I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Read online

  He blushes and finishes the last of his drink. ‘I wouldn’t

  normally have taken it, Mel, but she seems nice – this

  Alice. And these kinds of cases are so frustrating all round.

  We both know there’s not much we can really do without

  surveillance. I’ve said I won’t play bodyguard per se, but I’m happy to do twenty-four-hour surveillance once a week.’

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  Melanie lets out a long sigh. ‘OK. Well, strictly be-

  tween us, I’m very happy you’re working on this too,

  because we both know I’m highly unlikely to get the

  manpower to do much unless things escalate. Forensics

  have found nothing so far, so our guy clearly knows what

  he’s doing. I’m a bit worried about the mother, actually.

  Whether she’s genuinely some kind of target too and we’re

  missing something. Or whether this guy just referenced

  her to wind Alice up some more. We’re checking the

  finances. Who would gain if the mother comes to harm.’

  ‘So what’s the security at the mother’s nursing home

  like?’

  ‘Not bad at all. They’ve got cameras and good door

  security. I’m sending uniformed round once a day to keep

  the pressure on them. But their protocols seem good.’

  She pauses. ‘Might be worth you popping by to double-

  check; make sure they don’t just let you sweet-talk your

  way in. If you have time.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll do that.’ Matthew then lets out a long

  huff of air and stares into Mel’s eyes.

  ‘Are you thinking about the Rachel Allen case, Mel?’

  She nods.

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  When they were in police training college together,

  there was a stalker case in Devon that they studied as part

  of their training. Matthew and Mel spent time with the

  team involved. A waitress in her early twenties was be-

  ing stalked by a bartender who had developed a crush on

  her. Lots of phone calls and texts. Flowers, chocolates and

  teddy bears delivered to her flat. There were no threats

  as such and the bartender had no record of violence.

  Matthew and Mel had to report back to their colleagues

  on how it was all going. One of the police recruits was

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  reprimanded in class for cracking a joke – I wish someone would send me flowers and chocolates.

  The feeling on the investigating team was that the guy

  was probably harmless and the crush would blow over.

  Matthew remembers the signal from the old-timers that

  they were probably wasting their time…

  Until Rachel Allen was found strangled in her shower.

  Matthew has never forgotten the photographs.

  The bartender had climbed in through a window

  of her flat and lost it when she screamed for help. He

  strangled her with the belt of her dressing gown. In his

  interview he said that he knew that they were destined

  to be together. But Rachel kept fighting it…

  ‘OK, Matt.’ Melanie’s face has darkened and Matthew

  wonders if she is remembering those dreadful photographs

  too. ‘Ideal world we find this guy while I can still waddle.

  We keep Alice safe and get enough evidence for a prosecution. That will also get me brownie points with the

  boss so I can go off on maternity leave to eat a lot more

  carrot cake. Which means that anything you can do to

  help me, I’ll be grateful.’

  ‘I’ll stay in touch, Mel. Anything I get, I’ll share. Let’s

  see how this Wednesday goes and talk again.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. And dare I ask how your Sally

  managed to have such a neat little bump? I seem to re-

  member she was barely showing at this stage.’ Mel is

  staring, crestfallen, at the huge expanse stretching her

  shirt to the limit of the fabric and forcing her to sit back

  from the table.

  ‘Absolutely no idea. But if it’s any consolation, the

  neat little bump that was Amelie has suddenly turned into

  the devil child. Strictly between us, I have an exorcism

  booked for Monday.’

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Him – before

  His gran talks a lot about ‘work’ but he doesn’t understand

  any of it. He can see that teaching is a job. And driving

  a bus and being an astronaut or a superhero. But he can’t

  see how making cups of tea and sandwiches can be a job.

  That’s what his gran says she does on Wednesday

  nights. She does it in the daytime too on Monday, Tuesday

  and Friday, but Wednesday is different. She says it’s called

  a night shift. My job is to make sure everyone is comfortable.

  Sometimes people can’t sleep so I make cups of tea and sandwiches. Help take people to the bathroom. That sort of thing.

  He asked his gran why she couldn’t stay home and

  make him cups of tea and sandwiches and call that her job but she said, Life doesn’t work like that.

  I do things for you because you’re my little soldier and I love you. I don’t get paid for doing things for you, darling. I do it because I love you. A job is when you’re paid for things. So I can pay our bills – for the flat and the food and your football club.

  He had said lots of times that he would pay her to

  stay home on Wednesday nights. They could go to the

  thingy in the wall which gives out money. He could pay

  her lots more than the stupid job. But she said it didn’t

  work like that. And there wasn’t enough money in the

  thingy in the wall.

