I Will Make You Pay Read online

  ‘Nice breeze today.’

  One, two, three . . .

  ‘Yes, Mum. Just enjoy it. Close your eyes if you like. Just listen. You know me. I love the sound of my own voice.’

  A smile. My mother has the loveliest smile . . .

  Later, back at the Dorset house, I have the words of Wuthering Heights mixed with the tinkle of the fountain, all echoing in my head as a text comes in from Tom, urging me not to be late for the private investigator.

  I turn the words over in my head. Private investigator.

  I have already played the journalist. Checked him out online. Matthew Hill made a bit of a name for himself, helping to solve the case of a missing girl a while back. I can’t help wondering what precisely Tom thinks he is going to be able to do to help me.

  But this is not just about me now. I close my eyes to picture peonies. The single flower on my car and the severed flowers in the box. I need to ask this man – this Matthew Hill – if he can keep my mother safe too.

  CHAPTER 8

  HIM – BEFORE

  ‘Are you OK?’

  In his dream there is someone shaking him awake in his cave. He thinks it must be his gran. She went out much earlier. But when he opens his eyes, it’s not the cave. The room is too bright. A searing light hurting his eyes.

  ‘It’s all right. You just fell asleep again.’

  The voice is familiar and he looks up. Not a cave – but his classroom. Miss Henderley. She is sitting on the edge of one of the desks. Everyone else is gone.

  He looks around the room, not understanding. Next he sees three faces at the window, laughing at him. Bruce and Luke and Helena. Miss Henderley turns and waves her arms to signal that they should move away.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of them.’

  ‘Is it home time? Do I need to go to after-school club?’ He sits up straight. His arm feels a bit weird where his head was leaning on it. Also there is an odd lump right in the middle of his stomach. As if he has eaten his food too fast. He can’t work out if he is hungry. Or too full. Or has a tummy ache.

  ‘It’s OK. You’re not in trouble. I just want to have a little chat before you go out to play.’

  ‘I didn’t fall asleep. I was pretending.’

  ‘It’s OK. Like I said, you’re not in any kind of trouble. It’s just I’m a bit worried about you. It’s not the first time this has happened. Falling asleep in class, I mean. Is there something wrong? Something at home? Is there anything you’re worried about? Want to talk to me about? I was wondering if we should maybe have a little chat with your gran when she picks you up.’

  ‘No. Don’t do that. I’m fine.’

  ‘I had a look in the book and it’s always Thursdays that you seem so tired. Do you do sport or something on a Wednesday evening. Swimming lessons? Football? Something like that? Or do you stay up watching something on television on a Wednesday night?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. I’m fine. Can I go out to play now?’

  ‘So – is it maths? Are you worried about that? I know we do a lot of maths on Thursdays but you’re honestly doing really well with your work. Your reading and your maths are both very good. There’s really nothing for you to worry about. I want you to know that.’

  ‘I’m not worried.’ This is a lie. He’s worried about a million things.

  He looks down to see sauce on his school sweatshirt. He remembers now that they had shepherd’s pie for lunch. So it is the afternoon. Afternoon break. Nearly home time. Yes. After-school club. Then home.

  He is all at once remembering other things too. The banging on the door last night. Dark. Late.

  You in there? Someone in there? I know you’re in there . . .

  He remembers suddenly needing the toilet when the banging started. Sitting in his bed and being worried that he might make a mess. Thinking about it makes the feeling come back.

  ‘I need the toilet, please.’

  ‘Off you go, then. I’ll see you later. After-school club.’ Miss Henderley pauses. ‘I’ll look out for your gran. Tell her how well you’re doing with your work.’

  The rest of the afternoon seems to go on for ages. The after-school club also drags. He normally likes it but not today, because he is worried about what Miss Henderley is going to say to his gran. She stayed on in the classroom after the final bell, marking books, and said she would see him later which made the weird feeling in his stomach worse.

  After-school club is held in the main hall. Tables and chairs are set up with boxes of toys and puzzles and games. When Louise, who is in charge of the club, tells them to start packing up, he tries to be super-quick so he can be first out and get away fast before Miss Henderley appears. But it’s no good.

