I Will Make You Pay Page 6

  ‘Yes, I agree.’ Alice is looking at him more directly now and he sees real fear in her eyes. For some reason he finds himself thinking again of his wife. And his daughter too.

  ‘I tell you what. How about I agree to work on this case this coming Wednesday. Keep an eye on things from first light through to when you feel safe. Say, when Tom is able to join you in the evening? Did you say you’re staying in Dorset?’ Again he glances at his notes on the screen.

  ‘Yes. My sister’s place. It has very good security; I feel reasonably safe there. But I have an interview set up for Wednesday and I really don’t want to cancel it. If you could come with me, or watch out for me, I would feel much happier.’

  ‘I thought you were taking a couple of weeks off work?’ Matthew is still cross-checking the information Tom gave him on the phone.

  ‘Yes. I’m not going into the office at the moment. While we wait for this to quieten down. But I set this interview up a while back. It’s with a local actress who’s not often available. It’s a bit of a coup so I don’t want to give it to someone else. Professional pride.’

  ‘OK. I’ll email you to sort arrangements. Then we’ll see where we are after Wednesday and regroup. Yes?’ Matthew takes a deep breath for the tricky bit. ‘And you know the fees . . .’

  ‘Just invoice me directly. Money’s not a problem.’ Tom is now sitting up very straight.

  ‘Tom. Please. I’m quite happy to deal with this—’

  ‘No argument. My idea, so my expense. You invoice me directly, Mr Hill. Whatever hours you feel this needs. However long it takes. Yes?’

  Matthew nods as Tom again takes Alice’s hand.

  ‘You don’t think he truly means any of it, do you?’ Tom’s voice is suddenly quieter. ‘I’m assuming he just wants to scare Alice. That’s what he gets off on? Yes?’

  Matthew thinks very carefully before he speaks.

  ‘DI Melanie Sanders is one of the best police officers I know. She’ll do everything she can to stop this. But I’m not going to lie to you. Police resources can be stretched, and stalker cases can be very difficult. And very stressful, of course, for the victims. All I can promise is that I’ll do everything I can to boost what the police are already doing.’

  Matthew does not add what he knows from his research. That the real answer to Tom’s question depends on what kind of stalker Alice has.

  The good news is that most stalkers are not killers.

  The bad news is that a lot of killers are stalkers first . . .

  CHAPTER 10

  ALICE

  Tuesday. I keep looking at the shorthand – Tue – lit up on my phone. I’ve honestly not given much thought before to the shape of the week, but now suddenly it is all I think about. The day. Where we are in the week. Sleeping less and less, the closer we get to Wednesday.

  In the past, I never worried about the day per se; all I worried about was whether I was working or not. For me as a journalist, there’s no clear midweek-versus-weekend routine as we work on a rota to cover weekends. Some weeks I may get Tuesday off for a Sunday on duty. Another week it may be Monday off for working a Saturday. Never the same, one week to the next, and so I have always simply marked my days off in green on the calendar on my kitchen wall, and smiled over my morning coffee as the green squares get closer.

  It is other things that in the past have shaped my week. Pilates on a Thursday night. French conversation classes on a Tuesday.

  And now? I am sitting alone in my sister’s Dorset kitchen, asking myself what today really feels like now. Tuesday. The new answer is very simple – too close to Wednesday.

  I can’t relax because I’m wondering: What the hell next? What might he do tomorrow? Am I safe? Is my mother safe? Will having Matthew Hill watch my back truly solve this? Keep us all safe? In fact, have I even got this right – is this man going to target me in some way every Wednesday, or has the day been a coincidence so far?

  My editor is still insisting I use up all my spare holiday. I tell myself this is him being kind and sensible but wonder, deep down, if Ted simply wants the problem moved out of the office. He won’t allow me to write about the stalking or harassment or whatever we choose to call it. He says we should treat it like bomb hoaxes were in the old days. Do not give these things the oxygen of publicity. That is what they want, Alice. We say nothing in the paper. No columns. Nothing.

  Ted still talks about ‘the paper’ as if the physical version is the most important thing – which, of course, it no longer is. The readership of our weekly paper is dying. Literally.

