Chapter Six

Matthew woke abruptly, hurtled from sleep by a nightmare he thought would never end. Sweat saturating his face, pooling in the hollow of his neck, he pulled himself upright and squinted against the thin trickle of sunlight filtering through the slatted blinds at the window. His first thought was that he had a hangover the size of an airdrome. His second, that they had no blinds at their bedroom window.

Easing his legs over the edge of the bed, a wheeze rattling his chest and nausea gripping his stomach as the room revolved in sick-making revolutions around him, his gaze went instinctively to the bedside table. His inhaler was there, the blue curative he carried with him, lined up neatly alongside his phone. Disorientated, Matthew blinked hard. His vision was blurred. His memory? Where the bloody hell was he?

A hotel room. Functional, he registered. Scanning his surroundings, he noted the fire instructions pinned to the door, the ancient fire extinguisher on the wall, the dusty circa nineteen eighties carpet. A shithole. Matthew closed his eyes and swallowed against the acrid taste in the back of his throat, then almost had a heart attack as his phone rang, loud and shrill, screeching through his brain like an express train. Scrambling around his mind for some recollection of what had happened the night before, he came up with nothing that was tangible, his tenuous thoughts seeming to slip away, like sea filtering ineffectually through sand. He had a few grainy, grey memories: Jasmine, the apartment, tastefully decorated; the painting, abstract colours intermingling; coffee, dripping; shoes, clacking, like the ominous slow tick of a clock. One shoe. A stiletto. Connor …? Had he been there? Here? Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, tried desperately to remember. Natalie? Christ, no.

His phone rang again, sharp, insistent. Becky, it had to be, and Matthew had no clue what to say to her. Attempting to control his escalating panic, to regulate his breathing, he let it ring and reached for his inhaler instead … and then stopped dead.

Seeing the crimson stains on his hand, Matthew’s heart somersaulted in his chest.

Dried blood, he registered, trying hard not to let the panic, now gripping his gut like a vice, cancel out logical thought. Old blood. His? How old?

Bringing both palms shakily to his face, he examined them. They were ingrained with the stuff. He flipped them over. His knuckles were bruised. Right hand. Sweet Jesus, what had he done? Disentangling himself from the duvet, Matthew scrambled to his feet, then quelling the nausea now clawing its way up his windpipe, he checked himself over. Deep wheals ran vertically down his chest. Four. Matthew swallowed hard. Checked his limbs. Found scratches on his arms. His neck, too. He could feel those, raw and sore.

His pulse rate ratcheting up, he yanked the duvet back. More blood. Too much. Stark against the grey-white of the sheets. Trying desperately to keep a lid on his emotions, he turned, stumbling towards the bathroom, where he leaned over the toilet and vomited the sparse contents of his stomach.

Standing unsteadily, Matthew clutched the sink hard for support. Deep gouges on his cheek, he noted through the mirror, then flinched as a flashback hit him head on: Jasmine, smiling, her eyes flat and emotionless. Her fingernails trailing down his face, his torso. Her touch had been light. She’d inflicted no damage. So how? Who? Natalie? A fresh image assaulted him, Natalie lying next to him. On top of him. Had he? No! His gaze straying to the wall behind him, Matthew’s legs almost gave way. There were blood spatters on the tiles. Perspiring profusely, he dragged an arm over his forehead. Irregular, splattered all over the walls. Christ, this couldn’t be happening.

A terrifying scenario unfurling in his head, Matthew willed himself to turn to the bath. His hand visibly shaking, cold trepidation snaking the length of his spine, he steeled himself to reach for the mould-stained shower curtain, hesitated, and drew it back.

A tap dripped, slowly, steadily. Each drip echoing distortedly around the room, sounding like a nail being driven into his coffin. He registered the watery trickle of blood washing over the carcass of a spider wedged in the plughole.

No body.

