The Waiting Game Read online

  ‘I’d like to pay him a visit,’ Ellen continued. ‘Would you be okay if I went to see him today? He lives in Whitstable. I could be there and back before lunchtime.’

  ‘We’ve got too much on,’ Ger said. ‘A shitload of stuff has come in overnight. It all needs to be picked up today. And you’re in court in an hour?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Our boys were called out to Chloe’s last night as well,’ Ger said. ‘Turned out to be a false alarm. At least, I think it was. The night guys took the call. When they got there, Chloe was in her garden, totally freaking out. No sign of a break-in, but we’ll have to keep a closer eye. I’ll send a couple of COs around later. Check she’s okay and see if there’s anything we can do. Let’s leave Monica’s father out of it. For now. Apart from anything else, we still don’t know if Monica’s telling the truth. Until we know that, let’s focus our efforts on finding who whacked Chloe.’

  Back in the open-plan office Ellen shared with the rest of the team, Raj was waiting to update her on Chloe Dunbar.

  ‘She knows talking to that journalist wasn’t a good idea,’ Raj said. ‘Although she seems to think maybe it’s helped because nothing has happened to her since the piece was published. At least, that’s what she said yesterday. Before last night’s incident.’

  ‘Did she say why she did it?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Her boss’s idea,’ Raj said. ‘Nathan Collier. I’ve told you about him, right? He’s sort of become Chloe’s protector. Couldn’t bear to see me talking to her on her own. Kept butting in every few minutes to check up on us.’

  ‘Someone to keep an eye on?’ Ellen said.

  Raj frowned. ‘He’s definitely got a thing for Chloe. She swears they’re just friends, though.’

  ‘You think he wants more than friendship?’ Ellen said.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ Raj said. ‘She’s way out of his league. Any idiot can see that. Plus, whenever I’ve spoken to him, he seems genuinely concerned about her. And he’s never nervous, either. If he was trying to hide something, you’d expect him to be nervous, right?’

  ‘Unless he’s a psycho,’ Ellen said. ‘What about Carl Jenkins, the other guy who works with them?’

  ‘He was on a stag do the night of the attack,’ Raj said. ‘Got witness statements from friends who were with him all night. We already know her ex can’t have attacked her. So, for now, we’re still looking.’

  ‘Let’s hope you find something soon,’ Ellen said pointedly. ‘Before anything else happens. What about CCTV? Any leads from that?’

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Raj said. ‘There are no cameras on Nightingale Grove itself. But the road is near one of the entrances to Hither Green station. We’ve been going through CCTV tapes from there, but haven’t found anything so far. The attack happened sometime between three-thirty and four o’clock. That side of Hither Green is pretty quiet that time in the morning. Chances are, whoever broke into Chloe’s house didn’t come through the station, anyway. We’ll keep looking, but I’m not hopeful.’

  ‘Did you ask her if she knows Monica Telford?’ Ellen said.

  ‘Says she’s never heard of her,’ Raj said. ‘You know, I can sort of understand where Collier’s coming from. There’s something vulnerable about Chloe, makes you want to protect her. If I feel like that, why shouldn’t he? I won’t let anything happen to her, Ellen. I promise.’

  Ellen wanted to say she believed him. The problem was, he was in no position to make that sort of promise. Without any suspects, they were no closer to finding who had attacked Chloe. And no closer to making sure she was safe from any further attacks.

  * * *

  Monica looked forward to these weekly visits. Knew they were building up to something and liked the way that felt. Letting it happen gradually. No need to rush. In some ways, this was the best bit: the waiting. When it was all over, it was another thing she could no longer look forward to.

  She put X-FM on loud and lost herself in the music – brash, upbeat rock that suited her mood. Approaching Whitstable, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs came on. Cheated Heart. She turned up the volume and wound down the windows, enjoying the cool breeze on her warm face.

