not to throw his arms around her waist right now and
tell her everything. He clenches his hands into fists to stop the wrong words coming out of his mouth. Instead he
thinks about the bird he is going to train. Yes. As soon
as he is allowed to play out on his own, he is going to
secretly train a bird. A huge bird with massive claws that
can kill Brian.
‘I’m a big boy now, Gran. I’m fine,’ he says.
172
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Alice
I do realise that I’m probably unfair to London. I mean,
I can see its appeal – the river, the skyline, the people
and the buzz.
My problem with London has nothing to do with
logic; I can’t deny its very obvious pluses. My problem
with London is the assumption by some journalists that
it is the centre of the universe – that it has the best buzz.
The best restaurants. The best s tories. My own take as a journalist is that it simply has all the headquarters, which
means reporters can speak to the top dogs more easily.
In all honesty, I am probably a bit chippy about this
professionally. But I’ve learned from my time on news-
papers in remotest Scotland and then Devon that stories
are always first and foremost about people. And people
in the countryside have as many issues and problems and
challenges as people in London – and they have as much
right to be noticed and listened to. And written about.
So, yes. I do see that my problem with London is a
question of professional chippiness. The truth is I love the
country, and as a journalist I have to fight the assumption
from others that I am unambitious (or simply parochial)
and I have to work harder to be taken seriously.
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Teresa Driscoll
But this weekend, I have given London a break. I put
Leanne, who adores this city, in charge of our schedule,
and I have honestly had a surprisingly good time. On
Saturday we took my niece and nephew to the Science
Museum, and then to the Tower of London on Sunday.
How I reached this age without seeing the Crown Jewels,
I don’t know. It was all terribly good fun. We then had
a very late Sunday lunch at a smart café-cum-restaurant
close to Leanne and Jonathan’s gated home in Notting Hill.
Turns out that London, like anywhere, is really rather
wonderful if you have the time to enjoy it.
And now – Monday – I have my work hat back on.
I’ve belatedly filed my interview with the actress Melinda
Belstroy. She messaged me to say that she had thought very
carefully and would not ‘press the button’, preferring to accept her bipolar diagnosis and learn to live with it. Ted has emailed to say he’ll run the piece within the next couple
of days. I’m delighted – so pleased to be doing something.
And now I’m to meet the three campaigners who’ve led
the charge to get Maple Field House pulled down.
Gill, Naomi and Amy are quite a trio. Mums on a
mission, I call them. Mid-thirties and not to be underes-
timated. I met them a good while back when they sent in
their initial press release about the terrible damp. I remem-
ber so clearly the first time I visited Maple Field House.
About fifteen minutes from Plymouth, the block of flats
above shops is shaped around a central courtyard – like
a square with one side missing. The mothers explained
in their handout that all their children had asthma ex-
acerbated by the terrible damp. But no one on the local
council was interested.
Maple Field House was built in a hurry after the war.
One of many quick but ugly solutions to the housing need
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I Will Make You Pay
of the times. Owned by the local council, the leasehold
shops were once popular and thriving. But as shopping
habits changed, so Maple Field House changed too. Even
the charity shops struggled for customers, and most units
were just boarded-up shells.
Today Gill, Naomi and Amy are meeting the housing
charity which helped fund their campaign to finally push
for demolition. I merely reported on their hard work, so
am chuffed to be invited. I admire these women, and it
was a privilege to put their story in the paper.
At the charity headquarters we’re served coffee and
delicious cream cakes, in a cosy green room with sunlight
streaming in through the window. There’s excited chat-
ter, lots of laughter and endless selfies for social media.
‘Of course, we couldn’t have done it without Alice,’
Gill says, leading the charity PR Melody across the small
room to meet me. ‘No one took much notice until Alice
started writing stories about us.’
‘Nonsense,’ I say. ‘Just doing my job. You ladies did
all the work. Put together the statistics. Refused to take
no for an answer.’
Melody agrees and applauds the trio’s work in a little
speech, outlining the partnership with the housing as-
sociation which is to build the replacement homes. She
says it’s a win-win for the council, and a model the charity hopes will roll forward elsewhere too. The local authority
is making alternative land available at a peppercorn rent.
The housing association is putting up the funds to build.
And then, after applause and more coffee, Gill wanders
over to hand me a small, gold foil envelope. I raise my
eyebrows, wondering what it is.
‘We would like you to be guest of honour at the de-
molition. They’ve finally set the date.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a VIP invitation.
