She cut him off in mid-sentence and switched off her bedroom light. Ringing the police at this stage was useless. His number would be untraceable. He had either rung from a public phone, if such things still existed, or he would have already destroyed his mobile. Her door was securely locked, her apartment fitted with a sophisticated security system.
She tried to sleep but she was unable to drown out his threat: I want you to recognise me when I come to kill you.
She had reported the bullet at her local police station. The guard on duty, a heavyset man with an intimidating chin and disconcertingly small, yellow teeth, had recognised her.
‘Amanda Bowe,’ he’d said before she could introduce herself. ‘That’s a mighty fine job you did with your freedom campaign.’ She thought he was being sarcastic but his compliment had been genuine. So, too, had his shock when she showed him the bullet.
He asked if she had enemies. Take your pick, Amanda wanted to say. If I didn’t have enemies, I wouldn’t be such a successful journalist.
‘Could it be gang-related?’ he’d asked. ‘It’s tough when a pretty girl like you has to hang around with the hard men.’ His tone suggested he had slumbered his way through the feminist and post-feminist eras.
‘Hanging around with the hard men is mandatory in my job,’ she’d replied. She had not mentioned Karl Lawson’s name. How could she accuse him of death threats when she was responsible for his freedom? The irony of such an accusation would not be lost on the media, nor would they hesitate to give it front-page prominence. Garda Ryan had promised to be in touch when the bullet had been forensically examined.
Unable to go back to sleep, Amanda entered the kitchen. She felt her way through the darkness, afraid to switch on the light in case he was watching from the back of the apartment complex and would see her fear illuminated. She opened the fridge door. Using the interior bulb to guide her, she poured milk into a cup and heated it in the microwave, adding a dash of nutmeg, as her mother used to do when their nights were disturbed by random violence. Gradually, she relaxed and the urge to ring Hunter receded. Too much was at stake. He had given her the scoop of her career and she would abide by the pact they had made not to contact each other. She could manage this on her own.
When she returned to bed, her dreams were fitful, vivid, repetitive. Karl Lawson featured in each one.
Two days later, she received another dangerous envelope; a Manila one this time, small and innocuous enough to allow her to open it without hesitation. It had been left at Capital Eye’s front desk by a courier and Regina on reception had handed it to Amanda when she arrived into work.
Everything in the busy office stilled as white powder spilled over her hands and settled with an inaudible puff on her desk. Anthrax? She had written a feature about it once. The pictures of skins infected by the powder had horrified her. She sat rigidly in her chair, her breath suspended, afraid the force of her breathing would cause the powder to blow across the office and contaminate the air. How strange to think that something so deadly should feel like silk on her fingers.
Regina admitted she had been on the phone when the courier arrived with the envelope. She had noted with disapproval that he failed to remove his helmet but he left before she could chastise him. Later, she would discover that the name he signed in the visitors’ book was Darth Vader.
The forensic team arrived and sealed off Amanda’s office. They believed this was a ‘low risk’ situation, but could not say for definite that she had been the victim of a hoax. She showered in the staff bathroom and put on a tracksuit, hastily purchased by Regina in the nearest Penneys. The results would be with her as soon as the samples were tested, an investigator told her. That could take some hours, he warned, and advised her not to worry too much.
‘Go home,’ her editor said. ‘I’m calling a taxi for you. Do you have someone who can stay with you until the results come through?’
Amanda nodded. As soon as she entered her apartment she showered again. She turned up the thermostat, scrubbing her skin until it was red and wrinkled. After drying off, she rang Rebecca and listened to the message on her sister’s answering machine. No sense ringing her mother and scaring her. Imelda’s nervousness would only exacerbate Amanda’s own fear.
Each ticking second on the clock sounded like a time bomb inside her head. If the results were positive she could be in hospital by tonight, her skin rupturing in hideous sores, or she could be dead on a slab.
She huddled in a chair by the window. She had to contact Hunter. Their pact no longer mattered. He was the only person who would understand what she was going through. She opened the wardrobe and removed a jacket with a thick faux fur collar, searched for the slit she had made in the fabric for her secret phone. She sent a text to his number, hoping he had not already destroyed his own phone. Her fears were soon confirmed. His number was no longer in service.
A prolonged buzz on the intercom jerked her back to reality. Garda Ryan stood outside. Talcum powder, he said when she opened the door to him. Lily of the valley, a deadly flower in its own right. It was a hoax but, combined with the bullet and an increased number of anonymous phone calls, it had to be taken seriously. Once again he asked if there was someone out there with a grudge against her? Karl Lawson— she bit back his name. How would it look if she accused him without proof? How could she describe his sulphuric gaze at the grotto, his biblical threat? Amanda clenched her hands until it seemed as if her nails would break the skin and draw blood.
At one in the morning she took a sleeping tablet. Tomorrow, she was being interviewed on LR1. Nothing too dramatic, just an afternoon chat show where she would talk about her career as a crime reporter. The upcoming interview had been promoted on LR1 and he would be watching, planning new ways to intimidate her. She would look her best, composed and unconcerned by his dangerous games.
Chapter Twenty-Six
LR1 was located next door to Richardson Publications. The two buildings took up most of the business park, which also contained a gym, an office block and Quix Cafe. The television station was situated inside a square, utilitarian building, uninspiring from the outside but with a spacious, glitzy interior. In the reception area, a circular glass elevator glittered like a bauble and, for those nervous of stepping inside it, a spiral staircase also led to the upstairs offices. Strains of classical music floated from an invisible sound system. The receptionist sat a little straighter as Karl approached her desk.
‘Mr Richardson is at a meeting and cannot be disturbed.’ She repeated the same message she had given to Karl each time he rang LR1.
‘Yes, he can.’ Karl ignored her automated response, her frozen Barbie smile. ‘Tell him I don’t intend leaving until he sees me. I’m prepared to wait all day, if necessary. You can order security to throw me out but I’d hate to add assault to the case of unfair dismissal I intend to bring against him.’