‘Coffee?’ Tom’s voice draws me back to the room.
To his mood, which is difficult to read. He is wearing
pyjama bottoms for the first time and I wonder where he
found them – I did not even know that he owned any.
‘Yes please.’ I watch him scurry from the room and
then glance around, taking in the order and the very
masculine style which is so different from my own home.
His flat in Exeter is on the second floor of a waterside
block, with a large balcony and view of the River Exe.
It’s convenient for both the city centre and the station,
which works well now that Tom spends so much time
working in London. He used to work in criminal law
but is now in corporate law. More lucrative and nearly
all city-based.
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Sometimes he talks about renting a place in London
but, like me, he loves the country and the coast, and he
is fond of this flat. It has good security so can be safely
locked up when he’s away. It has video entry and cameras
so is also perfect for me just now – almost as reassuring
in terms of security as Leanne’s place in Dorset.
On the opposite wall to the bed there’s a huge wardrobe
which Tom had fitted a few months back at vast expense
to house his work suits and coats. Proper wood – none of
your veneer nonsense. There are two matching bedside
tables but none of the clutter of my own bedroom back at
my rented house. I glance to Tom’s side of the bed where
there is a framed photograph of his parents. Tom looks
most like his father. His parents had him late in life and
have retired early. His father was a surgeon, his mother
a GP. No wonder all this is so outside his comfort zone.
Tom doesn’t realise what a charmed life he’s lived.
At last he reappears with two mugs and I take one,
trying to find a small smile.
‘So – do I call you Alice or Jenny?’ His tone is strained.
‘Alice. I’ve decided I’m going to stick with Alice. It’s
my second name. My real second name, I mean, and I
like it as my byline as a journalist. I’ve got used to it now.’
‘Right.’ He sips his drink, staring at the steam rising
from the liquid, careful not to meet my gaze.
‘Look – you’re allowed to be angry, Tom. It’s a lot
to take in. I do know that. Why don’t you just let it out.
Be honest. If you need to be angry with me, be angry.’
He keeps very still for a moment and I can see hurt
in his eyes, which is once again like a slap. That is what
was most difficult after he picked me up from the police
station and brought us back here yesterday. Hurt rather
than anger.
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‘I’m not exactly angry. I’m just a bit shell-shocked
still. I mean – a paedo, Alice. You were seriously living with a paedo…’
‘There was no way I could know, Tom. Trust me,
I beat myself up about it every single day, wondering if
there was anything I could or should have done to protect
those girls. But I had absolutely no idea. None.’
‘Right. Yes. Of course. I shouldn’t have said that. It
must have been absolutely terrible for you…’ Finally, he
looks at me. ‘Is that why you find it hard?’
‘Sorry?’
‘With me, Alice. I mean – I try not to push it. Give
you space and let things move at their own pace. But the
truth is I never really know where I am with you…’
I open my mouth to answer but my phone rings on
the bedside cabinet and I check the screen. ‘It’s Matthew.
I’d better take this.’
‘I’m surprised he has the nerve. Some help he turned
out to be.’
I turn away towards the window and press the phone
tight to my ear. I don’t blame Matthew for the fake attack,
even if Tom does. It was my own fault for insisting on
driving separately. I’m expecting him to want an update
on the quizzing by Melanie Sanders so it’s a shock to find
he sounds almost breathless.
‘Right. I’m not going to dress this up, Alice. Better
you hear it straight. Alex Sunningham has broken his
parole conditions and gone AWOL. The teenager he
ran off with in Scotland has also disappeared. She’s still
not been in touch with her parents this morning and so
there’s going to be a media appeal to find Alex. Chances
are the tabloids will be all over it like a rash. Maybe TV
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too. We felt you should be warned. And the police are
going to want to interview you again today.’
I press the phone tighter, tighter to my ear until I can
feel the imprint of the screen. For a moment, I can’t speak.
‘What is it?’ Tom is now alongside me.
I lower the phone to my chest for a moment, squeez-
ing my eyes tight in a bid to regroup, and then I move
the phone slowly back up to my ear.
‘I don’t know what to say, Matthew. I don’t know
what to think. What are the police thinking? Do they
really think she’s gone off with him, this girl? Or that
he’s abducted her, or what?’
‘They don’t know. She’s an adult now but that’s not the
point. The terms of his licence forbid any contact with her
and he’s now a key suspect in your case too, so they need
to find him urgently.’ There’s a pause. ‘Look – I want to
be honest with you. Melanie Sanders asked me to report
your reaction to her but I can’t split my loyalties here.
