The Waiting Game (6 page)

In the kitchen, Ellen took a bottle of Merlot from the wine rack and looked at it. To open or not to open, that was the question. Took a full two seconds to decide. It was still early, after all. Not even nine o’clock. A long evening in front of her with nothing to do except watch TV and try not to think about work. Both of which she’d find so much easier with the help of a few glasses of wine.

She drank half of the first glass while she was still in the kitchen. Topping herself up, she went into the sitting room and switched on the TV. Flicked through the channels for a bit, but couldn’t find anything to hold her attention.

Her phone was on the coffee table and she picked it up, scrolling through the messages – again – checking to see if there was
anything from Jim. Nights they didn’t see each other, he usually called or sent a text. So far tonight, she hadn’t heard from him. No reason she couldn’t call him, of course. No reason apart from her own stupid pride.

Frustrated – a combination of her stupidity and his persistent silence – she put the phone down and tried to concentrate on the TV. Kirsty and Phil were helping a wealthy couple buy a house on the Suffolk coast. The couple were relocating from London. Ellen couldn’t see the sense of it herself and soon her mind was drifting, going over the arrangements for Friday night. Again.

She shivered. Lust not fear. They’d been taking things slowly. Her decision and he seemed happy enough to go along with it. Friday night would change all that. They were going to a hotel. Together. Spending the night. The prospect of it, being with him like that, was terrifying and exciting.

The front doorbell rang. She thought it was him and ran to answer it.

‘Ellen! Thank goodness you’re in. I’m so sorry for calling around. I didn’t know what else to do.’

Monica Telford swayed in the porch. She looked drunk and Ellen resisted the urge to slam the door closed again.

‘It’s late,’ Ellen said. ‘What are you doing here?’

She would have said more, but then she noticed the bruising. And the fact that Monica seemed to be doing her best not to cry. Within seconds, a dozen different scenarios were playing out in
Ellen’s head. None of them good.

‘Can I come in? Please, Ellen. I’ve nowhere else to go.’

There was someone outside, walking fast along the street, stopping outside her house. Chloe held her breath, waiting for the person to move on again. She pictured him out there, staring at the house, watching her shadow moving behind the curtains. The lights were on. Stupid, stupid! She should have turned them off.

She crept over to the light switch, keeping her body low, beneath the window frame, hoping that way he wouldn’t be able to see her. At the wall, she reached up and switched off the light.

It was worse now. She couldn’t see. Outside, he was moving again. Footsteps coming closer. She crouched down, body pressed against the wall, hands stuffed into her mouth, forcing back the scream. If she stayed perfectly still, he might go away. Might think she wasn’t in here.

In the kitchen, on the table, the remote control for the alarm. She crawled to the door, banged her shoulder against the hard edge of the sofa but kept going. Out the door, along the hall and into the kitchen. Only then did she stand up. Dark in here too, but enough light to see where she was going.

She grabbed the control but couldn’t remember how to use it. One button controlled the alarm, another put a call straight through to the police. She pressed a button but it was the wrong
one and set the alarm off. The screaming, wailing noise was too loud for her small house. She tried to turn if off but whatever button she pressed, nothing worked.

She pressed her hands over her ears and ran to the back door. Had to get away from the noise but she was too scared to go out front, in case he was still there. The door was locked and she couldn’t turn the key. Crying, not caring about making noise now, she tried again with sweat-slippery hands. Finally, she got it open and ran into the small back garden.

It had started to rain. Big, wet raindrops landed on her head, mixed with the tears running down her face. She didn’t care. Anything was better than being trapped inside that house, waiting for him to come back and hurt her again.

‘What happened?’ Ellen asked.

‘A bad date,’ Monica said. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘If he hurt you,’ Ellen said, ‘you should report it.’

Monica shrugged. ‘He’s an old flame. We still meet up from time to time. Just a bit of fun. You know what fun is, right?’

Something about the way she said it set Ellen’s teeth on edge. She didn’t want this woman in her house. ‘Why are you here?’ she said.

‘I’m too scared to go home,’ Monica said. ‘Besides, you told me to call you anytime I wanted.’

