Читать книгу The Breakdown: The gripping thriller from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors - Б. Э. Пэрис, B Paris A - Страница 10

FRIDAY, JULY 24TH

Jane haunts me. It’s a week since her murder and I can’t imagine there ever being a day when she isn’t foremost in my mind. The guilt I feel hasn’t lessened with time. If anything, it has increased. It doesn’t help that her murder is still very much in the news, with non-stop speculation by the media as to why she chose to stop on such an isolated road in the middle of a storm. Tests show that nothing was wrong with her car but because it was a fairly old model with wipers that barely functioned, the theory put forward is that she was having trouble seeing through her windscreen and was waiting for the storm to pass before continuing her journey.

Gradually, a picture begins to emerge. Just before eleven she left a voicemail message on her husband’s mobile, saying she was leaving one of the bars in Castle Wells, where she’d been at a friend’s hen night, and would be home soon. According to the staff at the restaurant, Jane had left the restaurant with her friends but had returned five minutes later to use the phone there because she’d realised she’d left her mobile at home. Her husband had fallen asleep on the sofa and hadn’t heard the call come in, so he had no idea that she hadn’t turned up until the police knocked on his door and told him the terrible news. Three people have come forward to say that although they drove down Blackwater Lane on Friday night, none of them saw her car, parked or otherwise. This allows the police to narrow the time of the murder down to somewhere between eleven-twenty – as it would have taken her around fifteen minutes to reach the lay-by from Castle Wells – and five to one, when the passing motorist found her.

There’s a voice in my head urging me to contact the police, to tell them she was still alive when I passed her car at around eleven-thirty, but the other voice, the one telling me that they’ll be disgusted that I didn’t do anything to help her, is louder. And surely, narrowing the time down by such a small margin won’t make any real difference to the murder inquiry. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

In the afternoon, a man from Superior Security Systems arrives to give a quote for an alarm system. He immediately gets my back up by arriving twenty minutes early and asking if my husband is in.

‘No, he’s not,’ I tell him, trying not to get distracted by the flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of his dark suit. ‘But if you run through the sort of system you think this house needs to make it secure, I’m sure I’ll be able to understand. As long as you speak slowly.’

The sarcasm is lost on him. Without waiting to be invited in he comes into the hall. ‘Are you often in the house on your own?’ he asks.

‘No, not really.’ His question makes me uneasy. ‘My husband will be home soon, actually,’ I add.

‘Well, looking at your house from the outside, I’d say it’s a prime target for burglars, being stuck as it is at the end of the road. You need sensor alarms on your windows, on your doors, in the garage, in the garden.’ He looks around the hall. ‘On the stairs too – you don’t want anyone creeping up on you in the middle of the night, do you? I’ll just take a look over the house, shall I?’

Turning on his heels, he heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I follow him up and see him making a quick check of the window at the end of the landing. He disappears into our bedroom and I hover outside the door, uneasy about him being in there on his own. It suddenly occurs to me that I never asked him for proof of identity and I’m appalled that, in the light of Jane’s murder, I wasn’t more careful about letting him in. When I think about it, he hadn’t said he was from the alarm company, I had just assumed he was, even though he was early. He could be anybody.

The thought lodges itself so firmly in my brain that the unease I’m already feeling at him being in the house grows into something akin to panic. My heart misses a beat and then speeds up furiously, playing catch-up, leaving me shaky. Keeping one eye fixed firmly on the bedroom door, I creep into the spare room and call Matthew from my mobile, glad that I can at least get a signal from here. He doesn’t pick up but, a moment later, I get a text from him:

Sorry, in meeting. Everything OK?

I text back, my fingers clumsy on the keys:

Don’t like look of alarm man

Then get rid of him.

I leave the bedroom and collide with the alarm man. Jumping back with a cry of alarm, I open my mouth, about to tell him that I’ve changed my mind about having an alarm, but he gets there first.

‘I just need to check this room and the bathroom and then I’ll take a look downstairs,’ he says, squashing past me.

Instead of waiting for him, I hurry down to the hall and stand near the front door, telling myself that I’m being stupid, that I’m panicking for nothing. But when he comes down, I stay where I am, leaving him to walk around the rest of the house by himself. It’s a long ten minutes before he appears in the hall again.

‘Right, shall we go and sit down?’ he asks.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure we need an alarm after all.’

‘I don’t like to bring it up but after the murder of that young woman not far from here, I’d say you’re making a mistake. Don’t forget that the murderer is still out there somewhere.’

This virtual stranger mentioning Jane’s death unbalances me and I desperately want him out of the house. ‘Have you got contact details? From your firm?’

‘Sure.’ He reaches inside his jacket and I take a step back, half expecting him to draw out a knife. But all he brandishes is a card. I take it from him and study it for a moment. It says his name is Edward Garvey. Does he look like an Edward? My suspicion is addictive.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But it might be an idea if you come back when my husband is here.’

