by Elle Croft
‘I understand,’ I lied. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be invited.’
‘Thanks, Bethany. That’s why we were out last night, actually. The team wanted to say goodbye, too. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you, it was just staff, really.’
‘Mark, please.’ An attempt to sound casual. ‘I totally get it. I appreciate you letting me join you for a bit, anyway.’
‘Of course. Hey, we should grab a drink sometime, once you’re done with the edits. My treat, to say thanks.’
‘Well, as long as it’s not tequila.’
He laughed and hung up, and I stared at my phone, wondering if I’d just spoken to Calum’s killer. I couldn’t picture it. Mark seemed genuinely upset when I’d seen him. But I suppose I wouldn’t know how a killer should act. I added another circle around Mark’s name and decided to do some digging, just in case.
In the meantime, I had a deadline that wouldn’t wait for anything, and I’d be damned if I’d put my reputation at even more risk. I’d never missed a deadline before, and I wasn’t going to start now.
Opening my laptop, I steeled myself for a day of staring at Calum’s very alive – and very profitable – face.
Chapter Nineteen
Riding the Tube had become a brand new experience for me over the past few days.
Since moving to London I’d tried, like all locals, to avoid the gaze of fellow passengers. It’s not, as tourists like to believe, that we’re all grumpy and incapable of enjoying human contact. It’s much more nuanced than that. After you’ve been squeezed onto a Tube at rush hour, being spooned by a stranger while your breasts are pressed against the back of yet another stranger, it becomes a form of courtesy to just pretend it’s not happening, to not acknowledge the awkwardness of it all. Avoiding eye contact is a way of preserving the illusion of personal space in a situation where that space is completely violated.
But now I found myself carefully inspecting everyone, trying to spot anyone who wasn’t following the unspoken ‘no staring’ rule. Looking for overly curious passengers who might recognise me from the footage. No one so much as glanced at me.
As I pushed open my front door, I spotted a pile of white envelopes. I froze and turned slowly on the spot, avoiding sudden movements, to check that no one was behind me, or watching from the street. Keeping the door open in case I needed to run, I shuffled through the envelopes, hands shaking. Bill, bank statement, junk mail, bill, Amazon parcel for Jason, Amazon parcel for me.
Relieved, I stepped inside, closing and double-locking the door behind me. I tore open my Amazon box and read the instructions for a self-defence spray I’d hastily ordered after the note had arrived. I tucked it into my handbag which I threw, along with the rest of the mail, onto the empty kitchen table.
Absent-mindedly packing groceries away, I planned the list of edits I needed to finish for Mark. Glancing through the kitchen window, I noticed how sunny it was outside, how many people were out walking their dogs, jogging, lying in the sun. I paused for a moment to stare at the smudges of clouds on their blue backdrop, and wondered what I’d be doing if Calum had still been alive, if I’d be with him, laughing and talking and flirting.
Pulling myself out of the daydream, I turned to the open cupboard behind me to put away a can of tomatoes. As I stood on the tips of my toes to reach the top shelf I stopped, my brain catching up with what my eyes had just registered. With all of the strength I could muster, I mentally commanded my arms to put the can down, and my body to turn around. To double check.
It was there. On the kitchen table. The kitchen table that had been empty when I’d walked in just a few minutes ago. Perched on top of the pile of bills and junk mail that I’d checked and rechecked because I was so scared of this exact scenario.
Well, not this, exactly. I was scared of an envelope coming through the letter box of my front door. Now, sitting on the table I’d had my back to for just a few minutes, was an envelope of thick, creamy paper; the kind you’d expect to deliver a wedding invitation. But this was no invitation.
Fear curled its way around my chest, coiling tighter and tighter. I whirled around, expecting to see someone looming over me, but the kitchen was empty. I spun again, eyes wide, half hoping someone was there because somehow it would just be better to know, to face whoever this was, but also praying that I was alone.
