She smells of Chanel. Good. They’re taking care of the
little details here too. Mum has always loved to smell nice.
‘Do you miss the view of the sea, Mum?’
‘It’s fine.’ Her eyes are closed so I cannot read the
true reply. She seems to be drifting off to sleep and so I
whisper that she should rest and I will be back to see her
soon. But as I move she suddenly reaches out to grab my
hand and squeezes it very tightly.
She holds on for longer than is natural, her eyes still
closed, and I feel tears pricking the back of my own eyes.
I know, Mum. I know.
I smooth her hair, kiss her one more time, then put the
book back on the top of her bookcase and leave the room.
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We had a meeting earlier with the nursing team and I
can see that this home is better equipped to deal with the
march of my mother’s disease. They do full ‘end of life’
care here. There will be no need to move her again to
hospital or a hospice. Leanne has done her research well.
Mum is on maximum oxygen but there’s a ceiling on
how much this can help her now. The problem, we’re
told, is not so much getting the oxygen into her lungs
but the fact that her badly damaged lungs can no longer
process that oxygen. This is measured daily and is get-
ting worse and worse. We’re on a graph. The black line
is plunging downwards.
We all know where we’re going.
The staff are almost impossibly kind. They’re efficient
and I do trust they’re doing everything they can. We are
lucky that Leanne can throw money at this. I’m told the
NHS is marvellous too, but I like that this home hires
the best people. So much for my liberal politics. When it
comes to your own, politics go out the window.
I think of my mum puffing away on her cigarettes in
the garden when we were kids. She said she took it up
after the stress of my father’s death. A widow with two
small girls. Can I blame her? As we got older Leanne
and I both nagged her. But she called it my one pleasure.
My one failing. In the end we gave up, and I feel guilty for that now.
I sit in reception to check my phone for messages.
Nothing from Matthew or Melanie Sanders. What the
hell is happening?
Is it Alex? Why would it be Alex? I need to know.
I glance around at the fittings. The beautiful fabrics of
the curtains at the window on to the garden. The fresh
flowers so carefully arranged on the reception desk. I think
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back to the time my mother moved into her first home
in Devon and I wonder what she really thinks about the
transfer here. She must be baffled. A struggle for her to
get through each day with her breathing so very strained
now. What must she be thinking really? I never ask if
she’s afraid of what’s coming.
I am too afraid myself…
When my mother’s COPD was first diagnosed, she was
living in the family home a few miles from Hastings. It
was where Leanne and I grew up and we loved to return
there. Thankfully my father had good life insurance and
a decent pension so we didn’t struggle financially. It was
a lovely home and lovely garden.
Her condition progressed slowly at first and we were
told there was no set pathway with this disease. Every
case is different. She was taught breathing exercises and
seemed to manage OK for a while. But then she started
to have episodes which put her in hospital, and things
deteriorated with each one. Once it was obvious she could
no longer live alone, we had a terrible dilemma.
Leanne immediately suggested this home near her in
London. But Mum surprised us both by saying she wanted
to spend a spell by the sea. Devon. Where we had enjoyed
so many holidays when we were little.
Leanne was offended. I was secretly delighted. The
truth? I think Mum wanted, for a time at least, to be nearer
me. Jenny-turned-Alice, with no husband or family yet.
I think my mother with her soft grey eyes – It’s all right, Alice – wanted to be near me for a time. And so Leanne gave in. She wasn’t working but I was. She could leave the
children with the nanny to visit Devon more easily than
I could travel to London. I had my job to work around
and I was working shifts. So we all just got on with it.
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And now an email pings into my phone from Claire
at the charity. She’s pressing again for my thoughts on
the personal alarm and whether I would like to write an
article for the website about it. I get this strange rumble
in my stomach again.
I don’t quite understand the switch – from initially
implying the personal alarm scheme was perhaps not the
right step for the charity to suddenly pressing for my
support?
I decide not to reply. Instead I do some googling. I
google Claire’s background. I find her LinkedIn profile
and some interviews about the charity. I find her private
Facebook page but then I also discover an older listing
not in use. Some of the posts are set to private and I as-
sume she closed the page to protect her sister. But not all
the security settings are in place. I find that I’m able to
check older photographs and some of the older posts too.
It’s very strange. Some of it does not tie in at all with the things she told me when we met.
I do some more research, but my phone is too slow
and the battery is low. I need to get back to Leanne’s.
Something is not right here.
