I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 3

  frightened of the dark as well. But he’s not allowed. It’s

  a secret.

  Wednesdays are their secret. Him and gran…

  ‘You OK in there, lovely?’

  He realises that he wants to kick something very,

  very hard and is a wicked boy. Mostly he loves his gran.

  Mostly he wants to throw his arms around her and hold

  on tight, tight, tight.

  But on Wednesdays he doesn’t understand grown-

  ups at all. He wants to kick and bite and scream at the

  whole world.

  He can feel tears coming right this minute, and he

  thinks of last Wednesday in school when Patrick caught

  him crying in the library corner. And he had to push

  Patrick right off his stool.

  He is six next birthday, and he wonders if he will feel

  braver when he is six.

  21

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Matthew

  Matthew Hill stares at his daughter lying on the ground in

  the middle of the biscuit aisle. He’s on the verge of giving

  in. The shameful whisper – don’t tell Mummy – right on the tip of his tongue . But there is suddenly a problem; Amelie’s spectacular lungs have attracted an audience.

  Several shoppers are staring at him now, apparently wait-

  ing for his next move.

  Matthew tries to calm his face for the crowd – his options

  all at once limited. No one warns you, he is thinking. Just

  six months back his daughter was a cherub in floral dresses.

  ‘I hate you!’ Amelie again stamps both feet in turn

  on the ground, her little fists clenched into tight, angry

  knots. Knuckles white. She flips her back up and down

  off the floor like some furious seal.

  Matthew looks once more at the spectators; bribery

  sadly off the table. Too many witnesses.

  ‘Daddy’s going to leave now, Amelie. Are you going

  to stay and live in this supermarket or do you want to

  come home with me?’

  ‘I want Pippy Pocket biscuits.’

  Matthew glances at the display on the shelf as two

  middle-aged women widen their eyes, apparently eager

  to see if he will fold.

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  I Will Make You Pay

  ‘And if you had been a good girl, you might have

  been allowed Pippy Pocket biscuits. But this is the fifth

  time you’ve lain on the floor, Amelie. So no Pippy Pocket

  anything today. We’re going to pay and leave.’

  The screaming, once it starts up again, is spectacular

  both in volume and pitch. Matthew instinctively raises

  both his arms and swings to face the little crowd. ‘Look.

  Not guilty. Not touching her.’

  ‘Terrible twos?’ The voice from just behind him sounds

  older. Its owner then steps forward to stand right alongside

  him, and he turns to take in the white hair. Thick coat

  despite the mild day.

  Matthew tries to find a small smile – any expression

  which might suggest he’s coping.

  The truth? If there were no audience, he would def-

  initely go with the bribe. He would buy the sodding

  biscuits just to get the child up off the floor and out of

  the store. But he can already hear his wife Sally’s voice

  in his ear.

  You mustn’t give into the tantrums, Matt. If you keep giving in, we’re doomed.

  The word resonates. Doomed. He stares at the child on the floor and wonders what happened to the angel baby

  placed into his arms. The sweet girl with blonde curls in

  a high chair who was always smiling. As a new couple

  peer around the end of the aisle to find the source of the

  screaming, Matthew reflects that the word doomed pretty much sums up his life right now.

  ‘How about you walk off and pay and I keep an eye

  on her. She’ll throw in the towel.’ The overdressed gran

  has moved closer to whisper her proposed strategy.

  Matthew looks at the woman more carefully. She

  doesn’t look like a child-snatcher. The problem is, his

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  Teresa Driscoll

  years in the police force and now as a private detective

  make him suspicious of everyone. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’

  ‘Up to you, but she looks settled in for the night to

  me.’ The woman is watching Amelie, still kicking her

  feet on the floor. ‘I had one like that. Especially stubborn, I mean. Expect she’s bright? Yes?’

  Matthew narrows his eyes. He glances at the till and

  realises that the reflection in the window beyond will

  save the day, allowing him to monitor his daughter and

  the granny child-snatcher quite safely.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispers finally. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Right then, Amelie. Daddy is going now. I hope you

  like living in the supermarket but I should warn you it gets

  very cold at night here. And they switch off the lights.’

  He turns his back and pushes his trolley towards the

  tills, all the time watching the scene in the window

  reflection.

  Amelie stops screaming almost immediately but stays

  on the floor. After a little while she lifts her head to check his progress. The gran stands guard. One more minute

  and Amelie gets up, looking utterly bemused. Then a tad

  worried. As Matthew places item after item on the rolling

  belt, humming a little tune, Amelie starts to walk slowly

  along the aisle. He glances again at the window reflection,

  that familiar beat of surprise at how much taller he is than

  everyone else in the queue, but he does not turn round.

