WILL TIME WAIT: Boxed set of 3 bestselling 'ticking clock' thrillers (27 page)

I
handed the phone back to Laura and gripped her shoulders.  “It’s
done.  Now, listen.”  My voice fell low and serious.  “I want
you to promise me something.”

She
wiped her eyes and looked at me.

“You’re
not paying any more money.”

She
shook her head.  “I can’t promise that.”

“If
it is Mark, we’ve reached checkmate.  He’ll not want this photo plastered
around town.  Either agree not to pay, or I’ll tell Paul what you did,
myself.”

“You
wouldn’t dare!”

I
perched a hand on my hip.  “Try me.  I love you, Laura, and I don’t
like seeing you hurt.  But I can’t let you hand over any more of your
parent’s inheritance.”

A
tear slipped down her cheek and she trembled. 

I put
steel in my voice.  “No more money.  Understand?”

“You’d
really tell Paul?”

Attempting
a poker face, I glared at her while nodding. 

Eventually,
she copied. 

I
hugged her so tightly.  We were now knitted to each other more than ever
before.  She pointed to the white cash bag at the far side of her
feet.  The handle looped out from under the bed. 

“I’ll
hide this.”  I dragged the bag across the cream carpet. “Then you can’t
change your mind.” 

Laura
stayed upstairs to fix her make-up.

I
weaved in and out of several bedrooms, so she wouldn’t know where I’d hidden
the cash.  In the end, I dashed down to the kitchen and stuffed it in a
cupboard behind Emma’s nest of bags.  I figured it best to keep it close
by, and intended to stash the cash under my duvet at bedtime.

Surrounded
by my cheerful friends, I sat on a kitchen stool.  I downed a much-needed
glass of bubbly. 
Blackmailing a blackmailer?
  Crikey! 
Had I done the right thing, or inflamed the situation?

“Top
up, Chelsea?” Emma said, bottle in hand.

“Sure,
thanks.”  While Emma refilled my glass, I pulled my purse out of my bag
and admired the photo of Laura and me taken on her hen night, trying to remind
myself why I was doing all this.  There was a scratch on the side of the
photo.  Fortunately, it was to the left of Laura’s head, so didn’t spoil
the picture.

While
sipping Champagne, I scanned the smiling faces of our friends, ignoring my
guilt for suspecting them.  There was no room for emotion.  If we
were wrong about Mark, then it had to be one of these girls, and time was
ticking.

Nearly
half an hour went by.  Laura dashed into the kitchen wearing fresher eye
make-up.  She looked more composed, at least artificially. 

Laura
tapped my thigh discreetly, showed me a text message she’d received on her
‘hot’ phone.  It read: ‘Nice try.  Slut.’

Mark
didn’t leave the lounge to confront me, but receiving this text message after
threatening him, more than suggested he was indeed the blackmailer. 

I
replied:

‘Tick,
tock, shithead.  Make your choice.’ 

I
passed Laura the mobile.

After
finishing her drink, Emma waved an empty bottle in the air.  “We’re out of
champagne.  Got any more booze, Laura?  Or does someone need to go to
the shop?  Any volunteers?”

“Paul
might have some in the garage,” Laura muttered.  “I forgot to stock up.”

“I’ll
go.”  I pushed up off the stool.  The wired energy branching in the
room had blurred my concentration.  A minute or two of timeout was in
order.  “No need to bother Paul.  Keys for the garage by the front
door, right?” 

Laura
was unresponsive. 

I
made my way along the hall and found the key.

Outside,
strolling towards the garage with nothing but my own thoughts, I hesitated,
just a beat.  It seemed like approaching the summit of breakneck
decisions.  I felt torn, in turmoil. 

The
deadline was less than a day away.  We didn’t have any solid evidence
proving Mark responsible.  I’d crossed the lines of the law by attempting
to blackmail him.  Laura was losing her footing. 

Knowing
things were way out of control, twisted my gut.  However, worse than this,
was the fear of something terrible happening to Laura.  The prospect
intensified the more I thought. 
What if Lee has been right all along
about Daryl being murdered, and he wasn’t just a grieving brother desperate to
assign blame like Laura believed?
  Out of the three of us, Lee
appeared to be the most sane. 
What if Lee was right again, and that
car really had intended to run me down?
 

I
felt panic setting in.  It felt like a strap tightening around my
forehead.  I realised I was afraid of what might happen tomorrow, scared
of Laura slipping beyond the hope of recovery if Paul left her, and worried
about being the one to blow her secret.  However, right now, standing here
shaking, I was more petrified of losing the people I love if we were indeed
being led along a path towards an awaiting murderer. 

I
couldn’t control the car crash last year, but I sure as hell could
try
to prevent this nightmare reaching its peak.

Was
sacrificing my friendship and risking Laura’s sanity on a ‘what if’, a price I
could pay in order to keep her safe?

