The Waiting Game (9 page)

Chloe liked working in Lewisham. She could walk to work and not have to bother with public transport. She felt good this morning. Her night out with Anne had been fun, although it would have been a lot better without Nathan. He’d insisted on picking her up and driving her across. Then he’d stayed for the whole evening and driven her home afterwards. She knew he was only being kind, but sometimes she felt a bit stifled by him.

Anne’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when Chloe showed up with Nathan tagging along beside her. Anne was nice enough to him, but Chloe could see her trying not to laugh a few times. Like when Nathan’s big belly nearly knocked the table over.

But she shouldn’t be cruel. It was thanks to Nathan that she had the alarm and it was making a big difference. She was more
relaxed in the house. The remote was brilliant. She’d got used to using it now and kept it with her all the time. She turned the alarm on each time she left the house. If anyone tried to break in, the alarm would go off and the police would be straight over there.

It was a twenty-minute walk from her house to the office. She walked fast, checking every now and then, making sure no one was following her. Before all this started, she used to walk along the back streets, taking the footbridge over the railway track and into Lewisham that way. These days, she kept to the busy main roads: up Ennersdale Road and down Hither Green Lane. It was a busier, noisier route, the air thick with exhaust fumes. But there were enough people around to stop her feeling scared.

She was earlier than usual, hoping to get to the office first so that she would be sitting at her desk, calm and relaxed, when Carl arrived. She knew Nathan had an appointment first thing. With a bit of luck, it would be just her and Carl for a while.

Thinking about Carl, her attention wandered, which was why she didn’t notice the man standing by the bus stop wearing the light blue jacket until it was too late. She’d just reached the office, had her key in the door ready to open it when he jumped forward, grabbed her wrist and shoved her against the door. Hard.

His smell was the first thing she recognised. Even before she looked up and saw his face. Ralph Lauren
Polo
. The only cologne he ever wore. The smell of it filled the air around her, suffocating and sick-making.

He twisted her wrist and she whimpered, begging him not to break it. He smiled.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

He took the key from her useless fingers, fitted it into the lock, opened the door and pushed her inside. She fell to the ground and started crawling, desperate to get away, as far away from him as she could.

The blinds were down, covering the windows, blocking out the light and making it impossible for anyone to see inside. Behind her, she heard Ricky turn the key in the door, locking it. Then his footsteps, steady and certain as he crossed the small space that separated them.

Thursday morning, Ellen drove to Monica’s before work. The two officers who’d responded to Ellen’s call last night had found no sign of an intruder. One of them later remarked to Ellen that Monica had seemed ‘tired and emotional’.

This morning, the Monica who answered the door to Ellen was calm and composed.

‘Come in,’ Monica said, smiling. ‘Although I don’t have too much time. Thought I’d go to the studio this morning. Try to get back into doing some work. How are you, Ellen? You look tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Tired because I was up half the night on your behalf, Ellen was tempted to reply. She was tired, but there was nothing new
about that. She was always tired. Monica, on the other hand, looked like she’d had at least twelve hours’ decent kip. If she was hungover, there was no outward sign of it.

‘I won’t stay,’ Ellen said. ‘Just wanted to check you’re okay. You sounded in a bad way last night.’

‘I’m fine,’ Monica said. ‘Maybe I over-reacted. It’s hard to know, isn’t it? When this starts happening to you, it’s easy to become paranoid. You were very kind to me, Ellen. I don’t take that for granted. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?’

‘Like what?’ Ellen asked.

Monica laughed. ‘Don’t be so coy, Ellen. I know you have a boyfriend. You let it slip the night I called over. Don’t you remember?’

Ellen shook her head. ‘Too much wine and my mouth goes all loose. Sorry. Listen, if you’re sure you’re okay, then I’ll be out of your hair. Have a good day.’

As she left, she turned back, looked at the outside of the house.

‘I thought you said you’d got an alarm fitted,’ she said. ‘Don’t they normally put a box up so people know the place is alarmed?’