  When he gets to the door, she is already standing there – out in the corridor – before Louise gets the register.

  They all have to be ticked off, one by one, from Louise’s list, as parents arrive to collect them. It’s the rule. Through the glass of the double doors to the corridor, he can see Miss Henderley talking to his gran.

  When Louise calls his name and his gran comes to the door, she says they just need to nip to his classroom for a little chat with his teacher.

  Oh no.

  In the classroom, they both ask him the same question – Miss Henderley and his gran. About why he is tired on Thursdays. And is there anything worrying him?

  He again says, ‘No, I’m not worried about anything’ – and keeps looking at his gran.

  His gran has lots of different faces. She has a face when she is pretending that she isn’t tired. A face when she pretends she isn’t cross. Right now she is pretending about something but he doesn’t know what.

  When they get outside and are walking home, she holds his hand and then ruffles his hair and says that she’s sorry. And she tells him not to worry. For some reason this makes him want to cry.

  ‘I didn’t say anything to my teacher.’

  ‘I know, lovely boy. I’m not cross. It’s not your fault.’

  When they get home, she makes him hot chocolate in his favourite mug – the one with the big, green dragon.

  ‘I have a new idea,’ his gran says. ‘For next Wednesday. We can try something different. You can come with me but we’ll have to keep it our extra-special new secret. Like hide-and-seek. I’ll need to find you somewhere to hide. Can you do that for me? Be very, very quiet. And hide. Like a game.’

  This is the best news. The best news in his whole life.

  ‘So I can come with you. For the new secret?’ He is not sure he understands how this will work but it sounds much, much better than the old secret.

  ‘Yes. A new secret. You still mustn’t tell anyone, especially not at school. You can come with me but you will need to hide. So shall we try that?’

  ‘Yes please.’ He throws his arms around her neck and kisses her cheek.

  CHAPTER 9

  MATTHEW

  Matthew has his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair. He has an odd feeling that is making him frown. He narrows his eyes, trying to place it . . .

  Ah yes – rested; he had quite forgotten. This is what a good night’s sleep feels like. He smiles as he remembers the shock first thing this morning.

  He had been woken by Sal shaking him, her eyes darting from side to side in alarm. She then gripped his forearm, with her other hand in the air, signalling that he should listen. He had assumed a strange noise. Some evidence of an intruder?

  He listened, already glancing for a weapon. A plan. But no – nothing . . .

  Another look sideways confirmed something even odder than the silence. The alarm clock said 8 a.m. This could not be right. For the last five, maybe six months, Amelie had set her own clock.

  To 4.45 a.m.

  They had tried everything. They had read books and scoured websites. They had followed the guy on Insta with umpteen daughters, millions of fans and buckets of advice. Nothing worked.

  Maybe she doesn’t need much sleep, Sal’s mother h
ad mused over their last Sunday lunch together. Like Margaret Thatcher. She didn’t need much sleep . . .

  The comparison made Matthew go cold.

  They tried putting Amelie to bed later. Earlier. Dropped a nap. Added a nap. Cut out dairy. Increased dairy. Nothing worked . . .

  Until today; until this blessed morning when their clever, brilliant and totally wonderful daughter slept through, not just until eight o’clock . . . but eight thirty.

  Matthew taps a pen on the desk. He hums. He smiles.

  It’s over, he says to himself, just as the phone rings.

  He takes a deep breath, fearing it may be his new client couple cancelling their appointment. Sadly, this happens a lot – people losing their bottle. He checks his watch. His agency is doing OK these days – off the back of some high-profile success – but for all that, it’s been a quiet month. He could do with some new bookings.

  ‘They’re back.’ The voice on the line is familiar. ‘I thought they had gone, Mr Hill. Do you remember? A good while back now. The last time I spoke to you we both thought that they had gone for good. Turns out we were wrong. They’re back and there are more of them. You have to help me.’

