The Waiting Game (25 page)

They had arrested Nathan Collier, but Ger wouldn’t let Ellen sit in on the interview. Ellen’s ex was a suspect in the same case. If Ellen was involved in the interview, Collier’s lawyer would have a field day. Ellen knew it was the right decision, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

She left the station in a bad mood that didn’t improve on the walk from Lewisham to Greenwich. The children were at her parents. She was due there for her tea. Which gave her an hour to get some clothes in the washing machine and do a general tidy-up beforehand.

A man was standing outside her house. For a brief moment she thought it was Jim. She stumbled on a crack in the pavement. By the time she’d steadied herself, she’d realised it wasn’t him.
This man was shorter and wider. His dark hair was starting to recede and when he walked towards her, it was with an awkward shuffling movement that was nothing like the elegant way Jim moved his body.

‘I rang the doorbell but there was no one there,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited. I need to talk to you.’

She didn’t have the time or the energy for this. But he looked so vulnerable, shuffling from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact while he waited for her to say something. No time, no energy and – damn it all – not the heart to send him away.

‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ she asked.

‘Okay,’ Ray O’Dwyer said. ‘Why not?’

She’d only met Jim’s brother a handful of times. Shy and socially awkward, he wasn’t easy company, although she found his vulnerability endearing. Like a little boy who needed taking care of. A boy in a man’s big, bulky body, Ellen thought as she watched him settle awkwardly on one of the stools by the island in the centre of her kitchen.

‘We can go into the sitting room if you like,’ she said. ‘Those stools are bloody uncomfortable.’

‘I’m fine here,’ Ray said. ‘Do you have any biscuits to go with the coffee? I get a bit hyper if I don’t have something to soak it up.’

‘Sugar doesn’t make you more hyper?’ Ellen asked.

Ray blushed. ‘Maybe. I think I just like the way a biscuit takes away the bitter taste, you know?’

Her phone rang. Abby. Excusing herself, Ellen went into the
garden so she could talk without being overheard.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘Collier’s been taken to hospital,’ Abby said. ‘He was in a cell, waiting for counsel to show. Duty officer heard him banging around, went in and found Collier unconscious.’

‘Any idea what it is?’

‘Not yet,’ Abby said. ‘But that’s not why I’m calling. I wondered if I could call around for a quick chat?’

‘Not right now,’ Ellen said. ‘Maybe later. I’ll call once I know what I’m doing.’

When she hung up, she spent a pointless moment trying to second guess what Abby wanted to talk to her about. She gave up quickly enough and went back inside. The kitchen was empty.

‘Ray?’

A shuffling sound as the door that separated the kitchen from the sitting room opened and there he was.

‘I was looking at your music collection,’ he said. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

She did, but decided not to tell him that. Instead, she finished making the coffee and placed the cafetière on the granite worktop alongside two mugs and a packet of biscuits. She watched Ray open the biscuits uninvited and help himself.

He took a large bite of biscuit and started to speak. The mouthful of biscuit made it difficult to understand what he was saying.

‘Why won’t you speak to him?’ Ray asked. ‘He’s really stressed out and worried. I know how much he likes you, Ellen. What’s
happened to make you suddenly start ignoring him?’

This was a mistake. She should never have let him into the house. And now he was here, she had no idea how to get him out again without upsetting him further.

‘It’s complicated,’ she said, churning out the same old nonsense she’d fed Sean earlier. ‘
I’m
complicated, Ray. The truth is, I like to be in control. Things with Jim, they took a turn for the worse and it made me feel like I was losing that control. When that happens, I shut down. I can’t help it. I’m sorry. It’s not Jim’s fault. Or maybe it is. I don’t know.’

She stopped speaking, embarrassed at having revealed so much of herself. This was the problem, of course. Once the control was gone, anything could happen. Here she was, babbling like an idiot to some bloke who didn’t give a damn one way or another about what went on inside her head.

Then she realised he was smiling. The smile sat oddly on his face, like it was something he wasn’t used to doing. It was a nice smile, nonetheless.

‘I’d love to know what that’s like,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Feeling in control,’ he said. ‘My whole life, I don’t think I’ve ever felt in control of anything.’

‘What about with your music?’ Ellen asked. She knew Ray was a talented pianist. She had a vague memory of hearing him play once, years ago, and being touched by the skill and passion of his performance.

‘No,’ he said. ‘In fact, that’s almost the opposite of control. Oh, when I’m practising or learning something new there’s an element of control, I suppose. But when I’m playing a piece, playing it properly, not just learning it, something happens. My fingers move and play all the right notes but it’s almost as if it’s someone else doing it, not me. It’s difficult to explain.’