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  He loves his gran ever so much but he gets fed up

  when adults say the same things over and over again.

  Life doesn’t work like that…

  He feels in his pocket to find a sweet that George gave

  him in school at break-time. Good. He is sitting on his

  bed in his room with his little rucksack, ready for their

  new secret. Gran says he has to promise to be quieter

  than a mouse. And brave. They are going to play a sort

  of game – like hide-and-seek but he will have to hide

  and snuggle up for a sleep for quite a few hours. So he

  has two juice cartons in his little rucksack and a packet of

  biscuits and a torch. And the sweet which George made

  him promise to save so they wouldn’t get in trouble in

  class. He looks at the rucksack and worries that his gran

  has told him to pack a torch. He hates the dark but she

  has told him not to worry – that the torch is just in case.

  ‘You ready, my little soldier?’ His gran’s voice through

  the doorway sounds a little bit weird. And when he walks

  through to their little kitchen and sitting room, her eyes

  have that funny look when the words and the feelings

  don’t quite match. Like a lie, but not a wicked lie like

  a robber or a murderer. Just a lie to avoid trouble, like

  when he told the teacher everything was fine at home.

  He looks at his gran and decides not to say anything more

  just now about the dark and the torch. He will ask about

  that when they get there.

  * * *

  They walk down the stairs holding hands. He hates t
he

  stairs because they smell of toilets and you have to mind

  your feet. And then afterwards they walk right along the

  high street for miles and miles to the bus stop. This makes

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  the funny feeling in his tummy come back. When his gran

  goes to work on Wednesday nights, she always says that

  she isn’t too far away. He used to sleep at a lady called Jan’s flat on Wednesday nights, but Jan has moved away so he

  can’t stay over anymore. His gran can’t find anyone else,

  and that’s why they have to keep their secret. She says there will be terrible trouble if he tells anyone she can’t find a

  new babysitter, and people will come to take him away.

  For weeks and weeks his gran has said he must just

  be brave; and that when she was a little girl on the fam-

  ily farm, she often had to stay on her own when her dad

  was out lambing at night. It was perfectly safe, and so he

  is to go to sleep like a good boy in his bedroom and he

  mustn’t answer the door or ever, ever tell anyone their

  secret – and she will be back before he knows it. Before

  he wakes up. But he sees now that it isn’t true about her

  working nearby. It’s miles and miles away…

  He has been trying to figure out if he could run and

  run and find it in the dark but he can’t remember the

  turnings already. Too many.

  The bus is a double-decker and his gran lets them sit

  upstairs. It’s cold and it also smells a bit like the stairs and the toilets in school, but his gran puts her arm around his

  shoulders and they play I Spy. And he wins.

  When they get off there is a lot more walking, and

  then they get to the place his gran works. It’s called the

  Daisy Lawn Nursing Home but he can’t see any daisies

  or even any grass. It looks a little bit like a school but

  with no playground. He wonders if the people who live

  here don’t get to play.

  They go in through a door around the back so no

  one will see. His gran has a special card to scan to get in,

  which she wears on a ribbon round her neck. She puts her

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  finger up to her mouth to say that they must be quiet like

  mice and she leads him along a corridor to a small room.

  The room does not have a window but has lots of

  shelves with all sorts of things. Blankets and pillows and

  boxes and stuff.

  His gran takes down some pillows and blankets and

  spreads them out in the corner to make a sort of bed for

  him. She says this is where he will sleep for the new secret

  but he is to be ever so quiet and ever so good.

  He doesn’t like the little room. Not at all; it is even

  smaller than his bedroom and he hates that it has no

  window.

  ‘Can’t I come and help you with the tea and the sand-

  wiches? I’ll be very good.’

  ‘No, darling. You’re not really supposed to be here

  when I’m working but I need you to get more sleep so

  you’re not so tired in school. It has to be our secret, so

  you need to go to sleep now and I’ll come and check on

  you whenever I can.’

  ‘What if I need the toilet?’

  ‘Do you need the toilet now?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ He keeps very still and tries to

  think for a moment – to feel properly, deep inside, if he

  needs a wee. He shakes his head. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘OK. Good. I’ll come back soon and ask you again.

  How does that sound?’

  ‘Can you leave the light on?’

  ‘Yes – of course. And if there’s any problem, you have

  your torch.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘Never mind. Try to go to sleep now so you won’t be

  tired in school. I have to go and do my work. Be a good

  boy for your gran. Yes?’

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  Once she is gone, he looks around the room and can

  hear his heart in his left ear. He used to worry that his

  heart had moved up into his head and that it would ex-

  plode but his gran says this happens when it’s too quiet

  and he’s not to worry. It’s normal. He looks at the towels

  on the shelves and he counts the towels and then he tries

  to count sheep.

