‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘And why, exactly, would I want to keep it to myself – presuming I know anything?’
‘Don’t get involved, Clare. You’ll regret it.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Things have gone too far. It’s out of my hands now. You need to drop it.’
‘Do you really think for one minute that I’m scared of you?’ I frantically search my phone for the ‘record’ app. I quite often record work conversations so I can go back and check the nitty-gritty detail. I have a feeling this is going to be useful.
‘It’s not me you need to be frightened of.’
‘What?’ I hit the ‘record’ button, but it’s too late. The line has gone dead. ‘Shit.’
I try to ring back but the call doesn’t connect. I suspect she’s unplugged it from the wall. I check the ‘record’ app on my phone but all I have managed to get is me saying ‘What?’
I rest my head in my hands and try to think clearly. There seems little point in trying to get hold of Luke or Mum. What am I supposed to say? They won’t believe me, they’ll just defer back to Martha, who will, of course, deny it all and then they’ll blame my jealousy or rampant paranoia they’ve decided I am now suffering from.
I think back over the conversation and grab my notebook and pen as I write it down word for word, or at least as close to that as I can remember. Her final words are the ones that scare me the most. I underline them three times, the pressure of the nib scoring through the paper.
IT’S NOT ME YOU NEED TO BE FRIGHTENED OF.
Chapter 23
I must have dozed off at some point during the night, but I didn’t sleep well at all. I awoke several times and checked my phone to see if Luke had called. He hadn’t. I’m up and dressed by six this morning. I need to be at the airport by eleven and drop the hire car back. I have a long day ahead with a lay-over in Atlanta of three hours before the transatlantic flight back to the UK.
I keep checking my phone, but by the time I board the international flight from the States, I’ve given up all hope of Luke calling me.
Even the night-time flight home doesn’t grant me sleep. I once again take to pen and paper to try to figure things out.
* Martha is Alice.
* Martha’s motive – money? Personality disorder? Wants to be someone else – Alice. Not satisfied with that now, wants everything I have – Mum, Luke, girls. Trying to cut me off from my own life, like she did with Alice.
* Planned in advance NOT opportunist.
* Working with someone – hence threat.
* What has happened to the real Alice? Was Martha involved?
I hate writing the last sentence, but I am somehow managing to keep myself divorced from the emotion attached to the reality. I’ll deal with it later. For now, my drive is fuelled by the need to protect my family.
Instead I focus on who Martha could be working with. If it’s not her I’m to be scared of, then who is it? It can’t be anyone I know. I mean, why would they do this to me? Who hates both Mum and me enough to do this?
I go around in circles, the same questions repeating themselves over and over again, and each time I have no answers. What I need is for Martha to confess. She needs to talk. I can’t work this out on my own.
When the plane touches down at Heathrow I’m relieved that the flight is finally over. Once through passport control and customs, I head for the exit and, sitting on a stone bench, try once more to contact home.
It’s seven in the morning and the house should be wide awake preparing for the day ahead but, when I try to call no one picks up, it doesn’t even go to answerphone.
I try Luke’s phone. I hear the call connect and can hear voices in the background for a second before there is a rustling and the noise is muffled.
‘Luke? Luke! Are you there? Can you hear me?’ I want to cry. The line goes dead and I slam my phone down hard on the concrete seat. Instantly there is the unmistakable sound of the screen cracking. ‘Shit!’ I inspect the damage. There’s a big crack from one corner, stretching out almost to the opposite corner, and I’ve dented the edge of the casing. Fortunately, it still appears to be working.
The person sitting on one of the seats opposite gives me a ‘You didn’t want to do that’ sort of look. I grab my rucksack and head for the car park, where I left my BMW a few days ago.
As I get inside the car and throw my rucksack onto the passenger seat, my phone bleeps as a text message comes in. I’m grateful I didn’t smash the phone down any harder. Expecting it to be Luke, I’m surprised to see it’s come through as a number I don’t recognise and one that’s obviously not in my contacts. I open the message and a picture of Hannah appears on the screen. It’s taken from a distance, through the gates of the Old Vicarage. She’s just coming out of the front door, dressed in her school uniform, holding Luke’s hand, heading towards the carport.
Another message comes through from the same number as before.