I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 10

  minutes and then, to my surprise, he made a beeline for me.

  ‘So what do you do now if there’s a streaker or a fire?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Do you still run the posed pictures if something

  exciting happens?’ He was clearly teasing.

  ‘I’m sorry. The photographers never have much time.

  I’m sure you’re used to that – and between us, Hugh’s not

  exactly into culture. But I always have the camera on my

  phone.’ I paused, lifting my phone by way of illustration.

  ‘In case something exciting happens.’

  ‘Well, we shall try not to disappoint you … Jennifer.’

  He lowered both the tone and volume of his voice as he

  said my name. And he held my gaze longer than was

  appropriate. I scurried away to my seat. Embarrassed.

  Confused. Interested.

  The concert was extraordinary. Alex was both a bril-

  liant pianist and a warm host, introducing the cellist and

  violinists as friends from music college who were doing

  him a favour to raise money for cancer research. Apparently

  the cellist’s younger brother was currently undergoing

  chemotherapy for a rare bone cancer, and I felt this pang

  as Alex explained about new research and the importance

  of doing everything possible to help a friend.

  Later there were performances by Alex’s pupils, and I

  realised from his banter on the microphone that he taught

  piano, both at a local school and privately. Some of the

  pianists were rather good; others were just starting out.

  It was a charming evening, and as it drew to a close I

  felt the flutter of excitement in my stomach rise, confident

  that Alex would find me again.

  * * *

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  ‘So are you going to tell me more before we meet Melanie?

  Do you not think you owe me that, Alice? Or Jennifer?

  Or whoever you really are?’ Matthew’s voice alongside

  me draws me back to the present. His tone is disappointed

  rather than angry. ‘I mean, I do know you’ve been through

  a lot this morning. But this is going to get very serious

  now. And I have no idea what to think, quite frankly. I

  don’t know how I’m supposed to help you … or even if

  I should at this point.’

  I open my eyes and turn to Matthew. ‘My real name is

  Jennifer Wallace. I was once engaged to a musician called

  Alex Sunningham. I thought he loved me and that our

  relationship was real. But it turns out he was using me

  as a cover for something else. There was a media frenzy

  about it. That’s why I changed my name.’

  ‘Oh Jeez.’ Matthew does not take his eyes off the road.

  ‘So what are we talking about exactly?’

  ‘Look. I really don’t want to go over it all right now,

  except to say I did nothing wrong myself. But it was still

  humiliating and dreadful and I will never shake off the

  guilt for failing to see through him, Matthew. But he’s

  in jail now. It wasn’t my evidence that put him there. I

  don’t believe he bears me any ill will; in fact, I doubt he

  gives me a second thought. And he can’t possibly have

  anything to do with what’s going on now because, as I

  say, he’s inside.’

  I hear the echo of my argument with my sister in her

  kitchen.

  I know he’s still in jail, Alice, but you still have to tell the police. Won’t they be furious if you keep this from them? They’re bound to find out.

  I think of how long it took poor Leanne to get used

  to calling me by my second name. Alice. I think of my

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  mother, bless her, and those few close friends who also

  helped my reinvention.

  ‘Right,’ Matthew says. ‘Well, one way or another,

  we need to talk again, Alice. Do I still call you Alice?’

  I don’t know how to answer because I don’t even know

  what I think myself now. We are turning the final corner

  to the police station and Matthew has already warned

  me that he cannot risk being seen taking me right up to

  the entrance. It could prove tricky for Melanie Sanders.

  But he has promised her that he’ll deliver me safely for

  questioning and so will wait for me to go in.

  ‘You don’t trust me to go in, do you, Matthew?’ I

  watch him closely but he doesn’t reply.

  He pulls the car up within line of sight of the entrance

  and lets out another long sigh, raking his fingers through

  his hair – which I realise, watching him, is what he always

  does when he is struggling to compose himself. ‘Like I

  said, I don’t even know what to call you, let alone what

  to think or do right now. Don’t think I don’t feel for

  what you’ve been through today. But this is a pickle. Mel

  Sanders is a former colleague and a good friend, which

  means I’m seriously compromised here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Matthew.’

  ‘Yes. So am I.’

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  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Matthew

  Once Alice – or rather Jennifer – is inside the police sta-

  tion and liaising with the front desk, Matthew moves his

  car around the corner and parks up again.

  He is genuinely stunned. He bashes the steering with

  the heel of his hand in frustration and anger and relief and

  confusion. Only now does he even begin to let out all

  the pent-up emotion from what happened earlier. When

  the motorcyclist swung past, he felt as if acid were being

  flung into his own face. The absolute horror of those first

  few seconds. As he was pouring water over Alice’s face,

  all he could think was that she would be scarred for life,

  possibly blind too, and he had let … this … happen. He

  should have persuaded her to ride in his car; he should

  not have let her overrule him.

