe he’s mad enough to believe he’ll

  reclaim some kind of moral balance by marrying the girl.

  Creepy. Insidious. Yes – mad.

  181

  Teresa Driscoll

  A further half an hour and Matthew looks up to see

  Melanie Sanders hurrying in, her mac loosely belted

  around her enormous bump.

  ‘I can’t stay long – five minutes. So I won’t order

  anything. But I could kiss you.’

  ‘Feel free.’

  She punches his shoulder as she sits down. ‘Seriously.

  I don’t know how you do it. I’m almost cross with you

  for being so clever. You’re spot on. Alex Sunningham

  and the girl, using their real names to make it legitimate,

  have a wedding booked at Gretna Green. Guess when.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Tomorrow. By coincidence or maybe not a

  coincidence…’

  ‘A Wednesday.’ Matthew is almost as stunned as

  Melanie to have got this right.

  ‘The Gretna Green staff feel terrible for not noticing

  or remembering the name. But Alex filed the papers

  weeks ago. Must have been fairly soon after he got out.

  He looked very different from his media pictures, appar-

  ently, and no one remembered this or put two and two

  together with the recent coverage of his disappearance.’

  ‘Do you think they actually believed they’d get away

  with it? I mean, surely with the media coverage, the staff