It was only Alice’s lack of a proper meal all day that ensured she finished the barbecue chicken dish. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was, but it had done little to satisfy her appetite.
Who the hell did Liam O’Neill think he was to be harassing her at odd times and places, making accusations against Ben but not following them up with anything resembling proof? It was like he’d mixed up her Ben with some other Ben Goodman. Ultimately, if he was as bad as Liam made out, why wasn’t he still in police custody?
He was trying to drive her insane; that was the only reasonable conclusion she could draw. Clearly, there was bad blood between Liam and Ben, though she couldn’t even begin to fathom what that might be. She wanted to phone Ben and ask him why Liam O’Neill was making such accusations, but something was holding her back.
Watch your back – Ben won’t like it if he finds out you’re digging into his past. And we both know what he’s capable of when he’s not happy.
Had Liam meant it to sound so sinister? In Alice’s experience, when Ben wasn’t happy about something he tended to vent his anger verbally, usually with a side order of Scotch. He’d never been violent, certainly not towards her, and Liam’s warning felt like just another feeble attempt to push a divide between them.
The question was why.
Checking her phone, she was disappointed to see Ben had yet to message her again, which meant he still wasn’t on his way home. Dropping cash on the table, she picked up her handbag and left the dining area, heading back through the bar and out into the warm night air. Although the sky was still quite bright, the treeline at the edge of the road was much darker now, and it would probably be less than half an hour until sunset.
The car park had more spaces as she made her way past it in the direction of home, but once again she couldn’t escape the unease of someone watching her. Circling around, she returned to the doorway of the pub, looking left and right, searching for anyone who looked out of place or was paying her undue attention, but the street was empty.
The lamppost across the street flickered to life, brightening the treeline, but there was nobody there. She was being paranoid, that’s all it was. It had to be a result of the stress she was under. She closed her eyes, took two sharp breaths and forged forwards, determined not to allow her paranoia to get the better of her.
The gates of her home came into view, and with them momentary relief. As she neared the gates though, she immediately noticed a small packet crudely stuck to the locking mechanism. Hurrying towards it, she saw it was a yellow envelope with her name scrawled on it. The envelope came away from the gate with a tug, having been taped in place. Looking around for any sign of who may have left it there, she suddenly felt vulnerable.
If it was a late wedding card, why hadn’t they put it in the letterbox at the side of the gate? Why use tape to attach it to the gate directly?
A twig snapped from somewhere in the trees across the road, and suddenly she desperately wanted to be in the safety of the house. Using her remote, she opened and closed the gate before sprinting up the driveway, not daring to look back in case some stranger was following her. As she crashed into the front door, panting, she finally dared to turn around.
The driveway was empty.
Once inside, she locked the front door just to be safe, leaving her key in the lock. Heading through to the kitchen, she flicked on the light and tore at the envelope. Inside she found an A5 piece of paper with Ben’s face on it. It was a crude photocopied image of a much younger looking Ben. His hair was longer, his cheeks lacked the designer stubble he now wore, and there was a hardness to the eyes she’d not seen before, even at his most angry. Next to the front-facing image was a sideways profile, showing his hair hanging over most of his ear.
A police profile picture of Ben – a mugshot – but it had to be at least a decade old. Turning the image over, she gasped as her eyes fell on the typed message on the back.
Dear Alice,
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Your husband’s a killer,
And you haven’t got a clue.
The message wasn’t signed, and because it was typed there was no way to be certain of who had sent it. Given the run-in she’d had with Liam O’Neill at the pub though, she assumed it must have been left by him, to toy with her emotions even more.
She still couldn’t understand what was motivating him. Also, why would he leave the note on the gate when he knew she was in the pub? He could have just as easily handed her the mugshot. It wasn’t exactly news; Ben had told her he’d had trouble with the police before and had admitted to her there was a reason they had his DNA profile on record. So what did Liam hope to achieve by sending her this picture?
There was an alternative conclusion that she was desperately trying to ignore: what if someone else had left the envelope?
A shiver rippled down her back as she pictured a faceless character in the shadows, watching as she’d left the house, making his move and then creeping back to wait and watch.
Panic flowed through her at a second thought: if he had been watching her out there, did that mean he was still nearby? Before she could begin to dismiss the panic rising in her throat, a loud thumping echoed off the front door.