There was no one in sight. But there had been, just moments ago, only steps away from me, whisper-silent, completely undetected. I had looked out of the window for what felt like a few seconds, and in that time someone had been here with me. My whole body shuddered, once, violently, as I realised they could still be inside.
Staring at the scrawling letters that shouted my name from the envelope, I reached behind me for the largest knife in the wooden block on the countertop. I edged forward, hands trembling. The envelope, an innocuous construction of paper, might as well have been a death adder. Touching it felt dangerous, crazy. In one swift movement, I snatched the letter and my handbag and ran for the front door, fumbling with the lock I’d meticulously secured when I got home.
I slammed the door shut behind me and blinked, unsure what to do next. My lungs were working fast, like I’d just completed a sprint, and my whole body trembled. Black dots danced in front of my eyes.
I could hear footsteps coming my way. I clutched the knife, and with my free hand I reached for the wall behind me. I didn’t think I could hold myself up without something solid under my fingertips.
The wheels of a pram came into view and relief flooded me as a mother and her toddler appeared on the footpath straight ahead. She peered at me curiously. I wanted to cry out to her, to beg for help, but I couldn’t form the words.
Besides, how could she help?
Looking quickly away, she shuffled onwards, pulling her son close to her body.
‘No,’ I whispered. It was all I could manage, but it wasn’t enough. I tried to force my legs to run after her, to cling to her, for no other reason than because she wasn’t a threat. She was safe. But she was gone. And I was alone.
Then it hit me. The reason she’d wanted to get away from me so quickly. I was still gripping the kitchen knife, hands trembling from the strain.
I dropped the weapon with a clatter.
What if she called the police? I wouldn’t blame her; I must have looked frightening. But I couldn’t risk anyone else seeing me like this. I sat quickly on the front wall, and smoothed my hair, my clothes. I filled my lungs with air, then let it out slowly until the shaking stopped.
They could get inside my house. My locked house.
I had to look at the letter. I hadn’t opened it yet. It was creased now, damp from my sweat-soaked hands. As I broke the seal I spied another photo behind the clammy paper. Hands shaking, I pulled it out, a roaring sound building in my head. I blinked, willing my body to keep following my commands.
If the police wanted motive, here it was, balanced in my hands.
It was me in Calum’s apartment, clearly visible through the open sliding doors, waving my arms in the air, unmistakably angry. Calum looked incredulous, palms outstretched to me. Pleading.
Bloody hell, it looked bad.
I’d thought that the worst consequence of our fight would be us breaking up. But this photo, plus the one of me in my floppy hat the night of his murder, combined with my previous lies … it had murder suspect written all over it.
Someone had been watching us. It looked as though the photo was taken from another building close by, possibly the apartment block next door. Part of the view was obscured by what looked like a wall, but Calum and I were clearly visible. And we were clearly arguing.
The roaring in my head got louder, like waves battering the shore, driven by a relentless wind. I closed my eyes and forced a few deep, intentional breaths. I slowly unfolded the letter that was now a crumpled mess inside my clenched fist. Unwrapping my fingers to reveal the note, I spotted, without surprise, the same scrawling, forced handwriting as the letter I’d rece
ived just days earlier.
ANGER DOESN’T SUIT YOU, BETHANY, BUT FEAR DOES.
IT SUITED CALUM, TOO. HIS FACE WAS PLASTERED WITH IT, WHEN HE DIED.
BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT.
THE POINT IS THIS: I KNOW WHAT ELSE SUITS YOU, BETHANY: A MOTIVE.
P.S. YOU’RE OUT OF MILK. IS THAT ANY WAY TO WELCOME A HOUSE GUEST?
Chapter Twenty
My hand hovered over a pint of milk. I snatched it away again, fast, as though the plastic carton was radiating white-hot heat.
I’d been standing in my local supermarket, immobile, for what must have been twenty minutes, rejecting the kind offers of help that I’d received from three different staff members. I didn’t want the attention, but I was paralysed by indecision. I must have looked unhinged, my eyes darting between full fat, semi-skimmed, skimmed.