Wilting with relief, Matthew turned away. Taking several slow breaths, he grabbed a towel from the rail, whilst simultaneously reaching for the sink tap, and then stopped, his head screaming, his instincts colliding. If he cleaned himself up, he’d be destroying evidence. If he ran … Matthew stared hard at himself in the mirror. More images assailed him, disjointed memories. Surreal, foggy recollections. He’d been here with two women. Jasmine and Natalie. Matthew knew that much. Thought he did. And every indication was that one of those women had been badly injured, and worse, possibly by him. If he was going to call this in, and terrified though he was, his conscience told him he had to, he couldn’t wash. He needed to. The smell in the room was cloying. A woman’s scent. It was all over him.

He had to call Becky. Trying to keep calm, to not give into his urge to run from the room and keep running, Matthew headed back to the bedroom, where his phone had been ringing constantly. Whatever had happened, she needed to hear it from him first. He needed to tell her … Tell her what? Something’s happened, but I don’t know what? I think I’ve been set-up but I have no idea why? I might have had sex with someone but it wasn’t intentional?

Consensual.

No! Disbelieving, Matthew gulped back an immediate deep sense of shame.

He couldn’t have. Could he? Could she …? No doubt DNA testing would corroborate that distasteful fact. Fury vying with guilt and fear now, Matthew snatched up his inhaler. He’d be no use to anyone if he had an attack. He was no use to anyone. Matthew’s heart dropped like a stone. Least of all Becky. How the hell had he let this happen? Sinking down on the edge of the bed, he buried his head in his hands. He was a copper! He should have known better! What had he been thinking going into an apartment alone with a young girl in the early hours of the morning? He hadn’t been thinking. Clearly.

Matthew gulped back a hard lump in his throat and tried to still his incessant shaking. He couldn’t run. There was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide. He knew that better than anyone. Terror settling like ice in the pit of his stomach, he reached for his phone. It stopped ringing as he picked it up, only to ping an incoming text. Selecting his messages, he saw there were many from Becky and Ashley. Scrolling through them, he froze when he saw Becky’s last text: I don’t care what you’ve done. Matthew, please come home. The message from DCI Davies was equally worrying: Get your arse into the station, you idiot! Steve’s text was blunt, as Matthew would expect from his former DS, but he had no hope of making sense of it. You prat! Ring me, was all it said.

Poised to call Becky, that being his priority, he noted another incoming text. Caller unknown, Matthew hesitated and then, with growing apprehension, he checked it. You’re very photogenic, was all it said. Shaking now almost uncontrollably, Matthew opened the YouTube link attached to it and his heart stopped dead.

Graphic, irrefutable, willing or not, the evidence was there. Close ups, body parts. How?

He had to go. Now.

Guessing Becky didn’t need Mia attached to her legs while she addressed the two uniformed policemen at the door, Ashley cajoled the fractious two-year-old away and gathered her up into her arms.

Smiling gratefully, Becky turned back to the officers. ‘I’m not sure when he’ll be back. He …’ She stopped, snatching up the landline to her side immediately when it rang. Glancing meaningfully at Ashley, she hesitated for a second, and then, ‘No,’ she said into the receiver, ‘Matthew’s not here at the moment. Can you call back later?’

Planting the phone hastily down in its cradle, she took a breath and then turned back to their unwelcome callers. ‘It’s been ringing all morning,’ she said, and then made some attempt at courteousness, though what she wanted to do, Ashley knew, was tell them politely to piss off. ‘Would you like to come in and wait?’

Rather than loiter obviously on the doorstep for the delectation of the gathering journalists and nosy neighbours, some of whom had no doubt been online this morning and were now gleefully sharing. So much for Becky and Matthew moving house and attempting to make a new start away from their ghosts. They hadn’t even finished redecorating and they were suddenly fodder for hot local gossip.

The two officers exchanged awkward glances and then stepped in, minding their manners, Ashley noted, removing their hats and wiping their feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Adams,’ one of them said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Becky,’ Becky reminded him of her name. ‘I’m not sure it would make any difference if I did, would it, Peter? But two of you?’ She scanned his face questioningly.

At which the officer glanced embarrassedly down. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘orders.’

‘Right.’ Becky shot Ashley another meaningful glance. ‘Well, you know where the lounge is.’ Closing the door, she nodded them on, as Mia declared loudly, ‘Mumm-eeeee! Want a wee wee!’

