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Chapter 39
Tuesday 30th March
I’m starting to feel sick. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and there are now approximately thirty-three hours to get through until the 1st of April officially begins. Suddenly, it’s starting to feel real. All day, my house has been crawling with people fitting bullet-proof panels over the windows, nailing the loft hatch shut, wiring in panic buttons and generally making me feel more unsettled by the minute, although I’m fully aware that they’re trying to make me feel the complete opposite.
‘Peace of mind, eh?’ a plump, smiling shaven-headed man in a blue boiler suit said with a wink, as he lumbered down the stairs carrying a toolbox. I have no idea how much these people know about what’s really going on here; I suspect the police haven’t given them many details, and that they think I’m some sort of paranoid security obsessive, but I’m not asking them any questions and they’re simply getting on with their jobs, clearly following orders not to bother me. I’m not sure what the neighbours are thinking about what’s going on, but as I don’t really know any of them apart from Dinah next door, I don’t really care, and I pre-warned Dinah, simply telling her I was having a little overdue maintenance work done on the house and saying I hoped she wouldn’t be disturbed too much.
I did put my foot down when hidden cameras and listening devices were mooted though. I don’t mind all the other measures they’re putting in place; I welcome them, because with everything that’s being done I really can’t see how anyone is going to get anywhere near me. But if he does, somehow –if– I can’t risk the police being able to overhear our conversation. As for Pete, my only plan is still to play it by ear. Scream at him to go and get help, maybe, so the killer and I are briefly left alone? I know there won’t be much time anyway, maybe only a minute or so, if someone does get into the house, before the police are swarming in. So hopefully, telling him what I need to tell him will stall him just long enough …
So, no cameras and no bugs in the house. I told Jess I simply couldn’t handle being watched and listened to in my own home, not on top of everything else. I told her the very idea was making me feel panicky, and she spoke to DCI Warden and some of the other senior officers and they agreed not to fit anything except panic buttons. Pete backed me up too – he insisted on being there when I had the conversation with Jess, and he told her that we both felt quite strongly that there was no need for what he called ‘spyware’ inside the house. He’s not here at the moment; he told me earlier, yetagain, that today is, finally, the day he’s going to end things with Megan because yes, surprise surprise, they’re still together. I’ve given up asking him about it now, fed up with his vague explanations as to why he’s still been continuing to put it off. We haven’t slept together again since the night of the fish and chips; I haven’t seen that much of him, actually, over the past couple of weeks. He’s been incredibly busy at work, and then had to spend a few days in London at an Accountants Association conference, so I’ve been trying to keep busy too, arranging a few nights out with the guys from The Hub, getting my head down to finish the Diary Killer article as far as I can, researching some new stories to get my teeth into when this is all over.
If I’m still alive.
The thought still creeps into my head from time to time, but I resolutely push it away, trying to stay in the moment. Pete left for Megan’s half an hour ago; he said he’ll be home as soon as he’s told her it’s over, but I’m not holding my breath. In the meantime, I’m skulking in the kitchen, where the men and women tramping around the house have already finished their work. I can hear them upstairs though, somebody hammering in the lounge directly above, and the whine of an electric drill in the main bathroom on the landing. I run the tap and fill a glass with water, then sip it as I stand by the window, staring out into the quiet street. My gaze rests for a few moments on the windows of the top floor flat opposite, where I know the police have set up some sort of surveillance station, but there’s no sign of any activity; the curtains are open but the spaces between them are empty and dark.
I thought the bullet-proof panels fitted over my windows might impede my view of the outside world, but I’m relieved to see that they don’t; they seem to be made of some sort of acrylic or polycarbonate, and they’re crystal clear.
‘Virtually indestructible,’ said the young woman who fitted them earlier, standing back and scrutinising her work with obvious pride. ‘Bullets, storm damage, repeated high-force impacts – none are a match for these.’
She wiped her hands on her overalls, nodded at me, and marched out of the room. She was a tiny woman, probably not even thirty, with blonde hair in two bouncy pigtails, and it gave me a moment of pleasure to see the obvious satisfaction she took in what was really a most unusual job. I get to keep her handiwork in place afterwards, too, apparently; a nice little bonus, I suppose, although I’m not sure how much it will add to the value of the house. I doubt bullet- and bomb-proof glass is on many home-buyers’ wish lists, to be honest.
I’m still staring absent-mindedly out of the window, smiling as an elderly lady in a bright-blue coat walks slowly past, a fat poodle in a matching doggie jacket that looks as if it may have been hand-knitted ambling behind her. And then …
I gasp, and slowly back away from the glass.
Is that …? It is! It’s bloody Edward Cooper, walking along the pavement. What’s he doing here, in my street, in the middle of the afternoon?I think, and back away further, aware that my breathing has quickened.