‘You mean the music controls you, not the other way around?’ Ellen asked, intrigued by the idea.

This time the smile was less awkward. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.’

‘Well I don’t have that,’ Ellen said. ‘You’re lucky.’

‘Isn’t it exhausting?’ Ray asked. ‘Having to be in control the whole time?’

‘I don’t know any other way to be,’ Ellen said. ‘Anyway, you’re not here to talk about me, are you?’

If they carried on like this, the next thing she knew she’d be sharing stories of her early life and the death of her baby sister. Telling him how that single event triggered a lifetime of insecurity that she was only able to overcome through obsessively trying to put order on a world that rarely made sense. She might tell him that order and control were her protection, her way of making sure bad things didn’t happen to those she cared most about. And if she started on that, she’d probably end up telling him that when someone breaks through all those carefully constructed walls of order and kills her husband, then she was capable of things even she – in her darkest moments – didn’t care
to dwell on. Because then she’d have to tell him the one thing she’d swore she’d never tell anyone: that the moment she pulled the trigger and blew Billy Dunston’s head off his body, right at that moment she had never felt more in control of anything in her entire life.

‘Will you call him?’ Ray asked. ‘Just talk to him, see if you can find a way through this. He really likes you and you should at least speak to him. Please?’

She wanted to say no. To tell him that until she’d worked out how she felt about it all, it was better – for her, the kids, everyone – that she kept well away from his brother. Instead, when she opened her mouth to say just that, she found herself reaching out for Ray’s hand instead and squeezing it tight.

‘I’ll speak to Jim,’ she said. ‘Of course I will.’

A panic attack. He could have told them that. When he opened his eyes, a middle-aged nurse was kneeling beside him, checking his pulse.

‘I’m Jackie,’ she said. ‘Don’t try to move, Nathan. We’ve called an ambulance. It’ll be here in a few minutes.’

She had a kind face and a nice voice. He asked her to stay with him until the ambulance came. He wanted her to come with him to the hospital too, but she said she couldn’t do that.

‘But you don’t need to worry,’ she said. ‘You’re in good hands now.’

He had to be handcuffed to a policeman. In the ambulance and at the hospital. By the time they’d reached the hospital, he was hot and sweaty. Body giving off the sour odour he’d grown
used to. When the doctor examined him, the cuffs came off but the man stayed in the room with them. Watching Nathan the whole time. Nathan could see the disgust in the man’s face when he took off his top so the doctor could listen to his heart.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’ He said this to the doctor, thinking maybe the doctor would help. But the doctor didn’t seem to care about that. Wanted to know about his ‘history’ instead. Had he ever had a panic attack before (yes), when did they start (after my mother died), was he on any medication (yes).

He thought they’d keep him overnight, at least. Told the doctor if he was taken back to the station the same thing would happen again. The doctor said that wasn’t his problem and told Nathan to take the medication he’d prescribed. Said it would help him sleep.

The tablet sat on the green plastic tray alongside his dinner. Plastic food on a plastic plate. Some sort of meat in a thin, brown sauce. The smell of it, synthetic and salty, mingled in the air with the bleachy smell of the room and the sweaty smell from his armpits and the folds of flesh across his middle.

He ate quickly, shovelling it into him, barely bothering to chew before swallowing the chunks of meat and morsels of artificial mash. It gave no comfort and was gone too quickly. When he’d finished, he swallowed the small pink tablet, lay back on the hard bed and waited.

Something was wrong. Ellen was in the sitting room. Sitting at the small table in the alcove, going through e-mails on her laptop. Tidying up loose ends before tea at her mother’s house. She stopped typing and turned around in the chair, scanning the room slowly.

What was it?

Along one wall, Vinny’s extensive collection of CDs, a handful of Ellen’s mixed in amongst them. The TV in the corner, curtains still open, even though it had got dark at some point. She stood up to close them, not liking how exposed she felt with them open like that. Midway across the room, just past the fireplace, it hit her.

The mantelpiece. A series of framed photos of her family: the children, her parents, Sean and Terry. And a gap where the photo of Vinny should be.

She looked around, checking to see if it could have fallen, somehow. Knowing that wasn’t what had happened but looking for it anyway. When she couldn’t find it, she ran up to her bedroom. The photo of him she kept beside her bed was still there. Of course it was. Where else would it be?

She checked the children’s rooms, trying to see if anything was missing. They had so much crap it was difficult to tell, but she couldn’t see anything out of place. Downstairs, she ran through the CD collection, checking the ones that meant the most to her.
All there. She tried to think when was the last time she’d seen that photo. She’d have noticed straightaway if it was gone. Wouldn’t she? Maybe not.