‘The terrible twos,’ the other officer offered her a sympathetic smile, as he followed his colleague.

‘Tell me about it.’ Becky dredged up a smile and reached to relieve Ashley of Mia, who was kneading her eyes with her knuckles, tired and miserable. Not surprising, with umpteen callers at the door, the phone ringing off the hook and Becky distracted. Ashley would have to make sure Mia had her asthma meds, she decided. The last thing Becky needed right now was to have to fight her way through the gathering ensemble outside to get Mia to a hospital if she had a bad attack, which was likely, given how stressed she was.

Becky was trying to hide it, but she was half out of her mind with worry, no doubt still in a state of shock. The colour had drained from her cheeks when she’d watched that shitty video. She’d paled so much, Ashley seriously thought she might pass out. She hadn’t though. She pulled up her shoulders in that way Becky did and, ‘It’s concocted,’ she stated adamantly, even though it was obviously Matthew with some paid escort starring in it.

She’d told every reporter who’d rung since, ‘No comment,’ and refused to answer the door, until she’d realised it was two uniforms outside. That hadn’t been a reporter on the phone just now though. Ashley hadn’t needed to hear for herself or to have Emily whispering, It’s Matthew, in her head to tell her that. Becky’s look had told her as much.

‘I’d better take her up,’ Becky said as the officers negotiated the decorating paraphernalia in the hall and headed for the lounge. ‘I have to run her a quick bath. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

‘Yes, thanks, Mrs Ad—, Becky,’ the first officer accepted cheerfully. ‘I could murder a cuppa. Cheers.’

Which meant they were definitely here to stay. God, Matthew? Ashley’s tummy knotted inside her. What the bloody hell was going on?

‘I’ll make it,’ she offered, guessing Becky might prefer have some space.

It’s that Jasmine, Emily informed her as Becky turned gratefully to the stairs. I told you not to trust her.

I know, Ashley replied silently, heading towards the kitchen. It was pretty obvious it was something to do with Jasmine. Ashley hadn’t had a chance yet to talk to her properly, other than briefly, before the calls started, and then Jasmine had said she hadn’t got a clue what she was talking about. That Matthew had left her apartment at three-ish, and that she’d been fast asleep ever since. Ashley had no idea what had happened, but what she did know was that Matthew would never do stuff like that. In a seedy hotel room, with a prostitute? Uh, uh. No way. Matthew was no saint, often so moody and broody Becky and she both wanted to shake him. Mostly he was like that though because of some case where girls like the one in the video, underage girls a lot of the time, had been used and abused by some drug pushing lowlife.

Ashley needed to talk to Jasmine more. Find out exactly what time Matthew left and whether he might have said anything about going anywhere else. Though why he’d mention anything to Jasmine …? It just didn’t make sense. Any of it.

Hearing one of the men mention Matthew’s name as she filled up the kettle, Ashley stopped and moved closer to the door.

‘Bloody hell, who’d ever have thought he’d been dipping his wick where he hadn’t ought to be,’ the one called Peter said.

‘Yeah, shining example to rank and file officers, ain’t he?’ the other one replied sarcastically.

‘Looked paralytic to me,’ Peter commented idly.

‘Pissed as a fart. Mind you, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you?’ The other guy chuckled at his unfunny wit.

‘Bet he’s got a sore head this morning,’ Peter said, then cursed quietly as he dropped something, meaning they were poking around in stuff they had no right to.

‘He will have when his missus gets hold of him,’ his sidekick added hilariously. ‘And DCI Davies is going to have his whatsits on a plate. No wonder Adams is keeping a low profile.’

Idiots, Ashley seethed inwardly, her blood literally boiling when she went on in to find them not even discreetly snooping around in the lounge, as if expecting to find Matthew hiding behind the sofa. Ashley’s eyes flicked to the floor, to where Peter was retrieving the framed photograph he’d dropped. It was the one they’d had taken in Cornwall the first time they’d gone away together as a family after the kidnapping. Matthew still had a haunted look in his eyes, Ashley guessed he probably always would, but he was smiling. He’d had his arms around her and Becky. Becky was cradling Mia, the baby she’d thought she might not live to give birth to. It was a good photo. One signifying a happy future, Becky had said. And now they’d gone and bloody well dropped it.