She’s a very good police officer, Alice, and you need her
on side, as do I. No more keeping things from her. You
need to be one hundred per cent straight with her and
with me. So, do you have any idea, any inkling at all,
where this Alex might hole up? Does anywhere come to
mind? Friends? Relatives? Special places? Anything we
can share with the police teams looking for him?’
I try to think. I glance from left to right but can’t quite
process this. I’ve tried so hard for so long not to think about the wretched man. To have to suddenly conjure
him up and imagine him free. Out there. Missing. It’s
too much to take in.
‘Look – I have absolutely no idea where he might be,
Matthew. That’s the truth, I swear. I never want to hear
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Teresa Driscoll
about that man again, quite frankly. But I get what you’re
saying. From here on I’ll be straight with you. And the
police. I promise. And thank you for telling me, Matthew.’
I pause. A new thought. ‘So do you know when this will
be made public?’ Oh no. My mother. I look at the clock and start to get out of bed. My mother always watches
the TV news. Jeez. I take in that Tom is still watching me, his frown deepening.
‘I don’t know. I’ll let you know if I hear any more. Now,
are you feeling safe, Alice? You’re not on your own? I mean,
I know it’s not Wednesday and that I’m off the case but—’
‘I’m with Tom. He’s still angry with me and with you
too.’ I turn to look directly at Tom as I say this. ‘And I
don’t blame him. But personally I’d like you to continue
to help us, Matthew. Are you prepared to do that? To help
me still? We’ll pay you – I mean, I’ll pay you if need be.’
There’s a long pause.
‘OK. Unfair question. You don’t have to answer that
now. I’ll ring you after I’ve seen my mother.’
Tom is now glaring at me as I end the call. ‘You’re
kidding me? You seriously still want Matthew Hill on
this? After what happened?’
‘I do. Please, Tom. I know you’re pretending not to
be furious, bottling it up, but I need you to bear with
me. Please. Will you come to see my mother with me?
It’s going to be all over the news. Alex Sunningham has
done a bunk. I’ll explain on the way but I need to warn
my mother. She’ll worry herself sick otherwise.’
* * *
An hour later we park up outside Mum’s nursing home.
Tom is now in a different mood, more worried than
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cross. Reluctantly he’s agreed to keep Matthew on the
case after all. I watch Tom from the passenger seat; the
news that Alex Sunningham has gone AWOL seems to
have knocked him completely sideways. He says he feels
helpless, which is the only reason he’s agreed to re-engage
Matthew. Like DI Sanders, Tom thinks Alex is bound to
be behind the stalking, although I still find this difficult
to believe.
‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ Tom looks
anxious and is glancing around the car park, checking if
anyone has been following us.
‘No. The security is good. It’s fine. I feel safe here.’
‘And have you told your mother about the stalking?’
‘No, no – of course not. She’s just not well enough.
But she obviously knows everything about what happened
with Alex and why I switched my name. I need to hurry.
Do you mind waiting here?’
‘No. Of course not.’
I check my watch. Damn – one minute past the hour,
which means news time. I hurry inside but am slowed
down by the reception security. I’m logged into the visitor
book, given a pass and then accompanied to my mother’s
room by a nurse.
But the timing could not be worse. As I walk into
the room, my mother has the TV remote in her hand
and is switching between news channels, her eyes wide
and staring. One bulletin is dealing with an arson story.
Another has moved on to the weather. But my mother
then flicks back to a satellite news channel and there he is.
Alex Sunningham. His picture full-screen. The voiceover
outlines the police appeal to trace him and then there’s a
film recapping the background story with an older picture
of him at his grand piano, beaming.
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Teresa Driscoll
My mother turns to me as I stand in the doorway. She’s
suddenly struggling even harder than usual for breath, her
chest heaving and her eyes still wide with worry.
‘It’s him again. On the telly…’ And then she’s truly
gasping for breath, her right hand up to her chest. Too
many words. She’s pushed it too far.
I clutch at the nurse’s arm. ‘Help her. Please. It’s a big
shock for her. This story on the news.’
The nurse moves swiftly to adjust the switch on the
oxygen supply, coaxing my mother to breathe more slowly.
Steady breaths.
‘Don’t try to speak, Mum.’ I lean in so that our fore-
heads are just touching. ‘It’s OK. I know about all this on
the news. It’s all right. That’s why I’m here. Please don’t
be upset. Try to catch your breath. You don’t need to
worry about this. I’m OK. Everything’s going to be OK.’
