by Lynda Renham
‘All the psychiatric reports say quite clearly that Ewan Galbreith doesn’t have mental issues.’
‘Then he’s just plain evil. I’m a woman who lives alone. I shouldn’t have to live in fear. I should …’
‘You could get private security,’ says Fran and I sense a tinge of hostility in her tone. She thinks I’m overprivileged, that I’m making too much of a fuss.
‘If you’re afraid isn’t it worth it?’
‘What advice do you give those women who can’t afford it?’ I shoot back.
I don’t know why I am defending myself. He’s the criminal. He’s the one hot out of prison, not me. Fran lowers her eyes.
‘My hands are tied Libby. I’m sorry. If you think you see him or anything strange happens you should let me know.’
I pull a twenty-pound note from my bag and place it on the table. I’m disappointed. This wasn’t how I’d expected our meeting to go. I had hoped for more.
‘You don’t need to pay …’ she begins.
‘He’s in Padley, isn’t he?’
She nods.
‘There’s no reason to think he’ll leave,’ she says. ‘He knows that if he comes within one hundred yards of you he’ll be in court.’
‘No one seems to leave Padley,’ I say.
‘You did.’
I walk to the door.
‘Libby,’ says Fran.
I turn.
‘Don’t be too independent. We’re here to help you whether you believe it or not.’
I nod and leave the café.
Chapter Fourteen
Present day
Fran watched Libby get into a taxi and then ordered herself another tea. It hadn’t gone well. She knew that.
‘Don’t you have air conditioning?’ she asked the owner.
‘It’s on,’ he said.
She took the tea back to the table and glanced out of the window. Libby was scared. Fran would be if she was in her shoes. Libby had received bulging boxes of post over the years. At the beginning she had forwarded them to Fran. They’d been obscene, written by repulsive little shits with warped evil minds. Fran had been unable to do anything about them. Libby had become immune to the obscenity and had stopped forwarding them. Her contact with Fran ceased, apart from the odd letter sent from Fran via Libby’s lawyer to advise her on Galbreith’s appeals. Fran learnt that Libby had left Padley. Manstead was boarded up and never sold. Fran pictured Ewan Galbreith as he had looked fifteen years ago. He hadn’t looked like a killer with that handsome face of his. But then most killers didn’t look like one. She’d learnt that. He’d had his women devotees during the trial which Fran had found sickening. He was too innocent looking to have committed such slaughter, they’d claimed. Fran sighed and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. The sweat ran between her breasts and her underarms felt sticky. No one else in the café looked as hot as her. She picked up the menu, studied it and then laid it down again. If Ewan Galbreith hadn’t sent the friend request, then who had?
‘Don’t get too involved,’ Mike had warned her. ‘It was fifteen years ago. He’s done his time. She can afford private security.’
‘But what if we’d got the wrong man, Mike?’ she’d said finally, voicing the thought she’d carried around with her for years.
‘We didn’t.’
‘He swore he was innocent.’
Mike had laughed.
‘How many do you know have held their hands up and said, “I did it?” You read too many trashy thrillers.’
‘But what if the real killer is threatening her?’
‘It’s taken him a long time,’ said Mike.
He was right. Of course he was.
Fran sighed and sipped her tea. The smell of frying bacon was making her hungry.
‘Can I have a bacon roll?’ she asked a passing waitress.
The words hit her brain like a bolt of lightning, sending her back to fifteen years earlier. She’s in Padley’s chippy where Ewan Galbreith is asking, ‘Can I have a bacon roll?’
*
Fifteen years earlier.
‘Ewan Galbreith,’ Fran said.
‘Yeah, who wants to know?’
He didn’t turn around.
‘Sergeant Fran Marshall, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘I’ve got nothing else to say to the police.’
His mouth twisted with anger. He took his bacon roll and walked past her.
‘A portion of chips please,’ Fran called to the chippy. ‘I’ve one question for you Ewan,’ she said, following him.
