The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  I felt a strange sensation. A feather touching the skin. And the more I looked, the more the feather teased the flesh for there was something familiar about this moment. About the camera. And also the man.

  ‘So can I have school dinners, then, Mum?’

  I let go of the curtains, convinced now that I had seen this man before.

  CHAPTER 16

  BEFORE

  Melanie woke with a start – her right hand touching a lump of dead flesh in the bed. Eyes immediately wide, it took just a couple of seconds to confirm that the dead flesh was actually her left arm. Entirely unfeeling.

  She waited some more. Sometimes she had layered dreams in which she thought she was awake, only to discover, through some subsequent horror, that she was still in the midst of a nightmare. She used her right hand to lift the ‘dead’ one – a horrible, entirely detached sensation, the left limb dropping to the pillow the moment she let go.

  Melanie breathed slowly and felt the familiar terror that the sensation in the arm would not return at all. Her heart thumped, but then ever so slowly there were tantalising tingles and prickles – the pins and needles that signalled she had probably just lain awkwardly on the arm for too long.

  She sat up, but though the immediate panic was subsiding, her heart was still pounding. One by one she ran through her other tests, stretching the right hand before circling both feet under the duvet. Clockwise then anticlockwise.

  ‘You all right, Melanie?’ The voice – right outside her door – made her start again. Melanie looked about her, eyes wide, as the room and its shadows slowly revealed their familiar forms. Her desk with a pile of books. Her dressing gown thrown across a chair.

  ‘It’s OK, Cynthia. Just a dream.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you up, Cynth?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve been up all night again so I heard you calling out in your sleep. I’ve just finished the final rug. Are you sure you’re OK? Want a coffee or something?’

  Melanie slumped back on the pillow – still examining her left arm, which was feeling hot and uncomfortable now. Briefly she checked the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet – 6.30 a.m. – for a moment unable to remember the day.

  ‘Coffee would be fabulous.’

  Monday. Damn. She had promised her boss an update on the Tedbury case. The forensics were now so conclusive that she was under pressure to stall further inquiries in order to spare resources and file her report. If Gill Hartley woke, there was enough already to charge her – whether they got a murder or manslaughter conviction was not Melanie’s call.

  But the various routine financial checks were proving a bit of a puzzle, especially regarding Emma Carter. Melanie’s application to investigate Emma further, in particular her recent history in France, had been laughed out of the office. There appeared to have been a leak – probably by someone trying to undermine her – which had reached Tedbury and was causing wild gossip. This in turn had somehow made its way back to her boss, who had not minced his words.

  You think we have the money to fund holidays to France over a domestic? I’ll see you Monday, Melanie. The forensics are clear enough so I want this one tidied up, you hear me? No more wild fishing trips. No more talk of international jaunts. Monday. Latest.

  Downstairs, the final rug was laid out on the dining table alongside a pink cotton case Cynthia had run up to keep each rug in pristine condition during transit. The rug and the case were set at a casual angle but Melanie realised they were actually on deliberate display for her evaluation. She smiled. There would be no need to be false.

  This last creation was a complete surprise – a tropical scene of vibrant foliage in various shades of green, with a bewitching centrepiece of a parrot in glorious turquoise, yellow and azure. It must have taken hours of dyeing to achieve the clarity of colour.

  ‘Can’t we keep this one, Cynth? It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Absolutely. Your best yet. I love it.’

  Cynthia appeared from the kitchen, her wide smile in stark contrast to the deep, dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Though you look terrible.’

  Cynthia held out a mug, poking out her tongue.

  ‘It’s quite different from the others.’ Melanie was stroking the woven cotton.

  ‘Yeah. I couldn’t decide on the design. It got to one o’clock in the morning and then it suddenly came to me. I’m sick as a bloody—’

  ‘Parrot.’

  ‘Exactly. Just finished it when you started groaning in your sleep. So what’s all that about, then? Nightmare?’

  ‘No. Must have slept funny. Woke up with a completely dead arm. Gave me a fright.’

  ‘What kind of fright?’

  Melanie sipped her coffee.

  ‘It’s not hereditary, Mel. Your mum’s condition. We’ve been over this.’

  ‘I know.’ Melanie continued to stare at the hot liquid, blowing on the surface. She was thinking of all the complex new research. The cause of her mother’s illness remained a scientific puzzle and technically Melanie’s risk factor was tiny.

  Technically . . .

  ‘So how’s she doing – your mum?’

  ‘OK, I think. I spoke to her last week. She’s spending all my dad’s money trying out some new therapy abroad. Portugal, I think.’

  Cynthia smiled encouragement. ‘So how’s her mobility at the moment?’

  ‘I tell you what. I’ll commission one for my room.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘A rug. Exactly like this one.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not. I like it a lot, Cynthia. It’s really good.’

  On the phone, Melanie’s father had raved about a new folding wheelchair that was compact and light. Which meant that her mother’s mobility was not good at all.