138
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Matthew
It’s mid-morning now and, even as he rings the bell,
Matthew wonders if he’s making the most terrible of
mistakes. He checks his phone, skimming for the head-
lines. The press conference regarding Alex Sunningham
has made several key bulletins but there’s no update from
the police. No leads and no apparent sightings. Matthew
had originally planned to make this quick call on ‘Ian
and the little people’ last night, but everything ran too
late. He didn’t have time then and he doesn’t really have
the time now but he can’t put the sound of Ian’s quiet
sobbing on the phone out of his mind.
When the door is finally answered, Matthew is en-
tirely surprised. The man is older than his voice, slim
and immaculately dressed. Shirt and tie, a clean if slightly
shabby cardigan, and trousers with a sharp crease down
the middle.
‘Ian Ellis?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Matthew Hill. We’ve been talking on the phone
about the little people.’
‘Oh, right. Oh goodness – so you’re finally taking
the case?’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Not exactly. Look, I haven’t really got much time to
be honest, Ian, but I thought I’d check in on you briefly.
You sounded a bit upset the last time we spoke.’
Ian blushes and looks at the ground as if considering
something. Then he jerks his head back upright to chal-
lenge Matthew with a very direct stare. ‘Right – come
Ian puts his finger up to his lips and leads the way up a
steep staircase, creeping ever so gently. On the landing
he stands opposite an open door that leads into what ap-
pears to be a large bedroom. He nods towards the floor
at the entrance to the room.
Matthew leans forward as Ian again signals with his
eyes towards the carpet at the bedroom’s entrance. ‘I’m
sorry, but I’m not seeing anything, Ian.’
Ian lets out a puff of air as if deflated. ‘Ah, yes – they
do that.’
‘What?’
‘Make themselves invisible when it suits them. Just
between us, I think they’ve configured themselves just
now so that I’m the only one who can see them. Part of
their plot.’
‘To kidnap you?’
‘Well, yes.’ Ian frowns. ‘Obviously.’
Matthew pauses. He can just see into the room now.
It appears to be a woman’s bedroom. There are pink slip-
pers on the floor and a soft, fluffy dressing gown is draped
across the bed. There is a smart, green dress hanging on
the wardrobe as if ready for an outing. In the corner he
can just make out a dressing table with perfume bottles
and little china bowls and trinkets.
‘I tell you what, Ian. How about we have a quick cup
of tea. Go over what we’ve got.’
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‘Excellent idea. I knew you’d be interested once you
realised
what I’m up against.’
Downstairs in the kitchen, Ian sets about making tea
with the enthusiasm and chatter of someone unused to
company. Matthew had guessed loneliness would be a part
of the picture here and is worried he will make things
worse, not better – offering some kind of false hope.
Ian’s quite a bit older than he expected. On the phone
he sounded late fifties, maybe sixties, but in the flesh he
is clearly well into his seventies.
‘The truth here, Ian, is I’m still feeling I’m not the
right man for your investigation, but I wondered – if I
had a bit more detail – if I might see some way forward.’
‘Suggest another investigator, you mean?’ Ian puts a
selection of biscuits on a plate – Hobnobs, digestives and
two chocolate-covered wafers – and leads the way into
the sitting room. Again it’s in immaculate order. Matthew
imagines Ian having nothing much more to do than clean;
he feels his heart sink further.
‘So, do you mind me asking if you live here alone at
the moment, Ian?’
Ian holds out the plate and Matthew shakes his head.
‘It’s just I noticed that the bedroom upstairs – the one
the little people seem to be interested in – it appeared to be a woman’s bedroom. Partner? Daughter? Other relative?’
Ian dunks his biscuit in his tea and examines it as if
waiting for the precise softness before moving it swiftly
to his mouth.
‘You’re observant. I expected that. But you’re not going
to start going on about triggers again, are you, Mr Hill?’
‘No, no. I was just trying to gather the information
I need here, Ian. To try to suggest how someone might
help you.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘I have just one child – a daughter who lives abroad.
Canada. Jessica.’ Ian puts down his tea and biscuits and
moves across to select a photograph from a dresser. From
the frame a large, jolly woman in her late forties or early
fifties beams alongside a huge black dog. ‘I haven’t seen
her in a few years, sadly, as neither of us has very much
money. And, well, travel is spectacularly expensive. Also
I worry what might happen. If the little people followed
me, I mean. An in-flight emergency. I couldn’t have that
on my conscience.’
‘Quite.’ Matthew puts his hand up to his mouth to
conceal a smile. He’s surprised to be rather liking this