  Her father lived in an oversized, mock-Tudor house on the coast road between Whitstable and Herne Bay. Whitstable itself was pretty enough, Monica supposed. It had certainly changed a lot since she was growing up. An influx of London cool was a vast improvement. A pity that hadn’t extended to her end of town.

  As a child, she’d felt the injustice of it strongly. To live in a town stuffed full of classic Victorian housing and pretty fishermen’s cottages. She’d hated it then and hated it now. The old resentment coming back each time she returned to this Godawful hole.

  She drove past her house and parked near the beach, got out of the car and looked out across the still, grey sea, remembering. She’d spent so much time on this beach when she was growing up. Pretending she had a different life. Imagined herself living in one of the beautiful Victorian houses closer to town, with proper parents who loved each other and doted on their only child. The sort of life she’d have if only she wasn’t restricted by her father’s utter lack of imagination.

  This view was one of the first things she’d painted seriously. Her art teacher, Miss Ingham, had encouraged Monica to display the painting in an exhibition in Canterbury. Thinking of Miss Ingham now, Monica smiled. The crazy old bitch had had the hots for Monica. She’d never tried anything on. Nothing like that. But Monica knew the effect she had on Miss Ingham and used it whenever it suited her.

  The sea was nice enough if you liked that sort of thing. And lots of people did. The sort of people who bought her paintings and ooh-ed and ahh-ed about how fucking lovely the coast was. People like Ellen Kelly. The paintings turned out well and she could knock them out without too much bother. Didn’t matter whether she liked them or not. The important thing was that she made money out of it. And she did. More than most artists could say. But then, most artists weren’t as talented as she was. Or as clever at influencing the people who mattered.

  She left the beach and walked back to her father’s place. The house was as horrible as she remembered. Each week, driving down here, she hoped it might have improved. Fat chance. The front garden was immaculate. Gardening being one of the many tedious ways her father liked to spend his time. She pictured the inside of the house, the sterile, characterless tidiness. Bare pastel walls, tasteless, flowery curtains with matching cushions on the pale green suite. The same green as the tiles in the downstairs cloakroom. Everything spotless. Not a single speck of dirt allowed anywhere. She shuddered.

  These days, the front door was black. When Monica was little, it was yellow. She had a vivid memory of her mother painting it one summer’s afternoon. Monica couldn’t have been more than six or seven. The red scarf was tied around her mother’s head, keeping her hair from falling into her face.

  Like the yellow paint, her mother was long gone. Monica could remember every moment of the day she left, although she’d done her best to push it from her mind. The betrayal still hurt, even now, all these years later. No mother should ever abandon her child. It wasn’t right. Monica had never stopped hating her father for letting it happen. For not being the sort of man who could keep a woman that beautiful.

  She’d been coming here every week for the last two months. Ever since Brighton. Today was different, though. Today, she was going to get out of the car and speak to him.

  She knocked on the front door. No answer. She tried again, but still no one came. Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be home. He was always home at this time. She stepped out onto the street and scanned the area, looking for any sign of him. There was a pub down the road. Her mother’s local. She supposed she could go and look for him there. At the very least, if he wasn’t around, someone might be able to tell her where she could find him. Except the thought of it, being back there, chatting and flirting and making small-talk with men she despised, it turned her stomac
h. Skinny men with fat, beer-soaked bellies that hung over sagging trousers, all thinking they were God’s gift. No thanks.

  She was nearly back at the car when she saw him. Limping like a cripple, his body hunched over like he was in pain. A surge of loathing hit her. The breath left her body. She pictured herself knocking him to the ground and punching that ugly face of his. Hitting him over and over, smashing his features, turning him from man into bloody, pulpy mess. Saliva filled her mouth and she had to swallow several times.

  He was on the other side of the road, head down. He didn’t see her. At the front door, he paused and looked around, like he was searching for something. Like he knew she was right there, across the road, watching him. She hunkered down behind the car, waited until she heard the front door open and slam shut before she got up.

