‘Okay.’
He starts to go through the list – but I know Dan’s date of birth, postcode and mother’s maiden name. With all that cleared, he takes my fob, presses it onto some panel connected to the computer, and then removes it. I feel a bit guilty when he apologises for the inconvenience considering I never had access in the first place – but thank him and then head back along the murky corridor.
This time the light blinks from red to orange to green and the door clicks. I push inside and walk into an empty room that’s lined on all four sides with rows of grey lockers. There’s a wooden bench in the centre of the room, a bin next to the door, and that’s it. Some of the lockers have been personalised with stickers and fridge magnets but most are plain and unidentifiable in any way other than a small number in the top right corner. There are no old-fashioned keys on wristbands here – everything is locked by the same type of plastic pad that secures the main door. That leaves a series of unrelenting red dots arranged in straight lines, like the eyes of a neatly ordered group of horror-movie monsters.
I have no idea which one is Dan’s, so do the only thing I can. I move from locker to locker pressing my fob to each of them, hoping for a green light.
Visions engulf me of being caught and having to explain myself, or being in here for hours with no luck. I barely have time to second-guess my motivation this time. I’m only at the fifth locker when the light winks green and the door opens itself. I figure this is a moment of truth. If I find stinking socks and a pair of shorts, then my imagination has been overdoing it. If I find some of my things that should be at home, then perhaps all this weirdness is down to my husband.
There’s a gym bag that’s filled with, among other things, socks, underpants, tracksuit bottoms and two long-sleeved tops. There’s a scuffed pair of trainers at the back of the locker and a photo of Olivia taped to the back of the door. It’s all very normal and I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed.
Perhaps that’s the wrong word.
I’m disappointed that there are things I can’t explain. But, more than that, I’m relieved.
I’m about to close the locker when I spot the crumpled Sainsbury’s bag in the far corner. There’s no light and I almost missed it. I have to stretch to reach and, when I tug on the bag, it’s quickly clear that something heavy is inside. The contents clank off the metal of the locker as I pull the bag forward, almost dropping it before grabbing it at the second attempt.
It’s really heavy.
I unwrap the bag and realise a second carrier bag is inside the first. Like the trick present on Christmas morning.
Inside that second bag is something that’s definitely not a Christmas present, however. I remove the contents, weighing it in my hands, staring at it disbelievingly. Of all the things I might have expected to find, this would have been close to last.
It’s a gun.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’ve never held a gun before. I’ve seen them on television in crime shows, marvelling at how everyone is such a bad shot. I suppose if people were good shots, that would be the end of the show. I’ve watched the odd Olympic event if Britain has a chance of a medal… and that’s it.
Even from that, I know there’s something not quite right about this weapon. It’s shaped like a pistol and has a trigger like a regular gun, but it’s dark blue with a plasticky feel. It’s only when I turn it over in my hands that I see the words ‘Taser Pulse’ etched onto the barrel.
It’s not a gun that shoots bullet, it’s a taser. I’ve heard the word, of course – mainly in relation to the police. I think someone might have been tasered to death by accident a few years ago but never paid much attention. I switch it from one hand to the other, surprised at how heavy it is. If real guns are like this, perhaps that’s why everyone is such a bad shot on TV.
There’s a clunk from along the hallway and I’m suddenly aware of how this would look to anyone who might walk in. I put the gun down on the edge of the locker so I can push it inside quickly if anyone does come in. I pause for a moment, waiting for silence from the corridor, and then take out my phone. I take a series of photos from various angles and then wrap the gun back into the bags. After that, I return everything else to the locker and click it closed.
I sit on the bench to steady myself. My hands are damp with sweat and I feel light-headed. Like most Brits, guns aren’t a part of my life. I’ve never shot one, never been threatened with one, never dreamed of needing one. It’s another world, one of which I do not want to be a part.
I’m so worked up as I exit the gym that I realise I’m still in my makeshift disguise – and that my bag is in one of the regular lockers. I have to turn around and re-enter through the barriers, keeping my head down with embarrassment in case anyone noticed me leaving moments before.
My mind races as I’m changing. Why would Dan have the weapon? Does the taser work? Does it need to be charged? What would it do to a person? Could it kill someone?
At first I wonder why Dan would keep it at the gym – but the answer’s obvious. He couldn’t risk the house, car or school in case someone else stumbled across it.
Is it his?
Is it illegal?
Even in the darkest moments of arguing with Dan, I’d never have suspected something like this. The fact it’s my husband who’s concealing a weapon is barely conceivable. My deputy headteacher husband, whom I’ve known for more than twenty years.
I barely think about what I’m doing as I drive home. A horrible thought begins to grow. It’s obvious but the only reason to have a taser or stun gun is to stun someone. To subdue them. Could Dan have used it to incapacitate Tyler for some reason? The only reason I have to think that is the timing. I wouldn’t say they get on – but Dan does stand up for him to a degree. Or, at least, he says we should let Olivia make her own choices, her own mistakes. He’s never had an issue with Tyler in the way I have, so could he really have done this?
Very little makes sense and I’m already driving along our road when I realise I’m almost home. That’s when I spot the police car parked outside the house.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When I get into the living room, Olivia is sitting on one sofa with a pair of police officers on the other. She’s made them a cup of a tea each and, at least on first impressions, it looks like it’s all very friendly. Everyone is leaning back in their respective seats.
These are different officers than the ones who visited about the smashed window. There’s a man and a woman, each in uniform, both with their hats on their laps. The man introduces himself as PC O’Neill. He’s greying but has the type of reassuring look that works for a police officer. I suppose Dan has it, too. A mix of authority and kindness blended together. He’ll probably raise his voice at some point but at least there’ll be a reason for it. The female is PC Marks. She’s younger and has a friendly smile with big, round eyes. The type of look that’s perfect for giving bad news.
Which is why it’s such a relief when her first words are: ‘Sorry, Mrs Denton. I hope we didn’t worry you. There’s nothing to be concerned about.’
I don’t know if I look flustered – but I feel it. I keep thinking of the taser in Dan’s locker.
‘It’s about Tyler Lambert,’ she adds. ‘We were hoping to have a few words with yourself, your husband and your daughter.’
‘Oh…’