Jane Asher - The Question - A bestselling psychological thriller full of shocking twists

‘Hi, darling. Only me. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to ring earlier, but it’s budget time and I’ve only just finished. I had no idea how late it was till I stopped. See you tomorrow night, darling. Hope all’s going well with you. Thought I’d ring now in case I didn’t speak to you later. Poor me! Back to my bachelor pad, now, and the delights of baked beans. I might give you a ring when I’m there, but if not I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Lots of love.’

He was proficient at leaving messages; never sure why so many people stuttered and hesitated when confronted with the silence of the waiting tape. He was very happy to talk into the anonymous quietness; relaxed in the knowledge that he would not be interrupted, that he could put across what he wanted to say in his own time and without the distractions of any interjections or observations before he had finished. His messages to the office staff that he would dictate into a pocket recorder while driving to and from Surrey, or at home in the evenings, were legendary. Firm, detailed and leaving out nothing, they were delivered with greater clarity and confidence than when he spoke to the staff in the flesh, when there was always a tiny element of something approaching shiftiness in his behaviour: a certain reluctance to look the other person in the eye for more than a few seconds, after which he would glance away, or down to a paper on his desk, or at an imaginary speck on his sleeve.

He smoothed the flopping strand of hair back over his head with his palm, picked up his case and left the room, satisfied that he had dealt with everything that needed to be done, and that he could look forward to an evening of relaxation and comfort, and maybe a little enjoyable – no, he would think about that later, when he had eaten.

As he rounded the corner into Nottingham Place, a green Range Rover pulled out from a space about opposite the flat and accelerated away. He manoeuvred the BMW into the space smoothly, took out his case from the front seat and walked over the road, setting the car alarm and locking the doors with a satisfying click as he pressed the small pad set into the key. He kept hold of his silver keyring but let the car key swing round on it as he searched quickly through the other keys with one hand to find the one he wanted.

Eleanor sped up Nottingham Place, anxious now for only one thing: to get back home and lie in a hot bath. She had sat for another twenty minutes in the car, half waiting for John to arrive, half terrified that he would, but she suddenly felt she couldn’t bear to wait any longer, and that the only hope of restoring any feeling of sanity was to get back to familiar surroundings and wash away the horror of the day in a scaldingly hot scrub in the safety of her home. Now that she was on her way she felt better, and she switched on the radio to try to stop her mind starting again its relentless trawl over the evening’s events.

John took the lift to the third floor and let himself into the flat. He flung his case onto the cream sofa and sat down next to it, reaching across to the telephone on the small glass-topped table next to him, picking up the receiver with one hand and dialling with the other.

‘Hi. Me. I’m home … What’s the matter? … OK, yes … Are you sure? You sound—… Good.… Well then, late fish and chips d’you think? … OK, no hurry … they’re open till eleven … I’m going to have a bath … Pour me a drink in about half an hour or so … ’Bye.’

He lay his head back on the sofa for a moment and closed his eyes, then suddenly rose and took off his jacket as he walked out of the sitting room and down the hallway. He flung the jacket on the bed, then moved into the bathroom and leant down to turn on the taps, standing up as the steam hit his face and turning to confront himself in the mirror over the basin. He wiped away the condensation that was already beginning to gather on the glass, then turned his head from side to side as he examined himself, considering a shave but knowing even as he half-heartedly felt his chin with one hand that he probably wouldn’t bother. He picked up a comb from the shelf below the mirror, and swept it back through his hair, tutting a little in irritation at the way a long, loose strand would break free of the smooth shape and drop over one ear, or flop onto his forehead. He liked to keep his hair this long, he liked the way it swept right back across his head in silvery grey stripes and reached halfway down his neck, where it broke in the tiniest of neatly trimmed curls, but even with the small swipe of gel that he added to it to smooth it sleekly into place, the occasional lock would insist on escaping.

After the bath he felt good. He went to pick up his shirt and boxer shorts from the tiled floor, but a twinge in the small of his back stopped him and he grunted and straightened again.

‘Oh, never mind, Mrs Whatsit can do it,’ he muttered to himself, and gently pushed them with one foot towards the white laundry basket in the corner. He hummed quietly as he walked into the bedroom, put on a clean short-sleeved sports shirt that he took from the neatly filled shelves of the fitted wardrobe and some beige slacks that were hanging from metal clips on one of the mahogany hangers. He pulled on a pair of maroon leather mules and took his wallet out of the pocket of his jacket, which he then flung back onto the bedcover.

He went into the sitting room, picked up his keys and then walked out of the flat and made his way quickly down the stairs to the first floor. He glanced down at the silver keyring, picked out one of the several Banham keys that were hanging on it and pushed it into the lock of the first-floor flat door.

He closed the door behind him and turned round. A young girl was standing at the other end of the hall, watching him.

‘Hi!’ John said. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘OK.’

As John put his keys into the pocket of his trousers and walked towards her, she turned away and moved into one of the rooms that led off the hallway.

Eleanor reached the house at nine thirty and headed straight for the bathroom, where she turned on the taps and pulled off her clothes in a burst of furious, unhappy energy. She felt polluted, dirty and degraded, and as she pulled down her pants and unhooked her bra, she was tempted to throw them into the rubbish bin under the basin, but instead opened the linen basket and chucked them into the gingham-lined inside.

The water was too hot even for her skin that had been toughened by years of scaldingly hot baths, so she added a little cold as she swished it about with her hand. She reached out towards the little shelf inset in the tiles above the bath, and hovered for a moment between the choice of the two aromatherapy oils – one labelled for relaxation and the other for revival. So what if you need both? she thought to herself. She almost smiled as she considered mixing the two in a desperate attempt to bring her poor body into some sort of balance. The woman she had been a few days ago who had added a little oil to her bath in the morning to revive herself and a few drops of the other one to relax should she have taken an evening bath instead, was a creature from another planet. It would take more than oil to either restore or relax her now; the old body that had taken such a battering in the last few days could probably never be restored again – at least not to its previous state. Perhaps it could only function usefully and efficiently again if it could be transformed into something that was altogether less ambitious, like cutting up an old dress to make dusters, or chopping up a piece of furniture to make firewood.

She chose the bottle for ‘revival’, feeling that relaxation was so utterly out of the question that it would be perverse even to attempt it, and after adding a few drops and mixing them in, climbed into the now bearably hot water and lay back. She was astonished to find herself closing her eyes and slipping into a semi-doze, smiling to herself at the apparent ineffectiveness of the oil, but was jarred awake by the sudden ringing of the telephone. She began to clench her stomach muscles in the effort to pull her body out of the comforting suction of the water, but frowned and let go again, allowing her head to rest back again onto the cool enamel of the bath. What the hell was the point in answering it? Nothing could bring her good news, she was sure of that. She knew there was a lot more misery and discovery to come but she just couldn’t face it at this moment. She wanted to stay disembodied and removed for a few more minutes before having to tackle anything else; and if – oh if – she could even get a few hours’ sleep before she was expected to take in any more she thought she just might be able to survive.