‘I meant phone me,’ Ellen said. ‘I didn’t mean call over here whenever you like. How did you get my address?’

‘You gave it to me,’ Monica said. ‘I took your details when you
bought the painting, remember?’

‘What if I wasn’t alone?’ Ellen said. ‘Did you even think about that?’

Monica smiled. ‘So you do know what fun is, after all. I’m sorry, Ellen. I like you. Liked you the first time we met and like you even more after today. You were very kind to me. I wanted to see you. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

She pointed to Ellen’s wine glass, sitting empty on the table.

‘Any chance I could have one of those?’

‘Why me?’ Ellen asked. ‘You have other friends, I assume.’

‘They’re all men,’ Monica said. ‘And right now, the last thing I feel like doing is propping up some bloke’s ego while he thinks he’s doing me a favour. Wine? One glass and I’ll be gone. I promise.’

Ellen stood up.

‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll call a cab to take you home.’

In the kitchen, Ellen took a swig of wine straight from the bottle. It didn’t make her feel any better but it didn’t make her feel any worse, either. The wine trickled down her throat and into her stomach. She waited for the anger and frustration to pass. Outside, it had started to rain, droplets tip-tapping against the glass doors, distorting Ellen’s reflection as she moved around the kitchen.

Once she was sure she could deal with what waited for her, Ellen poured a glass of water for Monica and went back into the sitting room.

Monica was standing by the fireplace, looking at the collection of photographs on the mantelpiece.

‘Your kids?’ she asked. ‘Cute. Who’s this?’

‘My husband,’ Ellen said. ‘Don’t touch them, please. Here’s your water.’

She handed the glass over and sat down, hoping Monica would do the same.

‘Good-looking guy,’ Monica said, refusing to take the hint. She leaned in, pushed her face against the precious image of Vinny. Ellen’s hands clenched into tight fists, fingernails digging into her palms.

‘He died, right?’

Ellen nodded.

‘That must have been awful,’ Monica said. ‘When did it happen?’

‘Five years ago.’

Monica pointed to the painting in an alcove beside the fireplace.

‘Looks good there,’ she said.

It was Monica’s painting, the one Ellen had bought at the exhibition a few months back.

‘It’s a lovely painting,’ Ellen said.

Monica sat down then. On the sofa beside Ellen. She smelled of perfume, booze and sex. Monica took a sip of water and placed the glass on the coffee table. She brushed against Ellen, the side of her breast touching Ellen’s thigh as Monica leaned forward.
Ellen tried to shift sideways, out of her way, but she was already pressed into the side of the sofa and there was nowhere else to go.

Monica straightened up and smiled. She seemed oblivious to Ellen’s discomfort.

‘You must get lonely,’ she said.

Ellen swallowed.

‘You shouldn’t be here. I’ll call a cab.’

Monica reached forward, brushed a strand of hair back from Ellen’s face.

‘Poor Ellen.’

Her eyes, this close, looked huge. Deep, dark pools. The smell of her was everywhere.

‘I know what loneliness is like.’ Monica was whispering now, voice so low Ellen had to strain to hear. ‘I’ve been lonely my whole life. Ever since my mother left. I was only a child, Ellen. Eight years old and she left me with that bastard. What do you think of that?’

‘Can’t have been easy,’ Ellen said. There was a tremor in her voice and she realised she was shivering. Yet she felt so hot. Face burning, hands damp with sweat. Monica’s heat, so close, like a radiator.

‘She left me,’ Monica said. ‘Instead of protecting me, she left me to deal with him myself.’

She should stop it now. Tell Monica to finish her water and get the hell out of there. If she had any sense, that’s what she’d do. But she wanted to find out. Wanted to understand who this
woman was, what secrets she was hiding. Because there were certainly secrets. Until she knew what they were, she wouldn’t know if Monica was someone she was meant to protect. Or be scared of.

‘I grew up in North Kent,’ Monica said. ‘Whitstable. You know it?’

‘A bit,’ Ellen said. ‘I know that part of the world quite well, actually.’