  Our South Devon ‘paper’, like every other, runs each story and photograph online first in a fruitless attempt to devise a new advertising and revenue strategy.

  The reality is we are in financial freefall. Our few remaining readers are aged. As I say . . . literally dying off. Advertisers have given up on the physical paper but we have yet to find a way to make adverts work for us online. So much competition. It means we will probably all be out of a job very soon. The wise ones have already moved into ‘communications’ – PR and marketing, or the mystery that is search engine optimisation.

  All I have ever wanted to do is write, and I’m not sure I have it in me to switch to sales.

  I check my watch. Only 10 a.m. It’s too far from Dorset to make my French class later, and I see a muddle of boredom and anxiety stretching ahead of me. I cannot imagine counting down the hours, just sitting here in Fort Knox, and so I head upstairs to my room to find my sports bag. Thank heavens I thought to pack my swimming kit.

  At first it feels contrary to even contemplate leaving the house on my own. The security blanket of the camera system and the alarms. Leanne would be furious. She had to return to London and her family, and wants me to stay indoors until all this ‘blows over’. I wonder if I should just watch another film?

  I turn the options over in my head. I glance around the kitchen and take in the large television in the corner. I think of all the blessed films I’ve watched already.

  I am rather sick of films. And I’m sick of feeling so cooped up. Defeated. Controlled. I hold my car keys in my hand for several minutes before finally deciding. Next there is the surreal, rich-kid novelty of the gates that open automatically for my car. My sister’s smart life.

  Even as I pull up the first hill, I am wondering when there will be an end to these push-pull questions now controlling my life. Is it madness to leave this safe haven? Possibly. Probably. Should I turn around and stay home? Possibly. Probably.

  I turn up the radio a little too loud and drive a little too fast. By the time I reach the main road, I fancy that a red sports car is tailing me. Five minutes and my heart is starting to beat faster and faster. Then the car suddenly turns off at the traffic lights and I feel foolish.

  My own gym back in Devon is much too far, so the only option is the public swimming pool. I can’t remember when I last used a public pool but I seem to recall my sister saying her children had top-up swimming lessons here and it’s good. It’s unlike Leanne to use anywhere without private membership, so that means it really must be OK.

  The satnav makes it an easy find. Plenty of parking. And I am starting to feel that it is a good idea to be somewhere busy – somewhere with lots of people around me. No one can target me in a crowd, surely? I change quickly, surprised to find a smart row of single cubicles as well as the communal space. No shortage of lockers. Lots of room. The water is warmer that I expect and very soon I am relaxing into the rhythm that always transports me.

  Stroke, stroke and breathe . . . Stroke, stroke and breathe.

  I complete one length very fast, using the ‘serious lane’ which is separated from the rest of the pool by bright orange rope with small blue buoys. On the second length I slow a little and let my mind wander.

  For some reason I am picturing Jack, trying to appease the divorce woman when I took that first phone call in the office. I am going to use cheese wire on you. I remember how steady Jack was. Worried eyes
but measured and sensible – just concerned enough to make me feel less stupid, but not so much to make me feel worse.

  Not for the first time I wish with all my being that I had not crossed the line with Jack. Made that stupid spectacle of myself. What was it – seven, maybe eight months back? Just before I met Tom.

  Lord knows what I was thinking. The poor man had barely lost his wife – the hell of ovarian cancer. Less than a year as a widower and there I was, practically asking him out. Put him right on the spot. Just Italian if you fancy it, Jack. You know – save us cooking one night. What do you think?

  Maybe he just said yes to be polite. Who knows. We got along so well in the office and I felt so sad for him. Losing his wife like that. But yes, I’m going to be honest here. Stroke, stroke and breathe . . . I really fancied him too, so I was probably being a bit selfish as well. Shameful of me.