  Very soon he feels his daughter’s body pressed against

  his left leg and can hear her quietly sobbing, her little

  shoulders heaving up and down with the full weight of

  defeat. He pats her hair but continues with his task. ‘Want

  to help Daddy unload?’ The trick, he has learned, is not

  to make eye contact just yet; to limit her humiliation

  which could so easily morph into another tantrum. He

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  I Will Make You Pay

  passes a cereal box, which she puts on the trolley belt.

  Then a loaf of bread in its paper bag.

  They continue their double act until finally the sob-

  bing ceases and the shoulders still.

  ‘I sorry, Daddy.’

  And now his heart explodes. He pats his daughter’s

  hair again as a sign it is OK between them. He wonders

  if it will always be like this. Love. War. Love. War. He

  wants suddenly to go back and buy all the Pippy Pocket

  biscuits on the shelf to show how much he forgives her

  and loves her. But he knows he must resist and so he

  strokes Amelie’s hair some more and just keeps passing

  the lighter items of shopping.

  He turns now to lift his hand as a thank you to the

  mystery gran, who is smiling at them. He remembers his

  own mum warning him on their last family visit that he

  must not wish time away, however hard it gets. She says

  these years will go too fast and he will look back one

  day and wish he was right back here. Tantrums and all.

  The problem, he thinks, is that when you are here

  – right here with this unpredictable two-year-old who

  will not sleep, will not put her co
at on, will not get into

  the car seat and will not get up off the floor – it is all so permanently exhausting. And so you can’t help wishing

  for the next phase. For a bit. More. Calm.

  As they finish loading the belt, his mobile sounds.

  He sees from the display that it is a call automatically

  forwarded from his office in Exeter. Damn. He is starting late this morning to allow Sal to visit the hairdresser’s,

  but doesn’t like to appear part-time to his clients; he also

  hates anyone realising that he still doesn’t have a secretary or assistant.

  ‘Hello – Matthew Hill, private investigator.’

  25

  Teresa Driscoll

  The woman on the till raises her eyebrows and

  Matthew widens his eyes in return.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hill. Right. Um. My name is Tom Stellar.’

  The voice sounds thirties. Nervous, which is par for the

  course. Most clients find it hard to make the leap. Make

  the call. ‘I’m wondering if you might be able to help me.

  Well, my girlfriend actually.’ There is a long pause.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s being harassed. Some kind of stalker, we think.

  Nasty phone calls at first. I was hoping it would pass, to

  be honest, but instead it’s getting worse. A delivery to her

  office. I’m really very worried. The police don’t seem to

  be able to do very much and so I was wondering…’ He’s

  talking faster and faster.

  ‘OK, Mr Stellar. I hear you, but I’m on a case right

  this minute and it’s difficult for me to talk properly right

  now. I’ve logged this number, so how about I call you

  back very soon. Within the hour? Would that be OK

  with you?’

  ‘Oh.’ The man sounds deflated. ‘It’s just I’m so very

  worried. It’s urgent.’

  ‘I absolutely promise I’ll get back to you shortly. Then

  you can tell me everything and we can decide how to

  move forward.’

  ‘Right. OK. She’s with the police at the moment but

  she’s very upset, and I don’t have much confidence in the

  police, frankly. Last time they seemed to just fob her off.

  Sent her home – on her tod, would you believe.’

  Matthew sighs, still stroking his daughter’s hair. He

  doesn’t like to hear the police criticised. Deep down

  there’s an old loyalty he cannot shake. Most officers do

  their best. It’s a tough job; he of all people knows that

  from his past. But the truth is that stalker cases are the

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  I Will Make You Pay

  force’s worst nightmare. So difficult to handle; to get

  right. And never enough resources to do what officers

  would like to do.

  He realises this is the first time he has been asked, as

  a private investigator, to get involved in a stalker inquiry, and isn’t at all sure what to say. Whether to even consider

  the case. Deep down he doubts he will be able to help

  very much. Not on his own.

  ‘I’ll call you back very soon, Mr Stellar. Try to get

  an update from your girlfriend meantime, and we can

  see where we are.’

  27

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alice

  I am in the editor’s office now and look up at the window

  on to the newsroom, several faces looking in. They turn,

  embarrassed, as I catch their eyes.

  ‘So you’re saying you think this is the fourth thing?’

  The woman police officer is staring at the evidence bag

  on the desk between us, turning it over to read the card

  which was inside the cake box with the dying flowers.

  ‘Each thing happening on a Wednesday?’

  I nod. I want to speak but I am afraid that I’m going

  to cry and there is no way I want to do that in front of

  this woman or the other journalists still glancing in. It

  is good that Ted loaned us this space but I wish it had

  blinds. More privacy.