‘I could, I suppose. Not sure when it’ll be though. I know I shouldn’t say it but murder is good for business, if you know what I mean? So, if you just give me ten more minutes of your time, I’ll run through everything quickly and you can tell your husband all about it when he gets home.’

He walks towards the kitchen and stands in the doorway, his hand outstretched, inviting me in. I want to remind him that it’s my house but I find myself walking into the kitchen anyway. Is this how it works…? is this how people let themselves be led into potentially dangerous situations, like lambs to the slaughter? My anxiety increases when, instead of sitting down opposite me at the table, he sits down next to me, cornering me in. He opens the brochure but I’m so on edge that I can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying. I nod my head at appropriate moments and try to look interested in the figures he’s totting up but sweat is trickling down my back and the only thing that stops me leaping to my feet and ordering him out of the house is my middle-class upbringing. Was it manners that prevented Jane from closing her window hurriedly and driving off when she realised she didn’t want to give her killer a lift after all?

‘Right, that’s that then,’ he concludes, and I stare at him, bemused, as he stuffs the papers into his briefcase and pushes a brochure towards me. ‘You show that to your husband tonight. He’ll be impressed, take my word for it.’

I only relax once I’ve closed the door behind him but the realisation that, once again, I did something stupid by not asking for proof of identity before letting him in, especially when a woman has just been murdered nearby, makes me question my lack of judgement. Feeling suddenly cold, I run upstairs to fetch a jumper and, as I go into the bedroom, I see that the window is open. I stare at it for a moment, wondering what it means, wondering if it means anything at all. You’re being neurotic, I tell myself sternly, taking a cardigan from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. Even if the man from Superior Security Systems did open it – which he probably did, to see where the sensors could be fitted – it doesn’t mean that he left it open so that he could come back and murder you.

I close the window and as I’m on my way back downstairs, the phone starts ringing. I expect it to be Matthew but it’s Rachel.

‘I don’t suppose you want to meet for a drink, do you?’ she asks.

‘Yes!’ I say, glad of an excuse to get out of the house. ‘Are you OK?’ I add, detecting that she isn’t her usually bubbly self.

‘Yes, I just feel like a glass of wine. Is six all right for you? I can come to Browbury.’

‘Great. In the Sour Grapes?’

‘Perfect. See you there.’

Back in the kitchen, the Superior Security Systems brochure is still lying on the table, so I put it on the side for Matthew to look at once we’ve had dinner. It’s already five-thirty – the whole thing with the alarm man must have lasted longer than I realised – so I grab my car keys and head off immediately.

The town is busy and as I hurry towards the wine bar, I hear someone call my name and look up to see my lovely friend Hannah making her way through the crowd. She’s the wife of Matthew’s tennis partner, Andy, and a relatively new friend but such fun I wish I’d met her earlier. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she says.

‘I know, it’s been too long. I’m actually on my way to meet Rachel, otherwise I’d suggest going for a drink, but you must come over for a barbecue this summer.’

‘That would be lovely.’ Hannah smiles. ‘Andy was saying the other day that he hasn’t seen Matthew at the club recently.’ She pauses. ‘Isn’t it awful about that young woman who was murdered last week?’

The dark cloud that is Jane descends on me. ‘Yes, dreadful,’ I say.

She gives a little shiver. ‘The police still haven’t found the person responsible. Do you think it was someone she knew? They say most murders are committed by someone known to the murderer.’

‘Do they?’ I say. I know I should tell Hannah that I knew Jane, that I’d had lunch with her a couple of weeks before, but I can’t because I don’t want her to start asking me about her, about what she was like. And the fact that I can’t seems like another betrayal.

‘It could be just an opportunist murder,’ she goes on. ‘But Andy thinks it was someone local, someone who knows the geography of the area. He reckons they’re holed up somewhere nearby. He thinks it won’t be the last murder around here. It’s worrying, isn’t it?’

The thought of the murderer hiding nearby makes me go cold. Her words vibrate in my head and I feel so sick that I can’t concentrate on what she’s saying. I let her talk for a few more minutes, not really listening, murmuring responses at what I hope are appropriate places.

‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ I say, looking at my watch, ‘but I’ve just seen the time! I really have to go.’

‘Oh, of course. Tell Matthew that Andy is looking forward to seeing him.’

‘I will,’ I promise.

*

The Sour Grapes is packed and Rachel is already there, a bottle of wine in front of her.

‘You’re early,’ I say, giving her a hug.

‘No, you’re late, but it doesn’t matter.’ She pours wine into a glass and hands it to me.

‘Sorry. I bumped into my friend Hannah and we ended up chatting. I better not drink the whole glass, I’m driving.’ I nod towards the bottle. ‘You’re obviously not.’

‘A couple of colleagues are meeting me for a bite to eat later so we’ll finish it between us.’

