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I spent about an hour with her that last day. The only sound in the room was the stick attached to the nail polish brush tapping against the side of the bottle when I dipped it in and out. I suppose that time was my final chance to get my feelings off my chest. But I didn’t say a word. I didn’t tell her that I hated her, that I forgave her, that I missed her or that I wished she had been a better mum. Instead, I simply painted her nails, whispered goodbye and left.
There’s a sudden knock at the door, which puts the fear of God into me. Paul’s face flashes into my head as fast and bright as lightning. I tell myself no, of course he wouldn’t knock. He’d just appear. So I open the door, careful to keep the chain on. The caller’s face is vaguely familiar. He is tall and tanned and his brow is furrowed. His smile is more hopeful than friendly.
‘Connie Wright?’ he begins nervously. My lack of denial gives him his answer. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a moment?’
‘Who are you?’
‘You called me because you were worried about my mum and said it was too late for yours.’ I open the door a little further. ‘I’m Jon Brown,’ he adds. ‘My mum’s name is Fran. And two days ago, I think Paul tried to kill her.’
CHAPTER 50
CONNIE
My stomach begins the first in a series of somersaults. Now I remember where I recognise him from – his LinkedIn profile photo. That’s where I learned the name of the company he works for in Dubai and found his contact details. But I didn’t give him my name, so how did he find me? My phone is pay-as-you-go and unregistered. He answers my question before I can ask it.
‘You didn’t withhold your number when you rang,’ he explains. ‘And I have a mate back here who works for a telecommunications company. He pinpointed the area where the phone is most used. Then I asked around the village to see if they knew someone whose mum had died very recently of dementia, and claimed I’d lost her contact details, which is how I ended up here. I’m sorry to turn up like this.’
The whites around his hazel eyes have taken on a pinkish hue. I recognise tired and haunted when I see them, because I am both. My gut tells me that by letting Jon Brown in, I’m also inviting trouble. But I just can’t close the door on him. He follows me into the lounge.
‘What happened to your mum?’ I ask.
‘She was found in the garden, unconscious and with a head injury,’ he replies.
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Barely. She’s in a coma at Leicester General Hospital. The police think she tripped over an uneven paving stone and fell against the barbecue, knocking herself out. She was there all night until she was found in the morning. If you hadn’t called me, I’d probably have thought no more of it, as she’s unsteady on her feet at the best of times.’
‘And you don’t think that’s what happened?’
He shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘What makes you think Paul was involved?’
‘I discovered he and Mum got married last week.’
Last week? This is his fastest turnaround yet.
‘The day I flew home, an ex-girlfriend who works as a junior doctor at the same hospital Mum’s in noticed it in her records. She thought it was a mistake and asked me. I didn’t believe it until she did a public records check and found Mum recently married a man called Paul Hayes. He came to the hospital the morning when she was first admitted – I was still on the flight over here – but he hasn’t been seen since. When her doctor called him with her test results and explained she was brain stem dead and that it was only a machine keeping her alive, Paul said he wanted it turning off as soon as possible. He said he’d come in and sign the paperwork but that he didn’t need to see her again. They asked about giving other family members the opportunity to say goodbye, but he told them it wasn’t necessary and repeated that he wanted the machine turning off.’
‘But Fran’s definitely still alive?’
‘For now. The hospital has given us a stay of execution for forty-eight hours, then that’s it.’
My fingers form a steeple shape over my mouth. This is all too familiar. ‘Can you excuse me?’ I say and offer him a seat while I disappear into the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of wine and drink it in one long gulp. Something about this is off. His other victims were definitely dead before he called for help. Then it dawns on me that this might, through Jon, be the opportunity I need for my accusations against Paul to be taken seriously by the police. I pour another glass and drink half of it before I return to the lounge.
‘I’m sorry, I just needed a moment,’ I tell him. ‘This is very personal to me and ... a lot has happened recently that’s forced me to draw a line under the Paul situation.’
‘Please,’ he says. ‘I need to know what you know. You must have thought something was seriously wrong if you went to the trouble of tracking me down and warning me about him. I need to know who I’m up against.’
‘Who found your mum?’ I ask.
‘Paul did. He told the paramedics he hadn’t realised she’d left the house overnight. He said he checked for a pulse but couldn’t locate one. Only they found it. It was very, very faint, but it was there.’
‘Paul messed up,’ I say. ‘If he had any doubt at all that your mum was still alive, he’d have left her there for longer. He’d have only called for help if he was convinced she was dead. All the others had been gone for hours before he “found” them.’
Jon’s face pales. ‘The others? What others?’
I really don’t want to be a part of this but I don’t think I have a choice. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know, but you need to be aware of two things,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to come out of this well, and if you decide to go to the police, you have to leave my name out of it. Because if you don’t, there’s a very good chance Paul will try and hurt me. Do I have your word?’
