‘Can we have a bird? Like a big eagle or something.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ His gran squeezes his hand as they walk. ‘You can’t keep a big bird in a small place like ours.’
‘Some people have parrots. They’re quite big.’
‘It’s not the same. And anyway – I don’t like the idea of birds in cages myself. They need to fly.’
‘Why did you have to leave the farm? Why can’t we live on a farm?’
‘It was only a tenancy. It ran out of money.’
Money, money. Always money . . .
He looks back at the sky and wonders if he can train a big bird secretly. In the park or something. He remembers a programme on television that said birds of prey eat mice and things like that. Maybe he could try to catch a mouse and feed a bird in the park. Make it his pet and teach it commands. Then he remembers that he’s not allowed to play in the park on his own. He does not understand this. How come he is not allowed to play out on his own but he is allowed to be on his own on Wednesday nights?
He is thinking about this again at bath time.
‘I want my bath on my own again. I’m a big boy now.’
His gran looks worried – just like she did the first time he asked. Last Thursday. ‘I know you’re a big boy but I need to make sure you don’t slip in the bath or anything. It’s dangerous.’
‘We could leave the door a bit ajar again. But I want to do it myself. Every time now.’
The truth is he wants to scrub his body hard. And he’s worried that his gran will somehow know. That she will look at his body and guess about the secret with Brian. The favours. And if it all comes out she will have to go to prison. And what if they make him live with Brian?
He looks at his gran once more. He thinks of the biscuits she bakes on Sundays and of the stories she tells about the farm. He thinks of the warm and lovely feeling when she strokes his hair and he has to fight hard not to throw his arms around her waist right now and tell her everything. He clenches his hands into fists to stop the wrong words coming out of his mouth. Instead he thinks about the bird he is going to train. Yes. As soon as he is allowed to play out on his own, he is going to secretly train a bird. A huge bird with massive claws that can kill Brian.
‘I’m a big boy now, Gran. I’m fine,’ he says.
CHAPTER 31
ALICE
I do realise that I’m probably unfair to London. I mean, I can see its appeal – the river, the skyline, the people and the buzz.
My problem with London has nothing to do with logic; I can’t deny its very obvious pluses. My problem with London is the assumption by some journalists that it is the centre of the universe – that it has the best buzz. The best restaurants. The best stories. My own take as a journalist is that it simply has all the headquarters, which means reporters can speak to the top dogs more easily.
In all honesty, I am probably a bit chippy about this professionally. But I’ve learned from my time on newspapers in remotest Scotland and then Devon that stories are always first and foremost about people. And people in the countryside have as many issues and problems and challenges as people in London – and they have as much right to be noticed and listened to. And written about.
So, yes. I do see that my problem with London is a question of professional chippiness. The truth is I love the country, and as a journalist I have to fight the assumption from others that I am unambitious (or simply parochial) and I have to work harder to be taken seriously.
But this weekend, I have given London a break. I put Leanne, who adores this city, in charge of our schedule, and I have honestly had a surprisingly good time. On Saturday we took my niece and nephew to the Science Museum, and then to the Tower of London on Sunday. How I reached this age without seeing the Crown Jewels, I don’t know. It was all terribly good fun. We then had a very late Sunday lunch at a smart café-cum-restaurant close to Leanne and Jonathan’s gated home in Notting Hill.
Turns out that London, like anywhere, is really rather wonderful if you have the time to enjoy it.
And now – Monday – I have my work hat back on. I’ve belatedly filed my interview with the actress Melinda Belstroy. She messaged me to say that she had thought very carefully and would not ‘press the button’, preferring to accept her bipolar diagnosis and learn to live with it. Ted has emailed to say he’ll run the piece within the next couple of days. I’m delighted – so pleased to be doing something. And now I’m to meet the three campaigners who’ve led the charge to get Maple Field House pulled down.