Ray. He was the last person in this room. No reason for him to take it. And she couldn’t remember seeing him trying to conceal anything when he’d come back into the kitchen. Maybe he’d hidden it. She started looking for it – again – when she realised how pointless it was. The photo was gone. Only two people could have taken it. Ray O’Dwyer or whoever was in her house last night. It crossed her mind – briefly – that Ray and her intruder could potentially be the same person.

Paranoia. She didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. This was what Chloe’s life had been like. Weeks of it. Not knowing what to believe and not being believed when she tried to tell people what was happening. No wonder she turned to Nathan Collier. The one person who’d seemed to believe everything she said. Because he was the person doing it to her.

What if they’d got it wrong about Collier? Not possible. All the evidence pointed to him. His car parked down the road from her house each night she claimed there’d been an intruder. Same car there the night she was killed.

Collier was the killer.

She knew that. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling that all this – last night’s break-in, the missing photo – that it was connected, somehow, with what had happened to Chloe Dunbar. Maybe it was paranoid to think it, but some part of her was
certain the link was there. And if there was a link, she would find it. First, though, she had to make sure her children were safe.

She called her mother, asked if the children could stay the night with her.

‘Of course,’ her mother said. ‘But we’re expecting you for tea, Ellen. Don’t tell me you can’t make it.’

She looked at the list of unread e-mails, remembering that she had to find time to call Abby as well.

‘I’ll be there,’ she said. ‘Of course I will. I’m really looking forward to it.’

She hung up, switched the laptop into sleep mode and went upstairs to pack overnight bags for the children.

Thursday night and The Trafalgar was rocking. Ellen pushed her way through the crowds, wondering why she’d agreed to meet here. The Vanbrugh, her local, was a lovely pub which served good food and decent wine at a reasonable price, didn’t play loud music and you could always find a seat.

‘Ellen!’

Miraculously, Abby had found a small table by the huge, curved window that hung over the river like a pregnant belly.

‘Isn’t it just beautiful here?’ Abby gushed. ‘I’ve already ordered you a glass of wine. Here.’

Ellen hung her coat over the back of the chair and sat down. Abby was right. If you ignored the jabbering from the mix of students and Hooray Henries, this was indeed a beautiful spot.

She took a healthy slug of wine, hoping it would kick in quickly. The short walk from her house to the pub had left her on edge. She couldn’t shake off the feeling she was being watched. Turned around every few seconds, scanning the street, but there was no sign anyone was following her. She knew it was just her imagination, told herself she was being foolish. It didn’t help.

‘Are you okay?’ Abby asked.

Ellen nodded. ‘Sure.’

She looked at the water, treacling past beneath the window. Lights from the riverside apartments on the Isle of Dogs lit up the far side of the river and reflected in the water like dozens of tiny stars.

‘Nathan Collier’s back in the cells,’ Abby said. ‘Turns out it was a panic attack. Nothing more serious.’

‘Is that what the Diazepam’s for?’ Ellen asked.

Abby nodded. ‘Apparently so. Long history of extreme anxiety, which got worse after his mother died last year.’

‘This won’t help our case,’ Ellen said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘History of mental illness,’ Ellen explained. ‘Bet you anything his brief uses it to try to prove he’s not of sound mind.’

‘Yeah but if he has got a mental illness,’ Abby said, ‘shouldn’t that be taken into account?’

‘He bloody killed her,’ Ellen said. ‘Wrapped a piece of wire around her throat and pulled it tight, kept on pulling until it
had cut through her skin, ripped her trachea and cut off her air supply. Mental illness or no mental illness, he knew what he was doing.’

‘Sorry.’

Ellen felt guilty. She could be such a bitch at times.

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m the one who should apologise. I didn’t get much sleep last night so I’m tired. And grumpy.’ She smiled. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’

‘I’m not sure this is a good time,’ Abby said.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, if you’re grumpy now, what I’ve got to tell you isn’t going to make you feel any better.’

‘Can’t make me feel any worse,’ Ellen said. ‘Okay. Come on then. Whatever it is, just get it over and done with. I’m a big girl, Abby. I can take it.’

‘It’s about Jim O’Dwyer,’ Abby said.

Harry was sprawled on the sofa, feet resting on her lap. They smelled. Not badly, but enough to put her off the wine she was trying to drink as she flicked through the TV channels, looking for something decent to watch.

They’d shared a spliff earlier and the dope had left her relaxed, lazy and more than a little horny. She shifted forward slightly until his feet were lying on her crotch. She glanced over, pleased when she saw he was watching her. When she felt the heel of
his foot, pressing down, she smiled. Half the time he drove her mad, but tonight a bit of Harry was just what the doctor ordered. That, and the fact that he deserved it. He’d done well; this was payback.

