Stalked By Shadows Read online

  Tearing herself away from the window, Lucy returned to her sofa-bound vigil. The TV was playing a programme about enormously overweight people being winched out of their homes. The next thing she knew it was after eleven and the water bottle was empty, her head and neck aching from the tension. She climbed the stairs, brushed her teeth and lay down on the bed fully clothed, feeling too vulnerable to undress. Instead she lay on top of the bed, in the foetal position, biting on a thumbnail, listening and waiting, her ears straining to catch the slightest sound; the occasional car going past, local teenagers coming home from an evening out, the volume of their footsteps and voices increasing before dying away, with the distant slamming of doors. The wind howled around the house, bowling over a milk bottle with a clatter, and Lucy heard it roll away down the drive. She should go and retrieve it, but it would mean going outside, and the prospect petrified her.

  PC Solomon had decided to take action. Scrabbling up the flimsy planks of the gate, he had managed to get a toehold for his size-thirteen boot on the narrow lock mechanism.

  Things started to go downhill when he swung his left leg over the top, catching his thigh on a protruding nail, ripping a hole in his trousers and gouging his flesh in the process. But now he was, at least, no longer alone. First off he’d found Nina Silvero. After landing hard on the block-paved patio, his trouser leg flapping, he’d walked round to the kitchen window and peered in. It was what the DIY stores always described as a farmhouse kitchen, pretty big, with ornate pine cupboards and a wooden table in the middle. Among other things on the table was a bottle of wine and a single glass, but no sign of -

  It was then that he glanced down to the floor and saw the foot sticking out from behind one of the chairs. It was attached to a leg, Nina Silvero’s leg, it seemed reasonable to assume. And it was lying very still. Solomon took off his jacket, wound it around his fist for protection and moved towards the window.

  At midnight Lucy started as her mobile trilled on the nightstand beside her.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’ She had to stifle a sob of relief.

  This time the background noise was chatter and tinny music. Will was in a bar or a club, female voices close by. ‘I tried the land line,’ he said, ‘couldn’t get through.’

  ‘I unplugged it. I had another call.’ She couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice.

  Will’s voice remained level. ‘OK, stay calm. What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing; that’s the point, it’s just that horrible noise.’ She wanted him to say that he would drive home right now and take care of her, but it wasn’t Will’s style.

  ‘Come on, honey. It’s just kids, fooling around. Don’t let it get to you.’ He wasn’t taking her seriously.

  ‘Perhaps I should go to the police.’ The idea had come to her suddenly.

  ‘And tell them what? That you’ve had a couple of crazy phone calls?’

  ‘It’s more than a couple, and someone’s following me.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  Was she?

  ‘Well, I can’t be absolutely certain, but -’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little? What can the police do anyway? I mean you haven’t actually seen anyone following you, have you? You’re tired, honey; you’ll feel better in the morning.’

  ‘Yes.’ And how would you know? A woman, or perhaps a girl, giggled very close to him. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘In some bar.’ He was vague. ‘We’re having a bite before we get back to the hotel. It was a terrific gig tonight. Listen, you try to get some sleep, huh, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. Safe journey.’

  ‘Sure. ’Night, babe.’

  The woman’s voice cut in even before he’d switched off his phone. Lucy didn’t like to speculate about who she might be. And she could have been mistaken, but she was sure what the woman said was ‘Kiss me, baby’. Maybe she wasn’t talking to Will. There were others there; must be. But now a different unease began to nibble at Lucy.

  Normally after a gig, Will went straight back to his hotel. Socialising with the band was a recent phenomenon. She glanced down at the white-gold ring on her finger. It had been there for six months now. Was the novelty wearing off already? Before they married, Lucy had been convinced that Will would quickly get bored with her and find someone else more glamorous. But not now - would he? What was happening to her? The last couple of weeks she had begun to doubt everything, even her own sanity.

