I do some more research, but my phone is too slow and the battery is low. I need to get back to Leanne’s.
Something is not right here.
CHAPTER 48
MATTHEW
‘So is Romeo still singing?’
‘Every time anyone tries to question him.’ Mel’s tone is pure exasperation. ‘Seriously. It should be made a crime, Matt. Opera during police interviews. I blame Morse on the telly.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘He’s being transferred back to jail. Apparently he’s very popular there. Runs a choir and smarms everyone to death. Word is he’s encouraging his so-called fiancée to launch a media campaign about their “true love story”. Her parents are trying hard to dissuade her. We may confide in her about that third teenager Alex seduced. See if that sways her.’
‘What an utter creep.’ Matthew presses his phone closer to his ear and unclicks his seat belt. He glances across at Ian’s front door and checks his watch.
‘Precisely. I’m desperate for the techies to come up with something. Alex was using two phones apparently. There were some searches for Alice using her original name Jenny on the second phone but no other evidence. May just have been curiosity. We have nothing concrete yet.’
‘And still nothing on the flowers in the cake box? Or the bike used in the fake acid attack?’
There’s a long sigh and Matthew regrets asking. Mel’s doing her best. It’s frustrating all round. They’re up against someone clever. No prints. No forensics.
‘OK, sorry, sorry. I know it’s frustrating for you. Let me know if anything changes. I’m just desperate to know where we are. You know . . . with Wednesday hurtling towards us again.’
‘OK, Matt. Speak soon.’
Matthew gets quickly out of the car and hurries across the road. He needs to keep this brief. When Ian answers his door, he’s as smartly dressed as ever. Proper shirt. Crease in his trousers. He leads Matthew straight into the dining room to signal the new arrival.
‘The module came two days ago. Three months’ free trial. Are you absolutely sure it’s not sending out dangerous signals? Radiation of some kind? I don’t want to be radiated. Also I read somewhere that these devices can listen to you.’
‘It’s fine, Ian, I promise. There’s no microphone in it.’ Matthew asks Ian to fetch the iPad still on loan and removes the little square of plastic with password details from the modem. He sets up the iPad and is relieved to see it connect immediately. Ian has thankfully charged it as instructed. He’s been practising, using all the notes he made.
‘Good. We’re up and running, Ian. You now have Wi-Fi, which means you can now use this iPad whenever you like to talk to Jessica. No extra charges – just the monthly Wi-Fi bill. I had a message from her last night to say she’s coming off shift around now, so let me show you again how to call her up via Skype.’
Ian now looks a little stressed.
‘I promise you’ll get the hang of this, Ian, but you will need to concentrate. OK? And make some more notes.’
‘OK, Mr Hill. I’m writing it all down.’
Matthew talks Ian through the steps and watches him scribble away in his little exercise book. He decides he will discuss his new hypothesis regarding the little people over tea once father and daughter have caught up.
Half an hour later, he reaches for a chocolate Hobnob and launches in. ‘So, your daughter was telling me in our email exchange that it would have been your golden wedding soon. You must miss your wife very much, Ian. I’m so sorry.’
Ian doesn’t reply. Matthew presses on. ‘Jessie also says that it would have been your wife’s seventieth birthday . . . around about the time the little people turned up.’
‘I don’t talk about the little people with Jessica.’
‘I know, I know. I didn’t say anything. I just put the dates together.’
Ian now stares at Matthew, his lip trembling. Matthew waits. They each sip their tea.
Finally Ian puts his cup down and lets out a long sigh as if giving in.
‘So here’s the thing. We were saving up to visit Jessie in Canada. Dream trip to celebrate our golden wedding. We had it all planned out. We scrimped and we saved every spare penny. Barbara wouldn’t buy herself anything new. Put all the money in the travel fund. That green dress. It was her favourite. She wore it every birthday. I said she should have a new dress for her seventieth but she wouldn’t have it. Wanted to save to see our daughter instead.
