Читать книгу Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller - Claire Allan, Claire Allan - Страница 17

A polite female police officer has made two cups of sweet tea. Mum’s sipping gingerly at hers, the rattling of the cup on the saucer showing that she’s still on edge. I’ve put my cup down. I only had to glance at it to know there’s no way I’d be able to drink it. My stomach is swirling, my head now sore, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I want to ring Martin. Now. Ask him. Now. Accuse him?

I excuse myself and stand up. I walk to the sink and fill a glass with water so I can wash down one of my anti-sickness pills. Not that I think it’ll make any difference just now.

The police officer, Debbie, or Denise, or Dotty or something – I hadn’t quite caught it – eyes me sympathetically.

‘Sickness tablet,’ I tell her. ‘It’s hyperemesis – morning sickness that doesn’t want to go away, essentially. These help.’

‘That must be tough,’ she says.

‘It is. But I’m told it’ll be worth it.’

That, of course, was before someone had pointed the finger directly at my husband, telling me he isn’t to be trusted. Romantic walks? Theatre dates? Sex? Intimacy? Love? My stomach turns again and I close my eyes, breathe deeply, try to quell the sickness. She must think me such a fool.

‘How far gone are you?’ she asks.

‘Thirty-two weeks. Almost there.’

‘Babies have a great way of bringing people together,’ she says, and I wonder, is it true? Especially if people don’t want to be together to start with. Or at least one of them doesn’t appear to.

I shrug my shoulders, walk back to the sofa, where I sit beside my mother. Dotty or Daisy – actually, I think it was Deirdre – sits across from me. Adopts an ‘I’m listening’ face while her colleague, tall, cropped red hair, eyes bleary with tiredness, continues to make notes.

‘So you can’t think of who might have done this?’ he asks.

William. His name is William. I remember that.

I shake my head.

‘Who on earth would want to frighten Eliana?’ my mother asks. ‘She’s a nurse in the hospice, for the love of God. And she’s pregnant.’

‘And your husband’s in London, like the note says?’

My face blazes with embarrassment or shame, I can’t decide. My name is Eliana and I can’t keep my man. I feel my wedding ring pinch at my finger. It’s started to get too tight, but that doesn’t mean I want to take it off.

‘We’ll have to talk to him, of course,’ William says.

‘Of course,’ I nod.

‘And when is he due back from London?’

‘Tuesday,’ I reply. ‘He’s working there.’

William nods, as does Deirdre. I wonder what else they’ve dealt with tonight. Do they think I’m just some crazy woman with a cheating husband? A waste of police resources.

‘If you give me his number, I’ll give him a call. Ask a few questions.’

‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘I imagine he’ll be worried. The security company will probably have called him first.’

I rhyme his number off. It’s one of only two mobile numbers I remember by heart – his and mine. Deirdre writes it down, stands up, takes her phone from her pocket and taps in the number. She walks out of earshot just after I hear him answer. I’m tempted to follow her … I want to hear his reaction. His first reaction.

William speaks again. ‘We’ll investigate all angles,’ he says. ‘We’ll get SOCO out as early as possible in the morning to examine the scene.’

‘Can they not come now?’ my mother asks, a hint of impatience.

He shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. It’s more useful if they come when the light’s better. They can get a good look at any unusual tyre tracks or the like. We’d ask you not to disturb anything before they get here.’

I feel embarrassed again. I’ve already lifted the rock, read the note. I did cover my hands, but I probably should’ve left it where it was.

‘It’s possible Mr Hughes’ll be able to shed some light on everything,’ William says, nodding in the direction of his colleague.

‘Well, it was hardly him, he’s out of the country. I told you that,’ my mother fusses.

I say nothing. I know exactly what this policeman isn’t saying. This is a domestic. A wronged husband maybe, making sure that his hurt is shared by me, and by default Martin. I think of the note in my bag. The note that just hours ago I was convinced I was going to bin.

‘There’s something else I need to show you,’ I tell him.

I can see my mother’s eyes widen. I blush again as I get up and go to fetch my bag from the hall. She’ll be annoyed that I didn’t tell her about it when it happened. But it was so vague and I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t want to believe it.

It’s a bit more crumpled, but it’s still there. I pull it out, straighten it and hand it to William. He pauses to put on latex gloves before taking it from me. I suppose it’s evidence now. I really must ask his full name again. His rank.

‘Sorry, my head’s all over the place. Can you tell me your name again?’

‘Constable William Dawson,’ he replies, not looking up from the note. ‘And where did this come from?’

‘What is it?’ my mother asks impatiently.

‘It was delivered to my work. No postmark, so I think hand-delivered. No one saw who left it; I asked our admin officer.’

‘And when was this?’

I try to think … two days ago, wasn’t it?

‘The day before yesterday.’

I’m aware of my mother’s sharp intake of breath beside me.

‘And what actually is it, Eliana?’ she says.

I notice William, Constable Dawson, look up at her. Her motherly tone is fierce when in full flow.

‘A note, Mum,’ I say.

‘Well clearly,’ she says. ‘But what does it say?’

