by T. M. Logan
Sarah shrugged.
‘The dean’s playing his cards very close to his chest. It’s like they’ve all taken a vow of silence. Either that or they just don’t know.’
‘You think?’ Laura speared a piece of battered cod and put it in her mouth. ‘Of course they know. They’re just not saying.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Someone always knows.’
Sarah took another small bite of her sandwich.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Aren’t you enjoying it, though?’
‘What? No. What do you mean?’
‘I mean the creepy bastard not being around?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Sarah, are you OK? You’re not worried about Lovelock, are you?’
Sarah stopped chewing.
‘Why would I be worried?’
‘No idea. I just thought you’d be doing cartwheels, with him being gone.’
‘I’m a bit old for cartwheels.’
Laura checked over her shoulder and leaned forward, dropping her voice so that no one else would hear.
‘Do you think he’s dead?’
Sarah felt a needle of fear in her chest. She took another small bite of her sandwich, the taste like ashes in her mouth.
How long until people figure it out? Even without a body, sooner or later it would be obvious.
‘What?’
‘Perhaps he’s dead? One of those people who just goes to the Scottish Highlands with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a hundred paracetamol, and decides to take them all and lie down on a mountain top.’
If only, Sarah thought.
‘It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing he would do.’
‘More’s the pity,’ Laura said quietly.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that. Not when he’s missing.’
‘He’d be doing the world a favour.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Sarah said.
‘True though, isn’t it? You had the worst of him, you’re one of those who bore the brunt of it for the last two years. Everyone knows it.’
‘Everyone?’ Sarah repeated. She could feel her nerves jangling, feel the heat rising in her throat.
‘It’s true, isn’t it? What about that chat we had at mine, the other week? About doing something really bad that no one would ever find out about? Don’t tell me you never wished he’d just fall under a bus.’
Sarah shook her head.
‘No. And you mustn’t tell anyone else that, either.’
‘Why?’
‘Just don’t, OK?’
Laura froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She returned it to her plate.
‘Hang on a minute, do you think they suspect you of being involved in him going AWOL?’
‘They will if people keep on saying that I was one of his victims.’
‘But you were, love.’
Sarah slammed her palm down on the table, the sound of it surprising them both.
‘I know. But the police will see that as motive!’
A little circle of silence spread out around them as other students and staff in the cafeteria turned towards the noise. When they saw that it was not going to blow up, they turned back to their food.
Sarah rubbed her forehead with her fingers, telling herself to calm down.
‘The police are looking for suspects with a motive. They’ll include me in that group if they think I had a reason to harm Alan.’ She slumped back in her chair. ‘Or if they think I could have asked someone else to harm him.’
‘Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to upset you. But that’s mad, isn’t it? You having a motive?’
‘The police might not think it’s mad.’
‘I don’t think you should worry about it. It’s not like you are involved, is it?’
Sarah studied her friend for a second, trying to work out whether she knew more than she was letting on. Of course she doesn’t. I’m being paranoid. Aren’t I?
‘No,’ she said finally. ‘But the police may put two and two together and make five.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Listen,’ Sarah said, ‘I need to ask you a favour.’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘When I was at yours the other night, for the sleepover with the kids, I asked you that hypothetical question about whether you’d do something if you knew you’d get away with it. You know, like maybe something illegal.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘I’d really appreciate it if that stayed just between the two of us.’
‘OK.’
‘In view of what we’ve just discussed about the police jumping to conclusions.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Sure. But you didn’t . . . ’ She trailed off.
‘No, of course I didn’t. But if the police hear about that conversation, God knows where they’ll go with it.’
‘I understand.’ Laura made a zipping motion across her mouth. ‘Lips sealed.’
‘Thanks, you’re a star.’ Sarah made a show of looking at her watch, then stood and dropped her half-eaten sandwich into a nearby bin.
‘Listen, I’ve got to head back up to the office. Thanks for coming over.’
Laura picked up a last chip from the plate and bit it in half.
‘I’ll walk out to the car park with you.’
Sarah distractedly checked her mobile as they walked out into the atrium. A text message from an unrecognised number had arrived a few minutes ago. She clicked on it.
I know what you did.
52
Everything seemed to grow quiet around her. Distant. She stopped walking, staring at the text message on her phone. Just five words. But with the potential to destroy everything.
I know what you did.
There was a lurching, plummeting sensation in her stomach as if she was in freefall.
‘Sarah? Are you all right?’
She couldn’t respond. Her throat was suddenly so tight she couldn’t form the words.
Laura moved nearer, as if to look at the screen of the mobile.
‘Is it something from Nick?’
Sarah just about managed to hit the phone’s home button to make the message disappear before Laura saw the words.
‘It’s nothing,’ she choked out, shoving the phone into her bag.