‘And then she got sick. Pancreatic cancer. It was all terribly quick. And in the end I had to spend the holiday fund on her funeral.’
Matthew feels a change in the air temperature around him. The room is suddenly too still. Too quiet. He stares at Ian’s perfectly ironed shirt and the crease in his trousers.
‘I hung the green dress on the door because it made me feel she was still around. That she might get up and put it on. But then suddenly it upset me too much. I wished I’d made her buy herself some new things. Nice things. Why didn’t I insist, Mr Hill?’ He turns to look at Matthew. ‘Anyway. I got in a pickle, staring at that green dress, but I didn’t want to move it from the wardrobe door so I moved myself instead. Into the spare room.’
‘Is that when the little people turned up? Guarding the room. Guarding the green dress?’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Hill. You’re thinking I’m completely barmy. A silly old fool.’
‘I don’t think that, Ian. Not at all. But I think the little people don’t like solutions. Modems . . . and happier times. So let’s see how things go now with you chatting more regularly to Jessie.’
‘Good plan, Mr Hill.’ Ian clears his throat and Matthew can hardly bear to see the strain on his face.
‘You can borrow the iPad long-term, by the way.’ Matthew tries to make this sound casual. ‘I meant to say. I’m getting a new one. I don’t need it at the moment.’
Ian stares at him and then takes in a long, slow breath.
‘But we haven’t even talked about your fee yet? I expect to pay. I’ve been putting a little aside from my pension. Every week—’
‘Oh. Don’t be worrying about that. We can talk about that another time.’
There is another pause.
‘You are a very decent man, Mr Hill.’ Again Ian clears his throat. Smooths his trousers. ‘Very decent indeed.’
CHAPTER 49
ALICE
It’s now Monday and I am booked on to a train this evening to return to Devon for tomorrow’s work meeting. First-class ticket this time.
The police are going ahead with a harassment charge against the perv on my last train journey. Technically I’m pleased, though I’m not looking forward to giving evidence. I’m nervous of my link to Alex coming out – but what choice do I have? The guy who hassled me needs to be punished; I don’t want him doing that to others.
This morning, I’m in work mode, using Leanne’s study. It overlooks their garden with impressive views across Notting Hill. More and more I can see that living in London has its appeal. Last night Leanne and Jonathan took me for a meal on the South Bank. Seventh-floor restaurant with a vista to die for. I looked out over the city, street lights twinkling and car headlamps sweeping across the canvas which is so very different from my own landscape. Yes. Little by little I’m coming to understand my sister better.
I turn back to my laptop. The more research I do, the more it baffles and troubles me. I’ve traced the company records for the personal alarm that Claire has been trialling and there is no mention of the charity as a shareholder or interested party. Instead the company is in Claire’s maiden name (which I found easily via her social media channels) and a mystery guy – Paul Crosswell. Googling him, he seems to have a chequered history in various areas of security. He’s run several companies – two went bankrupt and a third, specialising in general home alarms, is currently in receivership.
All very odd. No option now but to make the phone call I’ve been putting off. It’
s a risk and it feels sneaky. If my suspicions are wrong, Claire will find out I’ve been digging behind her back and will rightly be furious with me.
But what if I’m right? It’s taken more than an hour to get this number and I can’t let this go.
I dial. Three rings. Four.
‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice is hesitant. She answers the phone as if baffled at the technology. I wonder if she uses her mobile mostly and it’s rare for the landline to ring.
‘I’m very sorry to trouble you. But is that Claire’s mother? Claire Hardy?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I really am sorry to intrude, but I’m a journalist doing a feature on stalking. And someone suggested I get in touch with your daughter Claire.’
‘How did you get this number? Who are you?’
‘My name is Alice. And, as I say – I’m a journalist. I’m hoping to speak to Claire about her sister and about her charity.’
‘Claire doesn’t have a sister. Whatever kind of journalist you are, you’ve got your facts wrong.’