  It doesn’t work. He is sort of tired but also not tired.

  He takes the sweet from his pocket and pops it in his

  mouth. It is pink but is not the strawberry flavour he was

  expecting and it tastes a bit like cough medicine. At first

  it is just a bit odd but then it gets hotter and hotter in his mouth until he feels that his mouth is on fire and he is

  going to choke. He sits up, coughing and spluttering and

  realises it is a joke sweet. Some of the other boys were

  talking about this very thing last week. George has played

  a prank on him. He is furious and spits out the sweet on

  to the blanket but it is too late. His mouth is burning.

  Hot like a volcano.

  He tries to be quiet but it’s no good. As he coughs

  and wheezes, the door of the room swings open. He is

  terrified that his gran is going to be ever so cross but it

  is worse.

  It is not his gran. It is a very fat man with a bright red

  face, wearing some kind of uniform. The man steps to the

  right, so he can see him properly around all the shelving.

  ‘So what the hell is going on in here?’

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alice

  I check the window to see Matthew Hill’s car still parked

  outside. Wednesday. I wave and he flashes the lights in reply. He texted at 6 a.m. when he first arrived, and I

  offered coffee but his message said he has a flask and will

  wait on the drive unless I need him.

  I let go of the curtain and sit back on the bed in

  Leanne’s guest room. I feel utterly exhausted. Couldn’t

  sleep. I remember the glow of the digital clock by the

  bed: 3 a.m., 4 a.m., 5 a.m., blinking in green digits on

  black. I check my watch – 8 a.m. now. Plenty of time for

  a shower to try to wake myself up a bit, then a final check

  of my notes before I set off for the interview.

  Under the stream of hot water, I try so hard not to

  think of the day. Of that man. I think instead about the

  actress Melinda Belstroy and wonder what she will be

  like in the flesh. You can never tell. I’ve called it wrong

  so many times – looking forward to meeting a celebrity,

  only to find them dull. And on other occasions being

  surprised to sit laughing and enjoying the company of

  someone whose politics make me shudder.

  Melinda Belstroy is fronting a new campaign for a

  bipolar charity, seeking support and tolerance in the work-

  place. She has only just admitted to having the condition

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  and I’ve been lucky to secure this interview in person.

  The people in Melinda’s league normally only meet the

  national press. We’re lucky in the provinces to secure a

  quick phone call with someone like her. But Melinda ap-

  parently saw a feat
ure I did on mental-health awareness

  in schools. She retweeted it and we’ve chatted on Twitter

  quite a bit since. So I got lucky when I bid for this chat.

  There was no way I was going to hand this interview

  over to someone else, just because the editor wants me

  to take a break. In my ideal world I’ll be pitching again

  soon for some shifts on the nationals, and this will be

  good for my cuttings.

  Dry and finally dressed, I check my iPad for my re-

  search notes and questions. Last night I watched that

  documentary again by Stephen Fry. The one where he

  questioned whether he would press the button which

  would allow him to be free of bipolar disorder. I will ask

  Melinda at the end of the interview. Yes. A bit of a cliché

  perhaps – but it will round things off nicely.

  Downstairs, I check the wall unit which operates the

  alarms and cameras as Leanne taught me, to make sure

  that everything is fine before I leave.

  Outside, Matthew winds down his window and says

  that he will drive me but I shake my head. He remon-

  strates but I’m really determined. I’ve agreed that he can

  follow me all day but I don’t want to have to explain to

  Melinda what’s going on. I want Matthew to be discreet.

  I promise him that I will keep his car in sight and he

  finally gives in.

  The traffic isn’t too bad. I feel nervous – this is the

  fifth Wednesday after all. The light bulb, the flower on

  my car, the phone call and then the cake box. Will he

  do something today?

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  I bite my bottom lip and glance in the rear-view mir-

  ror to see Matthew directly behind. He’s ex-police and

  has a good reputation. He must do a lot of surveillance.

  This will be OK, Alice.

  I am meeting Melinda at her agent’s holiday home

  near Salcombe, and as the satnav steers me to the private

  drive, I can hardly believe it. The house has three storeys

  with huge balconies to make the most of the glorious view

  over a small bay. Like Leanne’s home, there are private

  gates, which open after I confirm my name into the little

  speaker. I say that Matthew in the car behind is also with

  the paper and will be sitting in on the interview, if that’s

  OK. They don’t seem to mind, which is a relief.

  Melinda is dressed down in jeans and white shirt and

  no make-up. I think she looks better this way, and as we