The Breakdown(75)

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put it in the dishwasher before leaving the kitchen. So who had? The only person with a key to the house, apart from me, is Matthew, but I knew it wasn’t him because methodical as he is, he always stacks from the back and the dishwasher was practically empty. Anyway, if he had popped home in the middle of the day, he would have admitted it. The truth is, I’m the one who stacks from the front. And if I can take an overdose without knowing what I’m doing, it’s not too hard to suppose I can put my mug in the dishwasher without remembering about it.

We somehow got through the weekend with Matthew

tiptoeing around me as if I was an unexploded time bomb waiting to go off at any moment. He didn’t actually sigh with relief this morning when he could escape back to the office but I know he found babysitting me hard work, even though without the pills I’m much more coherent. But my accidental overdose has left him on edge and the thought that I might do something stupid while he’s at home means he can’t relax around me.

As soon as he’s left for work I get up, because I want to be out of the house before my silent caller phones. I could just ignore the call but I know that if I do he’ll only phone back until I pick up, which will end up destabilising me. And today I need to be calm, because I’m going back to Heston to see Jane’s husband.

My plan is to arrive in the early afternoon when I

think it’s most likely the twins will be asleep so I stop off in Browbury on the way, where I have a leisurely The Breakdown





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breakfast and spend the rest of the morning shopping for


new clothes, because nothing seems to fit me anymore.

Alex doesn’t seem overly surprised to see me standing on his doorstep again.

‘I thought you might be back,’ he says, ushering me in. ‘I could tell there was something else on your mind.’

‘You can tell me to go away again if you like,’ I say.

‘Only I hope you don’t because if you can’t help me, I don’t know who can.’

He offers me a cup of tea, but suddenly nervous about what I’m going to say, I refuse.

‘So what can I do for you?’ he asks, taking me into the sitting room.

‘You’re going to think I’m mad,’ I warn, sitting down on the sofa. He doesn’t say anything so I take a deep breath. ‘Right, here goes. The day I phoned the police to tell them that I’d had seen Jane alive, they made a public announcement asking the person who had called them earlier to contact them again. The next day I received a silent phone call. I didn’t think too much about it but when I got another the following day and a couple the day after, it began to freak me out. They weren’t heavy-breather type of calls, I could have coped with that, there was just this silence on the line except I knew that there was someone there. When I told my husband he said it was probably a call centre trying to get through but I began to live in dread of the phone ringing because – well, I suspected they were coming from the person who killed Jane.’





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He makes a noise, a grunt of surprise, but when he

doesn’t say anything I go on.

‘It wouldn’t have been hard for him to trace me from my licence plate. When I pulled in in front of Jane’s car I stopped for quite a few minutes so it’s possible that he was able to see my registration number despite the rain. The more he phoned me, the more traumatised I became. I presumed he’d thought I’d somehow seen him and was trying to warn me off from telling the police.

But the only person I’d seen was Jane. I tried ignoring the calls but, when I did, he would carry on phoning until I picked up and I began to realise that he never phoned when my husband was around, which made me think he was watching the house.

‘I was so frightened that I insisted on having an alarm installed but he still managed to get in and leave a calling card in the kitchen, a huge kitchen knife, exactly like in the photos. The next day, I thought he was in the garden and barricaded myself into the living room. I was put on medication which turned me into a mental and physical wreck, but it was the only way I could cope with the calls. Then, last Monday, after I got back from visiting you, I knew he’d been in the house while I was out. It wasn’t that anything was missing or damaged but I could sense he’d been there. I was so sure I called out the police but they couldn’t find trace of a break-in, and when I realised that the mug I’d left on the side before going out had somehow found its way into the dishwasher, I was triumphant. It was proof that someone had been in The Breakdown





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the house – except that when I said as much everyone


looked at me as if I was mad.’ I pause to catch my breath.

‘The thing is, I have early-onset dementia and I forget so many things that people don’t believe me anymore.

But I know he was in the house last Monday. And now I’m terrified that I’m going to be his next victim. So what I want to know is, what should I do? The police already think I’m imagining things so if I tell them the murderer is after me, they’re not going to believe me, especially when I can’t prove that I’ve been getting calls in the first place. I sound crazy, don’t I?’ I add hopelessly.