‘But I was told that Claire’s sister had been involved in a stalking incident. Which led to Claire’s involvement with the charity.’
‘What charity? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Look, Claire and I have been estranged for many years. She’s an only child and quite frankly that’s a relief. One daughter has been quite enough trouble, thank you very much.’
And then she hangs up.
I turn once again to the garden to watch a robin sitting on the chimney of my niece’s playhouse. My mind is racing – in contrast to the robin, which is resting, tilting its head as if asking what I’m thinking.
I narrow my eyes, trying to work out what the hell is going on with Claire but my mind is wandering. The playhouse is making me think instead of my niece. It’s a beautiful timber house, designed with a deliberately crooked door and crooked chimney. Yesterday I played tea parties with little Annabelle in there and remembered the games Leanne and I used to play when we were small. Dolls’ hospital. Our favourite. We had a doctor’s kit and would diagnose all our dolls’ illnesses and prescribe treatments.
The memory of the doctor’s kit makes me think again of my mother. That camera put in her room. I feel hatred suddenly. Anger and a knot of violent thoughts towards the man who posted that gross video of my mother’s breathing. Her new home has been fully briefed. She’s to receive no mail or gifts or anything at all to her room. No visitors unless cleared by Leanne or myself. She should be safe now.
Should be . . .
I think once more of that cold water squirted in my face. I put my hand up to my cheek, remembering the fear of pain and disfigurement. And then I think of what my poor mother faces so stoically every single day and my fear makes me feel ashamed.
Finally, I trek to the kitchen to make coffee, a headache starting. I’m still trying to process the puzzle of Claire and her charity. Is she a fraud? A trickster? What the hell is going on?
I return to the office with my drink and bury myself in more research. It’s good to be working but it’s liking diving down a rabbit hole. The deeper you go, the weirder it all gets. I find more evidence on social media linking Claire and Paul Crosswell. I find an old newspaper cutting of a civil court case against him over a security contract for a shopping centre. The court case failed and there was little press coverage. But with more digging I discover that Paul Crosswell was accused of providing false promises and disreputable business practices. So – Claire and Paul. What exactly are you up to?
I tap my fingers against my lips. This personal alarm. What if it’s a scam? Linked to Paul’s businesses? What if this is purely about making money; what if they’re just using the women targeted by stalkers.
I realise I need more evidence. But why would Claire make up such a dreadful story about a sister? I realise that I am quite possibly on to a very good story here. It feels shocking that Claire would dare to try to use me, a journalist. But then I think of how vulnerable I must have seemed to her when I first made contact. My anger at her audacity now morphs to something else. Excitement? Yes. The adrenaline is pumping. I’m glad to have happened across a proper story after too long out of the office. If Claire really is duping genuine victims of stalking, she deserves everything I can throw at this.
I pick up my mobile and dial Matthew Hill’s number. He may be able to help me investigate Claire and Paul. Also, I need to know what the hell is happening regarding Alex.
Is it Alex?
Is it over?
CHAPTER 50
HIM – BEFORE
He takes two weeks off work and watches Brian every day. He takes great care not to be spotted by his gran. A hat. Sunglasses. A large scarf wrapped round and round, covering his mouth. Shabby clothes.
Brian is a slob – even heavier now. He must be in his late fifties but looks much older. In the past he claimed to work for a bus company but there’s no evidence of working now. These days Brian doesn’t take his filthy, fat self far – mostly to the pub, the off-licence and the bookies. But there is a pattern. Good.
He makes notes on his phone checking Brian’s precise movements each day.
His stomach crawls as he sees that some mornings Brian sits on a bench near a children’s play park. Just watching.
And then he gets lucky. At the same time and on the same day each week, Brian makes a trip to the bookies, using the long and narrow alley behind the disused garages near the old shoe factory. Most people don’t like to use that alley. Children are warned to keep away. Only a creep like Brian would take that route.
He checks the alley very carefully. No CCTV cameras anywhere near. Good.