  ‘Still tiny?’ Matthew asks, his heart sinking. His caller is a ‘frequent flyer’ named Ian Ellis who bombarded him with calls soon after he set up the agency. Ian believes miniature people want to kidnap him. Like Lilliput. He has been ringing on and off for years.

  ‘Yes. Thumb-size still. Different clothes though, now. I think it might be something to do with Brexit. They look European. And they’re armed. I’ve told them I voted remain but it’s made no difference. They won’t let me cross the hall to the bathroom. And I very much need the toilet. I do not wish to be indelicate here but we are in danger of an accident, Mr Hill.’

  Matthew bites into his lip. Ian became horribly persistent at one point, ringing several times each day. Matthew tried to be kind and he tried to get Ian help. He was clearly one of the people on the fringes of society who had sadly stretched the patience of his GP, the local hospital and the emergency services. As a nod to his former police colleagues, Matthew often in the past tried to ‘talk him down’ to limit Ian’s 999 calls.

  There would be spells with a lot of calls. Then long spells with none. And then eventually the calls stopped completely and Matthew had rather forgotten about Ian – hoping his problems had resolved.

  ‘Right – well, this is a surprise after all this time, Ian. So could anything have triggered this? It’s just I thought we’d agreed they’d gone for good the last time we spoke. Anything happened lately that might have brought them back?’

  There is a pause. Matthew can hear Ian sucking in a long breath. He expects the usual blabbering describing the activities and the clothes of the ‘little people’ to ramp up a gear, but instead there is another sound. Matthew strains to make it out and pushes the receiver closer to his ear. To his horror, it sounds like distant crying.

  ‘Are you all right there, Ian?’ Matthew is used to feeling irritated by Ian. Sad. Frustrated. Angry that society has no resources to deal with people like him. A whole range of emotions, in fact. Now, for the first time, he feels truly shaken. Also very guilty.

  ‘Nothing has happened, Mr Hill. Nothing has triggered this. Why did you have to ask that? You people always fishing for your blessed triggers. You have absolutely no right to ask me that.’ And then – another first. Ian is the one to end the call.

  Matthew sits up straighter. He finds that he is uneasy – both to hear from Ian again and also how this particular call has made him feel. And then the intercom announces the arrival of the ‘stalker’ case couple. He presses the button to invite them upstairs, still thinking about Ian as he warns over the speaker about the steep flight of stairs that he always worries will be the death of someone.

  By the time he is standing – door held wide, ready for his clients – Matthew has decided to break a promise to himself. Yes. If Ian rings again, he is going to arrange to visit him.

  ‘Sorry we’re a bit late. Parking trouble.’ Tom, who rang him in the supermarket and later booked this appointment, is stretching out his hand. Firm handshake but nervous face. This is not unusual. He has his hand protectively on his girlfriend’s back and Matthew glances between them as he signals for them to sit down, offering coffee.

  ‘I have a decent machine in the kitchen next door. Bear with me while I get things going and then we can chat properly.’ Matthew likes to watch his clients from a secret vantage point, through the crack in the door, to try to assess what he is dealing with. He and Sally now live in a cottage near the sea but he has kept this flat adjoining the office and finds it terribly useful.

  He watches as Tom takes his girlfriend’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Tom is athletic-looking – dark hair cut short. A close-fitted T-shirt beneath a very nice blue jacket. Flat stomach. Matthew would guess mid-thirties? His girlfriend looks a tad younger; late twenties, fair and slim – even borderline frail – in a floral dress with a denim jacket. Tom is smiling his encouragement but she is very pale and clearly not comfortable at all. Matthew wonders if this is the result of the stalking, or reluctance to attend the appointment.

  As he brings the tray through with their three cups and a jug of foaming milk, Matthew decides to plunge right in.

  ‘Right. So Tom gave me quite a lot of detail over the phone, Alice. An awful time for you. I’m truly sorry to hear what you’re going through. But before we talk about options going forward, I need to know how you feel about coming here. Involving me, I mean.’

