When Trevor returned, Cynthia asked him, “Who on earth sent you this?”
The way Trevor stared at the scrap of paper and then tried to grab it out of her hand, told Cynthia all she needed to know. He hadn’t received it, he had written it.
Chapter Fifteen
Glenys brought Anton his tea in bed. It had become a habit since he had become a lodger in the house.
Malcolm had argued strongly against untying his son’s assailant, but both Angela and Glenys pointed out that unless Malcolm was prepared to go to the lavatory every time Anton needed to go, they would have to at least untie his hands.
But it had been Freddie who finally persuaded his father. “He’s OK,” said Freddie. “I like him.”
Anton for his part had sworn that he would not try to escape.
“I like it here,” he had explained. “I don’t want to go back to my life of crime. Anyway, it was just meant to be a holiday job.”
The truth is that Anton had been suffering for several years. He had been suffering from the stress of his tasks. He had been suffering from the constant fear of reprisals, and he had been suffering from knowing that he wasn’t really cut out to be a villain. When he was honest with himself he had to admit he was hopeless at it.
Why couldn’t Grigori Koslov see he was hopeless? Anton had seen others who had bungled a single job, and who – as a result – had ended up at the bottom of the river or fallen under an express train ‘by accident’.
Why didn’t that happen to him? Why was he allowed to make mistake after mistake? It wasn’t fair! It put him under such strain. Was Grigori playing cat and mouse with him? Was he saving up some specially nasty end for him?
He had now been staying with Glenys for more than a month, and he hoped against hope that Grigori would forget about him.
He knew all about the demand that Malcolm had sent Grigori, because he had supplied Grigori’s address. But he secretly hoped his boss would refuse to drop his planning application, so that his hosts would not have to hand him over. He wanted to go on like he was, living with Glenys and Malcolm and Angela and Freddie for the rest of his life.
He knew that was not really possible, but it was what he secretly hoped.
This morning Glenys drew the curtains for him.
“Good morning, Glenys,” said Anton.
“Good morning, Anton,” said Glenys. “It’s another beautiful day!”
The sun streamed into the small bedroom, making the rose-covered wallpaper throw a pink glow over everything.
“I’ve brought you a biscuit with your tea,” said Glenys.
“You’re very kind,” smiled Anton. “You’re very kind indeed to me.”
The truth was Anton had never met many people who were kind to him. His mother had been kind to him. The village butcher had been kind to him, and given him kidneys when he thought the other customers weren’t looking. The village priest had been kind to him. But then Anton had realised what the village priest wanted from him in return and had run away.
That was about it, until he met Glenys.
Glenys sat at the end of Anton’s bed, while he dipped his biscuit in his tea. “I thought we could motor over to Melton Mowbray and look at the pies,” she said. “We could even buy one.”
“A pork pie would be nice,” replied Anton.
“Yes, I was thinking that too,” said Glenys. She sat there for a few moments lost in thought, and then she added, “It’s funny how sometimes two people can think exactly the same thoughts at exactly the same time.”
“I was just thinking that too,” said Anton.
“Isn’t that odd?”
“Yes, it is,” said Glenys.
Suddenly Angela appeared at the door of the bedroom. She was as white as the china cup Anton was drinking his tea out of. “Where’s Malcolm?” she said.
“He went for a run,” said Glenys.
“Something terrible’s happened!”
Chapter Sixteen
When Cynthia heard the news her heart seemed to freeze over. She had been hoping against hope that she would not have to go to the police, but now she knew she had to. She knew her duty and she refused to shirk it, even when it meant destroying her own future.
Ever since she had picked up the scrap of paper that had fallen out of Trevor’s trouser pocket in the restaurant, her world had started to fall apart. Or rather the world she had hoped for had started to fall apart even before she possessed it.
She had never actually spoken to Trevor about getting married or even about how much she loved him, but every minute of every day at work had been filled by those thoughts. Every piece of filing she did was guided by whether or not she would catch a glimpse of Trevor, or whether it would involve asking Trevor a question or not.
She and Trevor had had sex, of course, but that was what you would expect in an office, wasn’t it? Cynthia really didn’t know, but Trevor seemed to assume that’s what you did and that was good enough for her.
Somehow the sex had made it more difficult to bring up the question of how much she loved him. Nevertheless, she had seen her future as Trevor’s wife and as the mother of Trevor’s children. Now she was going to have to destroy that dream.
It was all the fault of those wretched Highgrove Residents. They’d started it, by objecting to some planning application. She knew how worried Trevor had been by them poking their noses into council business, and stirring up trouble. It was enough to drive anyone insane.
And that, it seemed, was what had happened to Trevor. It was the only explanation.
When she’d found the threatening note in the restaurant, she knew he had been intending to send it, but she had persuaded herself it was just a one-off. It was probably of no importance. But then she had searched the wastepaper basket after office hours, and even looked in Trevor’s desk.
She had found a dozen similar notes, all threatening someone with something if they didn’t stop protesting or objecting.
She felt sad that Trevor had been driven to such desperation, but she could understand how he felt. Perhaps he was just getting something off his chest. She was sure he didn’t really mean any of those threats.
But now she knew he did. It was all over the newspapers and the TV.
“A wave of violence erupted last night in a quiet area of Hampstead,” the newsreader had said. “During 10 minutes of mayhem, two people were killed, many wounded and one house was blown up. Police have cordoned off the area, and are appealing for witnesses to come forward.”
Cynthia’s heart had sunk lower with every word the newsreader spoke. How could she ignore the appeal for witnesses? She could not.
She would have to step forward and hand over all Trevor’s notes. Trevor would be arrested. He would be tried and sent to prison and her future would be destroyed.
Perhaps she should ask Trevor first? Perhaps she should check if he had done all those things last night? Perhaps he hadn’t? Perhaps it was just a coincidence?
But Trevor was not at work that morning. He was missing. She rang his home, but there was no answer. No one knew where he was.
If she had had any reason for excusing him, she would have held back, but she could not delude herself. She had to hand over to the police all the evidence she had.
Chapter Seventeen
“They what?” said Malcolm.
“They’ve blown up our house,” repeated Angela.
“Our house?” said Malcolm.
“I keep telling you. Yes!”
“Who? The Council?”
“No. They don’t know who. Somebody.” Angela suddenly felt weary. Thank God they’d decided to stay with Glenys in Leicester. Malcolm had been talking about going back, because he was fed up with commuting from Leicester. It was an hour and a half’s train ride.