The Breakdown(15)

her,’ he says. ‘I saw it on my phone. I don’t know if…’

His voice trails off.

I shake my head because I don’t want to look, I don’t

want to have to face the truth if it is Jane in the photo.

But at least I would know.

‘Show me,’ I say, my voice trembling.

Matthew moves his arms from around me and we

go upstairs so he can get on the internet on his phone.

While he searches for the latest news update, I close my

eyes and pray – Please God, please God, don’t let it be Jane.

‘Here.’ Matthew’s voice is low. My heart thumps

with dread but I open my eyes and see a photo of the

murdered woman. Her blonde hair is shorter than when

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we met for lunch and her eyes seem less blue. But it is


definitely Jane.

‘It’s her,’ I whisper. ‘It’s her. Who would do such a

thing? Who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘A madman,’ Matthew says grimly.

I turn and bury my face in his chest, trying not to cry again because he’ll wonder why I’m so upset when in his eyes I barely knew Jane.

‘He’s still out there somewhere,’ I say, suddenly scared.

‘We need an alarm.’

‘Why don’t you phone a couple of firms tomorrow

and get them to come round and give us a quote? But

don’t commit to anything before we’ve gone through

everything with a fine tooth comb. You know what

these people are like, they’ll get you to sign up for things you don’t even need.’

‘All right,’ I say. But for the rest of the afternoon and evening, I’m desolate. All I can think of is Jane, sitting in her car waiting for me to rescue her. ‘I’m sorry, Jane,’

I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’

FRIDAY JULY 24th

Jane haunts me. It’s a week since her murder and I can’t

imagine there ever being a day when she isn’t foremost

in my mind. The guilt I feel hasn’t lessened with time.

If anything, it has increased. It doesn’t help that her

murder is still very much in the news, with non-stop

speculation by the media as to why she chose to stop on

such an isolated road in the middle of a storm. Tests show that nothing was wrong with her car but because it was a fairly old model with wipers that barely functioned, the theory put forward is that she was having trouble

seeing through her windscreen and was waiting for the

storm to pass before continuing her journey.

Gradually a picture begins to emerge. Just before eleven

she left a voicemail on her husband’s mobile saying she

was leaving one of the bars in Castle Wells, where she’d

been at a friend’s hen night, and would be home soon.

According to the staff at the restaurant, Jane had left the Title: The Breakdown ARC, Format: 126x198, v1, Output date:08/11/16





56


b a paris


restaurant with her friends but had returned five minutes later to use the phone there because she’d realised she’d left her mobile at home Her husband had fallen asleep on the sofa and hadn’t heard the call come in so he had no idea that she hadn’t turned up until the police knocked

on his door and told him the terrible news. Three people

have come forward to say that although they drove down

Blackwater Lane on Friday night, none of them saw her

car, parked or otherwise. This allows the police to narrow the time of the murder down to somewhere between eleven-twenty – as it would have taken her around fifteen minutes to reach the lay-by from Castle Wells – and five to one, when the passing motorist found her.

There’s a voice in my head urging me to contact the

police to tell them she was still alive when I passed her car at around eleven-thirty, but the other voice, the one telling me that they’ll be disgusted that I didn’t do anything to help her, is louder. And surely narrowing the time down by such a small margin won’t make any real difference to the murder inquiry. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

In the afternoon, a man from Superior Security

Systems arrives to give a quote for an alarm system.

He immediately gets my back up by arriving twenty

minutes early and asking if my husband is in.

‘No, he’s not,’ I tell him, trying not to get distracted

by the flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of his dark

suit. ‘But if you run through the sort of system you think this house needs to make it secure, I’m sure I’ll be able to understand. As long as you speak slowly.’

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The sarcasm is lost on him. Without waiting to be


invited in he comes into the hall. ‘Are you often in the

house on your own?’ he asks.

‘No, not really.’ His question makes me uneasy. ‘My

husband will be home soon, actually,’ I add.

‘Well, looking at your house from the outside, I’d