‘You still have your daughter.’ Justin began to jog on the spot, frantic, fast movements that kicked sand into the air. ‘Leave me alone and let me grieve in my own way.’
‘I came here hoping we could make peace with each other.’ Karl’s anger left him as suddenly as it had ignited. ‘Obviously, I was wrong. It was never in your nature to forgive.’
‘I wish I could but I can’t… can’t.’
Watching him run across the sand, Karl realised the abyss between them had grown too wide for hands to reach across. Guilt, guilt… the air was poisoned with it. He stayed in Ben’s Shack until darkness fell. A full moon rose above the dunes. Close enough to touch. Close enough for the cow to jump its cratered face and for prisoners to howl.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Something was wrong. Amanda knew this as soon as she entered her apartment. This awareness was instinctive, the hairs on her arms bristling when she opened the bathroom door. Everything seemed as normal. Shower gel, shampoo and conditioner aligned on the shower tray, an aromatic oil burner positioned dead centre on the window ledge, body moisturising creams and tanning lotions neatly stacked on glass shelves. Nothing had been touched or moved since she left for work that morning, yet the room breathed a warning. An intruder had stood where she was standing and, somehow, had destabilised the harmony she had created in this compact space. It had to be her imagination. An overflow of stress brought about by the knowledge that she was being followed by Karl Lawson.
This morning, an envelope with the warning Photographs. Do not bend had been handed to her by Regina when she arrived into work. She had opened the envelope, believing the photographs were from Shane. Usually, he sent them electronically but, sometimes, when the photographs were particularly atmospheric, he gave her prints for her records.
These photographs, black and white, had indeed been atmospheric. A long-range shot, which had been taken through her office window, showed her in profile, sitting at her desk. The second photograph was taken earlier in the week when she was interviewing a retired policewoman in a cafe on Dawson Street. In others, she was talking to Shane on the steps of the criminal court, driving into her apartment car park, collecting her mother for lunch, shopping on Grafton Street, emerging from a fitting room in Brown Thomas.
She had called in to the police station with the photographs. A different guard was on duty, younger and eager to assist. He whistled sharply between his teeth as he examined the photographs and took details on the latest anonymous phone calls. The deadly threats that warned her that the next time powder spilled from an envelope, it would be the real thing. The next time a real bomb, a real bullet. A different number each time, but the same muffled voice and adenoidal snuffling.
Perspiration trickled coldly under her arms as she hesitated at the entrance to the bathroom. Her gaze swept over the upright toilet seat. Such a bold, masculine statement. How had she not noticed it immediately? She took a step back, tried to stem her panic. Logical thought was needed here. She could have left it up after she scoured the bowl. An easy mistake to make… but it was one she never made. Always down, except when she’d lived with Graham, who had seemed incapable of remembering that small detail. Her father had insisted it must also remain upright; another of his petty tyrannies imposed on a houseful of women.
She walked to the toilet bowl. Someone had urinated into it, a tinge of yellow when the water should be clean and pure. Her legs weakened. She reached towards the basin to steady herself, then pulled her hand back in case her intruder’s touch had contaminated the surface. She listened for a sound that would alert her to his presence but the apartment was silent. She should ring Garda Ryan. A toilet seat left up, a toilet bowl unflushed. How would that sound, especially to a man? A common, everyday occurrence, that’s what he would say. He would be right – except that in her apartment everything had an unchanging order.
She checked the other rooms. All empty, and none of them projected the unease that had gripped her as soon as she opened the bathroom door.
Her phone rang. Another unfamiliar number, the same voice. ‘Feeling pissed off, Amanda?’ he said. ‘Next visit, I’ll fill your bath with blood.’
She held her breath and waited for him to continue. ‘Not talking?’ he asked. ‘That’s unusual for Amanda Bowe. You’ve such a way with words.’
Her mouth pulsed with the need to scream. She forced herself to stay silent and cut off the call. She phoned a locksmith, who promised to be with her within an hour. Even after he finished changing the locks and her security system had been recoded, she was unable to sit still.
She had to contact Hunter and tell him her life was in danger. That he, too, would not escape the wrath of Karl Lawson. She used her secret phone to ring his home number and braced herself when it was answered. The voice was young and male – one of Hunter’s sons. She had never asked their names but the deepness of his tone told her he was the eldest boy.
‘I’m carrying out a market research survey,’ she said. ‘Can I speak to your father, please?’
‘He’s not here,’ the boy replied. ‘Will I get my mother for you?’
‘No. It has to be your father. Have you any idea when he’ll be back?’
‘Tomorrow, I think.’
‘Who’s on the phone, Lewis?’
Amanda’s heart jerked when she heard Sylvia Thornton speak for the first time.
‘Some woman looking for Dad,’ he yelled back. Amanda ended the call and threw the phone on to the table. A moment later it rang. Petrified, she stared at the screen. Hunter’s home number. Sylvia Thornton was ringing back to check up on her. She ran to the bathroom and flung the phone into the toilet bowl, pressed the flusher. She clasped her hands behind her head and rocked backwards as she watched the water gush loudly over the phone and silence it.
Hunter arrived late the following night to her apartment. She knew he must be desperate to have risked such direct contact with her.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you ring—’
‘Shut up and listen,’ she snapped. ‘I wouldn’t have contacted you unless it was important.’
‘Important enough to destroy my marriage. Sylvia took down the number.’
‘When you gave me that phone you assured me the number could never be traced back to me.’
‘Nor will it,’ he snapped. ‘But it was still an incredibly reckless thing to do.’
‘You needn’t worry. I’ve destroyed the phone.’ She had retrieved it from the toilet bowl and broken it into tiny pieces before walking to the Liffey wall and flinging it into the river. Untraceable in every way.
‘But she suspects—’
‘Your wife’s suspicions are your problem,’ she curtly interrupted him. ‘Karl Lawson is ours.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He’s threatening me.’