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CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Matthew
‘So is Romeo still singing?’
‘Every time anyone tries to question him.’ Mel’s tone
is pure exasperation. ‘Seriously. It should be made a crime,
Matt. Opera during police interviews. I blame Morse on
the telly.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘He’s being transferred back to jail. Apparently he’s
very popular there. Runs a choir and smarms everyone
to death. Word is he’s encouraging his so-called fiancée
to launch a media campaign about their “true love story”.
Her parents are trying hard to dissuade her. We may
confide in her about that third teenager Alex seduced.
See if that sways her.’
‘What an utter creep.’ Matthew presses his phone closer
to his ear and unclicks his seat belt. He glances across at
Ian’s front door and checks his watch.
‘Precisely. I’m desperate for the techies to come up
with something. Alex was using two phones apparently.
There were some searches for Alice using her original
name Jenny on the second phone but no other evidence.
May just have been curiosity. We have nothing concrete
yet.’
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‘And still nothing on the flowers in the cake box? Or
the bike us
ed in the fake acid attack?’
There’s a long sigh and Matthew regrets asking. Mel’s
doing her best. It’s frustrating all round. They’re up against someone clever. No prints. No forensics.
‘OK, sorry, sorry. I know it’s frustrating for you. Let
me know if anything changes. I’m just desperate to know
where we are. You know … with Wednesday hurtling
towards us again.’
‘OK, Matt. Speak soon.’
Matthew gets quickly out of the car and hurries across
the road. He needs to keep this brief. When Ian answers
his door, he’s as smartly dressed as ever. Proper shirt.
Crease in his trousers. He leads Matthew straight into
the dining room to signal the new arrival.
‘The module came two days ago. Three months’ free
trial. Are you absolutely sure it’s not sending out danger-
ous signals? Radiation of some kind? I don’t want to be
radiated. Also I read somewhere that these devices can
listen to you.’
‘It’s fine, Ian, I promise. There’s no microphone in it.’
Matthew asks Ian to fetch the iPad still on loan and removes
the little square of plastic with password details from the
modem. He sets up the iPad and is relieved to see it connect
immediately. Ian has thankfully charged it as instructed.
He’s been practising, using all the notes he made.
‘Good. We’re up and running, Ian. You now have
Wi-Fi, which means you can now use this iPad whenever
you like to talk to Jessica. No extra charges – just the
monthly Wi-Fi bill. I had a message from her last night
to say she’s coming off shift around now, so let me show
you again how to call her up via Skype.’
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Ian now looks a little stressed.
‘I promise you’ll get the hang of this, Ian, but you will
need to concentrate. OK? And make some more notes.’
‘OK, Mr Hill. I’m writing it all down.’
Matthew talks Ian through the steps and watches him
scribble away in his little exercise book. He decides he
will discuss his new hypothesis regarding the little people
over tea once father and daughter have caught up.
* * *
Half an hour later, he reaches for a chocolate Hobnob
and launches in. ‘So, your daughter was telling me in
our email exchange that it would have been your golden
wedding soon. You must miss your wife very much, Ian.
I’m so sorry.’
Ian doesn’t reply. Matthew presses on. ‘Jessie also says
that it would have been your wife’s seventieth birthday …
around about the time the little people turned up.’
‘I don’t talk about the little people with Jessica.’
‘I know, I know. I didn’t say anything. I just put the
dates together.’
Ian now stares at Matthew, his lip trembling. Matthew
waits. They each sip their tea.
Finally Ian puts his cup down and lets out a long sigh
as if giving in.
‘So here’s the thing. We were saving up to visit Jessie in
Canada. Dream trip to celebrate our golden wedding. We
had it all planned out. We scrimped and we saved every
spare penny. Barbara wouldn’t buy herself anything new.
Put all the money in the travel fund. That green dress. It
was her favourite. She wore it every birthday. I said she
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should have a new dress for her seventieth but she wouldn’t
have it. Wanted to save to see our daughter instead.
‘And then she got sick. Pancreatic cancer. It was all
terribly quick. And in the end I had to spend the holiday
fund on her funeral.’
Matthew feels a change in the air temperature around
him. The room is suddenly too still. Too quiet. He stares
at Ian’s perfectly ironed shirt and the crease in his trousers.