He stopped and took a bite from his roll.
‘What did you say to Libby Owen that night that got her so scared?’
‘I didn’t say anything to her.’
‘We know she saw you the night of the murder.’
‘Yeah, she saw me. I’ve never denied that.’
‘I believe she saw you shoot her aunt and uncle in cold blood.’
‘Not possible.’
‘And that you would have shot her,’ she continued. ‘Except, Libby ran. What did you shout at her?’
‘She’s not said it was me.’
He started to walk away from her. Fran took her chips and followed him.
‘She saw you.’
‘She saw someone. Not me.’
‘Your fingerprints were all over the gun.’
He stopped. She watched as he chewed his lip.
‘They would be. I use those shotguns all the time. I’ve already told the police that. I found the gun. I stupidly picked it up.’
‘That was a bit stupid. You don’t seem the stupid type.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So who do you think shot them?’
His lips curled.
‘It could have been anyone. Edward Owen had a lot of enemies. He wasn’t popular. He was brash and ruthless in business. How do you think he got to be so rich? Have you questioned everyone who has threatened him over the years?’
‘Don’t worry we’ll get to everyone.’
‘You should,’ he said, his eyes narrowing.
‘Shame about the horse,’ she said, hoping to take him by surprise. ‘You must have been upset.’
Ewan Galbreith took another bite of the roll and threw the remains into a bin.
‘Not upset enough to kill him, if that’s what you’re trying to say.’
He gave her one last look and then walked away.
‘You had the motive,’ she called after him.
‘Owen bloody deserved it,’ said a voice from behind her.
She turned to the group that had congregated outside the fish and chip shop to watch her exchange with Galbreith.
‘If any of you know anything you’d be wise to come forward. Withholding evidence is a criminal offence.’
No one spoke. Fran took her chips and left the shop. Twenty-four hours later Galbreith was arrested for the murder of Edward and Rose Owen. Libby Owen had finally admitted seeing him shoot her uncle.
Chapter Fifteen
Present day
The footpath was weedy and the window at the front of the house was covered in ivy.
‘Makes it a bit dark inside,’ said Grant, the agent, grimacing. ‘You’d think someone would cut it down.’
He unlocked the door and kicked aside the pile of post on the doormat.
‘This is the door to the flat,’ he said turning to a simple white door to the right of them.
‘Those stairs lead up to the first floor. There’s an old lady up there. You won’t get much noise from her.’
It was dark inside. Grant switched on the light. ‘It’s the ivy that’s the problem,’ he said.
Ewan looked around. It was dingy and smelt of something he couldn’t place.
‘Needs a bit of airing,’ said Grant, wrinkling his nose. ‘It’s been empty a while. It’s no Buckingham Palace but it’s cheap and that was what you said you wanted.’
Ewan nodded.
‘Cheap and cheerful mate, you can’t
get better than that. No long-term contracts. Ideal. You got a job down here then?’
Ewan nodded.
‘Yeah.’
‘Better than a guest house. More private isn’t it?’
‘Basic,’ said Grant from behind him as he peered into the bathroom. ‘But functional.’
Ewan tightened his jaw.
‘You’re not overlooked. Properties like this don’t come on the market often. It’ll be snapped up in no time.’
Ewan raised his eyebrows. He wished Grant would shut up. He stared back at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There were dark rings under his eyes.
‘When can I move in?’ he asked.
‘As soon as you want, as you can see the flat is vacant. I’ll get the contracts together.’
‘I’ll pay the three months in advance,’ said Ewan.
‘Oh right,’ said Grant, surprised. ‘Less complications.’
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘At least you won’t have to worry about the heating, not if this bloody heatwave continues.’
He noticed Ewan wasn’t perspiring at all. Lucky guy, Grant thought. He hated this weather.
‘Thanks,’ said Ewan walking past him to the door. ‘I’d like to move in next week.’