  Idiot, Matthew. You complete and utter idiot.

  The relief at finally discovering it was not acid was both wonderful and yet equally overwhelming and confusing. The

  seesaw of conflicting feelings was incredibly hard to control but all he could think of was the need to stay outwardly

  calm for Alice’s sake. And then – just as he was managing

  the whole rollercoaster of emotions? This new twist.

  It had honestly never occurred to him that Alice wasn’t

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  meeting in his office, that he’d assumed her reticence

  to involve him was the result of being overwhelmed.

  Afraid. Confused. Now he feels that this fake-identity

  twist may have been a part of it. Was she worried that

  hiring a private investigator would increase the chances

  of all this being found out sooner?

  Hell. What kind of a private investigator did it make

  him that he hadn’t sussed this? And then he reminds himself

  that the police have only just caught up with the identity

  switch, so Alice must have been very clever about it; she

  must also have had the support of her closest family and

  friends to pull this off.

  He ca
lls up her profile on Facebook, which he checked

  thoroughly when he first took the case. All the pictures

  show Alice with her neat hair and her same, rather sweet

  look. Smiley. Delicate features. Hardly any make-up.

  Attractive but all very girl-next-door. No pouting or

  fake eyebrows or shots obviously enhanced by apps. The

  profile goes back several years and there is nothing ob-

  viously amiss, although he notices now that there are

  not as many friends as you might expect. But even that

  is not so very suspicious, as lots of people ditch their uni-

  versity profile and set up a new one – to step away from

  photographs, antics and friends they do not want to take

  forward in their life.

  Next Matthew googles the coverage of the Alex

  Sunningham case. Several tabloid news stories appear

  instantly.

  He’d wondered if Alex was secretly gay or commit-

  ting fraud behind Alice’s back, but it’s far worse. He was

  jailed for sex with two underage music pupils. Matthew

  scans the copy, skipping from one online page to another

  for more details. It is now vaguely ringing bells but he

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  doesn’t remember it making the TV news. Did he see

  it in the papers or online at the time? He can’t be sure.

  The earliest stories say that Alex, engaged to journalist

  Jennifer Wallace at the time, had suddenly disappeared

  with a fifteen-year-old pupil. Alex and Jennifer had lived

  in the Highlands and the teenager took piano lessons at

  their home. The two runaways were initially believed to

  still be in Scotland somewhere, and there was a local police

  appeal. They were eventually discovered on the Isle of

  Skye when the girl fell ill and a local GP recognised her

  from the coverage. At first the pupil, who wasn’t named,

  was loyal and devastated that their ‘romance’ had been

  discovered. Her initial story to police was that she loved

  Alex very deeply and they were going to marry at Gretna

  Green as soon she was sixteen.

  But a sordid web quickly unravelled. A second pupil

  came forward to say that she’d had a relationship with

  Alex the previous year but he had dumped her, and so

  she’d made an excuse to her parents to give up her piano

  lessons. She was too afraid and embarrassed to tell anyone

  the truth.

  Both girls were appalled to find out about the other

  and finally cooperated with the police, giving evidence

  which put Alex in jail.

  Matthew calls up as many photos as he can find. The

  creep Alex is a looker. ‘Smarmy bastard,’ Matthew whis-

  pers out loud. He finds himself thinking of his beautiful

  little Amelie; he imagines her all grown-up and beautiful

  and feels this punch of fear.

  Most of the papers carried photographs of Alex only,

  but one has an exclusive interview with the girl he dis-

  appeared with – she waiving her right to anonymity to

  warn others how easy it is to be duped. She is heavily

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  Teresa Driscoll

  made up in the photoshoot for the feature, and Matthew

  tuts. The picture makes him very uneasy.

  Only two stories ran small pictures of the fiancée

  Jenny Wallace. The copy makes it clear she knew noth-

  ing of what was going on. She gave no comment on the

  record and her court evidence seemed to be insignificant

  compared to the two girls’.

  In the photograph Alice looks very different. On closer

  examination she is recognisable, but as Jennifer she has

  long, dark hair. Now she has a chin-length, blonde bob

  with a fringe and is much slighter.

  Just as Matthew is twisting his lips to the side, won-

  dering what the hell to make of all this, his phone rings

  and Tom’s name flashes up. He winces.

  ‘Hello, Tom.’

  ‘So what’s happening? Where is she? And what the

  hell happened, Matthew? I mean, I’m paying you to keep

  her safe.’