  Lying back on the bed, she recommenced her auditory vigil. Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, she heard the whirring thrum of the milkman’s float and the clink of milk bottles and only then did she feel safe enough to allow herself to drop off to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mariner couldn’t remember how he’d got into this mess, but he knew for sure that he had to get out. Running across a muddy field in the half light, the gunman was gaining on him, but his feet kept sinking into the soft and boggy ground, hampering his progress, and in his panic to get away he slipped, stumbled and fell. When he tried to get up again his foot was stuck, sucked under by thick mud. His pursuer was getting closer. With a gargantuan effort Mariner yanked his foot free. There was a loud squeal followed by a thump, and he woke up to morning brightness in an unfamiliar room and an oversized tabby blinking accusingly at him from the floor, its back aggressively arched. There was a gurgling from behind him, like water going down a plughole and Mariner turned to see the gentle rise and fall of a lumpy outline beneath the duvet, blonde bob fanned out on the pillow. Stephanie; was that her name? Christ, he couldn’t even be sure of that.

  He looked at his watch, the only thing he was still wearing; nearly quarter to eight. Simultaneously he remembered where he was, on the wrong side of the city, in yesterday’s clothes with no shaving kit, and a nine o’clock appointment at Lloyd House. Scrambling out of bed, Mariner gathered his clothes and pulled them on. Stephanie didn’t even stir. Should he be a gent and make her a drink before he left? He decided not. She was dead to the world, so it would be a waste of time he didn’t have. He ripped a page out of his pocketbook and began scribbling an apologetic note. He paused, pen poised; leave a number, or don’t leave a number? Only a split second to choose the latter, he left the note by the bed and hurried down the stairs and into his car, no doubt breaking all the codes of etiquette as he went.

  As Mariner nosed his car into the traffic oozing on to the Aston Expressway towards Birmingham city centre, the usual creeping sense of shame came over him. Although it wasn’t exactly the first time, this wasn’t something he made a habit of, and now the guilt kicked in; guilt for taking what was on offer without making much effort with the pleasantries, guilt for sneaking out afterwards without even saying goodbye or thanks, and for feeling relieved to do it, so avoiding the usual pointless small talk. He couldn’t imagine that he and Stephanie would have had anything much to discuss over the Fair Trade. Their only genuine shared interest twelve hours ago had been the mutual, and on Mariner’s part fairly urgent, desire to get laid.

  After a day-long meeting in the north of the city, she’d waited on him in the pub restaurant where he’d had dinner, and her easy smile had been an antidote to the tedium of the day. He must have been giving off signals because she’d flirted outrageously with him and he’d played along, not sure how far it would go, until she’d told him she finished at half-ten, if he could wait that long. Knowing that Millie was staying with Kat overnight,

  Mariner had, for once, been tempted and had waited, nursing a coke in the bar. She was all over him in the car, before suggesting they go back to her place. On the three-mile drive her hand stayed in his lap, and she’d taken him straight up to the bedroom of her neat semi. Once there she’d slowed the pace. It had been good. Just thinking about it tugged pleasantly at his groin.

  And finally, even after all this time, Mariner was plagued by the dual and entirely irrational guilt brought on by perceived disloyalty and inf
idelity. These last two were groundless, deep down he knew that, but somehow it was masochistically comforting to continue believing in their existence. He allowed his thoughts to wander as far as what Anna might be doing now. Waking up in bed beside her new partner, she may even be getting a little early-morning action of her own, he thought miserably, and the dull ache that had for so many weeks been resident just under his diaphragm returned. Last night’s diversion was exactly like the last time - great while it lasted but afterwards it felt like shit.

  Letting himself back into his small canalside home, Mariner was greeted by the warm smell of frying bacon. Kat was in the kitchen, prodding at the pan on the cooker. ‘Hello,’ she greeted him brightly, with not a hint of reproach. Had she put two and two together? ‘You like some breakfast?’

  ‘No time,’ Mariner called from halfway up the stairs, wanting to avoid that conversation until he was ready for it. ‘I’ll get something at the station.’

