Outside the bank the rain still fell, heavier now, a deluge that pounded Molly’s head and ran down her set face, rivulets running down her neck to slip under the collar of her coat and soak into her shirt. Passers-by glanced at her from under their umbrellas or as they ducked under the shelter of storefronts, but nobody stopped to ask if she was okay as she walked robotically, arms rigid by her sides, feet heedlessly splashing through puddles, kitten heels slipping and sliding so that she jerked from side to side.
She should have felt pain but all she felt was numb… too numb, too shocked for thought, her feet automatically taking her back to the station. On the busy, noisy platform, waiting for her tube, her brain swirled, trying to make sense of everything. It took a few seconds before she realised her phone was vibrating. Hoping it was Jack, she took it out, her eyes widening when she saw it was DI Fanshawe.
‘Hi,’ she said, holding the phone to her ear. She tried to shut out some of the noise that surrounded her by pressing her free hand against the other ear. Unfortunately, being deep on an Underground platform meant the signal was poor anyway and being jostled by impatient commuters didn’t help.
‘Hi, it’s DI Fan… I just… to… that we’ve…’
‘Inspector, I’m in the Underground, I’m losing you.’
‘We’ll call… this aft…’
She pressed the phone more tightly to her ear, knowing it wasn’t going to make any difference. ‘Did you say you’re coming to see me this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I’ll fill…’
The line went dead. When he didn’t phone back, she sent a short text to say she’d see him that afternoon. Maybe he had some news for her. She couldn’t rustle up any interest. If it weren’t for Freya and Remi, she didn’t think she’d care that someone was trying to kill her. The numbness and the soul-destroying emptiness lasted until she was almost home. She walked down Elystan Street and stood outside their house for several minutes. It was a lovely house, on a beautiful street. Anger broke through the numbness, rushing up, white hot. She gripped the gate as it doubled her over, a scream of rage and frustration erupting, the sound lost in the growl of traffic behind her.
Anger was quickly overlaid by sorrow. She didn’t want to lose her home. It was brimful of memories. Jack had proposed to her in the kitchen. In the garden that stretched behind, they had made love, had moonlight drinks and daytime picnics. Freya and Remi had taken their first stumbling steps in the living room, she and Jack on their knees cheering them on. Jack had put together a climbing frame in the garden for the children and Molly had sat on a rug on the grass and watched them, Jack taking photo after photo, she laughing at their antics, her heart swelling with love for all three.
Molly had danced around the kitchen with Freya when she’d been accepted to the Sorbonne, remembered running up the stairs with Remi’s letter from MIT, waiting while he’d opened it before gathering him into a hug where tears of happiness mingled on their cheeks.
It had been a home filled with love and laughter, a home fit for the perfect life she thought she’d been living.
She opened the front door, the beep-beep of the alarm telling her that Jack wasn’t home. Where was he? Fear settled in her chest. He’d probably guess that the hotel would contact her, so he’d know she knew the full extent of the trouble he was in. He’d be feeling guilty, maybe even desperate. She took out her mobile and left him a voicemail. ‘I know everything, Jack. Ring me, we need to talk.’ She added, ‘I love you. We can get through this.’ In case he was ignoring voice messages, she quickly sent a text.
She stood looking at it for a minute, willing Jack to reply. Then, with a grunt of frustration, she peeled off her wet coat and hung it over the newel post, kicked off her water-stained muddy kitten heels and padded into the kitchen leaving wet footprints behind her on the wooden floor.
The collar of her shirt and bottom of her trousers were wet through but she ignored both, lowering herself onto the sofa and looking around the room. She would have to sell some stuff. The car. They’d paid cash for the BMW, using both their Christmas bonuses and some of their savings over a year ago to buy it. The mileage was very low, she might get 30K for it and be able to pay off the arrears and reduce some of the credit card debt. She shut her eyes, remembering she’d yet to arrange to get the car back.
She considered what else she could do. There was some jewellery she could sell. Her eyes dropped to her diamond engagement ring. That too would go. Whatever it took to keep the house from being repossessed. They could manage the three grand a month repayment on the mortgage, if they cut back on everything. No more weekends away in expensive hotels, no more five-star holidays. No more designer clothes.
If Jack lost his job? She still had no idea what that was all about. She wasn’t a fool, it had to be linked to his gambling. If it were, if he lost his job, then it would be a struggle. She could almost cover the mortgage with what she took home, but it left nothing for bills, food. She really needed to talk to Jack. Picking up her phone, she checked for messages before ringing him. As before, it went straight to answerphone.