Days passed without remembering. Then,
wham
. It was all she could think of. The scream of the brakes as the train bore down on them. The two men disappearing under it. Afterwards, Dai’s brown brogue at the side of the track. Just one shoe. Later, she’d worried about it. Hoped that whoever removed his body saw the shoe and thought to put it back on. For some reason, the thought of it there without Dai was unbearable. At one point she’d even considered going back, just to check. Except she couldn’t face it, so she had done nothing instead. Another thing to feel guilty about.

‘It’s a horrible place,’ Monica said. ‘At least, it was when I was growing up. I loathed every minute of living there. It might have been different if things had been better at home. But they weren’t. My mother left when I was a kid. I never understood how she could do that. She knew what he was like and yet she left me there. With him. I’ve never stopped hating him for it.’

‘Your father?’ Ellen asked.

Monica nodded. ‘It was his fault. She’d never have left if he was a better man. He was a pig. Oh, on the surface he was mister respectable pillar of the community. But that was all a façade. He drank a lot. When he was drunk it always went the same way. He’d start moaning on about my mother. Crying and asking me why she’d left. Like he couldn’t see what a pathetic loser he was. No woman with any sense would stay with a man like that. Then he’d start on me. I was just like her. Only worse because I could see how upset he was, how lonely he was and I did nothing to help. How every time he tried to show me some love, I rejected him.’

Monica shook her head. ‘I was fourteen the first time that bastard tried to show me some love.’

‘Wasn’t there anyone you could speak to?’ Ellen asked.

‘I tried,’ Monica said. ‘There was an art teacher who was kind to me. But when I told her what was happening at home, she didn’t believe me. After that, I decided to deal with it myself.’

‘How?’

‘Got a job, saved some money and got the hell away from there. Moved away from home when I was seventeen and haven’t looked back since.’

‘He never tried to find you?’ Ellen asked.

Monica shook her head. ‘The night I left, I stole his car. I was reversing out of the driveway when I saw him. He was roaring at me, telling me he wouldn’t let me go. Banging on the car door,
trying to get in. I panicked. Swerved into him and knocked him over. After that night, I never saw him again.’

Monica lifted her glass and drained the rest of her water. When she drank, her lipstick left a red stain on the glass.

A car horn beeped outside the house.

‘Your cab,’ Ellen said.

At the front door, Monica embraced Ellen.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. She held Ellen a moment too long, soft body pressed against Ellen’s, and thrust the lower half of her body into Ellen’s. The movement was so sudden and brief, Ellen couldn’t be sure, afterwards, she hadn’t imagined it. Just as quickly, Monica released her and was running down the path, splashing through puddles and into the waiting cab.

Ellen waited until the cab had turned the corner at the end of the road and disappeared. Only then did she let out the breath she was holding. Relief that Monica was gone. The whole encounter had been deeply uncomfortable. At the end of it all, Ellen was no closer to understanding what Monica Telford was all about. The story about her father should have triggered feelings of sympathy. Instead, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that Monica had been playing with her. Why, Ellen had no idea. Not yet. The one thing she knew for certain was that tonight was the last time Monica Telford would set foot inside her house.

At some point during the night, it had stopped raining. Streaks of sunlight trickled through the gaps in the curtains, drawing Monica from a deep sleep. She opened her eyes. The room was alive with little speckles of dust lit up gold, dancing. As she waited for the last traces of sleep to pass, Monica thought back over last night.

It had been easier than she’d expected. The car turning up like that had been a stroke of luck. She’d recognised it immediately. Knew the driver and knew what he was looking for. All over in less than an hour. Then across to Kelly’s while the bruises were good and fresh.

She could have had Kelly there on the sofa if she’d wanted to. She’d seen it in Kelly’s eyes. Another glass of wine, a few more
shared intimacies and anything could have happened. Monica rolled onto her back, finger pressing her clitoris as she pictured it …

Tuesday morning, Ellen was back in Ger’s office.

‘Had a visitor last night,’ Ellen said. ‘Monica Telford. Think she was trying to imply her father is the mystery stalker.’

‘You believe her?’ Ger asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Ellen said.

In truth, she still wasn’t sure why Monica had called around. Several times she’d thought the artist was coming on to her. Today, without the distorting effect of wine, Ellen wasn’t so sure.

‘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 stomach. 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.