  ‘We both feel that the police aren’t doing enough. That they don’t seem to have the resources.’ Tom is leaning forward. Agitated. ‘It’s quite a shock to us both. How little they seem able to do.’

  ‘Is that right, Alice?’ Matthew widens his eyes. He sympathises with Tom’s concern. If it were Sally, he’d be exactly the same, but he needs to hear from Alice.

  Finally she glances at her boyfriend, finding a small smile for him, before turning back to Matthew. ‘I’m not going to lie. This was Tom’s idea, not mine. He’s very worried about me. Hoping that you can add to what the police are doing.’

  ‘Or aren’t doing,’ Tom interjects, the sarcasm in his voice barely disguised.

  ‘And where are you at with the police? Who’s handling it?’ Matthew keeps his gaze on Alice.

  ‘They’ve put DI Melanie Sanders on the case now. I’m told she’s very good. Is that right? I understand you worked together a bit.’

  Matthew narrows his eyes. So Alice has been reading up on him – checking him out. He takes in a slow breath, remembering that she is a journalist, after all.

  ‘Yes. I do know her and she is. Very good, I mean. We trained together. And we sort of worked on a missing persons case quite recently. You’re in good hands.’

  ‘But they won’t provide surveillance.’ Tom is leaning forward again. ‘Doesn’t that surprise you? I thought it would be the first base – that there would be some kind of protection offered. I mean, this guy is actually threatening her. May have been in her house. May even be watching her.’

  Matthew taps into his computer to call up the notes he took from his second chat with Tom on the phone, when he called him back after getting home from the supermarket. ‘So has there been nothing from Forensics? From the light fitting, the house or the cake box?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Alice says. ‘He must wear gloves. Be quite clever. Or at least experienced at this. The police seem to think it’s someone who reads my columns in the paper. May have some personal grudge.’

  ‘And you really can’t think of anyone. Ex-boyfriend? Someone from a court case you’ve covered? Anything like that?’

  ‘I honestly can’t think of anyone.’ Alice’s face changes and Matthew watches her closely. He notices that she lets go of Tom’s hand. Interesting.

  He glances between them. Tom looks so worried, his foot flicking up and down. Matthew again takes in the expensive jacket. An a
lpha guy. Yes. Privileged-looking. Probably used to being in control of his life. He will dislike this feeling of helplessness. Matthew’s already checked Tom’s LinkedIn account and profile with his law firm. A high-flyer. Private school, then a first in Law from LSE. Matthew’s not naturally drawn to the public-school type and so bristles. He tries to process this response and checks himself; it’s unfair to judge Tom because of his background. It’s understandable that Tom would hate this. Matthew couldn’t bear it if Sally were ever targeted . . .

  ‘So I was wondering if you could agree to surveillance,’ Tom says. ‘To look out for Alice on Wednesdays. This guy – he seems to target her on a Wednesday . . .’

  ‘He’s not a bodyguard and I’m not a celebrity, Tom. We can’t expect Mr Hill to trail around after me. I can’t go through my whole life expecting protection.’

  ‘I don’t do personal security per se,’ Matthew says.

  ‘Yes, I know that. I saw that on your website.’ Tom’s voice is more agitated. His face anxious. ‘But I was wondering if we could book you for a day a week to work on this case. And if we made it Wednesdays, you could keep an eye on Alice and hopefully nail some evidence to catch this guy at the same time. Put an end to this.’ Tom’s eyes are really wide. Pleading.

  Matthew twists his mouth to the side. He takes in Tom’s desperation and finds that he likes him after all. He can’t deny that a regular booking would be welcome. But it’s not the kind of agreement he’d normally make. A bit too much like security. He’s worried about setting a precedent.

  ‘What do you think, Alice?’ Matthew keeps his tone neutral.

  ‘I don’t honestly know. I mean – I am afraid. I hate admitting that. But I do dread what’s coming next from this guy. I would feel better if someone was at least working actively on this. I have no idea why Wednesday is significant. Or whether it’s just a coincidence so far.’

  ‘It looks more like a pattern than a coincidence to me,’ Matthew says, glancing again at his notes.