Gill, Naomi and Amy are quite a trio. Mums on a mission, I call them. Mid-thirties and not to be underestimated. I met them a good while back when they sent in their initial press release about the terrible damp. I remember so clearly the first time I visited Maple Field House. About fifteen minutes from Plymouth, the block of flats above shops is shaped around a central courtyard – like a square with one side missing. The mothers explained in their handout that all their children had asthma exacerbated by the terrible damp. But no one on the local council was interested.
Maple Field House was built in a hurry after the war. One of many quick but ugly solutions to the housing need of the times. Owned by the local council, the leasehold shops were once popular and thriving. But as shopping habits changed, so Maple Field House changed too. Even the charity shops struggled for customers, and most units were just boarded-up shells.
Today Gill, Naomi and Amy are meeting the housing charity which helped fund their campaign to finally push for demolition. I merely reported on their hard work, so am chuffed to be invited. I admire these women, and it was a privilege to put their story in the paper.
At the charity headquarters we’re served coffee and delicious cream cakes, in a cosy green room with sunlight streaming in through the window. There’s excited chatter, lots of laughter and endless selfies for social media.
‘Of course, we couldn’t have done it without Alice,’ Gill says, leading the charity PR Melody across the small room to meet me. ‘No one took much notice until Alice started writing stories about us.’
‘Nonsense,’ I say. ‘Just doing my job. You ladies did all the work. Put together the statistics. Refused to take no for an answer.’
Melody agrees and applauds the trio’s work in a little speech, outlining the partnership with the housing association which is to build the replacement homes. She says it’s a win-win for the council, and a model the charity hopes will roll forward elsewhere too. The local authority is making alternative land available at a peppercorn rent. The housing association is putting up the funds to build.
And then, after applause and more coffee, Gill wanders over to hand me a small, gold foil envelope. I raise my eyebrows, wondering what it is.
‘We would like you to be guest of honour at the demolition. They’ve finally set the date.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a VIP invitation. I’ll just pop along and cover it for the paper.’
‘No argument. We want you up front with us when we get to press the button. See the lot go down. It’s going to be quite a moment.’
I open the envelope to find a specially printed invitation with my name in gold lettering. The demolition is just two weeks away. And then I skim the details again to find everything around me changing. Suddenly the room feels too crowded and too hot. Suddenly my new appreciation of London is forgotten.
Suddenly his voice is once more back in my ear.
I am going to use cheese wire on you.
Because the date on the invitation is like a cruel and horrible taunt, reminding me that my life – whether in London or in Devon or anywhere else – is no longer my own. No longer normal.
The demolition is set for the 12th.
Which is a Wednesday.
CHAPTER 32
MATTHEW
‘Where’s your iPad?’ Sally is crunching into a thick slice of toast as she watches Matthew across the breakfast table. Amelie is meantime perched on her booster
seat, colouring in pictures of fairies. Matthew leans forward to examine his daughter’s handiwork.
‘Are you sure all fairies are pink, darling?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ She reaches for an even-brighter pink felt tip, as if to underline her point. ‘They’re pink so you can see them in the forest.’
‘I thought fairies were invisible.’
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy . . .’
‘It’s just I’ve noticed you making notes in a notebook, Matt. Like the old days in the police force in films. So is this nostalgia? Or have you lost your iPad?’
‘It’s been playing up. I’m thinking of upgrading. Getting a smaller one.’ Matthew hopes the truth will not blush on to his face. He’s not quite ready to tell his wife that he’s loaned his iPad to a man who thinks tiny people want to kidnap him. It’s only a temporary solution for Ian, as the SIM has limited data. But Matthew is looking into a cheap Internet package for Ian and is hoping he can be persuaded to sign up. Then he can give him more lessons so he can Skype his daughter as often as he likes.
‘But your iPad’s not that old?’
‘No. But as I say, it’s been playing up. Anyway, I can put the cost of a new one on the business. Legitimate expense.’ Thank heavens for that payment from the corporate client. Quite a shock how much companies will pay for consultancy work. Matthew stands and puts his notebook and pen into his backpack and checks his watch.
