58

My head felt like a spaghetti junction of intersecting, over- and underpassing streams of information, swirling like some rush-hour maelstrom. What I needed was to get out on the road, and pace it out, let the drum of my feet and the thrum of my heart pumping get some sense of rhythm, some order to it, get the streams of data moving in parallel, so I could see where they nudged up against each other, where the connections were. Overlay the emotional toll of the last week and it was like a fog had descended on the network and I was feeling my way on my hands and knees. No wonder frustration was eating away at me. I needed to run and as soon as I got home, I was going to indulge.

Running for me was a magic elixir that tuned out my conscious thoughts, but let the subconscious work in time with my footfalls. Rhythm, order, time. But I had to get home first. I wandered back to where my car was parked the long way around, seeing as a freight train had been so kind as to accidentally remove the pedestrian footbridge that everyone used to cross the shunting yards. I wasn’t stupid enough to play chicken with the trains to avoid a longer walk, unlike some idiots. I meandered along the path behind our gorgeous old railway station, reminiscent of a gigantic gingerbread house. It was frivolous and completely over the top and the thought of a city of dour Scottish Presbyterians creating a building of such frippery always made me smile. No wonder the tourists flocked to it. I strolled around, while having wistful dreams of a work parking space – like that would ever happen.

As I approached the car, I could see something stuck under the windscreen wiper. No one else had one, so I wondered how the hell I could get a parking ticket here. It was all-day, no time restrictions. I was pretty sure my warrant of fitness and registration were up to date, so surely it couldn’t be an instant fine for something as dumb as that.

I tugged the paper out and opened it up, wondering how much money I was going to get stung for this time.

You can’t hide from me you murdering bitch.

I swung around, my eyes rapid-fire jumping from car to car, across the railway lines, scanning the area for any sign of an observer. There was no one except a parcel-laden woman, ten cars down. My hands shook with the same rapidity as my heart and that swirling bilious feeling churned in my stomach. Jesus, this was too much. It was beyond someone’s stupid idea of a joke now. Had they followed me here? Or had they chanced across my car and decided to put the wind up me? Whatever way, it was working.

Something had to be done, but what? If I told Smithy or the guys, they’d be on at me for not reporting it earlier. Could I take care of it? I checked the ground, but there were no obvious footprints in the gravel and dust mix. I could fingerprint the wiper blades and maybe get lucky.

‘Jesus,’ I yelled out loud, as my cellphone rang and my heart rate jerked up even more. A searing pain shot through my head and throbbed in my temples, resonating with the heavy and rapid thuds of my heart. My chest constricted and, as I gasped for oxygen, I wondered if this was what it felt like if you were having a heart attack.

I fumbled the phone out of my pocket, flicked it open, saw who it was and managed a gulped ‘Paul?’ before shock and physiology caught up with me and I retched over the ground next to the tyre. I spat a few times before daring to turn my attention back to the call.

‘Sam? Sam? What’s going on? Are you alright? Sam? Answer me.’ I could hear Paul’s concerned voice well before I got my ear to the speaker.

‘Ugh, sorry, no, shit.’ Another spit. I leaned hard against the car, then changed my mind and crouched down on my haunches, head between my knees.

‘What’s happening? Where are you?’ he asked.

‘Sorry, I just got a fright, that’s all.’

‘That’s all? It sounded like you were throwing up. Are you okay?’

God, how much did I tell him? I didn’t want him charging in and trying to fix it all for me like some knight in shining armour, though part of me realised this had gotten way out of my control, and maybe it was time to call in some outside assistance. I took a shuddery breath and confessed.

‘I’ve had a little problem, and it just got beyond creepy.’

‘What do you mean?’

So I told him, about the first note I put under the windscreen of the crap-heap car, the response, the further notes and now this.

‘Sam, this is serious, someone is stalking you. Why didn’t you tell anyone earlier?’ Which was the question I knew everyone would ask. But how could I explain it? Initially, it seemed too silly to mention and, if I was really honest, perhaps I’d brought it upon myself, and therefore it was up to me to fix it.

‘I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.’ My voice sounded as feeble as the excuse.

‘But it is a big deal. You of all people should know that. These sorts of people are unstable. It might have started with a few nasty notes, but now, they’re following you, and it could escalate to assault, or worse. It has to be stopped.’

Paul’s words seemed to hammer away any remaining shreds of resistance. What with the crap I’d had from the boss, my grief and guilt at killing Cassie, anger at the whole bloody mess of this case, worry about Dad, tiptoeing around Mum and the gnawing ache of fear, I was spent. I couldn’t even reply.

‘Look, Sam,’ he said, tender but firm. ‘Let me go into this for you. I know you probably don’t want your work colleagues to get involved, I can understand that. I’m independent and can check this guy out. Let me do this. I’m rather too fond of you to let some little arsehole stalker make your life a misery or put you in danger.’

The tears warmed their way down my cheeks and then dropped, making little circular splashes in the dust at my feet. ‘Okay,’ I managed.