He goes back to work and thinks every single day about how to do this. He has horrible dreams about the past. And then delicious dreams showing Brian’s face as he turns and sees him.
Sees the hammer.
Just occasionally he wonders if he can really do this. But most days he’s surprised to find that he is looking forward to it. The full stop. If his gran is determined to stay in her flat – if the place really means so very much to her – then this has to be done.
He waits a month and takes another week’s holiday. He checks very carefully what to wear to limit the risk. Gloves, obviously. But there is so much more to think about. Forensics will look for fibres and hairs too.
He realises that however careful he is, he may be caught. Still, he finds that it is decided.
So he packs his change of clothes inside a sealed bag in his rucksack. He puts on his gloves, his hat and scarf and his sunglasses.
He checks himself in the mirror. And he feels alive.
For the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels alive.
CHAPTER 51
ALICE
I jiggle my right foot up and down and glance around me. It feels so weird to be back in the editor’s office. It’s Tuesday and I am thinking of that first phone call, when Jack brought me in here to report it to Ted. It feels a lifetime ago. A different Alice.
‘So – are you happy with what Helen has suggested?’ Ted raises his voice a little as if to draw me back into the room. Helen from HR is smiling, gathering her things.
I uncross my legs and put both feet flat on the floor. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Sure. I’ll start back on Thursday. I’ve got a good story to work on actually, Ted.’ I see the glint of interest in his eyes. The paper may be dying but Ted’s hunger for a story is not. He’s old-school and will never stop chasing the headlines. I wonder what he will do when redundancy comes.
I wonder what I will do.
We both wait for Helen to make her excuses and leave the room. The compromise is that I’ve had to agree not to work Wednesdays until the police feel more sure that any threat to me has diminished. I will work Saturday or Sunday instead, taking each Wednesday as a day in lieu unless and until Alex is charged. The company claims to be thinking of my safety but is clearly still worried about what might happen on their premises. I suspec
t insurance might be an issue, quite apart from the moral debate.
‘So, here’s hoping it really is all over for you, Alice.’ Ted is leaning back in his chair. ‘Right. Let’s hear what this story’s about.’
I look at him and wonder if I should tell him that other truth. Who I really am. How I tricked him into giving me this job in the first place.
No. Not yet . . .
‘Got some more digging to do, Ted. But it’s someone trying to rip off victims of stalking.’
His expression changes completely.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I know what you’re thinking but I can make this work without making it a totally personal piece. I’ll find other victims. Hopefully someone local to comment other than me.’
He tilts his head.
‘It’s a good story, Ted. I have more work to do but it’s about someone making up nasty stories to win people over and make a fast buck.’
‘I thought we agreed no personal crusades, Alice.’ He looks anxious. ‘We can’t be drawing attention to you on this topic. Not until the guy targeting you is caught, so if you work on this story, you keep me fully in the picture. No risk-taking.’
‘Promise.’
Ted pauses then, frowning. He shuffles some pieces of paper before continuing.
‘Look. I’ve not found this easy, Alice. Stuck in the middle with HR breathing down my neck. I want you to know that we’ll do your own case justice, when the time is right; when they nail the guy. Trust me, we’ll put the bastard on the front page, but I need a charge and a case. I’ve just got my hands tied for now.’ He looks sheepish. Maybe even guilty? I don’t know what to say in reply. I do feel upset that HR made me take holiday. But I haven’t been straight with Ted myself, so who am I to judge? ‘We’ve missed you in the office, Alice. The place hasn’t been the same without you. And we’ve all been worried.’
I feel touched. Ted never talks like this. I just nod my thanks as my phone buzzes. A message from Gill, one of the campaigners over the demolition of Maple Field House. I’ve already sneakily told her I’m back on the story full-time. She wants to meet up to go over coverage of the demolition. I daren’t tell her yet that I’m not supposed to be working Wednesdays. I’ll need to find a way round it.
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