Someone To Save you (10 page)

Sam returned to the kitchen, and cooked his signature meal of tuna pasta, Anna’s favourite, before turning his thoughts back to Louisa. He’d gone with her straight from Tate Modern to the police to report the theft of the phone and Richard’s behaviour. Defying their expectations, the officer on duty had seemed concerned, promising to get back to them as soon as possible. He’d invited Louisa to stay at his, but she’d declined, saying that she’d arranged to go out for a drink with a few girls from work. He didn’t want to push her, but he had insisted on accompanying her back to her flat, less than a mile away on the other side of Islington.

He was worried about her.

Sam had just finished the meal when the call that he had been longing for came. Anna sounded full of energy, even though it was midnight local time. The flight had run to schedule, and she’d just arrived at the relief centre in the Delta Region of Bangladesh. From there, she would help to kick start the efforts to ensure that the displaced population received clean, secure water supplies. Sam could almost feel the adrenaline coursing down the phone line. This was the situation Anna thrived in, and he wondered how she might adapt to life as a mother, which would have its own but very different adrenaline rushes.

Saying goodbye to his wife, Sam felt an urge to escape the flat. He needed to clear his head for the next day, and was already behind in his training schedule. As part of a team at the hospital planning to run next year’s London Marathon for charity, he had a detailed training schedule that had been designed by Doug, who was also taking part. Doug was a lifelong road runner, and the schedule was punishing.

Changing into his jogging bottoms, and slipping on a t-shirt, he set off at a pace, heading west towards Regent’s Park. Out on the streets, dodging commuters, tourists and assorted vehicles, he felt his head clear. He pressed on, enjoying the mild breeze against his face, as he reached the outskirts of the darkening park. The shoulder ached a little, but apart from that he felt better than he had done in a long time. The park was quiet, populated only by a few dog walkers and fellow joggers. Deciding to head for Primrose Hill, he picked up speed, feeling the burn in his legs as the gradient increased. By the time he reached the top, his breath was shallow and his pulse racing. But this was good. He looked out across the city – his favourite view in London – enjoying the world famous vista. Off to the right the BT Tower thrust skyward, while to the west the dome of St. Paul’s battled for prominence among the modern financial office structures. He stood there for a while, his mind once again returning to the various issues at hand. There really was no running away from them.

Sam had just set off back down the hill when Louisa called.

‘It wasn’t him,’ she said simply.

Sam stopped against the side of a tree, just off the main path, catching his breath. ‘What?’

‘Richard Friedman. It wasn’t him. The police have just called.’

The police had indeed acted swiftly. ‘They’ve already spoken to him?’

‘They went straight round to his house.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He admitted being at the hospital. But he said he was visiting a friend who’s an inpatient over on Geller Ward.’

‘He’s got to be lying,’ Sam said, resting against the tree.

‘They checked it out. A patient confirmed that he’s a friend of Richard’s, and that he came to see him today around that time.’

Sam wasn’t convinced. ‘He could also have stolen the phone while he was there.’

‘The police don’t have any evidence.’

‘Do you really think it was just a co-incidence that he was in the hospital at the same time your phone was stolen?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusion; picked the obvious suspect.’

‘But if it wasn’t him, who was it?’

‘No idea. I’ve been racking my brain, but I just don’t know. How about you? Any suspicions?’

‘Someone who holds a grudge against me?’

‘The police said the person might be connected to you, not me.’

Sam thought on that. There was one obvious candidate who was impossible to ignore. ‘Someone who’s recently been release from jail, do you mean?’

‘I don’t think it would be Marcus,’ Louisa replied.

Sam had assumed that was who Louisa had been alluding to, so he was surprised by her strength of conviction that it wouldn’t be him. ‘It would explain the references to Cathy.’

‘You would have recognised his voice.’

He thought back to the man’s voice. Louisa was right. It hadn’t been Marcus Johnson. It was fifteen years since he’d last spoken to his one-time best friend, but he knew that voice hadn’t been his.

‘I still think it could be Richard Friedman,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’s done some digging about your past and made the connection with me and Cathy.’

‘I just don’t know, Sam. Part of me wants it to be him. At least we’d know who we’re dealing with.’

Sam pulled each heel back towards his bottom, stretching his tightening tendons. If he didn’t get moving again soon, he’d suffer tomorrow. ‘So what else did the police say?’

‘They told me to keep records of everything – any phone calls, other communication, if anything else goes missing. They’ve also warned Richard not to come to my flat anymore.’

‘At least that’s something.’

‘You should keep records too. And keep an eye out for anyone following you.’

‘Sure,’ Sam said, instinctively scanning the nearby vicinity for people. A girl and her dog were some way off up the path. A middle-aged man was jogging off to the left. A young couple were walking hand in hand nearby, leaning playfully into each other.

‘And you’ve spoken to the hospital about allocating him to someone else?’

‘Already done,’ she said. ‘Karl is taking him on. I feel bad, but I know it’s the right thing.’

‘Definitely. And don’t feel bad. You’ve done your best with him, Lou, but you shouldn’t see him again, for both your sakes.’

‘I know. Look, I’ve got to go now,’ Louisa said, as Sam was still watching the people. ‘The girls will be waiting. But call me if anything happens.’

‘Louisa,’ Sam said.

‘Yes?’

‘Please be careful. And if Richard Friedman comes anywhere near you, call the police straight away.’

