The Secret_An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by K. L. Slater

  I expect one of her stock vitriolic replies to come back, but instead, her rigid stance deflates like a burst balloon right in front of me. I can’t do or say anything, because the shock of seeing her bluster disintegrate so unexpectedly has plunged me into a frozen silence of my own.

  ‘Because that’s exactly how it feels…’ she whispers, her eyes full. ‘Like everyone is out to get me. Right now, Alice, I feel so utterly and completely alone.’

  * * *

  Later, when Louise and Archie have left, I decide to send a text to my sister.

  Hope you’re OK. Just call me day or night if you need to talk. A x

  It feels as if the barrier between us has shrunk a little. Even though she left soon after my little outburst, the fact that she let me see her vulnerability at all is a big step forward. Maybe soon she’ll be ready to talk and we can stop dancing around each other regarding my concerns about Archie.

  When I explained that I’d grown closer to Archie and would like to continue to see him more regularly, even if she didn’t need me to child-mind him, Louise didn’t shoot me down in flames.

  ‘We’ll see.’ She nodded. ‘I know you care about him.’

  * * *

  I open the kitchen drawer and take out James’s phone.

  He’ll definitely realise he’s lost it by now. He’ll have already scoured his pockets, and been back to the coffee shop, no doubt. He’ll wake this morning knowing I’m probably his last chance, that maybe I picked it up when he left.

  My chance to return it has arrived. I can take it to him directly by getting on the tram this morning.

  I shower and wash my hair. Then I make coffee and slowly, ignoring the twinges in my back and hips, get myself ready.

  I dress again in the new jeans and boots I bought online, and just before eight a.m., I shrug on my new dark pink duster coat.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I consider my image as someone else might. My hair looks clean and brushed but is a bit shapeless. I catch a tiny glimmer of grey at my temples that I haven’t noticed before.

  But my skin is smooth and blemish-free and my eyes, enhanced with a little mascara, look bright enough. I turn off the light above the mirror and leave the room.

  I think I look presentable, but with a good haircut and colour and maybe a make-up lesson at one of the department stores in town, I could make great strides in improving my image.

  As I leave the flat, I decide I’ll call in at the department store this morning and make a start on the new me.

  * * *

  I look around me, recognising some of the other passengers I usually view from my window above.

  The tram stop is busy this morning, perhaps busier than usual, although it could just be that it feels that way, being one of the crowd instead of a detached spectator.

  The digital display above me informs passengers that the tram will arrive in four minutes’ time. I push through the bodies to the ticket machine and buy a return to the Old Market Square.

  In my pocket, my hand closes around the cool casing of James’s phone. I turned it off on the journey home from the coffee shop. It seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances. Plus, I didn’t really trust myself not to answer it if it rang.

  It’s only now that I realise I’ve prevented James from contacting me – he was probably calling his own number all last night.

  Inside, a small wisp of cynicism flutters through me before I squash it flat. It’s not true that I wanted a valid reason to see him this morning. That’s not why I turned it off; it just made me feel a bit jumpy, knowing it was ‘live’ in my pocket.

  The crowd starts to close in around me and I crane my head to look down the road. It’s getting busy with traffic now, the start of the rush hour. Cars, buses and bicycles whizz by, and here is the tram, just coming into view at the bend.

  It is brightly lit and the shiny silver and dark green livery brightens the dull morning. My heart rate picks up seriously and I know that as I board, my hands will be damp.

  The tram approaches and I’m struck by how much the front of it looks like a snake: its slightly pointed nose with an incline that resembles a smooth reptilian forehead.

  My insides are liquid when I think about James’s reaction. Will he be relieved to see me when he realises I have his phone? Will he be pleased because it’s another chance for us to chat?

  The crowd carries me forward to the door and I fall in line as a loose queue forms. The doors whoosh open, and as I wait, I look back at the few passengers alighting to ensure James hasn’t decided to get off in search of his phone.

  When I’m sure he hasn’t, and it’s my turn, I step up onto the platform and scan my ticket. I move down the aisle towards the second carriage, where I know he will be sitting.

  I have the strangest sense of being outside of myself. The voices around me, the faces that glance up as I pass… they all seem slightly removed from reality.

  I pass through the first carriage and into the second. James’s carriage. It’s busy in here and I feel irritated as a woman and two noisy young children take their time getting seated, holding everyone up.

  Finally they sit down and those of us still in the aisle shuffle forward. I’m straining my neck trying to spot James when suddenly his seat comes into view.

  I carry on walking to the last carriage, looking wildly at all the seats until the realisation hits me.

  James isn’t on the tram this morning.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  As the tram starts to move, I turn and walk back through to the second carriage and sit down in what I’ve come to think of as James’s seat.

  An ageing rocker wearing a pair of white Beats turns and watches me for a moment, but I look away and stare out of the window.

  It’s been weeks now and James has never missed a single morning. Same seat, same time, same tram. It doesn’t make sense.