  At the house, she rang the doorbell again. She pictured him inside, hearing the bell and wondering who was there. They never had visitors. Another thing that had ended when her mother left. He said he preferred it like that. Didn’t like any unexpected interruptions to his days.

  Well he was about to get one heck of an interruption today. She smiled. Was still smiling moments later when the front door opened and there he was, mouth opening and closing as he tried – unsuccessfully – to say something.

  ‘Hello, Adam,’ she said. ‘Surprised to see me? I’ve got a bit of news for you. Mind if I come in?’

  His mouth was still moving, but there were no words. Pathetic. She stepped forward. His eyes flitted past her, like he was looking to see if there was someone who might help him. There was no one, of course. She could have told him that.

  Thirteen

  She needed to get out of the office. Away from Nathan. He was driving her mad with his endless chat and his overly attentive questions. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home?’ ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’

  How about you go away and give me some space to breathe, she felt like screaming at him. But she knew that wasn’t fair. He was being kind and good because he was a kind and good person. It was just, sometimes, he could be a bit full on.

  When lunchtime came around, she told him she needed to pop out to the chemist. It wasn’t true, but she knew it was the only way to make sure he didn’t offer to come with her. She made a show of putting her hand across her stomach, implying it might be her time of the month. He’d be mortified if he saw her buying a packet of tampons.

  It did the trick. He smiled and told her to take her time and she was out of there before he had a chance to change his mind. Except now, walking around the shops on her own, she sort of wished she’d let him come with her.

  She couldn’t shake off the feeling someone was following her. Eyes watching her, burning into her back. She kept stopping and turning around suddenly, scanning the faces in the crowd, watching to see if there was anyone she recognised.

  Outside, it was sunny but cold and she had wrapped up warm. Here in the shopping centre, the air-conditioning was set to high and the heat was making her feel sick. She unbuttoned her jacket and loosened her scarf, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

  A big woman brushed past her, banging into the shoulder already sore from last night. Chloe swayed, but managed not to fall. Further along the row of shops, a man was standing near the entrance to Holland and Barrett. She wouldn’t have noticed him at all but his jacket was familiar. A pale blue Ralph Lauren blazer. Everything shut down. Her breath caught in her throat, legs refused to move. She stood frozen to the spot.

  When he smiled, her stomach folded in on itself and she couldn’t stand. She tried, but there was no strength left in her body to keep her standing. The shopping centre seemed to tilt and shift sideways but she knew it wasn’t the building that was moving, it was her.

  As she fell, Ricky started walking towards her, still smiling.

  A hand grabbed her arm, steadying her. A man’s voice asked if she was all right. Carl. He held onto her, steered her across to one of the benches that formed a line down the centre of the parade of shops and sat her down gently.

  She tried to speak, tried to tell him they had to get out of there, had to get away before Ricky made it across to where they were sitting. But her mouth wouldn’t work. Every time she tried to speak her stomach churned so badly she had to stop.

  ‘Chloe.’ Carl’s voice urgent and serious, like she’d never heard him before. Eyes looking at her with such concern. She leaned into him, let him hold her and tell her it was all okay, she was going to be okay.

  Across from her, the man in the blue jacket was still there. Still smiling. He was closer now and she could see her mistake. The jacket wasn’t Ralph Lauren. It was a cheap replica that fit badly. The man looked nothing like Ricky, either. Thin, balding hair and a pot belly. No way Ricky would ever let himself get a pot belly.

  Carl was still talking, soft, gentle words that soothed her. She liked him being with her. For the first time since all this started, she didn’t feel alone.

  * * *

  Where was Bel?

  She’d be back soon.

  Only popping to Sainsbury’s, she’d said.

  Back any minute now. She knew how Adam hated it when she was late.

  There was a crack in the ceiling. Adam had never noticed it before. Easy to miss it normally. Not so easy from this angle. A long, thin crack that ran from the light-fitting the whole way across one side of the ceiling. The crack upset him. Felt as if the house had played a trick on him. All these years, working so hard at keeping things perfect and all along, that crack up there. Mocking him.

