It’s the cat lady.
He squints closer, until his nose is almost touching the screen glass, and then he sees it: her eyes are open, she is clearly in distress, but there is a spasmodic twitching in her fingers on the edge of the tub.
She’s still alive, and struggling to stay that way.
Lee frantically fumbles back to the email, memorizing the address written in it, dials the station number as he leaps out of bed.
“Come-on-come-on-come-on,” he chatters, as it connects, grabbing his clothes, laid out by Helena the night before.
The call is answered and he interrupts the speaker, talking fast.
“Michelle, it’s Lee. Listen, high priority: I need two units sent out now to Sixty-five Lockheath Road. Get an ambulance there, too. Threat to life. Check neighboring houses. I’m heading there now.”
Lee struggles to pull on his trousers with his one free hand, before wedging the thin phone between his cheek and shoulder and hoicking them on.
“Suspect is male, name Matt Whitby or Simon Hughes, presumed dangerous. Caution advised. Distress call received from within the house. Check the bathrooms and basement. We’re looking for two women, Anna Derwent, possibly being held against her will, and Frankie Green, in need of immediate medical attention. Get them there fast.”
He hangs up and wrestles his shirt from its hanger, which goes skittering across the wooden floor of the bedroom.
“Lee, take a breath, my love,” says a well-meaning voice from the bed. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
Helena is sitting up, concern imprinted on her features. “And, remember, no coffee till after eleven, yes?”
Lee pauses with one arm in his shirt and makes a performative show of breathing deeply in and out. It’s passive-aggressive at first, but two in, he does actually feel the benefit.
He nods in thanks and resumes dressing, his mood notably calmed.
Clothes on, he darts across the room, grabs his car keys, kisses Helena on the forehead, and then thunders down the stairs and out the door.
Chapter 51
Pam and Mouse
Pam is woken every morningby the shaft of summer light that makes its way under the edge of her bedroom blind, gently warming a thin line of her right cheek and eye.
She stirs, and her cat, Mouse, lets out a yawn before wandering up the duvet to Pam’s side for her morning snuggle.
Pam pulls Mouse’s soft white fur close, like a child with a teddy, or, she imagines, a mother with a child.
Mouse purrs and lolls her head against Pam’s pillow.
“Monday, lovely Monday,” Pam singsongs. “Shall we have breakfast in the garden, Mouse? Looks like a nice sunny one.”
The cat stands and mounts Pam’s chest.
“Ouff. You’re getting heavy, treasure,” Pam puffs out, caught off guard.
Pam lifts the cat off her chest and pulls back the covers to start her day.
In her tidy, well-stocked kitchen, Pam prepares their breakfasts, then carries their respective dishes outside into the sunshine.
Mouse leaps ahead past her, along the garden path, jumping up onto the sun-drenched bench against the back wall of the garden.
They sit, Pam with her yogurt and muesli on her knee and Mouse crouched beside her, cracking through her kibble loudly before swallowing greedily.
Sun-soaked calm descends.
Then Pam’s thoughts move to her usual morning rituals. She ferrets out her phone from her pocket. She likes to check the doorcamera every morning; she has done so since the incident across the street. Things hit differently when you get into your late sixties.