I’ll just pop along and cover it for the paper.’
‘No argument. We want you up front with us when
we get to press the button. See the lot go down. It’s going
to be quite a moment.’
I open the envelope to find a specially printed invita-
tion with my name in gold lettering. The demolition is
just two weeks away. And then I skim the details again
to find everything around me changing. Suddenly the
room feels too crowded and too hot. Suddenly my new
appreciation of London is forgotten.
Suddenly his voice is once more back in my ear.
I am going to use cheese wire on you.
Because the date on the invitation is like a cruel and
horrible taunt, reminding me that my life – whether in
London or in Devon or anywhere else – is no longer my
own. No longer normal.
The demolition is set for the 12th.
Which is a Wednesday.
176
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Matthew
‘Where’s your iPad?’ Sally is crunching into a thick slice
of toast as she watches Matthew across the breakfast table.
Amelie is meantime perched on her booster seat, colouring
in pictures of fairies. Matthew leans forward to examine
his daughter’s handiwork.
‘Are you sure all fairies are pink, darling?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ She reaches for an even-bright
er pink
felt tip, as if to underline her point. ‘They’re pink so you
can see them in the forest.’
‘I thought fairies were invisible.’
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy…’
‘It’s just I’ve noticed you making notes in a notebook,
Matt. Like the old days in the police force in films. So is
this nostalgia? Or have you lost your iPad?’
‘It’s been playing up. I’m thinking of upgrading.
Getting a smaller one.’ Matthew hopes the truth will not
blush on to his face. He’s not quite ready to tell his wife
that he’s loaned his iPad to a man who thinks tiny people
want to kidnap him. It’s only a temporary solution for
Ian, as the SIM has limited data. But Matthew is looking
into a cheap Internet package for Ian and is hoping he
can be persuaded to sign up. Then he can give him more
lessons so he can Skype his daughter as often as he likes.
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Teresa Driscoll
‘But your iPad’s not that old?’
‘No. But as I say, it’s been playing up. Anyway, I can
put the cost of a new one on the business. Legitimate
expense.’ Thank heavens for that payment from the cor-
porate client. Quite a shock how much companies will
pay for consultancy work. Matthew stands and puts his
notebook and pen into his backpack and checks his watch.
a virtual stranger – a man who is not even paying him
for his time, let alone his technology. He’ll visit Ian again shortly to see what difference it’s made. But first he needs
to speak to Melanie Sanders. Matthew is very pleased to
be officially back on the Alice stalker case – even if Sally
is less enthusiastic. He spent most of the previous even-
ing reading more articles on the Alex Sunningham case,
and something’s troubling him. Sort of circling his mind
like the annoying buzz of a mosquito. Matthew knows
that he cannot fully justify following his instinct when
this kind of thing happens. In the police force, he was
pressed to base assessment on facts. Evidence and science.
But now he’s his own man, Matthew likes to listen to his
gut. And mosquitoes.
He keeps very still, which for some reason often helps.
And there it is – the little something niggling right at the
back of his brain.
‘Gretna Green,’ he suddenly says out loud as all at
once the mist clears.
‘What about Gretna Green?’ Sally tries.
‘Sorry. Need to go.’
‘Not to Gretna Green, I hope?’
‘No. I’ll tell you later. A hunch. On the stalker inquiry.
Love you both.’ He kisses each in turn on the forehead
and hurries to the car, where he scans his phone for the
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I Will Make You Pay
feature he was reading last night to recheck the quotes
before dialling Mel’s mobile from the driver’s seat.
‘Hi, Mel. Look – this is going to sound a bit nuts but
I think you should check the records in Gretna Green.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Check for Alex Sunningham’s name. I have a feeling
the girl may have been playing her parents and playing
the media.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I don’t think he’s abducted her. I think she was pre-
tending to have seen the light. That this was all planned.’
There is a beat of silence and Matthew waits.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting she’s still under his
spell? Gretna Green. Are you thinking that they’re still
planning to get married? Are you mad? It’s been all over
the telly. He’d never get away with that…’
‘But what if he really is that arrogant, Mel? And what
if the officials at Gretna Green haven’t checked the rec-
ords? Is there software cross-referencing applications with
parole records? I doubt it. And no one would be looking
out for his name. I was rereading the interview she gave
long after the court case, claiming to have seen the light.
