The Text

by Claire Douglas

  I bend my head, feeling a hot flush blooming up my neck. ‘Yes,’ I mutter.

  DC Grey folds up his notebook and shoves it into the inside pocket of his coat. DS Simpson stands up. They are going. Thank goodness. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  The atmosphere in the office the next day is one of shock. Everyone is talking about Andrew’s death.

  After the police left last night, Yasmin waited with me until Stuart arrived home, although he’d looked annoyed to see her clutching my hand, a tissue balled up in her lap.

  I still can’t believe that somebody murdered Andrew. I mean, he wasn’t a very nice man, I have to admit that. He was calculating, and a bully. He thought nothing of humiliating his colleagues in front of the rest of the team, or playing mind games. He was power hungry and a control freak. But murdered? Somebody hated him enough to break into his house at night and stab him to death.

  Lucinda is avoiding me, Yasmin seems to be in some kind of trance and Seth can’t stop acting like Inspector Morse.

  ‘Do you think it’s somebody we know?’ he says popping his head over the partition that separates our desks like a jack-in-the-box. ‘He was such a twat, nobody really liked him.’

  ‘Seth,’ I hiss, ‘he’s dead. You can’t say things like that.’

  ‘Why? It doesn’t suddenly turn him into a saint.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But … it feels wrong.’

  Seth lowers his voice. ‘Maybe it was his wife. She’d moved out, was staying with her mother apparently, but maybe she went back and killed him?’

  ‘It could have been an unprovoked attack. A robbery gone wrong …’

  ‘Nothing was stolen …’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about this, Seth,’ I say. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t you?’ We laugh because the idea really is ludicrous. Seth’s humour might be a bit close to the bone at times and he likes a practical joke, but he’d never hurt anyone.

  ‘How can you laugh at a time like this?’ snaps Lucinda from across the office. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me all day. I’m worried the police have told her that it was me who’d revealed she was having an affair with Andrew.

  ‘Sorry,’ mutters Seth, casting his eyes back to his computer. But I can see his shoulders shaking with mirth.

  When Yasmin drops me off that evening, I’m surprised to see the lights on in the house. Stuart must be home early for a change.

  ‘Have a great weekend, Yas,’ I say, reaching over and gently rubbing her upper arm. She’s been quiet all day. The shock of Andrew’s death has settled over all of us like water, washing us out, diluting our personalities. Apart from Seth. He’s managed to shake himself free of it. ‘Are you going to be okay? Really?’ I don’t like the thought of her in that depressing studio flat all alone, brooding over what’s happened. ‘You can come over any time. We’re not doing much.’

  She lifts her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be fine. It’s not like I knew him that well …’

  ‘I know. But, still. It’s horrible. Somebody we know being killed like that. I still can’t believe it. Anyway,’ I pick my bag up from the floor, ‘I’m here if you need me. And it’s my turn to drive next week.’

  She flashes me a weak smile as I get out of the car. ‘At least you can go to Edinburgh next weekend now,’ she says as I go to close the door.

  ‘Every cloud, huh?’ I say. But neither of us laughs. It doesn’t feel right to.

  I can hear Stuart moving around the kitchen as I walk into the living room. The aroma of minced beef sizzling in a pan instantly soothes me. And I suddenly feel grateful for Stuart, knowing he must have made a special effort to leave work early so that I wouldn’t have to come home to an empty house.

  I turn the television on to watch the local news and sure enough Andrew’s death is the first item to be shown. A solemn-faced journalist gives details in a lugubrious voice before the screen is filled with footage of Andrew’s detached house, police tape flapping in the wind. A female journalist is now interviewing an elderly neighbour who clutches a wiry terrier as she professes how she can’t believe something ‘so terrible’ has occurred on their leafy, middle-class street.

  I flinch as I feel Stuart’s arms around me.

  ‘Are you alright, Em?’ he says, perching next to me on the sofa. His eyes go to the TV screen. ‘Terrible business.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ I mumble.

  He turns to me and grimaces. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’ He seems uncomfortable, as though he has something on his mind.

  ‘What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  He shuffles and averts his eyes. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry. But there was a note. When I got home.’