Stomping across the room, Ashley snatched the frame off him. The glass wasn’t broken, but the back had come loose and the photo was still lying face down on the floor.

That’s bad luck, that is, Emily said, sounding not know-it-all like she usually did, but wary, which didn’t help Ashley’s mood one bit. Furious that their things were being tampered with, as if Matthew were a wanted criminal or something, she bent to pluck it up before the clumsy copper could.

‘Sorry,’ the copper said. ‘I was just admiring it and it slipped.’

‘Butterfingers.’ The other one tutted, as if it was all one huge joke. It obviously was to them. They obviously revelled in other people’s misery. Morons.

It’s like an omen, Emily intoned gloomily, exacerbating Ashley’s angry frustration further.

‘Shut up!’ she snapped out loud. The coppers looked surprised, and then contrite in turn, obviously thinking she meant them. Which was fine by Ashley.

‘I have some college work to do,’ she informed them coolly. ‘I’m going upstairs. Would you like to go up first and check Matthew’s not keeping a low profile under my bed?’ The last was added suitably acerbically before she swung around to stride out again. And you can make your own cup of tea. As far as Ashley was concerned, they could die of thirst while they waited.

Once on the landing, she tapped on Rebecca’s bedroom door. Mia wasn’t in the bath. Ashley didn’t think she would be. Becky usually bathed her at night. She was curled up on Becky’s bed instead, her back to Becky and tucked up tight to her tummy, almost as if Becky was trying to keep her safe from all this shit.

Not wanting to wake Mia, Ashley tiptoed across the room and carefully lowered herself to the edge of the bed. ‘Has she had her asthma meds?’ she asked, glancing at Becky and then … crap … realised she was crying. Her face was buried in Mia’s hair, her own hair entwined with Mia’s so that Ashley couldn’t tell which wild auburn hair belonged to which head, but Ashley could tell Becky was crying by the shake of her shoulders.

Ashley reached out. She would have hesitated to do that once. Reticent to trust anyone, after being abandoned by her mum and bullied at the care home, she’d taken to hiding her emotions. She trusted people now, those that she knew well enough. She trusted Matthew. He’d worked bloody hard to earn that trust too. He was a good bloke, decent to the core. Ashley just knew it.

‘It’ll be okay, Becky,’ she said, the words catching in her throat as she struggled to hold back her own tears.

Becky sniffed, and then took a deep breath and eased herself away from Mia. Wiping her cheeks as she sat up, she smiled, and nodded. Was there conviction in her smile? Ashley searched her eyes. She wasn’t sure. She so hoped so.

‘Was it him on the phone?’ Ashley asked quietly, knowing it had been.

Becky nodded again. ‘Hopefully he’ll call back on the mobile,’ she said, pressing her feet to the floor and pulling herself to standing. Literally, pulling herself up, Ashley knew. She’d seen her do that before, refusing to give into the freak, fighting him with every ounce of her strength, fighting for her, and for Matthew.

Please keep fighting, Becky, Ashley silently willed her, as Becky tucked the duvet lightly over Mia, before turning to look at her.

‘He’ll ring back,’ she said, sounding a little more confident than she had been since the first reporter had rung, breaking the news of the video to them. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on, Ashley, but we have to believe—’

Becky’s mobile vibrating on the bedside table cut her short. Ashley’s gaze flicked from it to Becky as she snatched it up. ‘Yes, it’s safe,’ she said, nodding at Ashley and then closing her eyes, as she turned her attention back to the phone.

Matthew. Immensely relieved, Ashley hesitated, and then headed for the door, closing it quietly behind her. She wanted to stay, but they’d need some privacy, she guessed. She did believe, though. She needed to tell Matthew that. He’d need to know. Meanwhile, she had to get hold of Jasmine. Because no matter what Jasmine had said, after her weird behaviour last night, absolutely no way did Ashley believe her.