With a grunt of frustration, she dropped it onto the table and swung her legs up onto the sofa. The stress, the pain, everything was wearing her down. She was exhausted. Closing her eyes, she fell into a restless sleep where burly men broke down her door shouting that they owned the house.
It was the doorbell that woke her, and panic shot through her until common sense kicked in. Burly bailiffs wouldn’t be calling quite yet. Checking the time, she realised she’d slept for a while. It was four, the doorbell was probably the police. She pushed up from off the sofa and walked into the hallway like a decrepit old woman; although the pain wasn’t as severe, every part of her continued to ache. But she’d suffer the pain, she needed her wits about her.
The doorbell rang again, the sound resonating as her hand reached for the knob. She turned it and pulled the door open. As she guessed, it was DI Fanshawe and his less-than-welcome sergeant. Standing back, she waved them inside. ‘Go straight through,’ she said, shutting the door.
They stood watching her as she made her way back. She was trying her best to move normally, but knew she was failing dismally when she saw Fanshawe’s eyes narrow.
‘You look dreadful,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
She lowered herself back onto the sofa. ‘I’m fine, honestly. The painkillers they recommended make me woozy, so I haven’t been taking them.’
‘Is your husband here?’ he asked.
With a slight smile, she shook her head. The question he wanted to ask, she knew, was why her husband wasn’t there to look after her. She could have told him, and if he had been there alone, she might have done. He might have been able to advise her on what to do. It was tempting, and she was about to blurt it all out when she caught Carstairs’ mean eyes looking at her. No, she’d given them enough ammunition to think badly of her, she wasn’t going to give them more to think the same of Jack. ‘He’ll be home soon,’ she said instead. ‘Please, if you want something to drink, help yourselves.’
‘We’re fine,’ Fanshawe said, taking the seat opposite her. Carstairs, meanwhile, stayed standing, leaning a shoulder against the wall. His eyes never left her, she could feel them boring into her. She had to keep reminding herself that she was the victim.
‘Have you news for me?’
Fanshawe shook his head slowly. ‘The investigation is ongoing. Lucien Pleasant, like most people who use blackmail as a means of extorting money, kept a low profile, but he wouldn’t have been invisible. We’re working our way through his contacts. We’ll find something, eventually.’
Molly gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’re no closer to knowing why someone tried to kill me.’ For a change there was no sneering grin on Carstairs’ lips. ‘Tell me,’ she said, looking straight at Fanshawe. ‘Do you still think the person who killed Pleasant, is the same person who tried to push me under a car?’
Fanshawe shrugged. ‘So far, we’ve not turned up any links between you, or to anyone you have in common.’
‘But you do still think there’s a link.’
It looked as if he wasn’t going to reply and then he rested his elbows on his knees and leaned towards her. ‘You meet Pleasant. A day later he turns up on your doorstep. The next day he is murdered and two days later, someone tries to kill you. So yes, bizarre as it is, I think there’s a connection. But as yet, we’ve no idea what that could be. We’re still checking a number of people. Stuart Mercer, who you were heading to meet the day you were knocked down, and your husband, of course.’
‘You’re checking out Jack? Why? Jack would never harm me.’ She saw Fanshawe exchange glances with Carstairs. ‘What is it you’re not telling me?’
The inspector sat back and tapped his index finger on the arm of the chair. Then, as if making a decision, he leaned forward again. ‘We are aware that Mr Chatwell has been suspended. The CEO was cagey as to why, but we are aware of your husband’s gambling problem.’ His eyes softened. ‘We’ve no proof, but we assume the two are linked.’
There was a question in his words. Molly wished she knew the answer. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, turning to glare at Carstairs who’d given a grunt of disbelief. ‘I didn’t know Jack was suspended until yesterday; I didn’t know about his gambling and certainly didn’t know the extent of it…’ She broke off, aware she was telling the police what they wanted to know.
‘The extent of it?’ Fanshawe prompted. ‘And what is that?’
Her eyes watered as she stared at him. What did it matter now? It was all going to come out. A great big unholy mess. ‘The credit cards are maxed out. We owe about 40K on those and he has remortgaged the house for a quarter of a million. He hasn’t paid the last couple of months so we’ve arrears of 6K.’
‘And you didn’t know?’
She shook her head, then held her hands up. ‘Oh, don’t worry, he didn’t forge the documents. He was too clever, and I was too stupid. I signed them thinking they were something else.’
‘Do you have life insurance?’ Carstairs’ cold, gravelly voice startled her. She’d almost succeeded in forgetting he was there.