It’s bonkers, of course, to consider gifting his iPad to a virtual stranger – a man who is not even paying him for his time, let alone his technology. He’ll visit Ian again shortly to see what difference it’s made. But first he needs to speak to Melanie Sanders. Matthew is very pleased to be officially back on the Alice stalker case – even if Sally is less enthusiastic. He spent most of the previous evening reading more articles on the Alex Sunningham case, and something’s troubling him. Sort of circling his mind like the annoying buzz of a mosquito. Matthew knows that he cannot fully justify following his instinct when this kind of thing happens. In the police force, he was pressed to base assessment on facts. Evidence and science. But now he’s his own man, Matthew likes to listen to his gut. And mosquitoes.
He keeps very still, which for some reason often helps. And there it is – the little something niggling right at the back of his brain.
‘Gretna Green,’ he suddenly says out loud as all at once the mist clears.
‘What about Gretna Green?’ Sally tries.
‘Sorry. Need to go.’
‘Not to Gretna Green, I hope?’
‘No. I’ll tell you later. A hunch. On the stalker inquiry. Love you both.’ He kisses each in turn on the forehead and hurries to the car, where he scans his phone for the feature he was reading last night to recheck the quotes before dialling Mel’s mobile from the driver’s seat.
‘Hi, Mel. Look – this is going to sound a bit nuts but I think you should check the records in Gretna Green.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Check for Alex Sunningham’s name. I have a feeling the girl may have been playing her parents and playing the media.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I don’t think he’s abducted her. I think she was pretending to have seen the light. That this was all planned.’
There is a beat of silence and Matthew waits.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting she’s still under his spell? Gretna Green. Are you thinking that they’re still planning to get married? Are you mad? It’s been all over the telly. He’d never get away with that . . .’
‘But what if he really is that arrogant, Mel? And what if the officials at Gretna Green haven’t checked the records? Is there software cross-referencing applications with parole records? I doubt it. And no one would be looking out for his name. I was rereading the interview she gave long after the court case, claiming to have seen the light. It all sounded a bit too pitch perfect, to be honest. What if Alex put her up to it? What if they’ve somehow stayed in contact? Their original plan was to marry at Gretna Green, remember.’
‘But she gave evidence against him, Matt.’
‘Yes. Persuaded by her parents and the police. But what if Alex has somehow got under her skin again since. Been in touch. What if he set all this up?’
‘Oh Jeez. I have to admit it never occurred to me. But it does actually tie in with the CCTV update this morning.’
‘What update?’
‘You’re not hearing this from me but we’ve picked him up hiring a car under a false name.’
‘Heading north?’
‘Yes. Petrol station off the motorway. But no one else in the car. And he must have dumped that car now or changed the plates because we haven’t picked it up on any other motorway routes since.’
‘He may have switched to the train. And I bet you’ll find the girl heading to Scotland by train too. Worth trawling the railway CCTV for her. And him.’
‘On it. Long shot, if you ask me – Gretna Green. But we’ll check it out all the same and I’ll ring you back. No . . . better still. Let’s meet at the café. I’ll text you a time, and let you know if we find anything meantime.’
A couple of hours later, Matthew is in the café, trying the carrot cake Mel so likes. He is thinking it’s actually a bit stodgy as he again googles the Gretna Green rules. It’s no longer possible to just turn up and hurry a marriage through. Twenty-nine days seems to be the absolute minimum notice but the process doesn’t seem to involve cross-checking prison or parole records so it’s possible Alex’s plan could be to lie low for a month and then get married. All Gretna Green demands of British citizens are birth certificates and legal confirmation of divorce if they’ve been married before.
The dates fit Matthew’s theory. Alex was released just before Alice’s stalking started. He could have filed the paperwork for a Gretna Green wedding soon after he was released. If so – the four weeks would be well up by now and the wedding could be at any time. Which might explain why Alex had suddenly stopped seeing his probation officer. And why the girl had run off.
