“Thank you,” I said, grateful for his understanding, “but I think I'll be OK. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”
As he rang off he told me to get some sleep. His tone suggestive enough to almost make me offer him a place in my bed to help me try.
***
Maybe, if I'd gone to bed then, I would have managed more sleep than I did. I sat for a long time on the most solid part of my leaking sofa – I really must finish clearing up the stuffing – cradling another cup of coffee and trying to blank the vision of Joy's desperate struggle to cling to life.
Would I have been able to fight any harder? Would I have held out any longer than she had? I looked down again and saw my bloodstained hands.
With a grimace I set down my cup and went to scrub the traces away. Soap struggled to shift the blood now it was dry. I ended up using washing up liquid, with some gritty brown sugar thrown in as an improvised scouring agent. By the time I'd finished my skin was pink and raw, but at least it was clean.
I had just walked back into the lounge again when the phone rang. I picked it up with a smile on my face, thinking that at this hour it could only be Marc, with some just-remembered remark.
“That was a close one, wasn't it, Charlie? Next time, it could be you.”
I lurched. It wasn't Marc. Instead, I heard a quiet sexless voice with a faint mechanical twang to it that took me a moment to place. Then I realised it was the way you sounded when you were using a voice-changer device, like mine. Correction – like the one I used to have, but hadn't been able to find since the flat had been turned over . . .
“Charlie? I know you can hear me,” the voice went on nastily. Oh shit. I jerked away from the receiver as though it had burned me. “I know you're listening. Not so brave now, are you? Your friend wasn't brave. She hardly even struggled. No sport there, Charlie. Not like you.”
“Try me!” I threw at him. Oh Christ, where had that burst of bravado come from? The fear rippled down me, making my spine twitch. I wanted to run away screaming with my hands over my ears, but I was caught, dazzled, like a rabbit in the headlights of the car that was just about to run it over.
The voice gave a delicate laugh. “Maybe next time, Charlie,” it said. “Maybe I will.”
“There won't be a next time,” I said, amazed at how level my own voice sounded.
“Oh there'll definitely be a next time,” repeated the metallic voice. “You won't know where, and you won't know when, but it'll happen. You can count on it.”
I didn't have the capacity to breathe enough to answer that one, but I didn't have to. There was a click and the monotone whirr of an empty line. I let the receiver drop back onto its cradle slowly, stunned.
My legs suddenly opted out of supporting me. I wasn't close enough to the sofa to make it, and I ended up on the floor. My vision started to tunnel out, the blood thundering in my ears. I didn't know if I was going to pass out, or throw up, or both.
I sat there for some time, eyes staring without seeing. He's coming after me! I couldn't get it out of my head. I wanted to panic, or run, but common sense told me that wasn't the answer. If I didn't stand and fight this, I was never going to be able to stop running.
I shook myself out of my stupor long enough to dial 1471. The frosty-voiced automated lady at BT told me I had been called today and gave me the precise time, then added unsurprisingly that the caller had withheld their number.
“Thanks,” I told her. “That's a great help,” but she didn't respond to the jibe.
***
I didn't move far that night. I dozed fitfully, shivering, wrapped up in what was left of my quilt and still wearing the clothes I'd changed into when I got home. The thought of facing a would-be murderer naked was too much to bear. It was a long cold night, and I'm not just talking about time and temperature.
I kept the light on, and stayed away from the windows. The phone rang another couple of times in the early hours, but I'd put the answering machine back on by then. Both times the caller rang off without waiting for the beep as instructed, and the numbers were withheld.
I could only guess it was my friendly neighbourhood psycho again. It seemed only too likely.
By seven I gave up any idea of sleep and got up, pacing round the flat restlessly, unable to settle to anything. Eventually I gave in and admitted defeat. I picked up the phone, dialling Lancaster police station quickly, before I'd chance to chicken out.
When they answered I asked to be put through to whoever was dealing with Joy's death.
A detective inspector came onto the line and I explained to him who I was. “I don't wish to sound alarmist,” I said carefully, “but I think whoever killed Joy might have decided that it's my turn next.”
Eighteen
By the time the doorbell rang just after nine-thirty, I had managed to keep myself occupied by clearing up more of the rubbish. There was now a row of eight or so plastic bags near the door and I was just tackling the stuffing from the sofa.
I straightened up slowly, my vision narrowing sharply as I did so. Jesus, I was going to have to eat something soon. I hadn't been able to face food when I got in last night, and I'd missed breakfast.
Over-cautious, I checked through the Judas glass to see who my visitor was. A man was holding up an open wallet towards the outside of the glass. Even through the fish-eye lens I could recognise the police insignia. I unlocked the door and opened it warily.
“Miss Fox, is it?” he asked politely and I agreed that I was indeed she.
The man was smartly dressed, a good dark blue suit, well cut, with a startlingly white shirt and a conservative tie. At first I'd thought him in his late thirties, but looking closer I realised he was probably ten years older at least, wearing well. His eyes were an indistinct green colour, and they looked straight at me without blinking.
“I'm Detective Superintendent MacMillan,” he said, his voice was well-spoken, with a purposeful clip to the words. “I thought it was time we had a little chat.”
He handed me the wallet. I've always thought warrant cards look more like a bus pass, encased in clear plastic with an unflattering photo on the front. I studied it for a while before handing it back and stepping to one side.
“Come in,” I said, adding wryly. “Excuse the mess, won't you, but I've had visitors.”
The Superintendent favoured me with a moment of brief stillness, hovering between amusement and censure, then he walked into the flat and looked around him with detached professionalism. He didn't make the expected comments about how shocking the abrupt viciousness of Joy's departure from this life had been, or shake his head in disbelief at the whole sorry business.
There was a weariness about him that told me clearly he'd seen far too much to be shocked by anything any more, and I could guess there was very little he wouldn't believe when it came to the lower reaches of human nature.
“Do you mind if I carry on sorting this out while we talk?” I said, gesturing to the half-filled bags. “Only it's taken me ages to work up the energy to make a start and I don't want to stop now.”
He gave me a shrug of assent. “Would it be pointless to ask what happened here?”
“I should have thought it was pretty obvious,” I said. “I was burgled.”
“But you didn't report it,” he pointed out with a hint of reproof, and it was a statement, not a question.
“I was here at the time,” I said, opting for a half-truth. “The men who did this made it absolutely clear what they'd do to me if I involved the police.” I bent to shovel more debris into the bag. “Things can be replaced.”
The Superintendent didn't reply immediately, just favoured me with a long cool stare. He moved round the perimeter of the lounge with measured precision, ducking his nose into all the rooms with deceptive speed. He paused momentarily in front of the punchbag, still suspended from its hook in the corner.