Never Close Your Eyes (46 page)

She reached for her dressing gown, padded across the landing and poked her head round his study door but he wasn't there. His laptop was open, though, illuminated and making that gentle whooshing sound that signalled it was in use.

There was a clatter downstairs: the sound of cutlery on plates. Maybe he was making himself a snack; he hadn't wanted much supper. She thought about going down to join him, she'd quite like a cup of tea, but then her eye was drawn to an orange light that flashed up on the bottom right hand side of the screen: it looked like a message.

She moved closer to take a look, she couldn't help herself. There was a name –
Freya
.

Evie's daughter's name. Coincidence. She double-clicked on the message so that she could read it.
Freya says: r u bak yet? u r taking ages!

There was a silhouette in the top-right-hand corner of the message: a featureless head and shoulders. Nic hesitated, her ears pricked. There was another clatter from downstairs. She shouldn't. She must. She leaned over the machine and began to type:
hi

She paused. Nothing happened. She pressed enter; she wasn't totally useless.

Freya says: at last! wot did u eat?
Nic jumped. No wonder it was called instant messaging. She'd heard of it, of course. It was mostly for teenagers. Dominic was too young.

She swallowed. Her fingers moved across the keyboard as if of their own will.

beans on toast,
Nic said. It was all she could think of.
yum.

nice
, Freya replied.
am gonna go to bed soon, really tired.

me too,
said Nic.
you had school today?
She flinched, she didn't want to know the answer.

Nic tried to sound nonchalant.
yeah. when's your GCSEs?
She squeezed her face into a grimace. It was such a crass enquiry, so obvious.

Nic felt wobbly, unstable. But she'd got her answer. This girl must be twelve or thirteen – just like Evie's Freya. Coincidences did happen.

She listened again. It had gone quiet downstairs. Alan might be eating. She didn't have much time.

She was poised to type again but
Freya
interrupted:
can't wait 2 c u.

Nic's heart was hammering so loud now that she feared someone would hear. She tried to swallow but her mouth was completely dry. All the saliva had gone. She tapped:
me 2.

don't care if u r old and bald, Freya
continued
. luv u so much.

So she knew about Alan, knew he was a man, anyway, not a boy. Did she know that he was her husband, the husband of Evie's friend, though? Nic breathed in and out. Her legs felt weak but it was important to hold herself together. This girl could be in real danger.

go on then – tell me where we're meeting? just testing!
she wrote. She was amazed that she had the guts.

Saturday? The day after tomorrow. Nic's palms felt sweaty. Alan had told her that he was going to Brussels overnight on business. There was a clamp around her skull; someone was screwing it tighter and tighter.

She could hear Alan moving downstairs. He'd be up any minute. She thought fast. This was the most important thing that she'd ever done in her life. A shadow passed through her mind. She just needed to be sure.

what about your mum, can't remember her name?
she typed.

Nic stared at the screen. It was a joke, some horrible, sick movie. Whatever happened, she must stop him going back to the computer or he'd twig.

go 2 bed now, luv u, see u sat,
she managed to type. She was on overdrive now, functioning only with the help of some extra-high gear that she didn't know she had.

Nic left the laptop as it was and crawled on her hands and knees out of the study to her bedroom door. Then she stood up, folded her arms and leaned against the door frame. Her whole body was shaking. She must control it; he mustn't notice. She needed to draw on every ounce of strength she possessed.

Alan appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What are you doing?' He looked startled.

She'd acted at school; she could do it. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘I can't sleep.'

He frowned. He was annoyed. Of course he was. She hovered a couple of inches behind him, peering round his shoulder while he went into the study. She wound her arms round his waist. She was a temptress. ‘Come to bed,' she wheedled. She could sense irritation oozing from his every pore, but she clung on tight. ‘I'm lonely,' she whined, ‘I need a cuddle.'

He tried to shake her off but she held fast.

He was lingering over his laptop. There was hardly any space between him and the machine but she slipped between them. Then, before he could stop her, she reached up and planted a kiss on his mouth.

‘What are you . . . ?'

‘Come to bed, gorgeous,' she murmured, a sexy, minxy smile playing on her lips. She wanted to punch him, slap him, grab him by the balls and squeeze. But her feelings were secondary. She knew what she had to do.

‘I'm coming,' he muttered.

She waited right by him, her hands on her hips, watching closely while he shut down his laptop, closed the cover, wound up the cord and put it away in its special bag. As soon as she was sure he was asleep, she crept down to the kitchen and closed the door softly behind her. Then she sat, quite still, staring into the blackness.

She'd never felt so alone in her life.

Chapter Forty-One

‘You look lovely!'

Evie smiled at Freya as she came into the kitchen. She was wearing her usual tight black jeans and white T-shirt under a black V-neck pullover. Her favourite black leather belt with silver studs was slung round her hips. But something about her was different. Her hair?

She'd clearly washed and coloured it this morning. It was a dark plum colour and all sleek and shiny, tied back in a French ponytail with wisps falling round her face. She had black eyeliner on, but no other make-up, and her eyes were sparkly pools of blue light. She was also smiling. She looked very pretty and young.

‘What are you up to today?' Evie asked, turning the page of her newspaper and taking a bite of toast. She adored Saturday mornings. She'd just dropped Michael at football training; she had a couple of hours all to herself.