Dawson holds it out in her direction. ‘Can you make sure not to touch it? We’ll be taking this with us for forensic analysis.’

She nods, and leans towards the note. Her eyes widen and I see her hand go to her chest, to finger the gold crucifix she always wears. I watch as she inhales and turns to me, puts her hand on my knee.

‘This doesn’t mean anything, Eli. None of this. You’re not to be annoying yourself about it.’

I almost laugh. She’s trying to tell me this is nothing while we sit in a house that’s been broken into, talking to two police officers.

‘This puts a different slant on things,’ Dawson says. ‘Multiple letters.’

‘Two is hardly multiple,’ I hear my mother interject.

I ignore her, nod to Dawson.

‘I don’t understand why anyone would do this,’ I say.

‘Sheer malice,’ my mother says. ‘Some people have so little to bother them that they put a pregnant woman through this ordeal.’

‘We’ll see what we can find out. Check for any CCTV close by, see if we can pick up the car on it. There are a number of avenues we can look at,’ Dawson says, his expression sympathetic.

Deirdre walks back in. ‘I’ve spoken to your husband. He’s obviously concerned about you.’

‘I’ll call him soon,’ I say, thinking there are one or two questions I need to ask him myself.

She looks at her colleague. ‘Mr Hughes says he can’t think of anyone who may hold a grudge and says there is no truth at all to the allegations in the note. I’ve asked him to come and see us on Tuesday when he arrives home.’

‘There’s a second note,’ Dawson says. ‘Similar kind of thing. I’ll just bag it here for evidence.’ He takes a small plastic bag from his pocket and slips the note in, sealing it afterwards and handing it Deirdre. She reads it through the clear plastic and looks back at me, sympathy written all over her face. I imagine she thinks I’m deluded too.

‘That’s your crime reference number. You’ll need that when you contact your insurance company. My number’s there, but obviously I’m on night shifts at the moment, so you won’t be able to reach me during the day. I’ll get a colleague to call you in the morning, or they might come out with SOCO,’ Dawson says.

I nod.

‘It’s entirely up to you if you want to stay here tonight,’ he said. ‘But obviously we’d advise you to make sure the property’s as secure as possible.’

I glance down at my swollen stomach and to my mother, who looks stunned by everything. I wonder how exactly we’re supposed to ‘secure the property’.

‘Maybe we should go to a hotel,’ I say to my mother.

‘And leave the house open to anyone?’ she says. ‘No, Eliana. We’ll stay here and we’ll not let whoever this spiteful creature is win.’

‘We can help secure the property for you,’ Dawson says. ‘It’ll be a bit of a make-shift job but it will do until morning?’

‘That would be great,’ my mother says.

‘Good, if you have some bin bags or an old sheet, and some masking tape or something similar?’ he asks. My mother nods and sets about gathering what he has asked for. It all still seems very surreal to me.

‘If you can think of anything at all that might help, or of anyone who we should talk to, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m very sorry you’ve had this upset,’ he says, as he waits. ‘And it probably goes without saying that if you receive any more notes from this person, or if you feel in danger at all, that you contact us immediately. Use 999 if necessary, we’ll have this address flagged with first responders so that any call from here will be prioritised.’

I nod. By this stage I’m exhausted. I just want them to go. I want to sit down. Close my eyes. Pretend none of this is happening. I want to speak to Martin, but what do I say? Do I ask him outright if he’s having an affair? Do I go in all guns blazing? Do I start packing his bags, throw them out into the drive to languish in the rain until he returns? Do I leave? Do I stay and believe him and live in fear of the next note, or the next rock through a window, or the next whatever? Martin, my Martin – romantic walks. Dates. With someone else. I want to scream. This must be what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you.

My mother arrives back with a roll of bin bags, some masking tape and a dustpan and brush to lift the broken glass. I offer to help, but both police officers insist that my mother and I sit down. They can manage. I can only imagine they feel sorry for us – this heavily pregnant woman whose husband might be cheating, and this older lady wandering about in her nightie and dressing gown.

I’m relieved when they finally finish their task and leave, sympathetic smiles on their faces, and I finally give in to the tears that have been threatening for the last hour.

‘Eliana, why on earth did you not tell me about this note?’ Mum’s voice cuts through my thoughts, jolts me into the now. ‘I knew there was something you weren’t telling me – some reason you’d asked me to come down early.’

‘There wasn’t really anything to tell,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it was about Martin. I didn’t think it could be about Martin. Oh! Mum, what am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to talk to him. You’re going to ask him to come home and you’re going to talk about this face-to-face.’

I nod. I start to cry and she’s beside me, hugging me.

‘Wait until you talk to him, Eli,’ she soothes. ‘He’s a good man. Now, how about we try to get some sleep? This will all seem less insurmountable in the morning. Go to bed, darling. Call Martin just to let him hear your voice and just for you to hear his, but then tell him you need him home. You need to talk. I’m sure he’ll come.’

‘But his work …’ I say, even though at this moment I don’t care about his work.

‘His work will still be there the day after tomorrow,’ she says and kisses my head. ‘Now, young lady,’ she adds softly, ‘go to bed.’