It all sounded a bit too pitch perfect, to be honest. What
if Alex put her up to it? What if they’ve somehow stayed
in contact? Their original plan was to marry at Gretna
Green, remember.’
‘But she gave evidence against him, Matt.’
‘Yes. Persuaded by her parents and the police. But
what if Alex has somehow got under her skin again since.
Been in touch. What if he set all this up?’
‘Oh Jeez. I have to admit it never occurred to me.
But it does actually tie in with the CCTV update this
morning.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘What update?’
‘You’re not hearing this from me but we’ve picked
him up hiring a car under a false name.’
‘Heading north?’
‘Yes. Petrol station off the motorway. But no one else
in the car. And he must have dumped that car now or
changed the plates because we haven’t picked it up on
any other motorway routes since.’
‘He may have switched to the train. And I bet you’ll
find the girl heading to Scotland by train too. Worth
trawling the railway CCTV for her. And him.’
‘On it. Long shot, if you ask me – Gretna Green. But
we’ll check it out all the same and I’ll ring you back. No…
better still. Let’s meet at the café. I’ll text you a time, and let you know if we find anything meantime.’
* * *
carrot cake Mel so likes. He is thinking it’s actually a bit
stodgy as he again googles the Gretna Green rules. It’s no
longer possible to just turn up and hurry a marriage through.
Twenty-nine days seems to be the absolute minimum notice
but the process doesn’t seem to involve cross-checking prison or parole records so it’s possible Alex’s plan could be to lie low for a month and then get married. All Gretna Green
demands of British citizens are birth certificates and legal
confirmation of divorce if they’ve been married before.
The dates fit Matthew’s theory. Alex was released
just before Alice’s stalking started. He could have filed
the paperwork for a Gretna Green wedding soon after
he was released. If so – the four weeks would be well up
by now and the wedding could be at any time. Which
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I Will Make You Pay
might explain why Alex had suddenly stopped seeing his
probation officer. And why the girl had run off.
Matthew again scans the girl’s interview, which ran
while Alex was serving his second year inside. He notices
how often she mentioned her regret and her new life after
Alex. The quotes were impressive but, on careful reflec-
tion, too impressive. Extremely mature. That was what
had rung an alarm bell with him. There was this strange
air of ‘protesting too much’. Something rehearsed about
her comments. It sounded to Matthew as if she were rather
too keen to reassure her parents and the world that she
had put Alex Sunningham behind her.
Now he’s more and more suspicious that the quotes
came via her from Alex himself. More grooming. Had
Alex found some way to renew contact with the girl and
resumed his control over her during his time in jail? It
was certainly possible. Prisons were sadly awash with
mobile phones.
Matthew sips his drink and thinks of the dreadful
Alex and why on earth he might still want this relation-
ship. Alex must know he’ll be found out and sent back
to prison eventually, to serve his full sentence. Licence
terms include telling your probation officer about getting
married. Permission would never be given while on parole
to marry his victim. So why do something that will get
him sent straight back to jail? To stick his finger up to
the authorities? To get himself a legal young bride as a
cover to chase even younger girls down the line? Maybe
he doesn’t think he’ll be found out. Or maybe he doesn’t
even care about being found out and serving the balance
of his sentence. Maybe he’s mad enough to believe he’ll
reclaim some kind of moral balance by marrying the girl.
Creepy. Insidious. Yes – mad.
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Teresa Driscoll
A further half an hour and Matthew looks up to see
Melanie Sanders hurrying in, her mac loosely belted
around her enormous bump.
‘I can’t stay long – five minutes. So I won’t order
anything. But I could kiss you.’
‘Feel free.’
She punches his shoulder as she sits down. ‘Seriously.
I don’t know how you do it. I’m almost cross with you
for being so clever. You’re spot on. Alex Sunningham
and the girl, using their real names to make it legitimate,
have a wedding booked at Gretna Green. Guess when.’
‘No idea.’
‘Tomorrow. By coincidence or maybe not a
coincidence…’
‘A Wednesday.’ Matthew is almost as stunned as
Melanie to have got this right.
‘The Gretna Green staff feel terrible for not noticing
or remembering the name. But Alex filed the papers
weeks ago. Must have been fairly soon after he got out.
He looked very different from his media pictures, appar-
ently, and no one remembered this or put two and two
together with the recent coverage of his disappearance.’
‘Do you think they actually believed they’d get away
with it? I mean, surely with the media coverage, the staff