‘Of course,’ she said, then shook her head vehemently as she turned to look at him. ‘No, no you’re not going down that road. There’s no way Jack would have tried to kill me. That’s ridiculous. That’s not the kind of people we are.’ She turned back to Fanshawe, still shaking her head. ‘You don’t really think he’s involved, do you?’ She couldn’t read his expression and, stretching a hand towards him, she repeated, ‘Do you?’
He looked down at her hand before saying slowly, ‘We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t look at every angle.’
It was a politician’s answer. Molly felt a solid lump of fear lodge in her throat. ‘That’s crazy,’ she said, her voice trembling. Meeting the detective’s eyes, she saw doubt in them, and something else, sympathy. ‘Jack loves me, he’d never harm me.’ She refused to lower her eyes. Despite his gambling, despite his drunken behaviour the previous night, she knew the man she married would never hurt her. Or was she fooling herself? After all, she’d been doing a lot of that recently.
‘We’re keeping every avenue of investigation open,’ Fanshawe said. ‘We would like to speak to Mr Chatwell, however. Do you know where we could find him?’
Molly wanted to say yes, wanted to say, he’d be home any minute. But they were the police; lying to them would achieve nothing. ‘I haven’t seen him since last night. In the hotel. The Hyde Hotel. But he’s left there now.’
‘You said he’d be home soon,’ Carstairs replied.
‘Well, I lied,’ she snapped at him. ‘I don’t know where he is. He left the hotel early this morning–’
‘Without paying his bill?’ Fanshawe interrupted.
‘Without paying his bill,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘A seven-thousand-pound bill, if you want the gory details. I have until noon tomorrow to find a way to pay that, or they’ll be forced to act. By that’ – she gave a grim smile – ‘they mean bring in you lot. Our credit cards are maxed out, so I’m really not sure what I can do.’
‘I know the manager of the Hyde Hotel,’ Fanshawe said, surprising her. ‘Harriet Summers. She’s a reasonable woman, I’ll have a word with her, tell her you need a bit more time.’
That would be one thing off her mind. ‘Thank you,’ Molly said, genuinely grateful. ‘I’m going to sell the car, it’ll bring in enough cash to sort out a few things including the hotel, but I have to organise getting it back first. It’s in Wandsworth pound.’ She held a hand up. ‘Don’t ask!’ He’d hear the story from Harriet, she’d no doubt, but she didn’t want to have to tell them and see Carstairs sneering at her stupidity.
‘If you’re going to sell it to a garage,’ Fanshawe said, ‘do a deal with them, get them to pick it up themselves.’
‘Good idea, thank you, I’ll do that.’ That would make things easier; she could ring the BMW dealership where they’d bought it and get that process started. The sooner she had money to pay off some of the debts, the happier she’d feel. Happier? At least she was still able to kid herself.
Fanshawe looked at Carstairs and tilted his head slightly towards the door.
Molly’s heart fell as they stood. Despite the obnoxious Carstairs, she found their presence reassuring. When they left, she’d be alone, and she had no idea where Jack was or when he’d come home. Trying to keep the fear from her voice, she said, ‘Until you find whoever it is, I’m still in danger, aren’t I?’
Fanshawe looked down at her. ‘When I rang you earlier, it sounded like you were in the Underground, Mrs Chatwell. We did, if you remember, suggest that you stay indoors. Obviously, you didn’t take heed, so I’ll say it again, until we find out what is going on… and we will… stay inside where you are safe.’ He jabbed a thumb towards the hallway. ‘And please, put the chain on the door and check who it is before you open it.’
Molly struggled to her feet and walked to the front door after them.
Fanshawe rattled the chain. ‘Put it on as soon as we leave,’ he said. ‘Be careful. You have my number, ring me if there’s any problem and when you hear from Mr Chatwell, persuade him to contact me, okay?’
She nodded because it seemed the thing to do.
After they’d gone, she rang the garage where they’d bought the BMW and asked to speak to the manager.
Ten minutes later she hung up. She’d got less than she’d expected, but he’d offered to check the car over at the pound and if everything was as promised, have the money transferred immediately, so she wasn’t going to complain. She took the car key off her set of keys, found the spare, got the paperwork he’d need to take the car from the pound and left everything on the hall table. He said he’d be over in forty minutes to pick everything up. The pound closed at five so it would be the morning before he’d be able to access it.
The twenty-five thousand he’d offered for the car would pay the money owing to the hotel, the arrears on their mortgage, plus the next month’s payment and a couple of thousand off each credit card. It would give her breathing space.
Now all she needed to do was find Jack.