Shirley Ainsley stared at the fading photographs of her daughter. She was three years old, laughing as she played on the beach with a bucket and spade. It had been a wonderful holiday. Shirley looked over to the corner of the room where Charlotte and her brother Simon were sleeping. Charlotte was the exact likeness of her mother at the same age. It upset Shirley even to look at them, because it reminded her of what she had lost and what the children would never know. Baby Jessica was asleep in the cot upstairs. Thank God they were too young to understand what had happened.

How could Jane do that to those little ones? Try to kill them all?

Shirley turned over the page of the photo album and inspected the next set of now-tarnished memories.

How had things gone so wrong? Jane had been such a strong person, such a good, devoted mother. Life had been hard of course – they didn’t have much money, and it was difficult looking after three children since the father had left without warning, a year ago. But she seemed happy, and the children had everything they needed. Shirley and her husband Eric had helped out.

But now Jane was dead, by her own hand, and Alison was missing.

Where was she?

Tears splashed onto the album, trickling along the plastic covering and pooling on a photograph of Eric and Shirley, with Eric holding his smiling daughter aloft.

Vincent McGuire. She blamed him for this.

Vincent had come into Jane’s life two months ago, sweeping her off her feet and promising her more. Jane had met him when she’d been out shopping at the local arcade. He’d offered to carry her bags, and things progressed quickly from there. But despite Jane’s platitudes, Shirley had never been sure of him. He had been fine with them, had eaten at their table and talked politely, said the right things, but there was something about him that made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was just the natural reaction of a protective mother who had seen her daughter hurt once too often by a man. But part of it was the uncomfortable reality that from the very beginning Shirley did not believe that this dangerously good-looking man would really want to settle down with a single mother of three children. And unfortunately she had been proved right. He had called Jane and coolly ended their relationship the day before her death.

She tried to tell him the news – that because of him, Jane was dead. But the mobile phone number that they had for him was no longer working. That said it all really.

She’d told the police about him. Maybe they could track him down.

Shirley removed her glasses, rubbing her tired, irritated eyes. She’d hadn’t slept properly now for forty-eight hours. Her little girl was gone and she longed to be held by her husband. But Eric was at the pub. He’d been out for hours now, and she could only hope he wasn’t getting drunk like he’d done the previous night. He’d taken Jane’s death the hardest, but as usual was bottling up his emotions, neither displaying his own turmoil nor offering sufficient sympathy. She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. These attacks of grief, regular since the police had come knocking, came on like a sudden thunder storm of despair.

The phone rang.

She nearly didn’t answer it, letting it ring five times before dragging herself off the sofa. But then she thought it might be the police. It wasn’t.

It was her granddaughter, Alison.

Sam jogged back to the flat, increasingly uneasy at the thought that there was someone out there, unidentified, targeting him and Louisa. Who was this guy? Could it be someone connected with him, like the police had suggested? And if so, were they following him right now? They’d been watching him at the London Eye, taunting him, so why not here too? He slowed as he reached the high street, crossing at the lights opposite the tube station. And then his mobile rang.

The caller ID read unknown.

He snapped his phone open. ‘Hello?’

No reply.

‘Who is this?’

Sam stopped against the wall of the tube station, as the last of the commuters passed him on their way home. Was this the same person as before? ‘Is it you, Richard?’

Still no reply.

‘Marcus?’

He watched a businessman just ten or so metres away from him, on the opposite side of the tube station entrance. He was on the phone. But the call ended and he strode across the road, towards a waiting bus.

‘Hello?’

The line went dead.

Continuing home he reflected on the silent call and what it might mean. He reached the flat, glancing back as he pulled out his keys and let himself in. On the mat behind the door was a hand delivered letter. Recognising the handwriting immediately his stomach went into free-fall.

12

Sam took a deep breath and knocked on Louisa’s office door. He’d spent half the night wondering whether to show her the letter. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep secrets, but he worried about the ramifications of opening all this up again.

‘Come in.’

Sam met Louisa’s gaze as he entered the room. She looked guilty, and the upturned novel on her desk betrayed the reason for it. ‘Caught me,’ she said, holding the book up. ‘It’s pretty good you know - helps me to relax. Well actually, it’s rubbish really, but the relaxing bit is true.’

Sam forced a smile. Louisa had always been a bookworm. That’s how she and Cathy had met, at the school book club, all those years ago.

Louisa watched as Sam took the seat opposite, her face changing. ‘You okay? Has something happened?’

Sam nodded, bringing the envelope from inside his jacket and placing it on the desk. ‘This was waiting for me when I got home last night.’

Louisa took one look at the handwriting and grabbed the envelope, almost tearing the letter out. She read intently, biting on her bottom lip.

‘I wondered if he’d contact me,’ Sam said, as Louisa continued reading, her face full of concentration. ‘But it’s been so long since the last time, that I decided he wouldn’t. I thought he might just want to move on.’

Louisa looked up from the letter. ‘He still says his innocent.’

Sam nodded.

‘How do you feel about that?

‘Marcus saying he is innocent doesn’t change anything,’ Sam replied. ‘The police had the evidence.’

Louisa nodded. ‘I know.’

And yet here he was again, protesting his innocence, just as he had done in the previous three letters of correspondence that Sam had received during the fifteen years of his incarceration. The first letter had arrived a year after the court’s verdict. Marcus had sworn that although he couldn’t remember what had happened that night because he was so drunk, there was no way he could have hurt Cathy. He just couldn’t believe it of himself. But he said that he didn’t blame Sam for not believing him. Sam had shown that first letter to his father, who, enraged, promptly threw it in the bin. Whilst the second letter, a year later, reiterated the points from the first, the third mailing, took Sam by surprise. Marcus wanted to meet with him. That was three years ago.