Matthew again scans the girl’s interview, which ran while Alex was serving his second year inside. He notices how often she mentioned her regret and her new life after Alex. The quotes were impressive but, on careful reflection, too impressive. Extremely mature. That was what had rung an alarm bell with him. There was this strange air of ‘protesting too much’. Something rehearsed about her comments. It sounded to Matthew as if she were rather too keen to reassure her parents and the world that she had put Alex Sunningham behind her.
Now he’s more and more suspicious that the quotes came via her from Alex himself. More grooming. Had Alex found some way to renew contact with the girl and resumed his control over her during his time in jail? It was certainly possible. Prisons were sadly awash with mobile phones.
Matthew sips his drink and thinks of the dreadful Alex and why on earth he might still want this relationship. Alex must know he’ll be found out and sent back to prison eventually, to serve his full sentence. Licence terms include telling your probation officer about getting married. Permission would never be given while on parole to marry his victim. So why do something that will get him sent straight back to jail? To stick his finger up to the authorities? To get himself a legal young bride as a cover to chase even younger girls down the line? Maybe he doesn’t think he’ll be found out. Or maybe he doesn’t even care about being found out and serving the balance of his sentence. Maybe he’s mad enough to believe he’ll reclaim some kind of moral balance by marrying the girl. Creepy. Insidious. Yes – mad.
A further half an hour and Matthew looks up to see Melanie Sanders hurrying in, her mac loosely belted around her enormous bump.
‘I can’t stay long – five minutes. So I won’t order anything. But I could kiss you.’
‘Feel free.’
She punches his shoulder as she sits down. ‘Seriously. I don’t know how you do it. I’m almost cross with you for being so clever. You’re spot on. Alex
Sunningham and the girl, using their real names to make it legitimate, have a wedding booked at Gretna Green. Guess when.’
‘No idea.’
‘Tomorrow. By coincidence or maybe not a coincidence . . .’
‘A Wednesday.’ Matthew is almost as stunned as Melanie to have got this right.
‘The Gretna Green staff feel terrible for not noticing or remembering the name. But Alex filed the papers weeks ago. Must have been fairly soon after he got out. He looked very different from his media pictures, apparently, and no one remembered this or put two and two together with the recent coverage of his disappearance.’
‘Do you think they actually believed they’d get away with it? I mean, surely with the media coverage, the staff would recognise them on the wedding day.’ Matthew is turning a sugar sachet over and over between his thumb and fingers. ‘Is it just attention he wants, this Alex? A narcissist? To show that he still controls the girl?’
‘God knows. But they have so many weddings every day at Gretna – maybe the staff wouldn’t have recognised them. Anyway. No matter. The local police are checking all holiday rentals and CCTV in the area to try to find them. If no luck, the last resort is we turn up for the wedding tomorrow and arrest him there before the ceremony.’
‘Will you go up there yourself? I thought the whole idea was for this to be a desk job before your mat leave.’
‘Technically, yes. But you know me. I like to be hands on, though I’m not entirely sure about Scotland at the moment. The police local to the girl have their own inquiry obviously, so it’s a bit of a liaison nightmare. But I’m arguing priority because of the stalker investigation. We’ll see. Either way, I’m looking forward to interviewing Mr Alex Sunningham about Alice when it’s my turn.’
‘You really think he’s our stalker, Melanie?’
‘Don’t you?’
CHAPTER 33
ALICE
It’s Tuesday and I’m still in London – more tired today because it’s nudging too close to Wednesday for me to sleep. I stare at the cocoa-leaf pattern on my cup of coffee and then across at the violinist. Even for Covent Garden, which always has a good class of busker, he’s exceptional. He plays the violin as if it’s an extension of his own body. Royal Academy of Music, or something like that? Yes. This is probably how music students pay their way through college. And then there is that inner shudder as I think of music in general. Alex at his grand piano . . .
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