constant stream of chatter may have been exhausting but
it’s preferable to the silence that leaves me too much time to think about the things tumbling around in my mind.
I clear the table and carry the plates into the kitchen
and as I walk in through the door I stop in my tracks,
staring at the window I hadn’t remembered closing
yesterday, before I’d gone up for my bath. Because now,
when I think about it, when I’d been making the curry,
the back door had been open – but not the window.
MONDAY JULY 27th
After Matthew leaves for work, I’m unnerved by the
sense of abandonment I feel, but I can finally make the
phone call I’ve been dreading. I find the piece of paper
where I jotted the phone number down and, as I’m
looking for my bag, the phone starts ringing.
‘Hello?’
There’s no reply so I presume whoever it is has lost
their signal. I hold on for another ten seconds, then
hang up. If it’s Matthew, I know he’ll phone again if
he needs to.
I run upstairs to fetch my purse, push my feet into
some shoes and leave the house. I had thought about
driving into Browbury or Castle Wells and using one
of the payphones there but it seems a bit extreme when
there’s one five minutes up the road, near the bus shelter.
As I approach the payphone, I feel as if someone is
watching me. I look to the right and left, then turn
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and look surreptitiously behind me. But there’s no one
around, just a cat sunning itself on a low stone wall. A
car drives past; lost in her own thoughts the woman
driver doesn’t even look my way.
In front of the phone, I read the instructions – because
it’s years since I used one – fish for a coin in my purse and with shaking fingers push a pound into the slot. I take out my mobile and go into my notes, where I’d typed in the number to call. I punch it into phone, my
heart racing, wondering if I’m doing the right thing.
But before I can change my mind, my call is answered.
‘It’s about Jane Walters,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I passed
her car in Blackwater Lane at eleven-thirty and she was
still alive.’
‘Thank you for coming forward.’ The woman’s voice
is calm. ‘Could I—’ But I’ve already put the phone
down.
I leave quickly, hurrying down the road towards the
house, the same uneasy feeling that I’m being watched
following me as I go. Once inside, I make myself calm
down. There wasn’t anybody watching me, it was only
my guilty conscience at doing something secretive that
made me think that there was. And because I’ve done
what I should have done at the beginning, I begin to
feel better about everything.
After all my hard work yesterday, there’s nothing
left to do in the garden but there’s plenty of housework
waiting. With the radio on for company, I drag the
hoover upstairs and, armed with polish and cleaning
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materials, I make a start on the bedrooms. I work
methodically, focusing on the task in hand, steering
my mind away from Jane. And it works – until the news
bulletin comes on at midday.
‘Police are appealing to the person who contacted them earlier today with information relating to the murder of Jane Walters to get back in contact with them. Jane Walters was found murdered in her car on July 17th and…’
I don’t hear any more over the hammering of my
heart. It reverberates in my eardrums, making me deaf. I
sit down on the bed and take deep, shaky breaths. Why
do the police want to speak to me again? I had told them
everything I know. I try to squash down the panic rising
inside me but it just keeps on coming. Even though
nobody knows it was me who made that phone call, the
fact the police have made it public means I no longer
feel anonymous. Instead, I feel horribly exposed. The
police had said something about the person who called
them having information in relation to Jane’s murder. It
makes it sound as if I told them something important,
something vital. If Jane’s killer was listening to the news, he’s bound to feel threatened by my existence. What if he thinks I saw him lurking around Jane’s car that night?
Horribly agitated, I get to my feet and pace the
bedroom, wondering what I should do. As I pass in
front of the window I glance distractedly outside and
find myself freezing. There’s a man, a man I haven’t seen before, walking away from our house. Nothing to worry about, except that he must have come from the woods.
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Nothing to worry about, except that it’s rare to see
anybody walking past our house. Driving, yes, walking,
no. To go for a walk in the woods, no one would go
down Blackwater Lane on foot, not unless they wanted
to get run over. The path that leads to the woods starts