  Ten minutes later he was back down again, showered and changed, and Kat was at the table poised to tuck into the full English. It made Mariner feel slightly queasy. It was a mystery how she got away with it, although at twenty she did, of course, have age on her side. She’d been staying with him for six months now, and had succumbed to all the worst of the British junk-food habits. Her diet was far removed from the one she’d been used to in her native Albania, yet she remained as skinny as a rake. ‘You have a good meeting yesterday?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, it was the usual thing,’ Mariner said.

  ‘It finish late.’ She was all innocent observation. ‘You find a woman?’ She could be disarmingly direct.

  Mariner’s face flamed. ‘It wasn’t -’ Like that? But that’s exactly how it was. He gave up.

  ‘Is a good thing,’ she said brightly. ‘You should meet a nice woman.’ When Mariner didn’t respond her hand shot guiltily to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. Is not my business.’

  ‘That’s OK. I know what you meant. Where’s Millie?’ Mariner thought his DC, who had quickly also become Kat’s friend and chaperone, would have appeared by now, but perhaps she’d already gone.

  Kat shrugged. ‘She can’t come. I think her family . . .’ She trailed off vaguely.

  ‘So you were here on your own all night?’ Mariner was mortified.

  ‘Is OK. I watch TV and go to bed.’ No big deal, she was saying.

  Mariner studied her expression for the brave face she must be faking, but slightly to his disappointment she looked genuinely unfazed. ‘I’ll get home early tonight,’ he said. ‘Get in a couple of films.’

  She shrugged again. ‘OK.’

  ‘OK.’ Now Mariner was the one disconcerted. She’d come a long way from the terrified young woman he’d first encountered cowering in a filthy room during a raid on a brothel.

  Mariner had been well aware of the raised eyebrows when he’d offered to accommodate Kat, and he knew that the common consensus was that sharing his house with the stunningly attractive twenty-year-old would only lead to one inevitable conclusion, especially when he and Anna had so recently split up. It was only meant to be a temporary arrangement, a few days at most, and with DC Millie Khatoon in close attendance. But, as the days had stretched to weeks, Millie had succumbed to family demands, and the station gossips had also been proven wrong. One day Kat might feel strong enough to make contact again with her natural parents back home in Albania but, until then, it seemed to Mariner that morally the only role open to him was to protect her.

  Waking a little later, her eyes sticky and head muzzy, after the couple of hours of fitful dozing that these days passed as sleep, Lucy had come to a decision. She couldn’t go on like this; she had to do something about it. The pounding water of the shower cleared her head and strengthened her resolve. Now was the time to do it. If she waited until Will came back he’d talk her out of it by telling her it was probably her imagination. Walking back into the bedroom, she glanced at the photo on her bedside table, the classic wedding picture, the happy couple arm in arm. She was glad she’d held out for formal dress, it had made the day all the more special, and Will hadn’t resisted. He looked so stunningly handsome in his morning suit that it brought a lump to her throat; his dark skin, that Cherokee blood that he was so fond of talking about, offset by the pale grey of the suit.

  ‘Whatever makes you happy,’ he had said. That was a phrase she hadn’t heard much lately.

  By nine forty-five on Tuesday morning, Mariner was buttoning his shirt for the third time, this time in the clinical conditions of a consulting room, at the close of his annual routine medical; height, weight, blood pressure and the usual questions about diet and exercise which Mariner could, as always, answer truthfully with impunity. He’d just about made it on time.

  ‘Getting much exercise?’ Saunders asked.

  Mariner side-stepped the obvious. ‘Let me think . . . Last Sunday I climbed the Wrekin, the week before that walked fifteen miles of the North Worcestershire Way, and the week before that: the Malverns, end to end.’ It had taken courage, that last one, standing at British Camp and looking out south-west towards the Black Mountains, knowing she was out there somewhere, but he’d made himself do it; all part of the healing process.