‘Are you sure? You look a bit freaked out. Are you OK?’
‘I have to go.’
‘Can I help, Sarah?’
‘I really have to be getting back.’
They walked back to the department, Sarah batting away her friend’s questions with short answers.
Back at her desk, she took out her phone and looked at the text message again, a chill creeping over her skin.
I know what you did.
The sender was just displayed as a number. Her phone’s address book didn’t recognise it. So who was it from? Who would send a message like this? Perhaps one of Lovelock’s friends or colleagues from the faculty? It suddenly occurred to Sarah that there was a much more likely candidate: Caroline Lovelock, his wife. She remembered seeing her on the TV news a couple of days ago, staring straight into the camera. She remembered the icy glare she had given her and Marie at the party a few weeks before. What was it Gillian Arnold had told her that night? ‘I was even getting abusive texts and emails from Caroline, his wife. Can you believe that? Like it was all my fault . . . ’
Could it be that Caroline somehow suspected Sarah was involved in her husband’s disappearance? Her half-eaten lunch rolled in her stomach and she fought back a wave of nausea and guilt, thinking about what his wife – widow? – must have been going through these past six days. Taking three deep breaths, she typed a careful reply.
Who are you?
Pressed send.
She continued staring at the screen, willing the message to be a mistake, a misdirected text meant for someone else. It was easily done – one wrong digit
was all it would take.
But somehow, she doubted it.
I know what you did.
But what did they know? What exactly did they know? And more importantly, how?
She needed answers. But her phone remained obstinately silent.
With shaking hands, she typed another short text.
Who is this?
No reply.
She sat, staring at the screen, waiting for a reply to drop in. When she couldn’t wait any longer she got up and went to the window with the sudden idea that perhaps the sender was out there, right now, staring up at her.
She scanned the scene in the car park below. The usual ambling students clustered in small groups, chatting on their way to lectures or the union.
There was no sign of Lovelock’s wife, or anyone else who looked out of place.
Still standing by the window, she held the mobile in front of her and called up the text message again. With only the faintest idea of what she would say, she selected the mobile number and pressed dial.
She had to know who this person was, how they’d got her contact details.
It couldn’t be Caroline Lovelock, could it? There was no way she could know, was there?
One way or another, she had to know. The number rang three times and then, with a click, it was answered.
They picked up.
Sarah held her breath, straining to hear a voice, anything.
Across the electronic distance came a faint sound of breathing. She pressed the phone harder to her ear, straining to hear the person at the other end.
‘Hello?’ Sarah said. ‘Who is this?’
The breathing diminished into silence at the other end of the line.
‘Who is this?’ she said again, her voice rising.
With a click in her ear, the line went dead.
53
Sarah phoned in sick the next day, unable to face the prospect of work. With the kids at school, she was alone in the house.
Alone with her thoughts.
She thought about driving out to Lovelock’s house to speak to Caroline face to face, rather than sitting here, waiting for her to send another threatening text. But as soon as it entered her head, she recognised that it was a very bad idea – for lots of reasons. She jumped as her mobile pinged with a text message. Heart in her mouth, she unlocked the phone. Fear turned to frustration when she saw the message was from Nick.
We should talk. Are kids OK? And you? xxx
Nick had been gone more than six weeks now and had not returned her last two messages. She put the phone down, thinking she might reply, she might not – but she certainly wasn’t going to respond straight away. She would let him stew for a little while, until she had worked out how she felt about her husband. Whether she wanted him back – now or ever.
She started as her phone beeped again, the sound piercing in the midday quiet of her childless house. Clearly Nick couldn’t cope with her silence. Now he’d made contact, she knew he would keep texting her until she replied. She grabbed the phone and unlocked the screen, resigned to the prospect of a lengthy back and forth with her husband.
It was another text from the unknown number.
Perhaps everyone should know what you did.
She stared at the words, the breath catching in her throat. Her hands shaking, she typed the same question she had asked the day before.
Who is this?
The reply was almost immediate. But as before, it ignored her question entirely.
Your house. 1 p.m. today.
She dropped the phone and covered her mouth. That was less than twenty minutes from now.
Whoever it was, they were coming to her house.
Another text message landed as she picked the mobile up off the floor.
Share this with anyone and I will go to the police instead.
She dialled 999 anyway, her thumb hovering over the green call button.
But what was she supposed to say?
Well, officer, someone offered to kill my boss, and now his wife – at least I think it’s his wife – is threatening to expose what I did. And she’s coming to my house in fifteen minutes. Can you send an officer round please?
It was ridiculous. Of course she couldn’t ring the police.
She called her dad’s number instead, listened to it ringing and ringing before it went to voicemail. She hung up and rang him again, this time waiting for the voicemail message to end.
‘Dad? It’s Sarah. Can you ring me when you get this please? It’s urgent, really important. Thanks.’