  Whatever. It was a complete disaster. We had gin and olives. I found that I was incredibly nervous, being with him away from the office. I hadn’t thought it through at all and so I talked too much. Asked too many questions. Drank too much too quickly. By the time the main course arrived, Jack was pale and I was getting tipsy. Then, horror of horrors, I could feel myself starting to properly flirt. Somehow I knew it was the alcohol and I knew, deep down, that it was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t stop myself. At one point, I reached across the table and touched his hand. Poor Jack. He looked puzzled and then embarrassed. I drank more wine. I reached for his hand a second time and he pulled it back as if burned. I was much drunker than I realised; he was suddenly mortified – mumbling about mixed messages and a terrible misunderstanding.

  I’m so sorry, Alice. But I shouldn’t have said yes. I can’t do this. This feels . . . I don’t know. All wrong. I think it’s best I go.

  He didn’t even finish his meal. Paid the bill. Ordered me a cab and then disappeared.

  For a good while afterwards, it was excruciating in the office. Me blushing. Him blushing. So that when Tom suddenly appeared on the scene a few weeks later, I started dating him with almost ridiculous enthusiasm.

  An out . . .

  I finally bought Jack a coffee and openly apologised.

  I’m sorry, Jack. That Italian restaurant thing the other week? I honestly didn’t mean for you to think it was like a date or anything. God, no. I didn’t mean that . . . I have a boyfriend, actually. Tom. Lawyer. You must meet him. We’re having drinks soon. I’ll introduce you.

  That’s great, Alice. I’m sorry I was a bit odd at the restaurant . . .

  Don’t be. Entirely my fault. I had way too much wine. Anyway – I wanted to say sorry so that things can be OK between us again. Mates, I mean. And you must meet Tom. You’ll like him.

  I duck under the little rope of blue buoys and swim to the side of the pool. I take off my tinted goggles and hold on to the side as my eyes adjust to the brightly lit room. I scan the crowd, taking in the faces of all these strangers. There is a man with two small children in armbands and I wonder why he isn’t at work and why the children aren’t in school.

  On a raised chair, a lifeguard is scanning the pool too. He looks bored stiff and I fancy he may almost enjoy the odd drama, to at least feel useful. No. That’s cruel.

  I wonder how Matthew Hill truly feels about his work. Trailing after me on Wednesday. Does he hope that nothing happens? Or secretly hope to be useful?

  Like a journalist when we make our routine ‘check calls’ to the police and the fire brigade – morning, noon and night. We hope that no one is hurt; we wish no ill.

  And yet? We secretly want a story all the same.

  CHAPTER 11

  MATTHEW

  Matthew Hill glances at the door as a woman with a buggy negotiates the small step into the café. He wonders if he should help – or at least hold the door? He tenses for a moment and watches carefully, but no. A man nearer the entrance holds the door and she’s fine. Better than fine, actually, as the child – dummy in mouth – is still asleep.

  It’s Tuesday and he’s booked to watch Alice tomorrow. He’s feeling unusually anxious about this case and badly needs a steer of some kind. He checks his watch, turns back to the pyramids of sugar sachets and checks the table for stability. The napkin under the right-hand table leg has done the trick. He has four pyramids on the second layer already and is starting to think he may actually achieve a third tier today. Great that this coffee shop has not switched to those skinny, straw-shaped sachets. He gently picks up two new paper squares, shakes off the stray sugar granules and leans forward . . .

  ‘So, you don’t change, Mr Fidget Fingers.’ Melanie Sanders’ voice right alongside the table has a smile in its tone. She must have followed the mother in without him noticing. He turns too abruptly – his pyramids collapsing.

  ‘Mel!’ He immediately regrets the shock in his tone but the sight of her is difficult to take in.

  ‘Yes – I know. I’m huge. A whale. And I still have a month to go at work. Don’t even pretend not to be appalled.’

  ‘I’m not appalled. But seriously – are you sure it’s not twins?’ He kisses her on the cheek, eyes wide at her enormous bump.

  ‘If I had a pound for every person . . .’

  ‘Sorry. But really? No twins in the family?’

  ‘I had an extra scan to check. Just a very large baby. It may even be a mistake. Maybe I’m carrying an elephant.’

  He smiles and stands to signal the counter. ‘Coffee? Cake?’