  ‘A note?’

  ‘Pushed through the letter box.’

  I frown. What is he talking about? Without saying anything further he gets up and I follow him into the kitchen. He indicates a slip of paper on the worktop and I pick it up. It’s written in neat block capitals in blue biro.

  You wanted him dead. And your wish is my command.

  I grip the edge of the worktop, my mind swimming. Is this some kind of sick joke?

  ‘Maybe we should inform the police,’ says Stuart.

  ‘It’s probably just Seth having a laugh about the text, trying to wind me up.’ But it doesn’t feel very funny. And it’s in bad taste, even for Seth.

  Stuart’s face darkens, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he turns away from me to open the oven door, releasing a gush of hot air. I know how he feels about Seth. He’s one of the few people who never liked him. Seth and I have been friends ever since we both started at the company eighteen months ago. Funny with floppy sandy hair and a dirty laugh, I’d wrongly assumed he was gay when we first met. But then he asked me out. I was with Stuart of course so we had to have the embarrassing conversation where I told him I had a boyfriend and he pretended he meant it as a friendly drink. But we’ve managed to remain mates, although I can tell Stuart doesn’t like it. On the odd occasion when Stuart comes out with me on a work do he’ll watch Seth like a hawk, glaring at him every time he comes within a few feet of me, and as a result Seth never speaks to me when Stuart’s around.

  ‘I don’t want to see that bloke crawling around you,’ Stuart had said when I questioned him about it. ‘Doesn’t he know that you’re mine?’

  That comment certainly caused an argument. I accused him of being a sexist pig, and he shot back that I was a flirt. We made up, we always do, ripping each other’s clothes off and falling into bed. My mum thinks we have a volatile relationship and she’s right. But deep down I like that he gets jealous sometimes. It shows that he cares. That he loves me. We’re passionate, not like my parents who sit side by side every night with trays of food on their laps to watch some inane sitcom in silence because they have nothing to say to each other.

  Now my hand shakes as I re-read the note. It’s on lined paper that looks as though it’s been ripped from a spiral-bound notepad.

  You wanted him dead …

  Only Yasmin, Lucinda and Seth know what I said in my text. And they’re my friends. They’re normal, level-headed people, not secret psychopaths ready to kill on my behalf. This letter must be a joke, although I can’t think which one of my friends would be warped enough to send it.

  After we’ve eaten and Stuart is watching football, I slink off upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom to ring Seth.

  ‘Did you send a note today?’ I blurt down the phone before he’s even had a chance to speak. I repeat what it said.

  He inhales sharply. ‘Of course not. Bloody hell, Em, what do you take me for?’

  My stomach clenches. I was counting on it being Seth. Despite the sick nature of the note it is the sort of prank he would pull. He has a wicked sense of humour that can seem offensive if you don’t know how sweet and soft he really is. ‘Only the three of you know about the tex
t …’ I say, letting the implication hang in the ether. Does that mean one of my friends killed Andrew? My heart races. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Well,’ he says seriously, ‘if I were you I’d take that note straight to the police.’

  * * *

  The next morning I’m at the police station with Stuart. DC Grey sits opposite us in the small, dull interview room. He’s frowning as he reads the note, then he looks up. ‘Could be a prank,’ he suggests.

  ‘I don’t think my friends would do that,’ I insist.

  Stuart fidgets next to me. ‘Seth would.’

  DC Grey sits up straighter, suddenly interested. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s always been obsessed with my girlfriend. Sniffing around her …’

  DC Grey’s face grows serious. ‘Is this true, Miss Latimer?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. Seth is a friend, that’s all. He does have a bit of a warped sense of humour sometimes, but he told me he didn’t send the note and I believe him.’

  DC Grey watches me sceptically and I notice him exchanging glances with Stuart. He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m trying to cover for Seth. Why does everybody instantly take Stuart’s word over mine?

  ‘Right. Well,’ says DC Grey, folding the note and putting it into a file. ‘Let me take the names and contact details of the people who received your text and I’ll follow it up.’

  I retrieve my phone and rattle them off.