‘It fell down,’ Monica said. ‘Someone’s coming over later to fix it. Don’t worry, Ellen, I’m doing everything you’ve told me to.’

‘Which system did you go with?’ Ellen asked.

Monica frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Ellen knew Monica knew exactly what she meant. She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. Have a good day, okay?’

As she drove off, she wondered why Monica would lie about
getting an alarm fitted when she clearly hadn’t. Only one reason came to mind. Monica had lied about the alarm because she didn’t feel scared enough to get one. A fact Ellen found very interesting indeed.

The stink of his cologne filled her mouth and nose, making her gag. He was lying on top of her, the weight of his body pressing down, his face so close she could see the tiny pores on his nose, feel his breath, warm and damp on her face, when he spoke.

‘What the fuck were you playing at?’

His hand was between her legs, pulling her pants to the side. His breathing was loud and fast and his erection pressed against her thigh. She shook her head, begging him. Not that, please not that.

‘I have a business to run,’ he said. ‘How do you think I can do that with everyone reading those fucking
lies
you’ve written about me?’ he shouted, voice high and angry just like she remembered.

‘I’m sorry.’ She was crying now, couldn’t help it even though she knew he hated it when she cried. ‘I’m so sorry, Ricky. Please don’t hurt me. Please.’

But it was too late for that. She should never have spoken to the journalist. Should never, for a single moment, have thought she could fight him and win. She’d never won when she was with him. So stupid to let herself believe it might be any different after she left.

Ellen spent a frustrating morning trying to find something that linked Chloe Dunbar and Monica Telford. Both women claimed not to know each other. So there had to be another connection. Monica was lying. This bare fact underpinned all the work Ellen was doing. She had no proof, but was basing the assumption on a feeling she had. The sort of gut feeling she’d learned to trust over the years.

The question was, why? Why was she lying?

Ellen stood up from her computer, frustrated. She needed to talk about it, sort through the different, conflicting ideas racing around inside her head. Apart from Abby, the office was empty.

‘Fancy a coffee?’ Ellen asked.

Abby looked around from her computer and smiled.

‘I’d kill for one,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to update the outstanding cases on the system and each time I try to save it, another part of me dies.’

They went out of the station and across the road to Danilo’s, the little coffee shop that was second home for many of the people working in Lewisham station. On principle, Ellen refused to drink the liquid served in the staff canteen that pretended to be coffee but tasted like burnt mud.

Once they’d found a table and settled with their mugs, Ellen told Abby how she’d spent her morning so far.

‘There has to be something that connects the two women,’ she said. ‘They both swear not to know each other.’

‘You think they’re both telling the truth?’ Abby asked.

‘Hard to tell,’ Ellen said. ‘More to the point, why would either one lie about it?’

‘Monica might lie,’ Abby said. ‘She only made a complaint after Chloe’s story was printed. If she’s some sort of delusional nutter, isn’t it possible that she read Chloe’s story and decided to report that the same thing had happened to her?’

It was the most likely explanation. Ellen had seen enough attention-seeking delusionists over the years. People turning up at the station to report non-existent crimes. Wasting valuable police time that would be better spent helping real victims.

‘It makes sense apart from one thing,’ Ellen said. ‘The news story doesn’t mention the flowers or the mugs of tea. Monica couldn’t know about that unless Chloe told her.’

‘Or unless the same thing had happened to her,’ Abby countered. ‘Isn’t it possible Monica’s telling the truth?’

‘If she’s telling the truth,’ Ellen said, ‘then both women are being harassed by the same person.’

‘Who could be anyone,’ Abby said. ‘Maybe they shop in the same supermarket or drink in the same pub occasionally. Or go to the same park or cinema or restaurant. There could be any number of ways they’re connected without either of them knowing about it.’

‘And the alternative?’ Ellen asked.

‘The alternative is that Monica’s making it up,’ Abby said. ‘And if she is, then you’re right. Chloe must have told her the bits that weren’t in the news story.’

‘There is another explanation,’ Ellen said, only thinking it now. ‘Maybe Monica knows whoever attacked Chloe and that’s how she found out.’