The chill that crept along my flesh, starting at the back of my scalp and seeping inside me, filling the spaces between my organs, had nothing to do with the fridge I was facing.
Calum’s killer had been inside my house.
This truth was scrolling across my consciousness, a relentless reminder. A murderer had been inside my home while I was there. In my kitchen. Just steps away from me. They had opened my fridge, inspected its contents and then written me a note. In. My. House.
And now, instead of being able to think clearly about what I needed to do next, I was weighing up whether or not to buy milk.
My stomach curdled as I recalled the words scrawled across that small piece of paper. I’d only read the note once, but once was enough. The message was burned onto my retinas now. I couldn’t unsee it.
Of course I didn’t want my intruder to feel at home. Of course I shouldn’t buy milk.
But I had to buy milk, didn’t I? There was no threat, no explicit demand in the note, but my imagination filled in the unwritten words. I willed myself to make a decision. To make the right decision.
The adrenalin that had fuelled my flight from the house was fading, and fatigue was setting in. As I left the supermarket, empty-handed, I realised that I had nowhere to go. No one to turn to for help, for advice. I had to work this out on my own. I didn’t know how closely the killer was watching me, and they’d told me in no uncertain terms not to talk. I couldn’t risk putting anyone else in danger, just because I wanted a shoulder to cry on.
I tried to tally up what I knew about my stalker. About Calum’s killer. It was no longer someone just delivering notes to my address. As scary as that was, it was nothing compared to the knowledge that whoever it was had also murdered Calum. Which meant they could just as easily kill me if I didn’t do what they said. Was that their plan? I suppressed a shudder. Now was not the time to be scared, or to give in to weakness. If I was going to get out of this mess, I needed to stay calm. In an attempt to force my mind away from wondering what it felt like to be stabbed, I made myself focus on the facts.
The picture I’d just received, the one of Calum and me fighting, meant that they’d been watching me – or us, or maybe only Calum – for weeks, at least. Which meant they knew about the affair. And as the first letter proved, they could identify me as the woman in the CCTV footage. Whoever this was wanted to make it look like I had a motive to kill Calum. They had my address, could somehow get inside undetected and, most puzzling of all, they wanted me to stay quiet. But about what?
I needed to move, to take action, to stop going round and around in circles in my head. What I wanted to do – was desperate to do – was run to the police station, beg to speak to Constable Clayton, tell her everything, see the shock on her face, demand protection. Just yesterday I’d been so certain that I should lie to her to keep my reputation intact. Today I’d gladly take the media storm, accept the shame, if it meant getting away from Calum’s killer.
After all, what good was my reputation if I was dead?
Instead, I Googled a locksmith, rang the number and told the chirpy woman who answered that I’d lost my house keys. They told me that Barry was on his way. I hoped Barry was strong and intimidating. While I waited, I called Jason. I couldn’t risk him coming home to bring me his set of keys, so I said I’d broken mine in the lock.
For the next forty minutes I sat at the bus stop across the road, staring at my flat and trying to detect any sign of movement through the kitchen window. There was nothing.
Barry arrived in a bright yellow van, which he scraped loudly on a lamp post as he pulled up outside my home. I winced at the sound, like nails on a chalkboard.
‘All right?’ He nodded, stepping onto the pavement. ‘Are you Mrs Reston?’
‘Yes, hi, thanks for coming,’ I said, disappointed that he was about my dad’s age and build. Unlikely to take on a killer, if there was one lurking inside my home. Still, he’d do. I wasn’t about to go inside alone.
‘Lost your key, hey? Don’t worry. It won’t take long, we’ll have you back inside in a jiffy. Beautiful day for it, anyway.’
Ten minutes of painful small talk later, he’d changed the lock and I’d asked him to come inside under the guise of grabbing cash to pay him.
I knew I should offer Barry a cup of tea. But I still had no milk.
