A car key tracker.
AFTER
Monday 13th May
Rachel
He’s back. He looks different now. Calmer. I should be relieved, but I’m scared. There’s an intent in his expression that wasn’t there before.
When he pushed the piece of tape back over my mouth, I thought he was going to smother me to death. And even when his hand lifted, I struggled to breathe; my nose filled with snot. But then he left the room, and gradually I found some rhythm again. That’s when I realised that the tape had lost some of its glue, and I’ve been moving my face ever since, like a cow chewing grass, to try and loosen it further. But even if I do dislodge it, I’m not sure what I want to use my voice for. To scream for help, or to persuade him to let me go?
‘Your old man’s a fucking prick,’ he murmurs. ‘He thinks he’s better than people like me. That he can do what he wants to us, because we don’t really matter.’
I move my mouth, but the tape holds.
‘But you matter to him, like his precious little girl matters.’
He leans forward, his face hovering close to mine. I push my head against the pillow to gain as much distance as I can, but it only gives me millimetres.
‘He treated my mum like filth,’ Sean growls, the knife appearing in his hand again. ‘When she was clearing up his mess, and fighting cancer at the same time. And he never once said sorry, not even when she told the school about her diagnosis.’
I can smell his breath, feel his spittle on my skin. The blade grazes the exposed part of my shoulder. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but my throat is too constricted to ask.
‘And then you turn up at my flat,’ he goes on. ‘Shouting your mouth off. It’s like you’re asking to pay for what he’s done.’
I want to ram my eyes shut, make Sean disappear, but they widen in fear.
Bang, bang, bang.
It takes a moment for my brain to register that someone is thumping on the front door. Sean rears back. A look of fear passes across his face, then it hardens as he realises my mouth isn’t covered up and moves forward again. He drops down on top of me. One hand clamps my mouth, the other holds the knife against the dip of my neck. ‘Don’t speak,’ he mouths. His body is heavy. I feel like I’m suffocating.
‘Sean Russo!’ The words catapult through the letter box. My chest explodes with an adrenalin surge. It’s DI Finnemore. This is my chance.
What will they do when no one comes to the door? Do the police know Sean has kidnapped me? Or is this about Jess? Or Amber? Either way, they can’t break in without a warrant. If Sean is a suspect in a murder investigation, or that of a missing child, the courts would issue one without question. But if this is just a routine inquiry, Finnemore wouldn’t have even applied for one.
Am I really going to lie here passively and wait to find out?
I whip my head to the right, then switch left, and again, hurling it side to side. My lips slide against his fingers. The traction loosens his grip, just enough for my mouth to open a fraction. I grab his middle finger between my teeth, clamp down.
‘Ah, fuck!’ he hisses. But as he tries to pull that hand away, the other pushes forward. I feel a sudden, searing pain as the knife cuts through my skin below my collarbone. But instead of stalling me, it has the opposite effect. Fight. I fling my head forward, it slams into his. He’s dazed for a moment, and I use the chance to twist and squirm underneath him. I can’t get away, but it’s enough to make him feel unbalanced. He puts his free hand on the mattress to steady us both.
And I scream.
The hand is back over my mouth in an instant, pushing hard. The knife slides deeper into my shoulder. It’s agony. My vision blurs.
I force myself to pull back, focus on the noise.
Banging, rustling, thudding, shouting.
The door flies open. The pressure on my mouth, the knife, disappears. I gasp for breath. Sean is dragged off me. I hear the crack of a Taser, watch his body stiffen, then collapse inwards.
Sean Russo, I’m arresting you on suspicion of kidnap and false imprisonment, grievous bodily harm with intent, and also for the murder of Amber Walsh …
Sean murdered Amber. He’s the criminal, not my husband. I always knew that.
… And for the grievous bodily harm of Caden Carter. You do not have to say anything but …
Who is Caden Carter?
I see someone I recognise, a woman who’s been my adversary for the last week but is now my rescuer. I try a smile, but her eyes are on the knife jutting out of me, it’s handle butted up against my collarbone. Bzowski pulls out her phone and calls for an ambulance. As the adrenalin ebbs away, I feel spent. Like I could drift into unconsciousness and sleep forever.
‘Stay alert, Rachel,’ Bzowski says quietly. ‘The paramedics are on their way.’ I try to focus on her face, her concerned eyes. ‘And lie absolutely still. From the blood loss, it doesn’t seem like the blade has hit any major blood vessels, which is good, but it’s important not to move.’
I blink to tell her I understand, that I’m grateful. Then I hear his voice. Sean shouting at DI Finnemore. ‘I didn’t kill Amber, you fucking moron!’
But Finnemore cuts him off. ‘I’ve just had confirmation that your blood was found on her body, and we have a witness who places you at the crime scene, so I suggest you keep the insults to a minimum.’
‘I … I saw her afterwards, all right!’ Sean stutters. ‘After she died. And I cut my hand on a bramble when I was walking there! I freaked when I saw her, did a runner. I’m not gonna trust the feds, am I?’
‘That’s the most rubbish story I’ve ever heard,’ Finnemore mutters. Then he shoves Sean, still arguing, out of the bedroom and it’s just Bzowski and me.
‘Sean killed Amber then,’ I whisper, wanting to hear her say it too, like a child seeking more reassurance.
‘It looks that way.’
‘And Jess?’ I ask, my heart rate ticking up despite the pain as I think about the Waitrose bag of cash. The badger. The car in the garage.
‘He’ll be asked about her in his interview,’ she explains quietly. Then she sits up straighter as a noise filters through the thin walls. ‘That must be the paramedics,’ she says.
