Come A Little Closer Page 2

  There are at least ten texts, and I know who they are all from. I glance at the first one and I don’t want to look at any more. The language is foul and I almost gasp at the vitriol. My eyes flood with tears. I realise I’ve been a fool, but I met Ian when I was at a low point in my life. Pops was ill, my dad was refusing to speak to me, and I was about to move to a new city where I knew no one.

  Now it seems Ian is hell-bent on destroying me.

  3

  The two women sat at either end of a small pine table, both staring at the bowls of soup in front of them. As if by some unspoken command, they picked up their spoons at the same time and slowly started to scoop the dark brown liquid into their mouths.

  A single low-wattage bulb dangled above them, creating a pool of light in the centre of the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. The only sound was the clink of metal spoons on earthenware bowls.

  For a few moments neither of them spoke.

  ‘She’s gone, then,’ the younger of the two finally said, pushing her straggly hair behind her ears. The other one grunted in agreement and carried on eating. ‘She was ready, I think.’

  Another grunt was all she got by way of response. The woman opposite was next in line. She had been there the longest, and was preparing herself for the day when she would leave, when her time and her usefulness were done.

  ‘At least we get a break now,’ the young woman said, trying once more to start a conversation.

  There was no answer, but slowly the other woman lifted hollow eyes to look at her.

  ‘I’m ready to go,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t want to wait any longer.’

  They rarely spoke. At times they weren’t allowed to, but when they were down here, alone, they could – if they wanted to. Usually they were too tired, too lethargic, and there was always so much to do.

  The young woman felt as if every bone in her body had turned to jelly. It was hard to find the strength to get through the day, and she had to force herself to get out of bed each morning.

  In spite of the listlessness that she seemed unable to shake, she still sometimes tried to fight against what was happening to her. But as she kept being told, she was safe here. She was fed, warm and only had to do the tasks she was set each day to pay for her keep. The alternative was far, far worse.

  But then there was the other question. How long could it last? How long before she went the way of the woman who had left two, or was it three, days earlier? That one had barely spoken a word to either of them for weeks, and had seemed relieved when her moment of release came.

  ‘I think someone else must be coming to join us,’ the older woman said, her voice flat, expressionless.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘It’s always the same. One out, one in.’

  Somewhere in the back of the younger woman’s mind, that didn’t make sense. But she couldn’t quite figure out why it felt wrong. It was too complicated, and it didn’t matter really. It didn’t change anything.

  Finally they both pushed back their chairs and walked to the sink, deep in the shadows of the kitchen. It didn’t matter that they could barely see there. They knew their way around in the dark. It was the same, night and day. Without another word, one rinsed the dishes, the other dried and put them away.

  The young woman didn’t want to go to bed, even though she was exhausted. Sometimes the dreams came: vivid, gaudy images that frightened her with the stories they told. Other times the sensations assaulted her when she was awake – leaving her feeling out of control, disconnected from her body. But the hours of sleep were the worst. The dreams were so clear – so graphic and colourful – and when she woke it was hard to convince herself that nothing she had experienced was real.

  Maybe the dreams were better than the memories, which seemed hazy, fuzzy, as if she couldn’t quite grasp them. Mostly she didn’t want to because they just served to remind her of everything she had lost.

  Her thoughts started to fall away before they had concluded – she couldn’t keep hold of them. Her head was swimming, and if she didn’t go to bed soon she would drift off, standing in the corner of the kitchen.

  The other woman stood motionless by the sink, staring at nothing, the tea towel in her hand.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ the young woman said softly, touching the other woman on the arm. ‘Goodnight, Judith.’

  There was no response.

  4

  The only word I can think of to describe my cabin on board the riverboat is sumptuous. The rich-coloured cushions and dark wooden furniture add to the sense that I’m now inhabiting a different world – and I’m glad of it. I walk out onto the small balcony and breathe in the humid air, thick with the musty smell of the river as we head upstream, listening to the strange sounds of a foreign country: the shouts of children playing in the muddy brown water and the chanting of Buddhists as we pass spectacular temples apparently situated in the middle of nowhere.