‘Going to Camden Market.' Freya walked over to the fridge and took out a carton of orange juice.

‘Who with?' Evie glanced at the headline: ‘We Didn't Expect to be Dealing with Stroppy Teenagers Again'. It was a piece about two grandparents who were raising their teenage grandchildren after their daughter was murdered. She started to read: ‘Daisy loves hanging out with her friends, loud music, going to gigs . . .' Sounded familiar.

‘Lucy,' Freya said.

‘That's nice.'

Evie read on: ‘Hazel and Reg like gardening, watching television . . .' Typical pensioners, then.

‘I'm staying at her house tonight.'

Evie looked up. Freya was sipping orange juice from the carton.

‘Don't do that.'

‘It's finished.' Freya threw the carton in the bin.

‘Put it in the recycling outside.'

Freya ignored her.

‘Be careful,' Evie went on, looking back at the newspaper. ‘There'll be lots of pickpockets about on a Saturday.'

‘I know.'

‘What time will you be home tomorrow?'

Freya wandered over to the cupboard, took out a packet of muesli and started pouring some in a bowl. ‘Late afternoon,' she replied. ‘Lucy's mum's invited me for Sunday lunch.'

Evie opened her mouth to speak.

‘Don't worry,' Freya interjected. ‘I did all my homework last night.'

Well, that was a relief.

Freya got some milk from the fridge and began eating her cereal standing up. Evie looked at the photo accompanying the article. The grandparents had white hair, specs, brave smiles. They looked slightly bemused, as if this were happening to someone else; she felt sorry for them, sorry for them all. It must be such a difficult situation.

‘Well done – about the homework,' she said, taking another bite of toast. It had gone cold. ‘I hope you have a lovely time.'

Freya put her bowl in the sink.

‘The dishwasher,' said Evie, pointing a finger in the vague direction. She was still only on paragraph three. There were so many interruptions.

Freya came over and kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘You have a nice weekend too.'

She went into the hall. Evie could hear her putting on her coat. She felt empty suddenly; she wished she'd paid more attention. Now she wouldn't see Freya again till tomorrow.

‘You haven't done your teeth!' she called.

There was a pause. The door slammed.

Freya had gone.

Evie folded the newspaper and got up to put her plate and mug in the dishwasher. The clock on the oven door said 10 a.m. There was another hour to go before she had to collect Michael. Bliss.

The phone rang.

‘Nic? How are you?' Evie was just in the mood for a good old chat with Nic now that she'd finished the article.

Her knees started to give way. She slumped on to the kitchen chair. She couldn't understand what Nic was saying. ‘Alan, paedophile, Freya, St Pancras, eleven thirty, police . . .'

‘What are you talking about?' Evie shouted.

‘I'm so sorry . . . so sorry . . . the statue of the lovers . . . I knew he liked young girls . . .'

‘I don't understand.'

‘I went to the police station this morning . . . They're on their way to you now . . . Need you to go with them to identify her . . .'

Evie dropped the phone, grabbed her handbag from the hallway and ran.

Carol jumped when she heard the commotion and turned around, narrowing her eyes. She ought to visit the optician; she needed new glasses. She was always squinting. She could see clearly enough who this was, though: Evie. She was on the other side of the street, running like a crazed thing towards the main road. She had no coat on and her fair hair was flying behind her. She'd left her front door wide open. Whatever could have happened?

Carol stopped stroking the neighbour's black cat and got up. Her knees creaked. She'd been squatting there for some time, half facing the house, her beanie pulled down over her eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the family.

It was spitting with rain. Good job she was wearing her waterproofs. But Evie would get so wet. Carol left her bike where it was against a fence and crossed the road to Evie's side. She looked around, uncertain what to do. Evie was often late. Even as a child she left things till the last minute. It was one of her less appealing characteristics. But Carol had never seen her in quite such a panic as this before.

She opened the gate and walked up Evie's front path. She saw someone leave their house a few doors down and head off in the opposite direction, but other than that the street was quiet.

She'd close the front door; she couldn't leave it open, someone might steal something. If Evie had no keys, well, so be it. Carol knew Michael had football this morning, but Freya might be in. Failing that, it was always possible that a neighbour had a key and if not, Evie would just have to wait till Freya got home. She'd rather that, Carol was sure, than have the house burgled.

Carol put her hand through the brass letterbox and started to pull. Something stopped her. There were frogs hopping in her tummy. She opened the door an inch or two again and peered in. She could see all the way down Evie's hallway to the kitchen at the back! She'd love to know what Evie's kitchen was like.

She hadn't seen the hallway properly before either, just glimpses of it from outside. It was nice and wide, with a lovely high ceiling, but the wooden floor was a bit shabby. There was a pair of dirty white shoes at the foot of the stairs where someone had obviously kicked them off before going up. They were trainers, child-sized. Michael's, no doubt. Tch. He should know better.

On the left-hand wall by the mirror there was a thin crack, running almost from ceiling to floor, which someone had tried to paper over. Carol swallowed. Poor Evie. She couldn't afford for anyone to sort it out properly. The whole place could do with a lick of paint, actually. Carol clenched her fists. It was outrageous, Neil leaving Evie so short of cash. He had a good job, he ought to pay for someone to spruce it up for her.