  After a few minutes, common sense prevails and I realise how ludicrous my reaction is. There could be a number of highly plausible explanations for his absence.

  He could be ill; maybe a cold or stomach bug has laid him low. He might have an appointment or a day’s leave booked from work.

  I take his phone out of my pocket and turn it on, keeping my finger on the on/off button for a few seconds. I should never have turned it off; he’s probably been ringing it for ages and been worried. I don’t know what I was thinking of.

  There should have been movement on the screen by now, but it remains black and unresponsive. I try pressing the button again, but still no luck. It must be out of charge.

  I inspect the phone. It’s an old-fashioned Nokia. I used to have a similar model until I traded it in for something a bit less basic. It looks like the kind of low-cost handset you’d get on a pay-as-you-go contract and just use for calls and texts.

  I pop it in my bag, pleased I made the decision to carry on into town. I should be able to buy a charger for it there, though first there’s something else I want to do.

  When I look up again, I see we’re nearly at the Old Market Square. Deep in thought about the phone, I haven’t even noticed people getting off and on, and now the tram is quite full, although nobody has sat next to me, thankfully.

  When we reach our destination, I head off across the square to the coffee shop I sat in with James yesterday. It’s less busy, so I join the short queue, and when it’s my turn, I order a regular latte.

  ‘Staying in or taking out?’ the spotty, bored young man asks in a monotone.

  ‘Staying in. Do you happen to know if a man has been in here asking about a lost phone?’ I reach for a napkin.

  ‘A lost phone?’ he repeats unhelpfully.

  ‘Yes. My friend lost his phone in here yesterday and I wondered if he’d been in to ask about it yet.’

  The corners of his mouth turn down to indicate he hasn’t a clue and doesn’t much care.

  He turns to the stocky young woman with short dark hair who is using the milk steamer behind
him. I remember seeing her when I left the shop yesterday.

  ‘Know anything about a lost phone, Cath? Anybody been in asking about it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she calls, keeping her eyes on the stream of piping-hot milk gushing from a thin stainless-steel pipe. ‘Nobody’s asked on my shift.’

  He bends down before standing back up again, his face blank. ‘Nothing behind the counter here.’

  ‘Thanks for looking,’ I say.

  I take my latte over to the table James and I sat at yesterday. I remember the annoying couple opposite us, canoodling and embarrassing themselves. I sip my coffee and think about how distracted James was during the last few minutes I was with him. I still feel certain he was unnerved by the phone calls flashing up on the screen.

  I sit there for another ten or fifteen minutes, staring at the door. I admit I’m thinking there’s a chance James might pop in here looking for his phone.

  But the time drags slower than I thought it would and I realise I could sit here all day in the vain hope of seeing him.

  As I pass the counter on my way out, Cath and the lanky young man who served me watch me leave. When I walk past the main window, they’re saying something to each other and laughing.

  It probably was a stupid thing to ask – if my friend had been in to ask about his lost phone – but I’m still surprised at how rude people can be. They’re supposed to be helpful to customers, after all.

  I walk up Long Row a little way and pause to look in the window of Debenhams. There’s still fifteen minutes to go to opening time. Perhaps I’ll call back in a little while to book that makeover appointment.

  The windows feature mannequins dressed in stylish floral dresses and brightly coloured culottes. I feel more comfortable in conservative shades now, but when I worked at the gallery, I loved dressing up in striking outfits. You could get away with it in a place like that.

  It’s only two years ago, but it might as well be a lifetime away.

  I realise the electrical shop I’m heading for probably isn’t open yet either, so I sit on the low wall, looking into the square itself.

  To the left is the Council House, with its iconic dome and friendly stone lions. At nine a.m. its bell will sound and will be heard up to seven miles away. To the right are the new fountains, a feature that’s been constant since the square itself was redesigned in 1927. There’s a photo in Mum’s boxes in the spare room of the flat featuring me and a young Louise splashing around with our trousers rolled up.

  I’m starting to feel a little more logical now I’ve stopped rushing around. I like sitting here. I feel almost invisible watching everyone around me walking with purpose, talking on their phones or trying to manage their kids.

  The council house bell dings nine times and I get up and head for Beastmarket Hill, which flanks the square. Mr Partridge is just opening up at the small electrical shop I’ve used for years.

  I always think it’s a miracle that this shop, surrounded by the big chain stores, has survived, but Mr Partridge once explained that his family owned the building and were therefore not at the mercy of greedy landlords taking all their profits by constantly hiking up rent.

  Five minutes later, I emerge with a charger for the Nokia. That’s the beauty of this place: Mr Partridge rarely throws anything away, so it’s the place to come for accessories for older models of phones.

  I’m near the tram stop now, but rather than head over there, I hesitate, thinking for a few moments.

  It’s entirely possible that James came into town early for an appointment or a meeting. I remember the day I followed him across the square, and that gives me an idea.

  I stand up and begin walking. Past the lions and down Exchange Walk to St Peter’s Gate, where I turn left and head for the small street where I saw him disappear before.