  I can already feel the tension ebbing slightly, the tightness in my chest and shortness of breath slackening. I move back inside, closing the sliding glass door to keep the mosquitoes at bay, and sit down to apply some make-up before dinner. I look at my pale face in the mirror, the dark circles under my eyes, and rest my chin in upturned palms, wondering how best to add some colour to my cheeks.

  My laptop is charging on the dressing table in front of me, and I am about to move it out of the way when it pings to tell me there’s an email. The Wi-Fi signal is intermittent, as it depends where we are on the river, so clearly we’re in a good position right now.

  I glance at the screen and my heart plummets. The email is from Ian. I don’t know whether to open it or not, and I am furious that my hand shakes as I reach forward to touch the trackpad.

  He’s failed to get a response to his texts – I deleted them all, and couldn’t have answered even if I had wanted to – so now he is resorting to email.

  The subject line might seem innocuous to anybody else – ‘I will be waiting when you come home’ – but it chills me. I don’t want to open the email, but if I don’t its malevolent presence will haunt me.

  The tone has changed. He’s no longer ranting about what a bitch I am. He knows, I’m sure, that while his insults may shock they are easy to deflect.

  I know I’ve been angry with you, but I’ve decided I’m prepared to forgive you. It has taken a lot of soul-searching on my part, but I understand you were upset. Deep down, you know you need me – and what will you do if I go? Remember how difficult it was for us to find each other. Do you really want to be alone for the rest of your life? I don’t think so.

  He even suggests I try to get an early flight back, and I realise he’s not going to give up. Why would he? I could kid myself that he loves me, but I know that is not the reason. He was living in a horrible little bedsit with a bathroom shared by about ten other people when we met, and now he lives in a decent house and has me to wait on him hand and foot. He’s not going to walk away from that life in a hurry, especially as until now I have always given in to his demands. For him it is – or has been – a stress-free existence.

  I have been an idiot, and it is a hard thing to admit to myself. Ian and I met online. I know lots of people have forged successful relationships over the Internet, but when you meet someone through a dating site all you know about them is what they choose to tell you. They can say anything they like, and with no friends or colleagues in common to tell you anything different, you believe every word. At least, I did.

  Will I ever be rid of him?

  After a few minutes I take some deep breaths, and with renewed determination I jump up from the chair. I can’t let him ruin this holiday, and dinner started ten minutes ago.

  Locking the cabin door behind me, I make my way along the wood-panelled corridor and push open the door to the dining room, hoping I can slip quietly into a seat. The sound of excited chatter hits me, and long before I reach the small empty table I have spotted in a corner I realise I am not going t
o be able to escape so easily.

  A loud, jarring American voice hails me: ‘Hey, young lady! Don’t sit on your own. Come and join us – we have a spare place. Harry, move round here and give the girl a seat.’

  I look towards the strident voice and see a plump woman with yellow-blonde backcombed hair and perfect make-up sitting at a table for eight. She is waving her arms at me, and Harry, a balding man in his mid-fifties with a florid face, dutifully jumps up and goes to the spare chair on the other side of the table. Short of being downright rude, I have no option but to take a seat. I smile tentatively at everyone as they introduce themselves.

  The questions start to fly. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Have you been on a trip like this before?’ ‘What brings you to Burma?’

  I answer to the best of my ability, until the woman who told Harry to move asks, ‘Are you travelling alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ is all I can muster. I get a sympathetic smile from an older lady with beautiful long silver hair who is sitting further along the table.

  I relax a bit as the attention moves away from me, but as I turn to thank the waiter for the plate of food he has placed in front of me I catch the eye of a man sitting alone at a table on the other side of the dining room.

