Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

Satisfied that there’s no one in the house, I close the curtains in the lounge and pat the walls near the door until I find the light switch. If Graham Angilley comes back to the house and sees a light on, he’ll assume it’s Charlie. He’ll ring the bell. I’ll open the door, but not wide enough for him to see me. Then I’ll hide behind it, and when he pushes it all the way open and walks in, I’ll smash the dummy mallet down on his head.

I blink, dazzled by the sudden bright glare in the room. I see a lamp and switch that on instead, turning the main light off again. There’s a note on the table, next to the base of the lamp. It says, ‘Where the hell are you? You didn’t leave a key. I’ve gone to get something to eat and a few stiff drinks. I’ll come back later. Ring me on my mobile when you get this message—I’m v. worried. Hope whatever you’re doing isn’t mad/life-threatening.’

I drop the piece of paper as soon as I’ve read it. I don’t want to hold your brother’s handwriting, don’t want it to touch my skin. The message puzzles me. Why did Angilley need a key? He must already have been inside the house, in order to put the note on the table. Then it occurs to me that if he wanted to go out, he would need to be able to let himself back in. He is probably somewhere nearby, phoning every so often to see if Charlie has come back. No one’s rung since I’ve been here, though. Why isn’t he trying the landline?

And the front door was locked when I arrived. Who locked it, if Angilley has no key?

I pull Charlie’s mobile phone out of my handbag. It’s switched off. I turn it on, but don’t know her pin number, so I can’t access any messages Angilley might have left.

I’m v. worried. Hope whatever you’re doing isn’t mad/life-threatening.

He cares about her. Pain and bitterness rise inside me like a tidal wave. There’s nothing worse than to be confronted with evidence that a person who has nearly destroyed you is capable of being kind to somebody else.

I shiver, telling myself it’s not possible. Charlie Zailer cannot be Graham Angilley’s lover. I could have spoken to any detective about your disappearance on Monday; I gave her the Silver Brae Chalets card by mistake. And she just happens to be sleeping with your brother?

I don’t believe in coincidences.

I hear a car door open and close in the street outside. Then it cuts out. It has to be him. I run to the hall, take up my position by the front door. Dropping the rope on the floor at my feet, I grab the handle, ready to twist it as soon as the bell rings. Just one, soft, small turn should do it.

Then I hear the noise I imagine the door will make when I open it. Except I’m not imagining it; I’m really hearing it. Inside the house—the sound is coming from behind me, where there should be silence. In my shock, I loosen my grip on the dummy mallet and it drops to the floor. I swallow a scream, and bend to pick it up, but I can’t see it. My hands get tangled in the coils of rope.

The hall is darker than it was only seconds ago. How can that be? Was the noise I heard the sound of a light bulb dying? No; the lounge door has swung almost shut. Get a grip, I tell myself, but my heartbeat races on, heedless. I need to get back in control.

I hear footsteps, tapping up the path towards the door. I drop down on to my haunches, patting the floor to find the dummy mallet. ‘Where is it?’ I whisper, desperate. The bell rings. A female voice says, ‘Char? Charlie?’ I hold my breath. It’s not your brother. I haven’t a clue what to do now. Who else could it be? Who drops round at one in the morning?

I hear the voice mutter, ‘What the fuck sort of welcome is this?’ but I don’t dare to open the door. My fingers close around the dummy mallet. Should I say something?

‘Charlie, open the door, for Christ’s sake.’

The woman sounds frantic. She must be the one who wrote the note I found, not Graham Angilley. But the note was in the lounge, on the table. Not on the hall carpet near the letter box, where it should have been . . .

The woman bangs her fists against the stained glass. I leave the mallet on the floor and crawl back into the lounge, pushing the door open with my head. That’s when I see him. He’s standing, feet wide apart, in the centre of the lounge. Smiling at me.

‘Naomi Jenkins, as I live and breathe,’ he says.

Panic engulfs me. I try to stand up, but he pulls me towards him, clamping his hand over my mouth. He tastes of soap.

‘Ssh,’ he says. ‘Listen. Can you hear it? Footsteps. Quieter and quieter and . . . there we are! Charlie’s little sis is squeezing her fat bot back into her car.’

I hear the engine again. His touch corrodes my skin. I am slipping away from myself.

‘There she goes. Bye-bye, Fat Bitch Slim.’ Still pressing his hand down over my mouth, he puts his lips against my ear. ‘Hello, you,’ he whispers.

29

4/9/06

FOR THE FIRST time in his police career, Simon was pleased to see Proust. He was the one who’d called the inspector, told him to come in. Nearly begged him. Anything was better than being alone with his thoughts. There’s something wrong with my life if, in extremis, I turn to the Snowman, Simon thought. But who else was there? With Charlie gone, he could think of no one whose company would make him feel better. Ringing his folks was out of the question. The minute they got a whiff of any sort of problem, their voices filled with shrill alarm, and Simon had to put his own worries to one side in order to comfort them.

He still thought of Charlie as gone, even though Sellers had phoned to update him. He knew where she was, that Gibbs was with her, that she was safe. He also knew she’d been to bed with Graham Angilley. A serial rapist. Without knowing what he was, who he was. The idea made Simon panic. How could Charlie ever be the same after an experience like that? What ought he to say next time he saw her?

Assuming he ever saw her again. She’d run off without a word to him. Even now, knowing he knew where she was, she hadn’t called him. Her phone was in her bag, which Naomi Jenkins had taken, but she could have used Gibbs’.

She’s spoken to Sellers and Gibbs. It’s only you she doesn’t want to speak to.

Well, why the fuck should she? What use had Simon ever been to Charlie? A few months ago she’d drawn his attention to a song that was playing on his car radio, when they’d been driving to a meeting at Silsford nick. Simon still remembered the lyrics; they were about one person giving another nothing but pain. Charlie had said, ‘I didn’t know you were a Kaiser Chiefs fan. Or are you playing this song for some other reason?’ She’d looked scornful at first, then disappointed when Simon told her it was the radio, not a CD. He hadn’t chosen the song, didn’t even know it.

Proust’s arrival stopped him from thinking about which song he’d choose now. The inspector was pink-eyed and unshaven. ‘It’s two in the morning, Waterhouse,’ he said. ‘You interrupted a dream. Now I’ll never know how it ends.’

‘A good one or a bad one?’ Simon was playing for time. Delay the bollocking for as long as possible.

‘I don’t know. Lizzie and I had just bought a new house and moved into it. It was much bigger than our present one. We arrived tired, and went straight to sleep. I got no further, thanks to you.’

‘A bad dream,’ said Simon. ‘I know how it ends. You realise you’ve made a terrible mistake buying the new house. But the old one’s already sold, to people who love it and are determined to stay. There’s no way of getting it back. A nightmare of eternal regret.’

‘Charming.’ Proust looked cross. ‘Thank you so much for that. Since you’re feeling chatty, perhaps you could explain why you’ve woken me up to give me information you could just as easily have given me this afternoon.’