  ‘Both please. Carrot cake if they have it. Stuff eating for two. I’m eating for Britain. Maybe that’s why the baby’s so big.’

  Once back at the table with her drink and cake, Matthew decides to wait for Mel to take this forward. They have worked together unofficially before – and very successfully – but it is still a risk for her to meet him. Swap info on a live case. He knows this. She knows this.

  Melanie dips her finger into the froth of her cappuccino and sucks the milk and chocolate powder off it before sighing. ‘OK. So tell me again – how come you’re working on the Alice Henderson stalker case?’

  ‘Boyfriend Tom hired me. I suspect you know that he doesn’t think the police are doing enough.’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s made his dissatisfaction very clear. And what do you make of him – this Tom? We’ve checked him out, of course. No record. No obvious flags – and cast-iron alibis. But should he stay on my list? I found him pretty straight myself, if a little irritating.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. Bit spoiled. Bit of a silver spoon there, I suspect. I get the feeling he’s keener on her than vice versa but he seems genuinely concerned and she seems happy to have his support. I’ve tried to explain to both of them about police resources.’

  ‘Yes. Well – we both know that we can’t do as much as we’d like. They only put me on this because the chief knows the paper’s editor and I’m supposed to be winding down to maternity leave. They seem to think this is one I can run mostly from my desk.’

  ‘What’s your instinct so far then, Mel?’

  ‘Well, as I say, your Tom’s in the clear. We’ve done the full checks and found absolutely nothing. A high-flyer by all accounts. Popular. Squeaky clean. And he was in court each time Alice has had hassle.’

  ‘So where are you looking? Anything on the cheese wire angle? Alice told me you pressed her on that. Certainly an odd threat.’

  ‘We’ve checked staff at her deli and supermarket. Nothing there. To be honest, I’m thinking we’re looking for an ex-boyfriend or someone she’s upset with one of her stories. But the latter is a needle in a haystack. Unbelievable the amount of stuff each reporter writes. I had no idea they were so prolific. She writes quite personal columns sometimes which may have stirred some nutter’s nest. So what’s your brief then, Matt?’

  ‘To keep an eye on her every Wednesday and see if the day really is significant.’

  ‘Security gig, you mean?’ She raises both eyebrows. ‘A bit Kevin Costner, isn’t it? Didn’t think that was your style.�
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  He blushes and finishes the last of his drink. ‘I wouldn’t normally have taken it, Mel, but she seems nice – this Alice. And these kinds of cases are so frustrating all round. We both know there’s not much we can really do without surveillance. I’ve said I won’t play bodyguard per se, but I’m happy to do twenty-four-hour surveillance once a week.’

  Melanie lets out a long sigh. ‘OK. Well, strictly between us, I’m very happy you’re working on this too, because we both know I’m highly unlikely to get the manpower to do much unless things escalate. Forensics have found nothing so far, so our guy clearly knows what he’s doing. I’m a bit worried about the mother, actually. Whether she’s genuinely some kind of target too and we’re missing something. Or whether this guy just referenced her to wind Alice up some more. We’re checking the finances. Who would gain if the mother comes to harm.’

  ‘So what’s the security at the mother’s nursing home like?’

  ‘Not bad at all. They’ve got cameras and good door security. I’m sending uniformed round once a day to keep the pressure on them. But their protocols seem good.’ She pauses. ‘Might be worth you popping by to double-check; make sure they don’t just let you sweet-talk your way in. If you have time.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll do that.’ Matthew then lets out a long huff of air and stares into Mel’s eyes.

  ‘Are you thinking about the Rachel Allen case, Mel?’

  She nods.

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  When they were in police training college together, there was a stalker case in Devon that they studied as part of their training. Matthew and Mel spent time with the team involved. A waitress in her early twenties was being stalked by a bartender who had developed a crush on her. Lots of phone calls and texts. Flowers, chocolates and teddy bears delivered to her flat. There were no threats as such and the bartender had no record of violence. Matthew and Mel had to report back to their colleagues on how it was all going. One of the police recruits was reprimanded in class for cracking a joke – I wish someone would send me flowers and chocolates.