  ‘So you don’t think this note is from the killer?’ asks Stuart, pushing back his chair and stretching out his long legs. Even in his indigo jeans and polo neck he looks smart, authoritative, someone to be taken seriously. Dr Stuart Hawthorn. I feel envious of him in that moment and shrink into myself, feeling inadequate next to the police officer and my boyfriend. I’m just a number cruncher, not even a proper accountant. There was a time when I considered taking my chartered exams. But then I met Stuart and my career began to take a back seat to his. He often tells me I’ll be the one to give up my career – such as it is – anyway when we have kids, so what’s the point in doing all that training? I suppose he has a point.

  I realize by the way they are staring at me that they must have been talking to me. ‘Pardon?’ I say and Stuart looks faintly embarrassed.

  ‘I was just explaining to your boyfriend here,’ says DC Grey, ‘that we think it’s best we keep the note. It may be from the killer, but it may not …’

  Goosebumps break out all over my body. ‘Do you think …’ I pause. ‘Am I in danger?’

  Stuart reaches for my hand and holds it just that little bit too tightly. ‘Of course we’re not in danger, are we, detective? It’s probably just a silly prank, that’s all.’ I turn to look at him. His eyebrows are knotted, his face dark. Have I annoyed him? I can’t think why.

  It’s raining and we half run, half walk to the car. Stuart is still holding my hand but his face is a mirror image of the grey weather, his jaw clenched and jutting. He’s almost pulling me along.

  As soon as we get into the car he rounds on me. ‘You know this is probably Seth’s doing,’ he spits as he starts the engine. ‘You made me look stupid in there. Why are you covering for him? I’ve always told you he’s a weirdo but you don’t listen, do you? You’re so naïve sometimes, like a bloody kid. I always feel like I’ve got to protect you.’

  I stiffen. I can’t bear the thought of another row. I try to make myself smaller in my seat, inching down and pulling my knees up to my chest. But this infuriates him further. ‘For Christ’s sake, get your feet off of my seat.’ He leans over and slaps my feet off the chair, roughly. ‘I don’t want your dirty shoes on my leather upholstery.’

  ‘They’re not dirty,’ I say, offended.

  ‘We’ve just been in the pissing rain, of course they’re going to be dirty. And are you still thinking of going to Edinburgh next weekend?’ he snaps.

  ‘Well … yes, of course. It was only Andrew who was stopping me …’ I realize what I’ve said and fall silent, feeling guilty. It’s only because he’s dead that I can go.

  He gives a mirthless laugh. ‘It’s all worked out well for you, hasn’t it?’

  It escalates, as it always does. Who knows what the neighbours must think. Stuart yells, I scream, he throws my vase full of flowers at the wall so that it shatters into a zillion pieces, sending water and petals everywhere. I don’t even know what we’re rowing about – Seth, Andrew, my faux pas at the police station that was so minute I still don’t really understand what I did wrong. There seems to be more and more catalysts for Stuart’s anger these days.

  It culminates in him storming out and slamming the door behind him. I bend down to pick up the shattered vase at my feet, and the roses he’d given me after our last row, now all broken and bent. Tears stream down my face. I contemplate phoning Seth but worry that it will just infuriate Stuart even more, so I call Yasmin instead.

  ‘Can I come over tonight?’ I sob down the phone. ‘Me and Stuart have rowed and I don’t want to be on my own.’

  ‘You’ve rowed again?’ I can hear the disapproval in her voice. ‘Em … you can’t go on like this.’

  I pause. ‘I know,’ I say eventually.

  It’s gone 8pm and the street is cloaked in darkness. It’s still raining heavily, fat raindrops beating against my coat as I run to the car. My hands are shaking as I get behind the wheel, my heart racing, adrenaline coursing through me. Why do I feel like I’m being watched? Is the person who wrote the letter lurking outside my house? I can’t start the car quickly enough and drive too fast to Yasmin’s flat.

  She’s in her dressing gown when I get there, her long hair wet and hanging in ropes down her back. She looks like she’s lost weight. She smells of fruity shampoo and shower gel.