She hung up and ran into the hallway, slotting the chain into place on the front door.
She’s coming to the house.
She checked the windows front and back to make sure there was no one already there, watching her. She went into the lounge, then the kitchen, then upstairs to the front bedroom to look out onto the street. Back downstairs into the lounge, sitting on the edge of the sofa staring at the big clock above the fireplace.
Be prepared. For anything.
She went back into the kitchen and pulled the sharpest blade out of the knife block, a black-handled boning knife; holding it in her hand for a moment then sliding it back into the block. She withdrew it again and took it into the lounge, looking for a place to conceal it, somewhere out of sight.
There. She placed it on top of the bookcase where it couldn’t be seen but where she could reach it if she stretched her arm up.
She fetched the Stanley knife from the toolbox and gripped the cold steel handle, pushing the blade out with a click-click-click until an inch of sharp steel was exposed. It was a brand new blade but she still tested it against the ball of her thumb, nicking herself in the process. Blood oozed into the wound and she sucked it away, the taste coppery in her mouth. She retracted the blade back into the handle and put the Stanley knife on top of the stack of cookbooks in the kitchen, high enough so the kids wouldn’t be able to reach. Repeated the process with the poker from the fireplace, which she laid on the floor next to her bed.
But it was no good. The walls were closing in on her.
There had to be a better way to do this. She didn’t have to sit here, stuck in a web and waiting for the spider to return. She grabbed her coat and scarf and a beanie hat that belonged to Nick, scooped her car keys out of the bowl in the hall, and with a final check out of the window she undid the chain and opened the front door. Another quick check up and down the road – all clear – as the front door slammed shut behind her. She jumped into her car and reversed it out before parking it on the other side of the street, three doors down from her own house. Put on the hat, coat and scarf, and hunkered down low in her seat.
12.57.
Three minutes until the appointed time.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming call.
‘Sarah?’ her dad said. ‘I got your message, is everything all right?’
‘It’s fine, it’s all – all under control.’
‘Are you at home? Do you want me to come over?’
She scanned up and down the street again. Still quiet. From where she sat, she could see anyone who arrived at her house before they saw her. And if she had to, she could just drive away before they even knew she was watching. She pulled the beanie hat a little lower on her head.
‘No, I’m OK. But could you do me a favour? Could you get the kids from school and have them at yours this afternoon?’
‘Of course, love. They can have tea at mine if you like, and then I’ll bring them over before bedtime.’
‘Perfect.’
‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Dad.’
They said their goodbyes and hung up.
Mrs Lowry, one of her neighbours, was coming down the street with her little terrier, Buster. Sarah looked down, pretending to be checking her phone, trying hard not to catch her eye. But she was a second too late. She sensed Mrs Lowry slow and stop next to her car.
Sarah finally looked up at her, buzzing the wi
ndow down.
‘Hello, Jean,’ she said briskly.
‘Hello there, dear.’ Mrs Lowry was bent over her walking stick and bundled up against the November wind. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Just going to nip to the shops in a minute.’
‘Oh.’ She peered over Sarah’s shoulder to see if anyone was in the back of the car with her. ‘Children at school?’
‘Yes, I’m on pickup duty later.’
‘Awfully cold to be sitting out here in your car, though.’
‘I needed some fresh air,’ Sarah said, willing her elderly neighbour to take the hint. The longer she stood there, the more attention she would draw to Sarah’s presence on the street. ‘But you should get indoors, Buster looks absolutely perished.’
The truth was, Buster always looked perished. He didn’t seem to have enough fur to cover himself and was always shivering, winter or summer. His whiskery little face was pinched and nervous.
Go, Sarah thought again. If someone pulls up now you will be the first thing they look at. You, then me.
Mrs Lowry didn’t take the hint.
‘How’s that cat of yours?’
‘Jonesy?’
‘The ginger one. He was in my garden again the other day, doing his business in my flower bed. Gave Buster a terrible fright, he did.’
‘Oh. Sorry about that. I’ll check the fence later.’ She turned the keys in the ignition as if she was going to leave, the Fiesta’s engine coughing into life. ‘I best get that shopping done.’
‘Right you are, dear. See you, then.’
Sarah put her seat belt on and watched in her wing mirror as the old woman shuffled slowly up the street, Buster shivering by her side, before turning into her drive. She buzzed the window up again and settled back down in her seat, sliding low and pulling the cap down to shade her eyes. The mid-afternoon sky was heavy with clouds and she hoped that she would be harder to spot by whoever it was that wanted to pay her a visit.
After a minute had passed, she turned off the ignition and checked her phone again. No more messages. It was already 1.04: the mystery caller was late.
She adjusted the rear-view mirror so she would be able to see anyone driving up the street behind her.
A police car turned into the far end of the road and drove towards her.