‘Oh, that soon,’ Grant flummoxed. ‘I’ll need to get the paperwork done then.’
Ewan didn’t respond. Grant wasn’t sure he liked the guy. There was something odd about him. He was relieved when the door was closed and locked behind them. Ewan stood looking at the windows.
‘I’m sure if you asked, the landlord would get someone to cut that back. You could probably do it yourself if you wanted,’ said Grant.
‘I like it as it is,’ said Ewan.
‘I’ll be in touch then?’ said Grant, as he watched Ewan climb into his car. He was relieved when he’d driven off. Some people don’t half give you the creeps, he thought.
Chapter Sixteen
Present day
Libby
The lighting in the underground car park is dim. I sit in my car, aware he could be anywhere. There are plenty of dark corners. He could pounce at any time. He surely couldn’t have discovered where I live, I try to reassure myself. It couldn’t have been him that sent the friend request. How would he have known my surname? He’d be looking for Libby Owen, not Elisabeth Warren. Besides, hadn’t Fran said he was in Padley? They’d know if he came to London, wouldn’t they? They would let her know. They’d have to. Maybe I should get a bodyguard. No I shan’t. I won’t let him take away my freedom. Isn’t it enough that I only have a handful of friends? I open the door and step out. The hot sticky air hits me. A car alarm sounds, and I jump, dropping my handbag. My head is too much in the past. I should go back and face the ghosts, clear Manstead once and for all. The vultures have been after it for years.
It takes 20 seconds to walk through the car park, the clicking of my heels echoing on the concrete floor. I enter the air-conditioned lift and lean my head against its cool interior. Once inside the flat I secure the locks on the door. Merlin looks up sleepily from his cat box. He meows as I take a carton of cat milk from the fridge and help myself to a beer. The beer is cold and refreshing and I drink it from the bottle. My phone bleeps and I take it through to the lounge. It’s a text from Donna.
Have you phoned him?
I’d hoped Donna might have forgotten about Simon Wane. I drop the phone onto a chair and turn on the air conditioning. Could I phone him? Could I take a chance? He doesn’t know who I am. I push the idea from my mind, grab my phone again and log into Facebook. My heart is thumping. There are no new friend requests. By the time I’ve finished the beer I’m feeling confident enough to phone Simon. I dial and wait, and am about to hang up when he answers. His voice is soft and curious to my ears. He doesn’t know who is calling. I’d deliberately withheld my number.
‘Hi, is that Simon?’ I ask.
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘Libby Warren. We met the other night at Donna and Joel’s. You probably don’t remember me …’
‘Yes I do. How are you?’
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. Donna gave me your number.’
‘I don’t mind at all.’
I can’t tell if he’s smiling or grimacing.
‘I was wondering. If you’re free tonight perhaps you’d like to meet for a drink. It’s a gorgeous night and there’s a nice place by the embankment. The Duchess, do you know it?’
‘Not very well but I’ll trust your judgement. Sounds great. What time shall I meet you?’
I’m already regretting my impulsiveness.
‘Say, in an hour?’
‘See you then.’
He hangs up before I can say goodbye.
The wardrobe is stuffed with designer clothes and I pull out dress after dress. Nothing seems right. What am I doing? It’s craziness to think I can form a relationship. It’s too awkward and the last thing I need is another one-night stand. A drunken fumble followed by a quick meaningless fuck. I’d had far too many of them. The men that had counted for anything hadn’t lasted once I’d told them the truth. They’d either been too afraid, worried that the ‘nutter’ would come after them, or morbidly fascinated, wanting me to retell the horror. While others had viewed me as some kind of freak, which I suppose in an odd kind of way, is what I am. I’m an object of fascination, someone who has witnessed a horror. It’s enough I relive that night in my nightmares without retelling it for someone else’s entertainment. That terrible thudding sound as Uncle Edward’s body had slammed against the wall. Aunty Rose’s terrified screams. The sickening gurgle in Uncle Edward’s throat and the spinning of the room as I tried to comprehend what was happening. The deafening shotgun blasts had left my ears ringing, and the blood, so much blood … His voice calling Libby. It had seemed to take forever to reach the main doors. The hallway was never ending. I ran but never seemed to reach the door, like a surreal scene from a horror movie. I ran and ran with the image of Aunt Rose’s breast hanging from her nightie where the force of the shot had ripped the material from her chest. My feet, cut, raw and bruised becoming numb beneath me.