  Matthew takes in a long, slow breath. ‘I can under-

  stand why you’re so upset. Trust me, I blame myself too.

  It’s shaken me. But Alice insisted. She didn’t want to

  travel with me…’

  ‘So have they tracked the bike? I’m on the way to the

  police station now but Alice won’t answer her phone.

  She’s not even answering texts. So have they caught the

  guy yet? Is it over? Have they found him?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t think so.’ Matthew pauses.

  ‘Tom. There are new complications which Alice will

  need to speak to you about.’

  ‘Complications? What do you mean, complications?’

  ‘Look, I don’t have all the information myself yet,

  Tom. So you’ll need to speak to her. I’m sorry but I’m

  in traffic right now. We need to decide about the rest of

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  the day. If you want me to continue the cover, I mean,

  once Alice has finished with the police.’

  There is another pause. Matthew fully expects to be

  fired.

  ‘I’ll take over supporting Alice for the rest of today.

  I think that’s best.’ Tom’s voice is curt now.

  ‘Fine. I understand. She’s had a tough time. I’ll catch

  up with you both when she’s finished with the police.

  Hopefully we can find out whether there’s any decent

  CCTV or other evidence.’

  ‘Right. Good. OK then.’

  There is nothing more to be said and so Matthew

  ends the call and immediately dials home, badly needing

  to anchor himself.

  ‘Hi there. How’s life as Kevin Costner?’ Sal’s voice

  is upbeat as she answers, and he can hear opera playing

  in the background. Her favourite. He pictures her in her

  sloppy red sweatshirt and jeans in their kitchen with a view

  of the sea, and would give anything this moment to be

  right there with her. For none of today to have happened.

  ‘Gone a bit off piste, to be honest, but never mind

  about me – how are my two girls?’

  ‘What does off piste mean? You OK?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. So, what are you up to?’

  ‘Oh. I’m doing housework, so feeling pretty fed up,

  actually. Your princess is currently taking a nap, which

  gives me a break from demands for Pippy Pocket biscuits.

  I have no idea what’s got into her this week. Pippy Pocket

  this. Pippy Pocket that. I tell you, if Pippy poo-faced

  Pocket showed up right now, I’d sock her in the face.’

  Matthew feels a smile for the first time today, re-

  membering their daughter on the supermarket floor. The

  screaming and the little back flips.

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  ‘You do know we have the Barbie phase to come, Sal.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘OK, so give her a hug from Daddy when she wakes

  up and I’ll see you both soon.’

  ‘You knocking off early? What’s happened? I thought

  you were covering right through until this evening?’

  ‘H
er boyfriend’s finished work early so he’s taking

  over bodyguard duties.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So I’ll see you fairly soon. Love you.’

  ‘You too.’

  Matthew throws the phone on to the passenger seat

  and stares at it for a moment as if longing to hold on to

  the connection just a little bit longer. He will tell Sally

  everything later but doesn’t want her worrying meantime.

  Finally, he refastens his seat belt. With the click of the metal there is a flash from earlier. The roar of the motorbike.

  Alice screaming. He squeezes both hands into tight fists

  then fires the ignition, mentally planning a route home

  via the supermarket.

  For Pippy Pocket biscuits.

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  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Him – before

  They are nearly home. There are no lights on as they walk up

  the path and he is glad that in the dark his shame is hidden.

  ‘Stop worrying about it,’ his gran says, squeezing his

  hand as if she can read his thoughts. ‘It’s just an accident.

  Not your fault. We’ll soon get you sorted out.’

  Back at the care home after Stan found them, he had

  tried ever so hard to hold it in. To save it for the bushes

  out in the garden – but he just couldn’t. Stan watched

  them leave, and that somehow made it all worse. As they

  walked out the back door, he could feel the warmth trick-

  ling down the inside of his trousers. He looked down,

  praying there would not be too much, but there was soon

  a large wet patch and it seemed to come even faster.

  ‘You can go in the bushes over there,’ his gran had

  whispered, nodding her head towards the shadows. But

  then she twisted her face into a puzzled expression and

  turned to him. He could smell it too, and wanted to cry.

  ‘Oh, right.’ She was looking directly at the damp

  patch on his trousers. ‘Never mind. It was my fault. Not

  yours. I’m so sorry, poppet.’

  Now, as they creep up the stairs to their flat, the auto-

  matic lights come on and he hates that the wet patch can

  be seen again. He longs to be inside so he can hurry to

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  the bathroom and strip off his trousers – but to his horror,

  as they walk along the corridor on the third floor, there

  is a noise from just inside the flat next door to theirs. His gran puts her finger up to her lips as she searches in her

  bag for her key, but suddenly the neighbour’s door opens