‘Or maybe Monica herself is the attacker,’ Abby added. ‘Do you think that’s an option?’

‘At this stage,’ Ellen said. ‘Everything’s an option, isn’t it?’

The bruises on Monica’s neck the other night were something else to think about. Why had Monica turned up at Ellen’s house right after it happened? What message was she trying to give that night? Ellen didn’t know, but she intended to find out.

Back at the station, Alastair, the junior detective in the team, was waiting for her. Ellen liked Alastair, liked how methodical he
was. She had marked him out early as someone who wanted to work hard and ascend the ladder. She wouldn’t let go of him too quickly though, it was important to have someone like him at her back – thorough, a good lateral thinker and reliable.

‘I’ve got the info you wanted,’ Alastair said.

Ellen sat at her desk, pulled out a spare chair and motioned for him to sit down.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing yet that connects the two women,’ Alastair said. ‘But something interesting on Monica. Might be something, might be nothing.’

‘Well I won’t know until you tell me,’ Ellen said.

Alastair nodded.

‘Some stuff you already know. She grew up in Whitstable. Raised by her father mainly. Mother left when Monica was a kid. Husband reported her missing at the time, but our boys tracked her down easily enough. The MisPer file was closed. There’s a statement in it to the effect that she’d been found but didn’t want any further contact with her husband or daughter.

‘Adam Telford’s a respected businessman. Independent financial advisor. The guy I spoke to in Canterbury seems to think Telford dealt well with what happened. Brought the daughter up on his own, kept working. Made a good life for them both.’

‘Anything on the accident?’ Ellen asked.

Monica had told her she’d hit her father in the car she was driving the night she left home.

‘That’s where it gets interesting,’ Alastair said. ‘Incident was recorded as a hit and run. Driver was never found and Telford always claimed he didn’t know who took his car that night. Detective in charge of the case at the time tried to pin it on the daughter, but Telford swore she didn’t do it.’

‘Maybe he couldn’t bear to think of his own daughter doing something like that to him,’ Ellen said.

Alastair shrugged. ‘Maybe. There’s more, though.’

‘Go on.’

‘The accident resulted in significant injury to Telford’s pelvis,’ Alastair said. ‘He had a number of operations on it in the following years. I managed to track down the surgeon who’d dealt with it. Had a quick chat with him just now. Seems a common problem in men following pelvic injury is penile dysfunction.’

‘You mean it left him impotent?’ Ellen asked.

‘Apparently so.’

That changed things. Maybe. It wouldn’t be easy to forgive someone for doing that to you. It was possible that Adam Telford had spent the years since the injury plotting his revenge. But even if he had, it still went no way to explaining who had attacked Chloe in her house last week.

‘She’s lying.’

Ricky Lezard plucked an invisible hair from the lapel of his blue jacket and smiled, making Raj want to slam a fist into his face.

‘Detective Patel.’ Lezard’s lawyer sat forward, hands folded neatly under his chin. ‘My client has already told you what happened. You have no evidence whatsoever to back up Ms Dunbar’s allegations. Allegations which are – quite frankly – potentially libellous. If you’ve got no further questions for my client, perhaps we could go? Mr Lezard is a busy man. He has been most accommodating already. If you’re not going to charge him, then you really must let him go.’

Raj glanced at Abby, who shrugged. They had no choice. The solicitor was right. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that Ricky Lezard had done anything wrong. Nothing except the fear and panic Raj saw in Chloe’s face when she’d come in earlier.

She’d barely been able to speak and when she was finally able to tell Raj what had happened, she was shaking so badly and crying so much it was difficult to understand her. She said Lezard grabbed her as she was going into work. Forced her inside and locked the door. When they were alone, he threatened her. Told her if she ever, ever accused him of being some lowlife stalker, he would kill her.

‘How did you find her?’ Raj asked.

‘The journalist,’ Lezard said. ‘Martine. I took her out for a drink, asked how I could find Chloe. She told me where she worked so I came over. As I’ve already told you, I read the piece in the
Star
and I was worried. I wanted to make sure Chloe was okay. We lived together for three years and she still means a lot to me.’