‘I hung the green dress on the door because it made
me feel she was still around. That she might get up and
put it on. But then suddenly it upset me too much. I
wished I’d made her buy herself some new things. Nice
things. Why didn’t I insist, Mr Hill?’ He turns to look at
Matthew. ‘Anyway. I got in a pickle, staring at that green
dress, but I didn’t want to move it from the wardrobe
door so I moved myself instead. Into the spare room.’
‘Is that when the little people turned up? Guarding
the room. Guarding the green dress?’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Hill. You’re think-
ing I’m completely barmy. A silly old fool.’
‘I don’t think that, Ian. Not at all. But I think the
little people don’t like solutions. Modems … and happier
times. So let’s see how things go now with you chatting
more regularly to Jessie.’
‘Good plan, Mr Hill.’ Ian clears his throat and Matthew
can hardly bear to see the strain on his face.
‘You can borrow the iPad long-term, by the way.’
Matthew tries to make this sound casual. ‘I meant to say.
I’m getting a new one. I don’t need it at the moment.’
Ian stares at him and then takes in a long, slow breath.
‘But we haven’t even talked about your fee yet? I
expect to pay. I’ve been putting a little aside from my
pension. Every week—’
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‘Oh. Don’t be worrying about that. We can talk about
that another time.’
There is another pause.
‘You are a very decent man, Mr Hill.’ Again Ian clears
his throat. Smooths his trousers. ‘Very decent indeed.’
265
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Alice
It’s now Monday and I am booked on to a train this even-
ing to return to Devon for tomorrow’s work meeting.
First-class ticket this time.
The police are going ahead with a harassment charge
against the perv on my last train journey. Technically I’m
pleased, though I’m not looking forward to giving evi-
dence. I’m nervous of my link to Alex coming out – but
what choice do I have? The guy who hassled me needs
to be punished; I don’t want him doing that to others.
This morning, I’m in work mode, using Leanne’s study.
It overlooks their garden with impressive views across
Notting Hill. More and more I can see that living in London
has its appeal. Last night Leanne and Jonathan took me for
a meal on the South Bank. Seventh-floor restaurant with
a vista to die for. I looked out over the city, street lights twinkling and car headlamps sweeping across the canvas
which is so very different from my own landscape. Yes.
Little by little I’m coming to understand my sister better.
I turn back to my laptop. The more research I do, the
more it baffles and troubles me. I’ve traced the company
records for the personal alarm that Claire has been trialling and there is no mention of the charity as a shareholder
or interested party. Instead the company is in Claire’s
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maiden name (which I found easily via
her social media
channels) and a mystery guy – Paul Crosswell. Googling
him, he seems to have a chequered history in various
areas of security. He’s run several companies – two went
bankrupt and a third, specialising in general home alarms,
is currently in receivership.
All very odd. No option now but to make the phone
call I’ve been putting off. It’s a risk and it feels sneaky. If my suspicions are wrong, Claire will find out I’ve been digging behind her back and will rightly be furious with me.
But what if I’m right? It’s taken more than an hour to
get this number and I can’t let this go.
I dial. Three rings. Four.
‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice is hesitant. She answers
the phone as if baffled at the technology. I wonder if she
uses her mobile mostly and it’s rare for the landline to ring.
‘I’m very sorry to trouble you. But is that Claire’s
mother? Claire Hardy?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I really am sorry to intrude, but I’m a journalist do-
ing a feature on stalking. And someone suggested I get
in touch with your daughter Claire.’
‘How did you get this number? Who are you?’
‘My name is Alice. And, as I say – I’m a journalist.
I’m hoping to speak to Claire about her sister and about
her charity.’
‘Claire doesn’t have a sister. Whatever kind of jour-
nalist you are, you’ve got your facts wrong.’
‘But I was told that Claire’s sister had been involved
in a stalking incident. Which led to Claire’s involvement
with the charity.’
‘What charity? I have absolutely no idea what you’re
talking about. Look, Claire and I have been estranged for
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many years. She’s an only child and quite frankly that’s
a relief. One daughter has been quite enough trouble,
thank you very much.’
And then she hangs up.
I turn once again to the garden to watch a robin sit-
ting on the chimney of my niece’s playhouse. My mind is
racing – in contrast to the robin, which is resting, tilting
its head as if asking what I’m thinking.
I narrow my eyes, trying to work out what the hell
is going on with Claire but my mind is wandering. The
playhouse is making me think instead of my niece. It’s
a beautiful timber house, designed with a deliberately
crooked door and crooked chimney. Yesterday I played tea
parties with little Annabelle in there and remembered the
I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 26