  The only relief is that my mother is OK. I’ve spoken at

  length to the staff at her home. A carer is with her and they’ve reassured me about their security; they log all callers and

  won’t allow any visitors to my mother without my say-so.

  I look back across the desk at the police officer. She

  seems very nice, understanding completely why I freaked

  out over my mother. I’m embarrassed now that I don’t

  remember her name. She’s a DI, which suggests they’re

  taking it more seriously – or Ted has leant more heavily

  on his mate Alan. From her initial questions, she’s clearly

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  I Will Make You Pay

  competent; sharper than the officer they sent last week, I

  would say. She has a warm and open face but she is heavily

  pregnant, and for some shameful reason this really troubles

  me. You will struggle to find a more outspoken feminist

  than me, but right now I feel a complete fraud – all my

  thoughts betraying the sisterhood.

  I can’t explain it but I don’t like the idea of sucking

  this nice, pregnant woman and her unborn child into

  this horrible thing that’s going on. This man who talks

  of using cheese wire, who sends nasty decapitated flow-

  ers, who mentions my mother, and who I now believe has been into my home. I find myself glancing at her belly.

  It makes me think of my sister – how protective I felt of

  Leanne when she was pregnant. I am thinking of the new

  life starting there; the wonder that in a few short months

  it will be a real, little person. The innocent child. And

  then I think of this cruel and horrible man…

  ‘I think he’s been in my house.’ I reach for the cup

  of water as I speak. I didn’t even plan to say this yet. I’m

  still trying to work out in my head if this can really be

  true. I have to take out my phone for my diary, to check

  all the dates again.

  ‘Right. No hurry, Alice. When you’re ready, talk me

  through it from the beginning. One step at a time. Why

  do you think he’s been in your house?’

  I stare at my phone and scroll through to check the

  date I went to London and then the emails to my landlord.

  Yes. Jeez. It really fits.

  ‘OK, so when I got that phone call to the office – the

  one using the voice changer last week, I thought it was

  the first thing. Was hoping it would be the only thing.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve looked back at the statement my colleague

  took. There was no mention of any other incidents.’

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  Teresa Driscoll

  ‘That’s because I didn’t realise the connection then. But

  this box turning up today with the message, mentioning

  my mum.’ I stare again at the evidence bag containing the

  little card, still on the desk in front of the officer.

  She turns it over again and reads it aloud.

  ‘ Your mother’s favourites? Like the flower on your car? Oh

  – and did you miss the light bulb, Alice? ’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name, Officer. So rude

  of me but I’m a bit all over the place and I didn’t really

  take it in properly earlier.’ I can feel myself blushing. Did she say Mandy?

  ‘DI Melanie Sander
s.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome to call me Melanie.’

  ‘OK. Thank you.’ I pause. ‘Melanie.’ I don’t like to

  say that this doesn’t feel right at all; to call her by her

  Christian name. As if she is my friend. My buddy. As if

  I can know yet whether I can trust her.

  ‘So talk me through this card, Alice. The flower on

  the car. What’s that about?’

  I let out a little huff of air as I picture it. The peony

  on my windscreen. Why didn’t I realise right from the

  beginning?

  ‘When I read that on the card – about the flower – I

  suddenly realised it was him. The first thing, I mean. About

  a month back. The first Wednesday. I just checked the

  date in my diary. I was up in London at the headquarters

  of the housing association involved in a story I’m working

  on. Demolishing the Maple Field House complex and

  building new homes.’

  ‘Yes, I read about that. Good outcome.’

  ‘I’ve been doing the campaign stories; all the features.

  So I went up to London for an interview about the place

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  I Will Make You Pay

  of housing associations in a landscape where councils

  fund so little new social housing. I used the train from

  Plymouth and I left my car in the railway car park. When

  I got back – quite late because I wrote and filed my story

  from Paddington station – there was a single flower on

  my windscreen with a business card. I’m not going to lie

  – it did startle me a little bit because of the coincidence

  that it was a peony. It’s my mother’s favourite flower, you

  see.’ There is a slight crack to my voice. I cough, hoping

  she didn’t notice this. ‘But the card seemed to be from a

  florist, and you often get flyers left on cars in car parks.

  I thought it was a gift. A gimmick – just some clever

  marketing. The choice of flower a coincidence.’

  ‘What did the florist’s card say? Have you still got it?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately not. Mine was the last car in that

  section of the car park and I just assumed all the cars

  would have had them. I took the peony home and put it

  in water. But I threw the business card away.’

  ‘Try to remember, Alice. What it said. The name on

  the card. Close your eyes if you like; that can help some-

  times. Try to picture yourself sitting in your car with the

  card in your hand.’

  I feel self-conscious but she widens her eyes in en-