‘You’ve just accused her of lying,’ Abby said. ‘Why would you care about someone who says those things about you?’

Lezard sighed. ‘Poor Chloe. She has all sorts of problems. She’s delusional, you know. Likes to make things up. When I read the paper, I realised she’d got even worse than when we were together. It’s the reason we broke up, you know. I couldn’t take the lies anymore. Doesn’t mean I don’t care for her, though. What sort of animal do you think I am? The poor girl needs help, anyone can see that.’

The lawyer made a show of tidying his papers and preparing to leave. He looked at Raj over the rim of his half-moon glasses.

‘Will that be all?’

Raj nodded, sick of it suddenly. He believed Chloe and knew this designer-clad wanker was lying. The fact there was sod-all he could do about that depressed him beyond belief.

The Evening Star
offices were on the top floor of a red-brick industrial building behind Catford Bridge station. Ellen came straight over after speaking with Raj. She flashed her warrant card at the receptionist, demanded to see Martine Reynolds. Now. The receptionist lifted the phone in front of her and whispered something Ellen couldn’t hear. When she finished speaking, she asked Ellen to take a seat, said Ms Reynolds would be right out.

Ms Reynolds left Ellen waiting for twenty minutes, her mood darkening as each minute passed. When the journalist finally
appeared, all fake smile and cold eyes, Ellen got straight to the point.

‘You told Ricky Lezard how he could find Chloe Dunbar,’ Ellen said.

The smile slipped.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You told him,’ Ellen said.

Martine frowned. She looked confused. A good act, but Ellen wasn’t buying it.

‘There’s no point denying it,’ Ellen said. ‘He’s already dropped you in it.’

‘If you already know,’ Martine said, ‘what are you doing here? Surely you’ve got better things to do with your time than harass innocent members of the public, Detective Kelly?’

‘Detective Inspector,’ Ellen said. ‘And there’s nothing innocent here. I want to know why you did it. You know what a scumbag he is. You know how scared of him she is. And yet you led him straight to her. Why?’

There was a tremor at one corner of Martine’s mouth.

‘It’s none of your business,’ she said.

‘I can make it my business,’ Ellen said. She took a step forward and the journalist jumped back, like she’d been hit.

‘He got to you,’ Ellen said. ‘Didn’t he? Like he gets to everyone. What did he do, Martine? If you tell me, I can do something about it. Arrest him and make sure he doesn’t hurt any more women. Tell me what he did to scare you so much that you were
willing to give Chloe up like that.’

The journalist looked like she might cry.

‘Go away,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

She turned, ready to go, but Ellen wasn’t finished.

‘He hurt her too,’ Ellen said. ‘Attacked her on her way into work this morning. She’s too scared to make a complaint about him. If no one complains, he’ll be free to do the same again. What’s to say he won’t come back and hurt you like he’s already hurt her?’

‘He won’t.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Ellen asked.

Reynolds shook her head but didn’t say anything. She looked angry, little patches of red on both cheeks, her mouth drawn into a tight, straight line. For a moment, Ellen thought the anger was directed at her. Then she realised.

‘Oh you stupid woman,’ she said.

‘Don’t you dare say that.’

‘What did he do?’ Ellen asked. ‘How far did he have to go to make you think he was interested in you? I bet you haven’t heard a word from him since you told him what you wanted, have you?’

Martine drew herself up, looked Ellen in the eye and told her to leave. Ellen stood her ground, stared at Martine until the other woman was forced to look away.

Ellen smiled.

‘I doubt you’ll be hearing from him again,’ she said. ‘I can’t
promise the same thing. From now on, I’m watching you, Reynolds. You’d do well not to forget it.’

She waited, half hoping Reynolds would rise to the threat, but she was too clever for that. After a moment, Ellen left.

At the door she turned and looked back. The journalist was still standing in the same spot. The red patches had gone from her face. She looked old and tired and desperately unhappy.