Pete Randall, the garage owner, arrived almost an hour later. When the doorbell rang, Molly’s heart leapt, hoping it was Jack. Her disappointment must have been obvious when she opened the door. ‘Have you changed your mind?’ Randall asked.
‘No, no sorry, I’ve lots to think about,’ she said, stepping back to let him in. ‘Thank you so much for doing this. I have the documentation you need, plus the keys.’
Randall looked through the paperwork carefully. ‘Okay. First thing tomorrow, I’ll head over and check it out. If everything is as you say, I’ll have the money transferred into your account.’ He took a document from his pocket. ‘I need you to sign this.’
Molly led the way into the living room. ‘Would you like some coffee while I read it?’ Never again was she going to sign something without examining every single word. Randall seemed to think it was normal. He declined the coffee, said nothing and stood with his hands in his jacket pockets watching as she read.
Finally, Molly took a pen and signed. ‘There you go,’ she said, handing it back. ‘And thank you again, you’ve got me out of a bit of a hole.’
Randall shrugged. ‘It happens,’ he said dismissively, as if it was an everyday occurrence. Maybe it was, Molly thought as she shut the front door. She never thought her life would go into such a spiral.
Easing herself back onto the sofa, she picked up her mobile. Still no word from Jack. She tried ringing him again, but once more it went to voicemail. There didn’t seem any point in leaving another message.
There were several messages. One was from her line manager in Dawson Marketing hoping she was recovering. He didn’t say outright but she knew he was wondering when she was returning to work. She sent a brief reply thanking him for his good wishes and saying she’d be off at least another week. They had a good working relationship; she’d make an appointment to see him when she went back and explain everything.
More heartening, there were messages from Freya and Remi. She read them, could almost hear the sound of their cheerful enthusiastic voices and yearned to have them nearby, at the same time relieved they were spared the trauma of the current situation. They would be horrified, appalled. They’d want to leave and come home to help. But they were entitled to a life full of hope and promise; she’d do anything… anything… to make sure they got it.
She sent them short cheery messages about how busy she was, how much she missed them, how happy she was that they were doing so well, and she threw the phone on the sofa beside her. Resting her head back, she shut her eyes. Where was Jack? He wouldn’t be able to use the credit cards to check into a hotel. Should she start ringing around their friends to ask if he was staying with them? Tears gathered and she rubbed them away roughly. It was not the time to cry, it was a time to plan her next step.
A painting over the fireplace caught her eye. It had been a fortieth birthday present from her to Jack. It was only right that she sold it to pay off some of their debts. Luckily, the value of art tended to go up rather than down; she’d spent a ridiculous sum on it, almost twenty grand, she might get more for it now. It would go towards paying off more of their debts. She’d give the gallery a call in the morning.
Pushing slowly up from the sofa, she headed to the kitchen. She needed to eat something, but the fridge didn’t hold anything tempting. Taking out the milk, she checked the date, relieved to see it was still okay. A bowl of cornflakes was better than nothing. Sitting back on the sofa, she ate slowly, her ears pricking between crunchy mouthfuls for the sound of the front door opening. Surely, he would come home.
A flicker of anger shot through her worried mind. He knew that someone had tried to kill her, that she’d been hurt. He should be with her, taking care of her. The sympathetic look in Fanshawe’s eyes came back to her. Did he really think Jack was capable of an attempt on her life? Gambling was an addiction, had it become more important than her? Suddenly there was a smidgeon of doubt in her mind, and that worried her even more.
She meant what she’d said to the police. Jack, the man she had married, wasn’t capable of hurting her. But this man, this gambler willing to risk everything, she wasn’t sure about him. They, each of them, had very healthy life insurance; the death of either would pay out over a million.
There had been a fanatical light in Jack’s eye when he’d said he wanted to go back down to the casino in the Hyde. Was that all it was about now, his next gambling fix? She gulped, and a shiver ran down her spine. From desperately wanting Jack to come home, she was suddenly aware she was scared he would. Anger surged through her. Fanshawe had told her to stay indoors where she’d be safe – if he really suspected Jack was guilty, she wasn’t safe there at all. Her mind whirled. Did that mean he didn’t really suspect him?
‘Aaargh,’ she said, the bowl dropping from her hand to bounce from the sofa to the floor in a messy stream of milk-sodden cornflakes. She no longer knew what to think. Fanshawe had been adamant that she put the safety chain on the door, maybe that was a hint that she should keep Jack out? But if she were in danger, shouldn’t he have suggested she go somewhere safer? Perhaps, that’s what she should do, go and stay with one of her friends. Her brain was whirling, she couldn’t make a decision, not even to save her life.
She remembered she hadn’t put the safety chain back on, and choked back a half laugh, half cry as she struggled to her feet. The aches and pains were making themselves felt with a vengeance, forcing her to hobble and slide a hand along the wall in the hallway for support. She was halfway to the front door when, without warning, it opened. She squealed in fright, stumbled backwards and would have fallen if she hadn’t caught hold of the banisters, clutching at them frantically.
‘Jack?’
But it wasn’t her husband who pushed open the door.