The familiar theme tune for the ten o’clock news trilled out of the TV. A man’s voice read the headlines. Chloe’s name got a mention, but Monica had already caught up with that. The fat boss was under arrest. No surprises there.

She put her head back and closed her eyes. His foot ground into her until she moaned. She lifted her skirt, heard the breath catch in his throat when she pulled it high enough so he could see she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

A woman’s body discovered in a flat in the London Road area of Brighton.

Her eyes shot open, she sat up, pushed his feet out of the way. A female reporter stood outside an ugly grey building with dirty net curtains behind dirty glass.

‘Police have confirmed that earlier today a woman’s body was found in this house here on Calvert Lane. Neighbours called the police when they noticed an increase in the number of flies in the property over the past weeks. So far, the woman’s identity remains unknown. Police have appealed for anyone with information about the deceased to call this number…’

‘What is it, Mon? What’s the matter?’

Ignoring him, she grabbed the remote and pressed the Rewind button. Played the piece a second time. And a third. When she’d
finished, she paused the TV and turned to Harry.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Thought it might be important.’

‘Was it?’

She shook her head. ‘Not a bit. Now where were we?’

He leaned forward, ran his hand along her thigh. It felt hot and heavy and she resisted the urge to push it away. It wouldn’t do to upset him. Especially now. The hand on her leg squeezed. She tried not to wince. His pupils were huge. He smiled and she did her best to smile back. Hoped it was enough then realised, of course it was. All she had to do was open her legs and pretend to go along with it.

His hand moved higher, fingers digging, probing, pushing her legs apart. His face moved towards hers. She looked past him, across the room at the image frozen on the TV screen, remembering.

Ellen said goodnight to Abby outside the pub and walked home. Fast. She couldn’t feel the two glasses of wine and by the time she’d turned into Annandale Road, any sense of relaxation was gone.

The suburban streets were quiet, felt like she was the only person out and about. Behind her, something moved and she swung around quickly. If someone was following her, they’d picked the wrong night. Abby’s news had stirred something dark in Ellen and she was in the mood for a fight.

A fox walked out of a garden, stopped when it saw Ellen and stared at her. She stared back. Obviously deciding there was nothing interesting about her, the fox turned and walked away. Leaving Ellen alone once again.

By the time she reached the house, she was hot from walking so quickly. She rooted around in her bag, found her keys, unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house felt unnaturally quiet. She stood in the hallway, listening for any noises. Nothing.

She took her shoes off and moved around downstairs, turning lights on. In the kitchen, she paused by the fridge, looking at the empty space where the newsletter had been.

She knew she should go to bed. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the laptop. Entered the name Louise Jamieson into the search engine and started reading.

Everything she found confirmed what Abby had told her in the pub earlier. Louise Jamieson was a former plumbing apprentice and the victim of a hit and run. The incident left her with a broken back and an injury she’d never recovered from.

After the accident, Louise accused her boss of running her over. Said he’d been coming on to her for months, following her and leaving abusive messages for her. She claimed he ran her over after she confronted him and told him to stop. The boss in question? Jim O’Dwyer.

Ellen drank more wine and went back over the four stories
she’d found about the incident. It happened eighteen months ago, around the time Jim was seeing Monica. Ellen thought maybe that meant something, although she didn’t know what.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. At first, she thought it was one of the children moving around. Until she remembered they weren’t here. She told herself it was probably nothing. The house was old and the floorboards creaked all the time.

She strained her ears, listening for other sounds, but couldn’t hear anything. She’d forgotten to get the alarm fixed and regretted that now. She vowed to make it a priority tomorrow morning. Someone walked past the house, footsteps loud and fast. Suddenly they stopped. Ellen ran across to the window and looked out. Saw a young bloke she didn’t recognise, sending a text from his phone. She waited until he’d moved on down the road before letting the curtain drop back down.

In the kitchen, she refilled her glass. Across the room, something moved. Someone was there. She jumped and the glass fell from her hand, wine and shards of shattered crystal scattered across the floor. Then she realised. There was no one there except her own reflection in the French windows.

This was ridiculous.
She
was ridiculous. Chloe Dunbar had endured months of torment and here Ellen was, freaking out after one small incident where nothing had actually happened. She needed to get a grip.

After she’d finished sweeping up the broken glass and mopping up the rest of the wine, Ellen went upstairs, got her quilt
and pillow and carried them down to the living room. She took a crutch as well.

Tonight, if anyone tried to break into her home, she would be ready for them.