  ‘Hi, Ems,’ she says, smiling sympathetically, but her eyes are red, as though she’s been crying. She stands aside to let me in.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, concerned at how drawn she looks.

  ‘Of course. Just tired. I’m worried about you.’

  She makes me a cup of tea and I can see the sofa bed has been pulled out. ‘You’re staying tonight, yes?’

  I nod, my throat tight, trying to hold back the tears. I perch on the edge of the sofa bed, cradling the mug of tea.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks gently, joining me.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What happened?’

  And so I tell her. About the note, about the visit to the police station, about Stuart’s obsession with Seth. ‘It’s getting worse,’ I sniff. ‘I’m too scared to mention the bloke in case it sends Stu into a jealous rage. Nothing is going on with me and Seth. We’re just friends …’

  She touches my arm and I flinch. ‘Em.’ She looks solemn. ‘Does Stuart … does he hurt you?’

  I can’t look at her as I nod, tears spilling from my eyes.

  She pulls me into her arms so fiercely that tea slops onto my lap. ‘Oh, Em,’ she says into my hair.

  I’m tucked up in a flowered duvet of Yasmin’s when my mobile rings. Yas has turned in for the night. We chatted for hours, going over and over the same ground until we were both blurry eyed and exhausted. She doesn’t say it but I know she thinks I should leave Stuart. I have tried. On numerous occasions. But I’m a coward, I guess. Despite everything, I love him. When he’s not in a temper he’s the sweetest man. He makes me feel protected and safe. And it’s not as though he beats me up. It’s a shove here, a twist of the wrist there, a pinch to my upper arm, a thump to my thigh if he’s really annoyed. His job is demanding, stressful. It means he gets angry sometimes. I think of our lovely little house and the thought of moving out, of living in a studio flat like Yasmin, all alone, it’s depressing, quite frankly. I don’t want to start again. The dating scene fills me with dread. And for the most part we get on well. It’s really only ever Seth that causes problems between us.

  I pick up my mobile expecting it to be Stuart apologizing and begging for me to come
home. But Seth’s name flashes up on the screen. Why is he calling now? It’s after midnight. If Stuart checks my phone he’ll think something’s going on. It will make matters worse.

  ‘Hello,’ I whisper into the handset so as not to disturb Yasmin.

  ‘Sorry to be calling so late,’ his voice sounds flat and devoid of his usual good humour.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘I had a visit. From the police. They asked me about a note that I supposedly sent to you. Did you tell them I sent that note?’

  I sigh. ‘No, of course not. Stuart came with me to the police station. He implied …’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me,’ he snaps. ‘Bloody typical. Honestly, Em, what do you see in that bloke?’

  I’m tempted to tell him everything, but that wouldn’t be fair. To him. To Stuart. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say instead, ‘if he landed you in it.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. So I’m not worried. I didn’t send you that note, Emily. I hope you know that.’

  He sounds so sincere that I tell him I believe him but even as I’m saying it I realize it’s a lie. I can’t trust anybody. Least of all the three recipients of my text message.

  Stuart is sheepish when I get home the next morning, all apologetic contriteness, trying to get around me by making me breakfast and being loving. But I feel numb as I sit on our sofa in yesterday’s clothes.

  Stu’s warning about Seth seeps into my consciousness as though he’s brainwashed me. I find myself wondering if he’s right, if he sees something in Seth that I don’t see. Something malevolent. Maybe I am naïve.

  You wanted him dead. Your wish is my command.

  The words blow around in my head like dandelion seeds in the wind.

  Could Lucinda be responsible, or, God forbid, Yasmin? Part of me wishes that Seth had written it as a prank. It would have been a twisted thing to do but at least I wouldn’t be thinking the worst. That one of my friends murdered Andrew. For me.

  In the days that follow all I can think about is that note and its sinister words. I avoid Seth, trying not to notice the hurt on his face when I decline a lunch invitation, or walk away from him when he tries to gossip with me by the coffee machine. Lucinda is barely talking to me anyway as she thinks I dobbed her into the police about her affair with Andrew, so steering clear of her is easy. And Yas … lovely, sweet Yas. As we drive home from work on Tuesday she delivers a hand grenade.