  It’s him again. Paul. He has clearly escaped the waving arms of the American woman, whose name I now know to be Donna. It’s definitely him. His eyes are small, sharp, perched over a hooked nose. He has the look of an eagle and seems to be weighing me up again. He neither smiles nor averts his eyes when I return his gaze. Just like last night.

  I lift my chin and turn back to the table.

  Donna is in full flow, requiring no input from anyone else, and this gives me time to study her and my fellow diners. Down the table to my right sit an older couple, probably in their early seventies. She is the one who smiled kindly at me earlier, and is called Thea, but I have no idea what her husband’s name is because she always calls him ‘dear’ or refers to him as ‘the doctor’.

  ‘The doctor and I have been to some beautiful places in the past few years, haven’t we, dear? I think Vietnam was our favourite.’

  The doctor, a striking man with the unusual combination of black eyebrows, white beard and an almost bald skull, merely looks up and nods. His brows point down towards his nose as if in a permanent scowl, and he seems content to leave his wife to do all the talking.

  Strangely, I am grateful to Donna for asking me to join them. Chatting with them over dinner has forced me to think about something other than Ian and the situation I’m going to have to face when I return home. The thought never entirely leaves me, though. It has settled like a heavy stone in a dark corner of my mind.

  5

  As DCI Tom Douglas walked down the long corridor back to his office from a particularly tedious meeting, he smiled at the message on his phone. Louisa was cooking dinner that night and wanted to know what he fancied eating. He was so engrossed in her message that he didn’t realise for a moment that Becky Robinson was approaching. He glanced up at the sound of footsteps and immediately flattened himself against the wall, arms outstretched to either side of him, palms and fingers splayed against the grey partition.

  ‘Ha, bloody ha,’ Becky said. ‘I’m not that big.’

  Tom grinned, and they both moved towards his office door at the same time, Tom standing back to let her through.

  ‘What are you so chipper about, anyway?’ she asked as he pulled out a chair for her. ‘And stop treating me as if I’m made of glass, will you please.’

  ‘I’m feeling quite good about life, that’s all.’ Tom walked round the back of his desk and indicated the facing chair to Becky. ‘Sit.’

  ‘No time, I’m afraid. We’ve got a body out at Pennington Flash Country Park. Suspicious death.’

  Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, what do we know?’

  ‘Not much. A woman, probably around thirty. Found inside one of the birdwatching hides by some poor guy out to do a bit of twitching. The local DI says he doesn’t want to cloud our judgement by giving his take on things, so was reluctant to say much.’

  Tom picked up his keys from the desk. ‘Right. Let’s go and find Keith. He can come with me.’

  Becky put her hands on her hips and glared at Tom. ‘Why are you taking DS Sims? Why am I not coming?’ Tom’s eyes travelled to her middle. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Tom. I’m seven months pregnant. I’m not incapacitated.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s bloody freezing out there and treacherous underfoot. Why risk it?’

  ‘If I lived in some remote part of the world I would probably be out in the fields working until the baby pops out. I’m fine. Stop mollycoddling me.’

  Tom looked at Becky’s face, her mouth tense and her eyes firing shots at him. He knew he’d been overprotective of her since she nearly died diving into a river to save someone, but that was a while ago now and he had to get over it.

  ‘Okay, on your head be it.’

  ‘Thank you, boss,’ she said, her tone sarcastic.

  Tom might be her boss, but he was well aware that she knew more about him than most people, and in the years they had worked together they had become close. She behaved impeccably when other members of the team were around, but that didn’t stop her from speaking her mind when they were alone. He didn’t know how he was going to manage without her when she went on maternity leave.

  ‘Shall we take the newbie with us, do you think, for a bit of experience?’ Becky asked. ‘Just as an observer.’

  ‘Good idea. Let her know, will you, and I’ll meet you in the car park. We can brief her on what to expect as we go. What’s her name again?’

  ‘Lynsey. She’s mad keen, bright as a button, and terrified of you.’

