The Breakdown(52)

The Breakdown

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Thank you also for asking about the girls. They miss their mother dreadful y but are thankful y too young to understand what has happened. All they know is that their mummy has gone to be an angel.

I know from your address that you live fairly local y so if you ever see me in the street – unfortunately, my face has become recognisable – please come and say hello. I understand that people don’t know what to say but it is hard when I see people avoiding me.

Kind regards,

Alex

My breath, which I didn’t realise I’d been holding, comes out in a shudder and my eyes blur with tears, from relief that it’s only an innocent letter and from desperate sadness for Jane’s husband. His kind words of gratitude are like a balm to my soul – except he would never have written them if he knew I’d left Jane to her fate that night. As I reread his letter, each word is like an arrow, piercing my conscience, and suddenly all I want is to tell him the truth. Maybe he would condemn me.

But maybe, just maybe, he would tell me that there was nothing I could have done, that Jane was doomed to die long before I drove past. And if it came from him, maybe I’d believe it.

The phone rings, bringing me back to the present where there is no comfort, no forgiveness, just relentless





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fear and hounding. I snatch it up, wanting to scream at him to leave me alone. But I don’t want him to know how terrified I am, so we wait, each with our own agenda. The seconds tick by. And then I realise that if I can sense the menace coming down the line from his end, he can sense the fear coming from mine. I’m just about to hang up when I realise that there’s something different about this call.

I strain my ears, trying to work out what it is.

Somewhere in the background, I hear the faintest of sounds, a tiny whisper of wind maybe, or the slight rustling of a leaf. Whichever it is, it tells me that he’s out in the open and instantly Fear, who had gone back to nestling in the pit of my stomach, rises up inside me, threatening to consume me. Adrenalin kicks in, driving me into the study, clearing the blind panic from my eyes so that I’m able to look out into the road and see that it’s empty. Relief steps in but Fear, hating to be beaten, reminds me that it doesn’t mean the murderer isn’t there.

Dread takes hold and peppers my skin with tiny beads of sweat. I want to phone the police but something – Reason, maybe – tells me that even if they were to come and search the garden, they wouldn’t find him. He – my tormentor – is far too clever for that.

I can’t stay in the house to await whatever he’s decided for me, like a sitting duck. I run into the hall, throw on the first pair of shoes I find, take the car keys from the table and open the front door. I look around; the drive is clear but I don’t want to take any chances so I unlock The Breakdown





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the car from where I’m standing and cover the few yards


between it and the house in a couple of seconds. Inside the car I lock all the doors and drive quickly through the gate, breathing heavily. As I pass the house that was for sale, I see a man standing in the garden, and recognise him as the one I’d seen hanging around the house. I can’t see if he has a mobile in his hand but it doesn’t matter.

He could be my silent caller, he could be Jane’s killer, he could be her secret lover. He’s also perfectly placed to see Matthew leave for work each morning, to know when I’m alone.

It’s time to go to the police. But first, I need to speak to Matthew, I need to tell him what I suspect and I need him to tell me that I could be right because I don’t want to get it wrong again. Making a fool of myself in front of him is preferable to making a fool out of myself in front of the police. How can I ask them to check out the man up the road without some sort of proof, or backup from Matthew? They already have me down as an idiot for setting the alarm off.

In my agitation I almost run a red light and, worried that I’ll have an accident, I make myself calm down. I wish I could spend the day with someone but Rachel is still in Siena and everyone else is on holiday too, or leaving in the next day or so.

In the end I decide to drive Browbury, my eyes constantly checking my rear-view mirror, making sure no one is following me. I park in the High Street, plan-ning to find somewhere to sit, waste time and pretend to





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have lunch. Relieved that I have a plan, I grope around for my bag and realise, appalled, that it’s not there, that in my haste to leave the house I’ve left it behind. I need to be able to buy myself at least a drink so I rummage around in the glove compartment for coins. A sharp knock on the window frightens the life out of me and, straightening up, I see John smiling in at me.

Unable to smile back because of the shock he gave me, I turn back to the glove compartment and close it, giving myself time. Back in control, I turn the key back in the ignition and slide the window down.

‘You gave me a fright,’ I say, trying to smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, contrite. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you arriving or leaving?’

‘Both.’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘I’ve just arrived but I seem to have left my bag at home, so now I’m going to have to drive back and fetch it,’ I explain.