Outside, three or four metres away, Edward has stopped walking. He’s wearing running gear, trainers and black leggings, and a fitted black hoodie, and he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. He glances at it, looks at my house, then shoves the paper back into his pocket. And now he’s walking again, getting closer, until at the end of the short path that leads from the pavement to my front door he pauses, eyes narrowing, as if he’s double-checking he’s in the right place. He takes a step closer, then another. And then I hear the front door open, and see one of the workmen step out onto the path. He’s holding a phone to his ear, and takes a few steps away from the house, maybe trying to get away from all the noise, the hammering and the drilling, because he turns and tilts his head towards the first-floor lounge window, frowning as he does so, then carries on talking. On the pavement, Edward has frozen, staring at the man, an uncertain look on his face. As I watch, he looks over his shoulder, then back at the house and the man standing outside it. And then, as if he’s suddenly made a decision, he turns and begins to jog quickly down the road, not looking back. Seconds later he’s disappeared, out of sight.
What was that?
I realise I’ve been holding my breath, and exhale, relief flooding through me.
He was definitely coming here, wasn’t he? He only changed his mind because that man appeared. What did he want? Was he hoping to find me here alone? And how did he even get my address?
I don’t like this. I don’t like thisat all. Wishing desperately that Pete would hurry up and come back, I decide to call Jess.
The poor woman’s going to think I’m absolutely bonkers, I think, as I wait for her to pick up.She’ll think I’m obsessed with Edward and Satish.
But thatwasweird, right? For him to suddenly appear outside my house, clearly about to knock on the door, only to change his mind and scurry away again? That’s not normal behaviour. If he wanted to talk to me about something, he could have just called me, couldn’t he? Why somehow sneakily acquire my address, and just turn up out of the blue?
‘Hi Mary. How’s it going there?’
‘Jess! Yes, the work’s all going fine, as far as I can tell. They’re all very pleasant and efficient. But Jess, that’s not what I’m calling about …’
I tell her, and she’s silent for a few moments as she always is when I ring her to report something like this, clearly thinking about it.
‘Well, nothing actually happened, did it?’ she says. ‘He just went away. I agree it’s a bit strange, but with all the security measures you’re going to have in place by the end of today I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. Maybe he was out for a run and just happened to find himself in your street? Maybe he thought about popping in to see you and then changed his mind? And in your current completely understandably rather anxious state you put two and two together and made six? Try to relax, Mary. Look, you’ve got your panic buttons now, so feel free to use them at any point if you feel there’s an imminent threat, OK?’
‘OK. Yes, I will. Sorry, Jess. And thank you. I’ll see you soon.’
I end the call, feeling slightly better. The panic buttonsdogive me more peace of mind, but I still think I’m right about Edward. Whatever Jess may think, he wasn’t just out for a run and happened to end up in The Grove. He wasdefinitelyon his way here. But he’s gone now, and I need to get through this day somehow, to occupy my mind with something else. I settle down on the sofa at the far end of the kitchen and scroll through the TV movie channels, settling on a cheesy American film about a young woman raised by her single parent mother in New York, who then discovers her long-lost father is a British aristocrat. By the time it’s over, the work in the house has also been completed, the team waving and smiling as they say goodbye and leaving me greatly impressed that the place looks immaculate, every speck of dust neatly swept up, every piece of furniture that had to be moved perfectly back in position. Then I check the time, and frown. It’s after six, and Petestillisn’t home. I don’t want to call or text because I know he’s obviously busy, but …
How on earth can it be taking this long? What’s he doing?
I sigh, despairing of the whole situation, and then hear my stomach growl and realise to my surprise that I’m actually quite hungry, so I find a barbecue chicken pizza in the freezer and turn the oven on. I eat my dinner in front of the TV upstairs, sipping a glass of merlot, and then drink more wine as I watch three episodes of the latest series ofMarried at First Sightback to back. At ten, I give up on Pete and go to bed, head swimming from the alcohol and the stress of it all, and I fall asleep quickly, only to jolt upright sometime later, knowing I’ve heard a door slam somewhere downstairs. My heart is thumping, my eyes wide as they scan the dark room, terrified that somebody’s there, waiting to pounce. It’s nearly midnight, and for a moment, almost rigid with fear, my hand hovers near the panic button that’s discreetly hidden on the side of my bedside table. But then I hear footsteps on the stairs, and the familiar click as Pete’s bedroom door opens and then gently closes.
Pete. It’s just Pete. He’s home,finally,I think, and I slump back onto my pillows, my heart rate slowing. I hear him moving around, the toilet in his en suite bathroom flushing, and then there’s silence. I pull the duvet tightly around me and fall back into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of shadowy figures floating past my house, and the scream of a siren, loud at first and then fading away into the distance, the shadows melting away as the sound does, until all is calm and quiet once more.