Laura
might not speak to me again, but at least she’d be safe.  I would phone
the police as soon as I’d found some Champagne.  And hopefully, convince
them to keep Paul in the dark about the affair.  Right or wrong, decision
made - though it felt like my heart had been sliced down the middle.

Laura’s
driveway was jammed with vehicles.  It would have resembled a small car
sales forecourt if only balloons had been tied to the wing mirrors.

I
pulled the white, grooved door of the garage up and over my head and stepped
inside.  I walked around the bench press to the shadowy back wall. 
The same dull shade of grey cloaked everything in sight.  I squinted to
let my eyes adjust and saw boxes, tins of paint, and a stack of tattered
magazines.  Everything except Champagne or a fridge. 

I
rummaged through cupboards.  On opening the last one, I jumped back,
unable to believe my eyes.  “Jesus! What the hell?”

Stuffed
inside sat a crumpled rucksack.  Purple.  Identical to Laura’s bag
which we’d used to deliver the blackmail money on the bridge. 
Why on
earth is it here in her garage?
 

I
edged back, rattled and confused.  Then I heard footsteps approaching from
outside, and a faint scrape like a shoe along concrete.

“What
are you looking for?” 

The
rankled voice startled me.  I kicked the cupboard door shut with my heel
and swung round in the shadows.

Paul’s
silhouette loomed under the garage door. 

“Oh!”
I held a hand over my thumping chest.  “You scared the life out of
me.” 

He
clicked a wall switch and the garage flooded with light.  His gaze shot
over briefly to the stack of magazines.  “What are you doing in
here?” 

“Sorry,”
I mumbled, remembering this was his boy zone.  “I’m looking for Champagne,
wine, or anything really.  Do you have any?”

Paul
sighed, then gave a little laugh.  “Did Laura forget to buy booze?”

I
rolled my eyes and nodded.

He
smiled.  “I’m not surprised, what with organising the wedding ‘n’ all.”

“Yes. 
It’s not easy.”

“Sorry
for startling you.  I came in for a can of beer for Mark.  He’s
looking stressed.”

My
cheeks warmed.  “He is?” 

“Just
between you, me, and the bench press, I think he might be nervous about his
speech tomorrow.  He’s more a corporate stiff than a comic.  Go
inside and enjoy yourself, Chelsea.  Tell everyone more booze is on its
way.”

Paul
stepped inside and blocked my view of the magazines. 

I
caught a brief glimpse of a topless lady on the front cover.

“Go
on,” he said.  “Join your friends.  You look like you need some fun.”

“Okay,”
I replied in an uncertain voice.

My
shoes felt glued to the ground, my feet numb and heavy.  Somehow I managed
to shuffle sideways.

I
prayed that Paul wouldn’t come across the purple bag. 

God
knew what lay inside.

My
heart raced at the thought.

L
aura’s kitchen
sounded like a battleground of female voices fighting to be heard above the
dance music.  Food cartons, drinking glasses and mobile phones lay
scattered across the central worktop island.

“Laura,”
I whispered.  She needed to know I’d found her rucksack.  “I have to
tell you something.”

She
felt across the bench, reached for a drink but continued staring blankly across
the room.

The
house phone rang and Laura snapped out of her trance.  She skulked across
the room and picked the phone up. 

I
waited with baited breath, half-expecting Mark to be on the line listing new
demands.

Thirty
agonizing seconds later, Laura said down the phone, “Stop fretting, Aunt
Carol.”

I
sighed and flopped my head back.

“Yes,
I have something
old
.”  Signs of irritation came through in Laura’s
hissing voice.  “Give it to me tomorrow.  No.  Please don’t come
round.” 

She
banged the phone down on the receiver.  Poor Laura.  The last thing
she needed was her slurring aunt to show up.

Laura
trudged across the room towards me.  I noticed a bulge in her hip
pocket.  Looking at it mentally stung my eyes.  There was really only
one thing it could be.  That damn phone.  The very object that could
make or break her relationship, her wedding, her dreams, her life…

Annoyed
that we were both jumpy, and growing impatient, I whipped the phone from her
pocket.  I sent a text to Mark’s anonymous mobile to nudge things along:
‘Seen
the rucksack.  Give us the photos then get the hell out of this
house!  Chelsea.’

I
would send another, another, then another text until I got what I wanted. 
The blackmail photos and Laura’s cash.

A
minute later, the mobile bleeped.  A reply: ‘You’ll get what you deserve,
Chelsea, sweetheart.  Be patient.’

I
bit my lip, confused. 
Me?  What I deserve?  This is about
Laura. 

During
a lull in conversation and music, I heard the front door open then close. 
The sucking sound of the door seal reminded me of an airplane hatch plugging
shut and, for some bizarre reason, I now felt enclosed, trapped.  I looked
into the hall.