  Cynthia’s face softened. ‘You’d really like one? A rug?’

  ‘Yes. Though I’ll want mates’ rates. None of your fancy hotel prices.’

  ‘You are not going to get multiple sclerosis, Melanie.’

  A pause.

  ‘I know that.’

  And now they both quietly sipped at their drinks.

  ‘Right – so what’s happening with your first murder inquiry, then?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Melanie put the mug down and stretched. ‘All sewn up by forensics really. Conclusive evidence from the blood-splatter patterns, etc., that the husband was trying to defend himself. He was left-handed, apparently – put both hands up, walking backwards to try to fend her off. All knife blows were from the wife – right-handed, including the wound to her own stomach.’ Melanie began walking through the scene, waving her hands to demonstrate the tussle.

  ‘Yuk. She actually gouged her own stomach?’

  ‘Yep. Killed him in one room then went into the kitchen to stab herself. Pretty gruesome, though her most severe injuries were from banging her head on the way down. I shouldn’t be telling you all this, by the way.’

  ‘And the motive? Was I right?’

  ‘Yeah. Word around college – a very naughty boy. Same old story – everyone knew except the wife – though I haven’t been able to confirm his latest conquest. Personally I’ve got my money on someone in the village. A strange woman. Very attractive. Phone records say he rang her home number the day it happened but she didn’t pick up. Unfortunately there’s no appetite at work to take that lead any further.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Doesn’t add value. We’ve got enough evidence already for a charge, no forensics on any third party, and we don’t even know if our attacker will wake up to bring the whole thing to court. We’re very short-staffed right now so I’m under pressure to move on to another case.’

  ‘But something’s niggling you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s this woman in Tedbury. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something not right there. The bank records don’t make sense either – though I’m waiting on some more
to come in.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t exactly know, Cynth. Instinct. Completely unscientific but she was in France for a bit and no one seems to know much about that. Word in the village is she bought her house with an inheritance but that’s not what her bank records are saying. It’s all a bit odd and I just wish I could dig a bit further.’

  ‘So dig.’

  ‘I honestly can’t spare the time – at least not officially. According to my boss we have enough unsolved crimes on the books without going abroad looking for new ones.’

  ‘So you might dig on the quiet?’

  ‘Really nice parrot, Cynth.’

  Cynthia smiled.

  Two hours later, Melanie called again at Durndale Hospital on the way to work. To her relief, Mrs Baines was still in the accommodation provided for patients’ relatives nearby, and Melanie was able to sit alongside Gill Hartley undisturbed for the first time. There was a suite of three separate rooms with a nurse checking each at regular intervals from a central station – a bank of monitors, wired to sound alarms if anything changed in-between these checks. Most of the time relatives and friends kept their loved ones company, so Gill was rarely alone like this.

  As Melanie moved two magazines to take up a seat alongside the bed, a text buzzed up on her phone. Melanie checked it quickly. To her surprise, it was from Matthew Hill, a good friend. She’d trained with him, and in the early days in the force they were best buddies; pretty much inseparable. But Matthew had suffered a crisis some years later and left the force disillusioned – working now on the ‘dark side’ as a private investigator.

  Coffee? Have something to share.

  Melanie shook her head at the text and smiled, knowing this normally meant Matthew was after a favour. She took a deep breath. It still made her sad to think of him in civvy street. He was good; one of the best she’d worked with. He had this trick of seeing things that others didn’t; should definitely have stayed in the force. Selfishly she would rather have liked him on her own new team and could certainly do with his support right now.

  Melanie decided to contact Matthew later and put the phone away to watch the rise and fall of Gill Hartley’s chest, controlled by the ventilator. She tried to imagine how a woman who looked so harmless, who in this bed and in every statement taken seemed so very ordinary and who had no record of any violence, could become so suddenly and overwhelmingly angry at someone that she would shake off her character like some temporary cloak and reach for a knife.

  Sure – Melanie had known fury herself. After her mother’s diagnosis she had thrown china at the wall. Plate after plate, picturing her mother and her father dancing around the room to show off their outfits when she was a child – the swish of her mother’s lemon silk dress brushing against her leg as they waltzed and waltzed, laughing.

  Yes. She had screamed. Ranted. Raved that it was unfair.

  But violence against a person? Someone that you loved. How could anything make you so angry that you would suddenly cross all the lines?

  ‘What happened?’ Melanie leant in closer to the bed, whispering the question, remembering what Mrs Baines had said. That maybe Gill could hear.

  The nurse reappeared to glance across from the central station, her expression one of unease, but Melanie did not care and whispered again.

  ‘What really happened, Gill? You need to wake up and tell me.’

  CHAPTER 17

  BEFORE

  First day back into work after Cornwall and Mark could not concentrate. He stared out of the window, then glanced back at the two cups of cold coffee on his desk. He badly needed caffeine but was reluctant to ring through to Polly for a third, well aware that the same thing would happen again. He was so snowed under, trying to catch up after the holiday. This was the very reason he never took a break in the summer.