  I stand at the corner before walking a few steps further to the large black door at the end.

  Emperor Knight.

  I look at the shiny brass plaque and the button beside it. I could buzz up now, ask if James is in.

  And then I realise I don’t even know whether he works here. The reality of the situation is that he’s just a guy I’ve seen on the tram and spoken to for a few minutes. Yet I feel I know him.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A short, thin man in his early twenties, dressed smartly in a shirt and tie but without a jacket, steps out from the corner of the building. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

  ‘I’m just… Do you work here?’

  ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘Are you a solicitor?’ I look at him dubiously.

  ‘I wish,’ he laughs, flicking his cigarette to the floor and extinguishing it with his shoe. ‘I’m just temping here, doing a bit of admin.’ He walks towards me. ‘Have you got an appointment?’

  ‘No. I was… looking for someone who works here. A friend.’

  He taps a number into the security keypad and pushes open the door.

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s his name?’

  ‘James Wilson,’ I say.

  ‘James Wilson. James Wilson… Sounds familiar.’ He pinches the top of his nose. ‘I know! He came in the other day. But he doesn’t work here, he’s a client of Mr Forts. I checked him in. That’s one of my jobs, see.’

  A client?

  ‘I don’t suppose you know what he needed to see a solicitor for?’ I say.

  He laughed. ‘Have you heard of the data protection act? As it happens, I don’t know, but if I did, I couldn’t say anyway. If I wanted to keep my job.’

  ‘Of course,’ I mumble, turning away. And then I have a thought. ‘Can I just ask, what sort of law does Mr Forts specialise in?’

  ‘Criminal law,’ he says as he steps inside the building. ‘That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Once I’m back on the tram, travelling home, I google Mr Forts, Emperor Knight, Nottingham.

  A picture of a smiling bald man in his late forties loads in the ‘About Us’ section of the firm’s website. I scan through Andrew Forts’ experience and biography, to the list of services he specialises in, and discover that he conducts work in police stations, magistrates’ court, crown courts and appeal courts.

  It’s all very general and doesn’t really tell me anything, doesn’t give me a clue what James might have been seeking advice on.

  Is he in some kind of trouble? He said the phone calls he received in the coffee shop were from work. He seemed irritated by the first two, but then that last call came in and he was definitely spooked by whatever he saw on the screen.

  It’s a mystery and almost impossible to second-guess why he was seeking advice at Emperor Knight.

  My mind drifts as the tram speeds out of the city, and I find myself thinking about Louise again. I wonder if she’s been thinking about opening up to me a little. I could see she too felt we’d started to break down the barriers between us last night.

  I’m convinced something is really troubling her, but trying to get her to speak honestly about what is happening in her personal life is going to be a challenge. As is having her admit that Archie might be struggling.

  She’s stubborn and defensive by default. I remember only too well how her automatic response has always been to defend herself to the hilt, even when it’s obvious she is in the wrong. One incident in particular comes to mind.

  Three years earlier

  My preparations for the gallery’s launch event were going splendidly, but I needed to clarify a couple of things with the big boss. I asked Jim when we might expect Finn at the shop.

  ‘We’ll be seeing him less and less,’ Jim told me. ‘He’s a busy man, still a working artist himself, and once the gallery is up and running, he’ll probably only come over here two or three times a year.’

  But the next morning, Finn called in.

  He and Jim had some business to deal with in the back office, so I left them to it. The launch event was only two weeks away now, and we’d
just taken delivery of a very important order from Louise’s company, East PR.

  I opened the box and took out one of the glossy, stylish pamphlets to inspect. They looked good, minimalist and yet managing to include all the information.

  Next, I opened the smaller box containing the exclusive invitations that Mr Visser had chosen himself and Louise had personally overseen.

  I gingerly unwrapped the cellophane and extracted one of the beautiful, weighty ivory cards printed in silver and black. She’d done us proud. I felt certain Mr Visser would love them.

  I turned it over and read through the elegant script… and froze.

  The gallery founder, Mr Finn Vasser, warmly invites you…

  Vasser! The most important name on the invitation had been spelled incorrectly.

  I slipped the invitation quickly into my bag and then hid the box under the desk and piled a heap of bubble wrap on top of it.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I stared at the office door.

  How was I going to explain this?

  The launch event was happening in just two weeks’ time, and as per Mr Visser’s detailed instructions, we were all set to send out the invitations by first-class post the next day.

  ‘It’s imperative we give people a two-week window,’ he’d told us only a few days ago. ‘The art world is full of busy diaries and we need to ensure The Art Box appears in many of them.’

  I crept to the office and listened outside the door. Jim and Mr Visser were still deep in conversation, so I decided I should be safe to make the call.

  I walked into the main showroom and brought up the list of contacts on my phone.

  ‘Can I call you back?’ Louise answered without a greeting. ‘I’m just about to go into—’

  ‘No, Louise. You can’t call me back. The invitations have arrived and there’s a spelling mistake on there. A huge one.’