I bristle at her tone. ‘Sorry, I was only asking.’
‘No, I’m sorry for biting your head off. Sonny forgot his homework, and then Nathan and I… we had a bit of a bust-up, so I came round to get it – the homework.’
‘Sorry you’re having a crappy evening.’ I offer up a lukewarm smile. ‘I’d have thought Nathan would be in a great mood after his win today.’
‘Yeah, well, he wasn’t too thrilled at having visitors to stay. He wanted to go out and celebrate.’
‘You mean because you’ve got Kelly’s boys?’ I think Nathan’s a bit of an arsehole, but I’m still surprised that he would be so churlish – he always seems desperate to be the good guy.
Fiona flushes. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. He’s fine with the boys, just cross with me for springing it on him.’
‘But that’s hardly your fault!’ I find myself annoyed with Nathan on Fiona’s behalf.
‘Itismy fault. Look, I haven’t told you the whole story. I’ve made Nathan out to be the bad guy, but he’s not. It’ll be fine. I’ll go back home, and we’ll make up. It’s no big deal.’
But I can tell she’s covering up for him. There’s something else in her voice. Something she’s not telling me.
We agree to keep in touch over the next day or so and I offer to look after the boys if she needs me to. She waves away my offer, but I have a feeling she’ll change her mind if Nathan’s got any say in the matter. We agree that Fiona will go to the station tomorrow and if she doesn’t have any luck getting more information, then I’ll call Ash and try to get him to spill the beans. But I already know it’ll be a waste of time.
Fiona and I leave Kelly’s at the same time, parting ways at the end of the road as she heads to her multi-million-pound lakeside mansion, and I head home to my beautiful family in our modest home.
On the walk back, I realise that I’m still no nearer to working out what I’m supposed to do about the photos. And it doesn’t look like I’ll have a chance to discuss it with Kelly any time soon. She has far more important issues on her mind – like why she’s being held in police custody overnight. Poor Kelly. I hope she’s okay. And now, after tonight’s conversation with Fiona, I’m starting to doubt my theory that she’s behind the images. She didn’t seem at all threatening this evening. In fact, she seemed quite vulnerable.
Afternoon shifts into dusk and, despite being a Saturday, the roads are empty. This is a quiet residential area; all the regatta celebrations will have transferred to the pubs and bars in town. The organisers used to set up a marquee by the lake with a bar and disco that played on until the early hours, but that was vetoed several years ago after the lakeside residents’ committee complained about the noise.
I’m halfway home when I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. I want to turn around to see who it is, but that would look too paranoid. I remember having a conversation with some friends about women’s safety when walking alone. Ed said that if he ever finds himself walking behind a lone woman, he’ll always cross over to the other side of the road and fall back a little way, to make them feel less threatened. Whoever is behind me now obviously doesn’t have the same level of thoughtfulness. I speed up to a brisk walk, trying not to let my imagination run away with me. But after everything that’s been happening, it’s hard not to.
But it’s definitely not my imagination when I hear the footsteps behind me grow louder and faster, matching my own. My pulse quickens and I pray for someone to step out of their house, or for a car to pull up, foranyone elseto come along. But there’s nothing other than our two sets of footsteps, my fast-beating heart and my ragged breath. Without slowing, I reach into my bag and fumble for my keys, arranging them between my fingers like a jagged knuckleduster.
I cross over the road, and now I know I’m not being paranoid because the footsteps are still behind me. Getting closer.
I can either turn around. Or I can run.
Suddenly, I don’t care about how stupid I look, I’m going to turn around and see who’s behind me. I stop walking, my heart in my mouth, my right hand still clutching my bunch of keys.
As I turn, the person behind me speaks.
‘Excuse me, do you know if I’m going in the right direction for Hazelmere Drive?’
My heart rate slows and the sick feeling in my stomach starts to melt away as I come face to face with a slim, pale-haired young woman wearing scruffy jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt.
‘You scared me half to death!’ I exhale with a relieved smile. ‘Thought you were a mugger.’
Her face falls. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t think.’ She puts a hand on my arm, an oddly intimate gesture.
‘S’okay. Hazelmere Drive? You need to turn around and then take the second turning on the right. We passed it just back there.’ I point down the road.
‘Okay, thanks.’ She gives me an odd little smile before walking away.
I watch her for a moment before turning around and heading home. But rather than feeling relieved that it wasn’t a mugger, that strange encounter has made me even more unsettled than before.
Twenty-Eight
KELLY
A shout from the cell next to mine makes me jump. It’s a man’s voice, slurred and aggressive, swearing at one of the police officers. Everything echoes here – the doors opening and closing, the voices, the footsteps. It’s how I imagine hell would be – not boiling infernos, but cold and detached and clinical. Lonely.
My own cell is a small rectangular box with a built-in bed, rubber mattress and a metal toilet in the corner. The walls are a dirty cream, and there’s a grid-like window way up high letting in a weak glow of fading daylight, supplemented by two ceiling strip lights that illuminate every depressing aspect.
