Stalked By Shadows (2 page)

For seconds she was mesmerised by the long and raspy exhalation, followed by further laboured breathing, in, out, in, out, before the line went dead. Wrenching the phone line from its socket in the wall, she sank, dizzy and light headed, on to the stairs, her confidence crumbling like dry sand.

‘Table fourteen, salmon and lamb!’

Stephanie Rieger dumped down the dirty plates with a clatter, her plan for a five-minute break from beating her relentless route back and forth from the kitchen temporarily thwarted by the chef’s efficiency.

‘Come on, Stephanie love, they’re getting cold!’

‘I’ve only got one pair of hands,’ she snapped back, picking up the plates nonetheless and reversing out through the swing doors and into the restaurant. She was run ragged, mainly because her mean bastard of a boss refused to employ anyone else during the week. Switching on a smile, she placed the dishes in front of the table-fourteen customers, and that was when she saw the new punter at table eight. She noticed him at first because he appeared to be dining alone and because he was holding the menu almost at arm’s length. ‘You should get your eyes tested,’ she smiled as she walked past.

He looked up. Not bad looking, clean cut and sharply dressed in suit and tie. Salesman probably. No wedding ring, which didn’t mean he wasn’t married, of course, only that he didn’t advertise the fact. In those few seconds she had him half-naked and making love to her.

‘Sorry?’ he was saying.

‘Get yourself some specs. Your arms aren’t going to grow any longer. I’ll come back and take your order.’ She smiled again.

Coming to her senses, Lucy lunged at the front door and with shaking fingers fumbled the chain into its runner, and shot the top and bottom bolts, before hurrying through to the kitchen to check that the back door was secure. Satisfied that it was, she went from room to room, drawing the curtains and blinds to keep out the night, making sure - making sure of what? That there was no bogey man hiding there? This was ridiculous. She switched on the radio, but turned it off again immediately. That was no good; she had to be alert to any sounds that shouldn’t be there.

Up in the master bedroom Lucy changed quickly out of her work clothes and threw on jeans, T-shirt and a baggy jumper. Even as she did so, she kept one eye on the thick velvet curtains as if they might suddenly part to reveal her tormentor on the other side, some ghastly apparition, ogling in at her. Impossible, of course, but she was certain he was out there. How else could he know the exact moment when she’d walked in the door? So far he had kept his distance, but for how long? And what did he want? Lucy’s heart thumped and she was gripped by a wave of nausea. A couple of weeks ago she might have got changed and gone out for a run, but not any more; she couldn’t risk going out again.

No good calling Will, the gig would be about to start, he’d never even hear his phone. Julie-Ann would be at aerobics; Tamsin would be busy with the family. For a second Lucy considered Martin just across the road. She could ask him to come over. Simply speaking to him would be a comfort. But that would be a mistake. He’d misunderstood her intentions once before - at least that was what she told herself - so she couldn’t risk that happening again. Gazing helplessly around the big bedroom, she recalled the day she’d first looked round. On that sunny autumn afternoon it had seemed perfect. After four years in her cramped flat, all the size had seemed such a luxury; with ample room in here for the king-sized bed, and the separate en-suite bathroom with shower and sunken bath. Now all the space frightened her, leaving her feeling exposed and wanting to shrink into the corner of the room and hide. With hindsight it would have been so much better to have simply upgraded her apartment. There she would have been close to other people, and be able to hear their voices and their movements, instead of feeling remote and stranded, and so very alone. It might have been different if Will was here, but most of the time she had no husband here to protect her. The wind gusted, splattering rain against the window, underlining her isolation and shaking her from her trance-like state. She needed a distraction. With some trepidation she switched on her computer and went online. Tonight again her email account was flooded with spam. But these were not the usual penis-enlargement, African-prince messages, they were nasty and personal, including replies to a blog that she’d never posted. As fast as she could delete them, more appeared, taking their place, and in the end Lucy abandoned the machine in despair.