Paul
was back inside the house. 

At
last.
 

I pushed
the phone into Laura’s pocket and sat rigidly, preparing to sneak back out to
the garage.

Laura
leaned close to my ear as though to whisper.  Before she spoke, the house
phone rang again.  Laura let the answering machine kick in. 
“Probably checking I’ve got something
new,
or
blue,
this time,”
she mumbled.  “At least she’s stopped pestering me for jewellery.”

Paul
emerged through the kitchen doorway.  He held the throats of two bottles
of bubbly and had a beer can tucked under his arm.  Many thirsty girls
faced him.

“My
kind of man,” Jayne said in a flirty voice.  “Eye candy
and
armed
with booze.  Have a drink with us, Paul.”

“I
can’t,” he said.  “I’ve got to drive.”

While
I waited, willing Paul to leave the kitchen, I became aware of something else
bugging me.  It was a similar feeling to realising I’d left the gas cooker
on at home.  I frowned, trying to place the sensation.

“Cheers,
Paul.”  Emma took the bottles.  “I really need a drink.”

Ditto
, I thought.

Paul
stepped next to Laura and swept a lock of her hair behind her ear.  “Did I
hear the phone ring?”

“Yes,”
she replied.  “My aunt keeps phoning in a panic.” 

“In
a panic?”

“Yeah. 
Over silly tradition stuff.  And she keeps apologizing for
something.  She’s driving me mad.”

“I
bet she’s been hitting the bottle again.  Take no notice.  Next time
she phones, I’ll deal with her.”  Paul grabbed the house phone off the
cradle and stuffed it into his pocket.  “We’re leaving for the hotel in
about half an hour.”  He winked at Laura, placed a tender kiss on her
lips, then briefly glanced at me before returning to the lounge. 

Emma
popped the cork then poured Champagne into my glass. 

“Thanks.” 
I chugged down a few mouthfuls in one, felt the cold liquid fizz in my stomach. 
A minute or two later, I was trying to collar Laura and attempt once more to
tell her about the bag before I went to retrieve it, when Mark stomped into the
kitchen.

I
turned and saw his expression clearly.  His face glowed, had a brilliant
red sheen to it.  My heart began to thunder.  Paul was spot on when
he’d said Mark looked stressed.  Christ!  His puffy blood-filled face
seemed ready to explode.  Mark crushed the can in his palm, threw it onto
the worktop, and stomped over to me.

Here
we go
!

I
wanted to punch his lights out for what he’d put us through.  Trying to
act unruffled by his presence, I stretched across the worktop for some
snacks. 

Mark
leaned over my shoulder and whispered against my cheek.  He smelled of
beer.  “What on earth did I ever do to deserve this?”

His
use of the past tense baffled me for a second.  The problem was still
ongoing, wasn’t it?.  And for a ruthless blackmailer and a possible
killer, he sounded quite hurt by my countermove.

“Is
this some kind of sick joke?” he snorted.

I
only just stopped myself from yelling, ‘Cut the bullshit.  I know it’s
you.’

While
grabbing a handful of peanuts, I felt fingers slide over my bottom. 
“Hey!” I yelled.  “What are you doing?” 

Did
I need to add ‘pervert’ to the list of his recent faults?

The
peanuts fell out of my hand.  I slammed myself back onto the stool,
touched my back jean pocket and noticed that my mobile had vanished.  I
turned and glared up at Mark.  Standing at my side, he held three mobile
phones in his large hands and was smirking like a cheeky kid. 

Shit,
shit, shit!  Why didn’t I realise he’d do this?  He’d be hacking our
computers next.

Laura
muttered something intelligible, gaped at the phones in Mark’s hands.

Unable
to speak for fear of the wrong words slipping out in front of the girls, I
stayed quiet.  If they learned the truth, they’d kick up a fuss and Paul
would hear the commotion.

I
grabbed for my phone, but Mark shoved me away and hugged them in his
arms.  I slipped off the stool and before righting myself, he snatched the
other phones from the worktop. 

The
girls, now looking through a stack of CD’s in the corner, didn’t notice their
mobiles had gone.

Mark
left the room without saying another word, but not before shooting me a vicious
look over his shoulder.  He was clearly angry, livid in fact, although his
glassy eyes suggested a level of upset.  I guess he now knew he wasn’t the
only one capable of calling the shots. 

How
can I shop him to the police without a phone? 

 A
fast-beat dance track boomed from the kitchen speakers, and panic bubbled
inside me.  “Sod it!”  I got to my feet.  I raced after Mark,
jumped onto his back in the hall and wrapped my arms around his neck. 
“Give them back,” I yelled.  “I want the phones.”

Laura
ran in front of Mark and tried to work the phones out of his grip.  A
tug-of-war ensued. 

“Grab
them, Laura!” I shouted.