  Mark had 728 unread emails and knew that the moment a new drink arrived, he would end up swinging his chair through 180 degrees to give a client on the phone his full attention, and then his mind would meander back to the mess that was their life in Devon. And another coffee would go cold.

  Why oh why had he ever let Sophie persuade him? He so regretted saying that he would try to move the business. When they bought in Tedbury, he had agreed to relocate the company within three years. At the time he’d meant it but he got cold feet, and with Sophie so unwell after Ben was born, he didn’t have the heart to tell her. So he fibbed and fudged about just how many new London-centric clients he had taken on, and now it was all proving impossible. Oh, to hell with it. He glanced at the wall clock and decided to take ten.

  Mark stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of the spare chair, and marched through the door, struggling to push his arm through the twisted right sleeve as he passed Polly’s desk. ‘Hold my calls, will you?’ Feeling a twinge in his shoulder. Bloody stupid jacket. ‘Look, I’ll be half an hour tops. Only message if an A-list client or lawyer is getting arsy. Or if it’s Malcolm, get him to ring my private mobile. I really need to speak to Malcolm.’

  Polly smiled. ‘And when you get back, will you please look at the pictures I had framed for the corridor, Mark?’

  ‘Do I look as if I have time for decor deliberation?’

  Polly poked out her tongue and Mark did the same back, aware he had been a complete pain so far today and needed to keep his staff on side.

  At Starbucks, he sipped at his macchiato and finally closed his eyes. Ten minutes to think, please God . . .

  There was a rattling noise from just next to his table. An annoying vibration. Mark kept his eyes closed and tried very hard to ignore it – only giving in finally to a crescendo of tutting from a neighbouring table. He opened his eyes to see a couple staring at him.

  Next, the echo of Sophie’s voice:

  You don’t even realise that you’re doing it, Mark – do you?

  What?

  Jiggling your foot up and down like that. You do it completely subconsciously – in a world of your own – whenever you’re wound up.

  I don’t.

  You do.

  Mark followed the couple’s stare to the source of the rattle – his phone and set of keys in the centre of his own table. He put them back in his pocket and uncrossed his legs, placing both feet firmly on the floor. He smiled an apology and the couple at last turned back to their newspapers.

  The truth?

  Mark was sick and tired of thinking, dreaming, worrying and scheming. He couldn’t talk to Sophie about the problem – the money – because he was terrified it would all be too much. The last straw. After Gill and Antony, he was seriously concerned her depression might return.

  Bad enough that, even before this awful business, they spent most weekends arguing over whether to consider IVF. Mark was more and more alarmed by how desperate Sophie was for this second child. He loved Ben to bits and loved being a dad too, but did it really make him wicked to be content? Happy if another child came along, happy if one didn’t? He wanted to let nature decide. He didn’t want fertility treatment to bump up the risk of twins, and he was genuinely terrified that if Sophie got postnatal depression again, they would never cope with three.

  It had crossed his mind that they could get a live-in nanny for a while, but Sophie was against that. And in the end it all came back to the new, underlying problem. Cash flow. Also the geography.

  And now this terrible business with Gill and Antony. Life just seemed to throw one curve ball after another at them . . .

  Mark sipped again at his coffee, then leant forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

  Dear God. Never mind past promises, he had to get them away from Devon and nearer his work. It was completely insane.

  IVF was where they were clearly heading – no doubt in his mind – and Sophie had not the first clue what that might do to them. He, on the other hand, had walked through every detail with Alistair, a mate in HR. Week after week. Month after month. Injections. Hormone meltdown. Raised hopes. Dashed hopes. I
t would surely put them back – both of them – right back to that terrible place after Ben was born.

  Mark felt his muscles tense as he thought of what Sophie went through back then. Crippling guilt as he remembered how long it took for him or anyone else to realise what it truly was.

  If that’s where they were going – God forbid – they needed at least to be living in the same house full-time.

  So yes, Malcolm . . . He very badly needed to hear from Malcolm about the money. And then there was a loud buzz from his private phone. The couple at the adjoining table glanced over once more but Mark no longer cared what they thought.

  He stared at his watch. Precisely eight minutes without interruption.

  Mark took a final swig of coffee – at least it was still hot – before opening the message. It was from Polly. Lawyers chasing over an urgent contract.

  Halle-bloody-lujah.

  CHAPTER 18

  BEFORE

  Matthew placed the shape sorter on to Amelie’s highchair tray. According to Sally, their daughter was now a little miracle, a mini Einstein. She might be playing stubborn with her language but, apparently months ahead of time, Amelie could put the square shape into the square hole.

  Matthew placed the red square on the tray alongside the sorter.

  ‘Now show Daddy what a clever girl you are.’ Matthew handed Amelie the plastic cube and smiled.

  ‘No.’ Amelie threw the cube on to the floor and picked up her bright pink juice cup to suck away loudly.