Down in the kitchen she made a sandwich, but within inches of her mouth the salty smell of the cheese made her gag and she had to drop it and run for the downstairs cloakroom, where she retched unproductively, before finally leaning her head against the cool wall, feeling clammy and dry at the same time. After consigning the rest of the sandwich to the bin, she took a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge and went into the lounge, where she switched on the TV, muted the sound and sat rigidly on the sofa, staring at the meaningless images, while her ears strained to catch the slightest unwanted noise.

Gradually, Lucy began to relax. Bang! Something slammed against the window and Lucy leaped out of her seat, crying out with fear. The tapping against the window continued and frantic with indecision she hovered by the curtains, daring herself to look and yet terrified of what she might see. Eventually she forced herself to lift aside the curtain and relief washed over her. A sheet of hardboard, picked up and carried by the wind, lay flapping against the window. Shuddering, she peered into the blackness of the garden. Was he out there?

Tearing herself away from the window, Lucy returned to her sofa-bound vigil. The TV was playing a programme about enormously overweight people being winched out of their homes. The next thing she knew it was after eleven and the water bottle was empty, her head and neck aching from the tension. She climbed the stairs, brushed her teeth and lay down on the bed fully clothed, feeling too vulnerable to undress. Instead she lay on top of the bed, in the foetal position, biting on a thumbnail, listening and waiting, her ears straining to catch the slightest sound; the occasional car going past, local teenagers coming home from an evening out, the volume of their footsteps and voices increasing before dying away, with the distant slamming of doors. The wind howled around the house, bowling over a milk bottle with a clatter, and Lucy heard it roll away down the drive. She should go and retrieve it, but it would mean going outside, and the prospect petrified her.

PC Solomon had decided to take action. Scrabbling up the flimsy planks of the gate, he had managed to get a toehold for his size-thirteen boot on the narrow lock mechanism.

Things started to go downhill when he swung his left leg over the top, catching his thigh on a protruding nail, ripping a hole in his trousers and gouging his flesh in the process. But now he was, at least, no longer alone. First off he’d found Nina Silvero. After landing hard on the block-paved patio, his trouser leg flapping, he’d walked round to the kitchen window and peered in. It was what the DIY stores always described as a farmhouse kitchen, pretty big, with ornate pine cupboards and a wooden table in the middle. Among other things on the table was a bottle of wine and a single glass, but no sign of -

It was then that he glanced down to the floor and saw the foot sticking out from behind one of the chairs. It was attached to a leg, Nina Silvero’s leg, it seemed reasonable to assume. And it was lying very still. Solomon took off his jacket, wound it around his fist for protection and moved towards the window.

At midnight Lucy started as her mobile trilled on the nightstand beside her.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’ She had to stifle a sob of relief.

This time the background noise was chatter and tinny music. Will was in a bar or a club, female voices close by. ‘I tried the land line,’ he said, ‘couldn’t get through.’

‘I unplugged it. I had another call.’ She couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice.

Will’s voice remained level. ‘OK, stay calm. What did he say?’

‘Nothing; that’s the point, it’s just that horrible noise.’ She wanted him to say that he would drive home right now and take care of her, but it wasn’t Will’s style.

‘Come on, honey. It’s just kids, fooling around. Don’t let it get to you.’ He wasn’t taking her seriously.

‘Perhaps I should go to the police.’ The idea had come to her suddenly.

‘And tell them what? That you’ve had a couple of crazy phone calls?’

‘It’s more than a couple, and someone’s following me.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

Was she?

‘Well, I can’t be absolutely certain, but -’

‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little? What can the police do anyway? I mean you haven’t actually seen anyone following you, have you? You’re tired, honey; you’ll feel better in the morning.’

‘Yes.’
And how would you know?
A woman, or perhaps a girl, giggled very close to him. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘In some bar.’ He was vague. ‘We’re having a bite before we get back to the hotel. It was a terrific gig tonight. Listen, you try to get some sleep, huh, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘OK. Safe journey.’

‘Sure. ’Night, babe.’

The woman’s voice cut in even before he’d switched off his phone. Lucy didn’t like to speculate about who she might be. And she could have been mistaken, but she was sure what the woman said was
‘Kiss me, baby’
. Maybe she wasn’t talking to Will. There were others there; must be. But now a different unease began to nibble at Lucy.