  ‘Excellent. Let’s hope she stays that way. It would be nice to have some respect round here.’

  Becky snorted and made her way out of the door. ‘See you downstairs in five minutes.’

  The local police had given concise instructions on how to get to the Flash, and as Tom pulled into the snow-covered car park a young officer walked towards them, his arms flying out sideways as his legs nearly went from under him. It was treacherous out there.

  ‘What is a flash, anyway?’ Becky asked, staring at the expanse of water ahead of them.

  Tom was about to answer when Lynsey’s quiet voice came from behind: ‘There’s more than one here, although the one you can see is the biggest. I believe the lakes, or flashes, were formed as a result of mining subsidence.’

  Tom saw Becky smile. He could see how much she liked this girl.

  ‘Thanks for that, Lynsey. I’m glad one of us knows,’ Tom said.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I’m not being a smart-arse. I looked it up on my phone while you were talking to Inspector Robinson.’

  ‘Don’t apologise; it shows initiative,’ Becky said. ‘Come on, let’s go and see what we’ve got.’

  Tom looked around at the view. Such an attractive place, and undoubtedly popular. Apparently it had been cut off by the heavy snow for days, and only the most intrepid of folk were likely to venture here today, even though the access road had now been cleared. The weather was wicked with a fierce wind blowing the snow around in little flurries, and it was with some reluctance that Tom stepped out of the warm car.

  The young police officer, walking more carefully now, approached them.

  ‘Sir, it’s a bit of a walk to the hide. It doesn’t overlook the main lake, so we need to take the path from the end of the car park and then turn off to the right, down a bit of a hill. It’s not too good underfoot,’ he said, staring pointedly at Becky’s middle.

  Tom almost smiled as he heard a tut of irritation.

  Becky took Lynsey’s arm. ‘We’ll hold each other up. Okay?’

  ‘Is this the closest car park to the hide?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s the one used most by visitors. We’ve laid an approach path nearer to the hide, sir, so if you would just follow me…’

  Tom stood back to allow the
women to go first, turning up his collar against the biting wind. From the car park they walked along a wide track, but within a few metres the constable veered off to the right where the path was sealed off with crime-scene tape. Becky gave their names to the officer at the head of the approach path, and they stopped to don protective suits.

  ‘It doesn’t look like there’s much space in there,’ Becky said. ‘Maybe you should go first, boss, and we’ll follow if there’s room.’

  Tom nodded and started to make his way along the narrow path, bordered on both sides by a wooden fence, his feet crunching on the icy snow underfoot. It appeared the hide had no door, and as he got closer the bulky figure of Jumoke Osoba filled the entrance, a wide white smile splitting his black face. This was one figure that Tom was always relieved to see at a crime scene.

  ‘Morning, Jumbo,’ Tom said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, but I’m delighted you are.’

  ‘It’s not usually my patch, that’s true. I’m covering for Saul Newton, but glad to help. The first officers on the scene assumed it was an overdose or death from exposure. But I’m not sure that’s the right call. That’s why I’m pleased to see you and Becky.’

  Tom nodded. Jumbo was an excellent crime-scene manager – the best – and if he thought something was up, Tom believed him. He also knew Jumbo wouldn’t divulge his suspicions until Tom had formed his own opinion. Signalling Becky and Lynsey to follow, Tom moved into the confined space.

  He stopped and took in the scene. Daylight spilled into the hide through a wide viewing window, but the floor was in deep shadow. In spite of that, he could clearly see the body of a young woman at the far end, sitting on the ground propped up against the wooden slats of the hide wall, her face peaceful, her eyes closed. A bitterly cold wind was blowing through the unglazed opening, and Tom crouched down on a level with the woman’s face. She looked to be in her early thirties, small and slim, and her clothes – while not stylish for someone of her age – didn’t look either old or tatty. She certainly didn’t have the appearance of someone living rough who might have taken shelter in the hide from the icy weather.