  His right hip hurt dreadfully. He moved his leg, wiggled it back and forth, making the pain worse, but if he could move his leg it meant the hip wasn’t broken. He rolled onto his left side, got onto his hands and knees and crawled across to the sofa. Pushed his way in behind it and sat crouched down low. Hiding.

  Where in heaven’s name was Bel?

  He took his phone out of his pocket, checking to see if she’d sent him a text. Even though he knew she hadn’t because he’d have felt it vibrating in his pocket. He tried to text her, tell her to hurry up, but his hand was shaking so much he had to give up. Couldn’t get his thumb to fix on the right letters.

  Dirty bastard.

  The words spun around his head. The dreadful things she’d accused him of.

  Pervert.

  Pushing her face into his, shouting at him. So close he could feel the spittle on his cheeks when she spoke. Bringing all her hysteria and madness with her. Messing everything up, the way she always had done.

  Stop it. Stop thinking about her. She didn’t mean it. She was disturbed. He’d always known that about her.

  Blow jobs.

  Good God! As if he’d ever… The other things she’d said, too. About Annie. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – believe it. She was making it up. Sick in the head. Adam had tried to tell her. Said he’d pay for whatever she wanted. And that’s when she pushed him…

  He’d imagined it for so long. Opening the door and one or other of them standing there. Now it had happened. When he first saw her, looking so beautiful, he’d thought his heart would burst. Wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Just so happy. Overjoyed.

  And when she came inside, he’d forgotten himself for a moment and moved to hug her, wanting suddenly – desperately – to tell her how much he loved her, how badly he’d missed her. Not imagining for a second she’d come back for any other reason except she’d missed him, too.

  Someone was in the sitting room. Moving around. He tensed, hand over his mouth to stop himself crying out. She was back. Maybe she’d never left. He tried to remember what had happened right after he fell.

  More movement, shuffling, coming closer.

  She told him he was going to prison. Started to tell him what would happen to him, what the other prisoners would do to him. She’d already made a complaint, she said. It was only a matter of time.

  She was closer now. He squeeze
d his body as tight into the corner as he could. Felt the sofa move as she brushed against it. And then, just when he couldn’t bear it a moment longer, a black nose and two brown eyes around the back of the sofa, staring right at him.

  ‘Digger!’

  His voice shook, relief, not fear. The dog moved forward and started licking his face. Normally he’d never let Digger do that but right this moment, he didn’t mind.

  The dog soothed him, and soon he started to feel stupid. What in heaven’s name was he thinking? Hiding behind the sofa like some stupid child. He crawled out and stood up, wiping his hands together, wincing as he felt the little grains of dirt rubbing against his skin. He’d better get those washed first. And then he’d get to work. Get the house in order before Bel came back.

  It wouldn’t do for her to walk in and find things in disarray. Bel was like him. She needed order, everything in its right place. A mess would only upset her. And he didn’t want that. Not for his Bel.

  A silver-edged mirror hung on the wall over the brown marble fireplace. He barely recognised the face staring at him from the mirror. So old and scared. Pathetic. He licked his fingers and took hold of the two long pieces of hair on either side of his head, smoothing these over the bald patch at the top.

  Nodding at the improvement, he bent down to rub Digger’s head. Hands were already dirty so he might as well.

  ‘Not a word, hey, Diggs?’ he said. ‘Our little secret. No one else’s.’

  The dog looked up at him, brown eyes staring into his, tail wagging hopefully. Stupid mutt. Not a clue. If Monica came back, the bloody dog would probably wag his tail and greet her like an old friend.

  With a bit of luck, that was the end of it. She’d had her say, done what she came here to do – frighten the life out of him – maybe that’s all she wanted. He told himself this, tried his best to believe it. But deep down, he knew his daughter, knew what she was capable of.

  The knowledge offered no comfort whatsoever.