Normally after a gig, Will went straight back to his hotel. Socialising with the band was a recent phenomenon. She glanced down at the white-gold ring on her finger. It had been there for six months now. Was the novelty wearing off already? Before they married, Lucy had been convinced that Will would quickly get bored with her and find someone else more glamorous. But not now - would he? What was happening to her? The last couple of weeks she had begun to doubt everything, even her own sanity.

Lying back on the bed, she recommenced her auditory vigil. Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, she heard the whirring thrum of the milkman’s float and the clink of milk bottles and only then did she feel safe enough to allow herself to drop off to sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Mariner couldn’t remember how he’d got into this mess, but he knew for sure that he had to get out. Running across a muddy field in the half light, the gunman was gaining on him, but his feet kept sinking into the soft and boggy ground, hampering his progress, and in his panic to get away he slipped, stumbled and fell. When he tried to get up again his foot was stuck, sucked under by thick mud. His pursuer was getting closer. With a gargantuan effort Mariner yanked his foot free. There was a loud squeal followed by a thump, and he woke up to morning brightness in an unfamiliar room and an oversized tabby blinking accusingly at him from the floor, its back aggressively arched. There was a gurgling from behind him, like water going down a plughole and Mariner turned to see the gentle rise and fall of a lumpy outline beneath the duvet, blonde bob fanned out on the pillow. Stephanie; was that her name? Christ, he couldn’t even be sure of that.

He looked at his watch, the only thing he was still wearing; nearly quarter to eight. Simultaneously he remembered where he was, on the wrong side of the city, in yesterday’s clothes with no shaving kit, and a nine o’clock appointment at Lloyd House. Scrambling out of bed, Mariner gathered his clothes and pulled them on. Stephanie didn’t even stir. Should he be a gent and make her a drink before he left? He decided not. She was dead to the world, so it would be a waste of time he didn’t have. He ripped a page out of his pocketbook and began scribbling an apologetic note. He paused, pen poised; leave a number, or don’t leave a number? Only a split second to choose the latter, he left the note by the bed and hurried down the stairs and into his car, no doubt breaking all the codes of etiquette as he went.

As Mariner nosed his car into the traffic oozing on to the Aston Expressway towards Birmingham city centre, the usual creeping sense of shame came over him. Although it wasn’t exactly the first time, this wasn’t something he made a habit of, and now the guilt kicked in; guilt for taking what was on offer without making much effort with the pleasantries, guilt for sneaking out afterwards without even saying goodbye or thanks, and for feeling relieved to do it, so avoiding the usual pointless small talk. He couldn’t imagine that he and Stephanie would have had anything much to discuss over the Fair Trade. Their only genuine shared interest twelve hours ago had been the mutual, and on Mariner’s part fairly urgent, desire to get laid.

After a day-long meeting in the north of the city, she’d waited on him in the pub restaurant where he’d had dinner, and her easy smile had been an antidote to the tedium of the day. He must have been giving off signals because she’d flirted outrageously with him and he’d played along, not sure how far it would go, until she’d told him she finished at half-ten, if he could wait that long. Knowing that Millie was staying with Kat overnight,

Mariner had, for once, been tempted and had waited, nursing a coke in the bar. She was all over him in the car, before suggesting they go back to her place. On the three-mile drive her hand stayed in his lap, and she’d taken him straight up to the bedroom of her neat semi. Once there she’d slowed the pace. It had been good. Just thinking about it tugged pleasantly at his groin.

And finally, even after all this time, Mariner was plagued by the dual and entirely irrational guilt brought on by perceived disloyalty and infidelity. These last two were groundless, deep down he knew that, but somehow it was masochistically comforting to continue believing in their existence. He allowed his thoughts to wander as far as what Anna might be doing now. Waking up in bed beside her new partner, she may even be getting a little early-morning action of her own, he thought miserably, and the dull ache that had for so many weeks been resident just under his diaphragm returned
.
Last night’s diversion was exactly like the last time - great while it lasted but afterwards it felt like shit.