I shake my head viciously to stop the memories. One drink, that’s all I’ll have. There’s no harm in one drink. It’s a warm night. It’ll be nice to stroll along the embankment. The place will be heaving on a night like this. It’s what I need. Galbreith won’t be able to hurt me while there are people around me. I’ll be damned if I’ll stay in.
I finally choose a thin print dress from the rail and accessorise it with a lace cape and pearl stud earrings. I’ll take a woollen wrap with me in case it gets chilly. I decide against make-up and style my hair in a loose knot at the nape of my neck. Donna knows Simon. I’ll be safe. All the same, I slip a rape alarm into my handbag.
I deliberate for a few seconds before taking a sharp kitchen knife from the drawer and dropping it into my handbag. When Ewan Galbreith does come for me I’m going to be ready.
*
The embankment is buzzing just as I had anticipated. I pay the cab driver and walk towards The Duchess. The boat is heaving with people and I strain to see Simon. He’s standing outside watching the boats on the Thames. His electric blue eyes sparkle on seeing me. Music drifts out from The Duchess and he nods towards the door.
‘It’s rather packed inside,’ he says. ‘Even worse there,’ he points to The Duchess’s adjoining boat. ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
I’m regretting being here already. I feel like things are sliding out of my control. The Duchess had been ideal. There were lots of people. There is safety in numbers.
‘There’s another bar further up,’ he suggests. ‘It’s a bit quieter.’
‘Great,’ I say.
We stroll along the embankment, the breeze from the Thames cool on my face. It’s too noisy to make conversation, so we don’t. The woollen wrap feels heavy and hot over my arm. I think of the cold beer in my fridge an
d Merlin curled up on the windowsill and I just want to go home. This is pointless. I’m edgy. My mind is on Ewan Galbreith. Is he among the throng here on the embankment? Is he watching me from afar? Damn him. Damn him to hell. I’m not looking where I’m going and I bump into someone. Simon puts out a hand to steady me.
‘You okay?’ he asks his hand strong and supportive on my arm.
‘Yes,’ I say, stepping away from him.
‘What would you like?’ he asks as we reach the bar.
‘A white wine would be great.’
At that moment a couple step away from a table and I hurry towards it, dropping my woollen wrap on the bench beside me. Everyone around me seems to be checking their phones. I check mine and scroll into Facebook. There are no new friend requests. I should come off it, but it is good for keeping in touch with clients. Simon is at the back of the queue and he waves. I scan the faces around me, looking for Ewan. Would I recognise him? He could be watching me right now. I glance behind nervously. When I look back Simon has gone. He must have moved further to the front. My throat feels tight and my mouth is dry. There’s the trilling of a phone and I realise it is mine. I fish in my handbag and my hand touches the knife. I feel comforted. The call is from a withheld number. Adrenaline rushes through my body.
‘Hello,’ I say.
No one speaks. It’s so noisy that I can’t tell if there is anyone at the other end of the line. I push the phone closer to my ear but hear nothing. I hang up and am about to throw it back into my bag when a voicemail notification pops onto the screen. I tap into it and listen but there’s only silence. I sigh heavily and throw the phone into my handbag.
How can the police do nothing? How can he intimidate me like this and they do nothing? My hands are trembling and I clench them together. There’s still no sign of Simon. I shiver even though it’s a hot humid night. I stand up to leave when my phone trills again and this time my breath catches in my throat when I see it is a withheld number.
‘Who is this?’ I demand.