Leaving him in the kitchen, I tiptoed through the house, terror lodged in my throat, choking me. I’d already told myself a hundred times, trying to make myself believe it, that if the killer had wanted to hurt me, they’d had a wealth of opportunity already. But my body still seized in anticipation every time I flung open a door or pulled aside a curtain. I’d never been so thankful to live in such a tiny flat. There really weren’t many places for an adult to conceal themselves.
Armed with a wad of twenties, I reappeared apologetically and waved Barry off, thanking him for his patience.
Alone again, with new locks but no sense of peace or safety, I poured a tumbler of vodka and finished it in three gulps, hoping it would calm my nerves or at least keep me sane until Jason got home.
With shaking hands, I pulled the notes and photographs out of the side pocket of my handbag and inspected them again. Feeling the vodka pushing its way back up my throat, I swallowed hard, focusing on the picture of our argument.
Someone was watching us. Someone could see into the apartment.
The words from my first letter screamed at me. I know. I almost choked on the realisation. Our photo shoot. If someone had seen our argument, if someone had been watching us, then it was possible they’d seen what we’d done just weeks before the argument. Is that what they claimed to know?
And if they knew about the shoot, did they also know about the evidence?
The memory card, taped to the cover of a business book.
Proof that Calum and I were having an affair.
Chapter Twenty-one
I couldn’t believe that our pictures, and the memory card that immortalised them, had completely escaped my mind since Calum’s death. I’d hated the idea of that photo shoot, the one Calum had insisted on for his birthday. I’d tried to use his habitual caution against him.
‘Surely a bunch of photos of the two of us naked together is more incriminating than a couple of texts on our phones?’ I’d said.
‘You can’t hack into a memory card. So unless I want someone to see those pictures – which I don’t – no one will ever see them. Except me,’ he’d replied. ‘I’ll look at them all the time.’
He’d winked, and I’d buckled. I’d always buckled when it came to Calum.
I’d been so nervous, so hesitant. I was a photographer, and I hated being on the other side of the camera. I pleaded with Calum, trying to convince him how awkward I looked in photos, how completely unnatural I was in front of the lens.
‘You won’t look awkward when I’m finished with you,’ was all he said in response, which of course ignited a fire in my cheeks. And under my skirt.
I’d bought a set of intricately restrictive lingerie for the occasion. Calum wanted naked, but I’d hoped he’d have a change of heart once he saw the lace and straps I
’d struggled to secure around my body that morning. After setting up the camera, I’d stripped down to the complicated ensemble, enjoying the greed in Calum’s eyes. It took just three shutter clicks before he wanted it off. Ten whole minutes of ungraceful manoeuvring later, I rejoined him in bed and as our bodies met I felt a thrill, the intensified pleasure of risk.
I felt better about the whole thing after I’d taken the time to delete a handful of images and edit the rest. The photos that I’d given Calum in the end were titillating without being lurid.
But it didn’t have to be a Playboy centrefold for it to be enough. Enough to expose our affair, enough to prove that I’d lied. Enough to suggest motive. The photo in my hands suggested that we were more than colleagues, but it didn’t actually prove anything. It would cast me in a suspicious light, there was no doubt about that. But it was nothing compared to the birthday present I’d given Calum just days before his death.
Terror flared up inside me as I thought about the police searching the apartment for clues. Had they found it? I shook my head. They couldn’t have, or I would have been questioned about our relationship by now. Perhaps Calum was right. Maybe no one would ever find the memory card in its incongruously practical hiding place.
I wanted to run to Bradley Enterprises, beg my way into his apartment, destroy the only evidence that could prove our affair. But instead I breathed in and made myself consider my options rationally. Storming into Calum’s home would only bring attention to myself. I desperately wanted to get rid of the evidence, but I reminded myself that the police hadn’t found it. So even if the killer knew that Calum had photos saved somewhere, it was impossible for them to know where. From the building next door, the vantage point the killer had used for watching us, it wasn’t possible to see as far inside Calum’s apartment as his desk. The only reason our argument had been visible was because the doors were flung wide open. So even if someone knew about our photo shoot, they couldn’t possibly know where the evidence was hidden.