I take a sip of wine, savouring its crispness. ‘So, how are you?’

‘Not great, actually. The police have been in the office for the last few days, questioning everybody about Jane. It was my turn today.’

‘No wonder you feel like a drink,’ I say sympathetically. ‘What did they want to know?’

‘Just if I knew her. So I said that I didn’t, because it’s true.’ She fiddles with the stem of her glass. ‘The thing is, I didn’t tell them about the run-in I had with her over the parking space and now I’m wondering if I should have.’

‘Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘I don’t know. Actually, I do. I suppose I thought it might make me look as if I had a motive.’

‘A motive?’ She shrugs. ‘What, to murder her? Rachel, people don’t commit murder over a parking space!’

‘I’m sure people have been murdered for less,’ she says dryly. ‘But what I’m worried about now is if somebody else – one of her friends in the office, because she’s bound to have mentioned it – tells the police about the row.’

‘I doubt they will,’ I say. ‘But if you’re that worried, why don’t you call the police and tell them yourself ?’

‘Because they might start wondering why I didn’t tell them in the first place. It makes me look guilty.’

I shake my head. ‘You’re reading too much into it.’ I try to smile at her. ‘I think that’s the effect this murder is having on everybody. I had a man over this afternoon to give me a quote for an alarm and I felt really vulnerable being in the house on my own with him.’

‘I can imagine. I wish they’d hurry up and find whoever did it. It must be awful for Jane’s husband to know that his wife’s murderer is out there somewhere. Apparently, he’s taken leave of absence to look after the children.’ She picks up the wine bottle and tops up her glass. ‘What about you? How are you doing?’

‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug, not wanting to think about Jane’s motherless children. ‘It’s a bit difficult with Jane always on my mind.’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘I almost wish I hadn’t had that lunch with her.’

‘That’s understandable,’ she says sympathetically. ‘Did you book in to get an alarm fittted?’

My shoulders tighten ‘I want to but I’m not sure Matthew’s very keen on having one, though. He’s always said it’s like being a prisoner in your own home.’

‘Better than being murdered in your own home,’ she says darkly.

‘Don’t.’

‘Well, it’s true.’

‘Let’s change the subject,’ I suggest. ‘Have you got any business trips coming up?’

‘No, not until after my holiday. Only two more weeks, then I’ll be in Siena. I can’t wait!’

‘I can’t believe you’ve chosen Siena over the Ile de Ré,’ I tease, because she’s always said she’d never go on holiday to anywhere other than Ile de Ré.

‘I’m only going to Siena because my friend Angela has invited me to her villa, remember. Even if it is because she wants to set me up with her brother-in-law, Alfie,’ she adds, rolling her eyes. She takes another sip of wine. ‘Speaking of the Ile de Ré, I’m thinking of going there for my fortieth, women only. You’ll come, won’t you?’

‘I’d love to!’ Thinking of getting away makes me feel so much better, and it’ll be the perfect place to give her the present I’ve bought her. For a moment I forget about Jane and soon Rachel is telling me about the places she plans to visit in Siena. For the next hour, we manage to keep the conversation away from anything to do with murder and alarms but, by the time I get home, I feel mentally exhausted.

‘Did you have a good time with Rachel?’ Matthew asks, reaching up and giving me a kiss from his seat at the kitchen table.

‘Yes,’ I say, slipping off my shoes. The tiles are beautifully cool beneath my feet. ‘And I bumped into Hannah on my way to meet her, so that was nice.’

‘We haven’t seen her and Andy for ages,’ he muses. ‘How are they?’

‘Fine. I said they must come round for a barbecue.’

‘Good idea. How did it go with the alarm man? Did you manage to get rid of him?’

I take two mugs from the cupboard and switch the kettle on. ‘Eventually, yes. He left his brochure for you to look at. How about you? Did you have a good day?’

He pushes his chair back and stands, stretching his back, easing the muscles in his shoulders. ‘Busy. I could do without going away next week.’ He comes over and nuzzles my neck. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

Shocked, I twist away from him. ‘Wait a minute! What do you mean, you’re going away?’

‘Well, you know, to the rig.’

‘No, I don’t know. You never said anything about going to the rig.’

He looks at me in surprise. ‘Of course I did.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know, it must have been a couple of weeks ago, as soon as I found out.’

I shake my head stubbornly. ‘You didn’t. If you’d told me, I would have remembered.’

‘Look, you even said you’d use the time I was away to work on your lesson plans for September, so that we’d both be able to relax when I got back.’

Doubt fingers its way into my mind. ‘I couldn’t have.’

‘Well, you did.’

‘I didn’t, all right,’ I say, my voice tight. ‘Don’t keep insisting that you told me you were going away when you didn’t.’

I feel his eyes on me and busy myself making the tea so that he can’t see how upset I am. And not just because he’s going away.