  ‘That sounds a bit excessive to me,’ commented Saunders. ‘You running away from something?’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d qualified in psychology too.’

  ‘It’s an obvious question.’

  Mariner remembered his dream. ‘No, I’m not running away.’ Staying away perhaps. After what Kat had been through, the last thing Mariner wanted to do was parade his own love life in front of her, which is why, he told himself, until last night he hadn’t really had one.

  ‘And how’s the sex life?’ Saunders asked, with uncanny insight.

  The man was a mind reader, too. Mariner felt heat rise from his throat. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’ Saunders grinned. ‘But it gives me and the wife something to talk about over dinner. You’d be amazed at how many people happily spill everything.’

  ‘So what’s the verdict?’ Mariner asked, fully dressed.

  ‘Bastards like you give the police a bad name. You’re obscenely fit and healthy; at six one and eleven and a half stone your BMI is a bit on the low side if anything. How many of us would love to be able to say that?’ Saunders himself was a squat ex-rugby player, who, since giving up the sport, had developed a significant paunch. ‘You’re eating properly?’

  Mariner shrugged at the question. ‘I eat when I need to eat.’ Food wasn’t something that interested him greatly and he could never understand the excitement it generated.

  ‘Christ, you’re not even losing your hair,’ Saunders said irritably, running a hand over his own thinning pate. ‘Well, you might want to consider upping your alcohol units or dipping into recreational drugs now and then. Oh, and get yourself a woman. Seriously, married men live longer.’

  Christ, not someone else, too. ‘Thanks.’

  The eye test was a different matter. Stephanie had been right in her assessment and Mariner needed glasses, for reading anyway.

  ‘Your age,’ the optician told him. ‘Most people in their late forties succumb in the end.’

  Mariner took the prescription to the nearest of the force-approved opticians where the choice of frames was overwhelming.

  ‘You might want to bring your wife in,’ suggested the dispensing optician, presenting him with yet another set almost identical to the previous three he’d tried.

  In the end Mariner settled on a mid-range pair, lightweight and flexible, that seemed to him to look OK.

  Mariner had parked his car next to the Mailbox, and from the opticians walked back through the busy shopping centre, down Corporation Street and across New Street. Despite the current economic crisis, people still seemed to have enough money to spend and he had to dodge the shoppers on the pavements. Suddenly among the bobbing heads in front of him, familiarity captured his attenti
on; close-cropped reddish-brown hair, a slight figure with a spring in her step. Mariner launched himself forward through the crowd and grasped her arm, a little more enthusiastically than he’d intended. ‘Anna?’

  The woman spun round, alarm on her pale face, her features giving away immediately that the hair colour wasn’t natural for her age. Mariner backed off as if he’d suddenly realised that she was carrying a contagious disease. ‘I’m sorry. My mistake,’ he stuttered. ‘I thought you were -’ Now he felt foolish, and it wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks that he’d made that same error of judgement. How many times had he thought he’d seen her? He should keep a tally. Just as well he’d had his eyes tested. Mariner was aware that he spent more time than was healthy wondering what Anna might be doing, but couldn’t help himself. All very well for Saunders, advising him to get himself a woman; he’d had one once but let her go.

  Driving south out of the city towards Granville Lane, the traffic all seemed to be going the other way, the roads pretty clear until Mariner hit the usual bottle-neck at Selly Oak. As he sat idling he became aware of a faint buzzing in the background, like a bluebottle trapped behind a window, and suddenly realised that it must be his personal mobile. Since Anna had left, he’d hardly used it, everyone else called him on his work phone, so the sound was unfamiliar. Checking that the traffic ahead was stationary, Mariner applied the handbrake and fished the phone out of his jacket pocket. Someone had sent him a text. The only other person who had this number was Kat, for emergencies, though since her first uncertain weeks she’d never used it. So what could have happened in this short time? But when he looked, the text wasn’t from Kat.