Mark
wriggled his shoulders, jerked himself around to shake me off. 

“You’re
insane, both of you,” Mark roared, twisting and turning.

Then,
Mark lost balance and fell to the floor, taking us both down with him.

A
door creaked nearby.

“What
the blazes is going on here?” Paul hollered, towering over us.

Mark
snatched the phones again.  He stood and shouldered past Paul into the
lounge.  “I’ll leave you two to explain,” he snarled, then pushed the
lounge door shut behind him.

Clever
, I
thought. 

Paul
moved his questioning stare back and forth between Laura and me. 
“Well?”  He reached his hand out and pulled Laura to her feet.

She
smoothed her clothing and it took her a good thirty seconds to reply. 
“It’s nothing.”

Paul
rolled his eyes.  “You’ve been saying that all day about those weird text
messages.  Something’s going on around here and I want to know what it
is.”  Paul crossed his arms over his chest. 

I
thought fast.  “We were playing around.  Winding Mark up for a bit of
fun.  You know how it is.”  I forced myself to laugh.

“Why
has Mark got your phones?” he asked.

I
looked at Laura for help.  There was something tragic about her crumpled
face, as though she thought this was the long-dreaded moment of truth. 
Her mouth began pulsing open and closed like a goldfish.  She made
spluttering sounds, but nothing intelligible.

“Like
that, is it?” Paul said, then faced me, set his hand on my shoulder and
squeezed.  “Chelsea, will you
please
tell me what’s going on? 
You know I’ve been worried about Laura, lately.”

I
flinched at the sting from my graze as he squeezed my shoulder.  I pushed
his hand away.

“Well?”

Panic
pinched at my heart.  After all we’d done to hide the truth from Paul, I
wasn’t willing to let this one incident blow it for Laura.  Not like
this.  And not now I’d found the rucksack and was so close to proving
Mark’s guilt.  “Silly photos,” I blurted out of nowhere.  “For the
wedding.  Yes.  Mark wants embarrassing photos to show during his
speech.”  I lifted my eyebrows and nodded at Laura, prompting her to back
me up.

Mouth
no longer bouncing open, Laura began to copy my nod and broke from her
shock-daze.  “And we don’t want him to have them.”

Disbelief
entered Paul’s eyes which narrowed to a squint.  He turned, curled his
palm over the chrome door handle to the lounge.  “I think I should take a
look at these photos.”

“No.” 
Laura slid her arms around Paul’s waist, pressed her cheek against his back and
hugged him tight.

He
shuffled around, dragging her with him.  “Why not?”

“Because,”
I jumped in.  “If you see them, it’ll spoil Mark’s speech tomorrow. 
Won’t it, Laura?”

“Yes. 
Everything’s fine, Paul.”  Laura stopped hugging him and slotted her
fingers between his.  “It’s just a bit of fun.  We
over-reacted.  Please don’t mention it to Mark.”

“Are
you sure?  It looked like you were both attacking him.”

“Yes,”
we said together.  “We’re sure.”

“Okay,”
Paul said.  “If it will spoil the wedding speech, I’ll not mention it.”

“Thanks,”
Laura said.  She kissed him and he disappeared into the lounge.

I
wiped my brow theatrically at Laura.  “Close one.”

Megan
shouted for us.  We hugged before returning to the music-filled kitchen. 

“Where’s
my mobile?”  Megan asked, sifting through items on the worktop.  She
looked up.  “Have you seen it, Chelsea?”

Emma
joined in the search.  “Hey! Where’s mine?” 

“Scumbag
Mark’s got them,” I thought angrily to myself, perching my bottom on a stool.

Megan’s
eyes increased in size.  “Mark?”

“Shit!” 
My hand went to my mouth.  I’d said that aloud?

“Why’s
he got my phone?”  Megan stormed towards the door.  “I want it
back.  Now.” 

Laura
slammed the kitchen door shut in front of Megan.  A blast of air brushed
across my face. 

Laura
pressed her back against the door.  “No!” she bellowed, extending a hand
to keep Megan at arm’s length.  Laura had wild eyes and flared
nostrils.  “This is my party.  No phone calls, no texting, no
Facebook.  You can have them back later.” 

“I
want it now,” Megan insisted.

Anger
sharp in her eyes, Laura pointed at the worktop.  “I don’t need this right
now.  Go and pour a drink or something and get this party swinging.”

“After
I get—”

“Now! 
Now!”  Laura’s booming tone impacted the room like firing both barrels of
a shotgun.

Even
I flinched.

Megan
edged backwards.

The
other girls’ mouths hung loose.

I
beckoned and Laura plodded over to me.

She
heaved a groan.  “What in the world are we going to do now?  How can
I text Mark?  How can he text me?  We’ll have to use bloody yoghurt
pots and string at this rate.”

“Forget
the phones,” I whispered.  “I need to tell you something.”