A Voice in the Night, page 9
Lucie added one last option: Mr X. It was possible a stranger was doing this, someone she’d met in passing and unwittingly offended. A stalker. A shadow with malignant intent.
She scanned her phone contacts. She might not be able to work out what was going on, but she could sure as hell take measures to protect herself.
Sonya sounded out of breath. ‘Hi. Sorry, I was working out. How are you?’
Lucie hesitated, not wanting to share too much with Sonya; it would invite curiosity. ‘I’ve been putting in way too many hours, and coming home in the dark.’
‘Are you about to cancel our sessions?’
‘No, quite the opposite. I’m hoping you can squeeze in an extra hour or two for me. I’d like to get lessons in self-defence.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Yeah … there’s been a couple of incidents around Fulham lately. This mews is quiet, an easy place for someone to lurk. I figure I should be on the alert.’
‘Sensible lady. I’ve a pretty busy schedule but could do Sunday afternoons.’
‘Can we fit one in before Christmas?’
‘Sure. See you Sunday at three. I’ll come to your place—we can run through some strategies to keep you safe indoors, and I’ll scout the mews.’
The tension dropped from Lucie’s shoulders; she felt she’d taken back some control. After her call with Sonya, she googled capsicum spray. Turned out it was illegal, so she ordered two cans of what was just called self-defence spray.
LONDON
PRESENT
Lucie worked up until Christmas Eve, by which time the staff had thinned out. Only those who didn’t want to eat into annual leave, or whom Charles decreed essential, remained. The chatter revolved around parties, getting home to family, gift-wrapping, and recipes for ham, turkey, pudding. A week stretched ahead with the office closed, the enforced holiday embraced by everyone except Lucie. Her plans extended as far as a daily exercise routine, reading books and getting some decent sleep. Then she might take off to northern Europe for a few days if she could get a last-minute hotel. Tallinn appealed, or Helsinki—maybe she could spend a night or two in each.
Kristy dropped a pile of folders oh Lucie’s workstation. ‘I’m off. Train to Gran’s.’
‘Hang on a mo.’ Lucie opened her top drawer and handed Kristy a square package, wrapped and ribboned. ‘For you, as a thankyou for all you do.’
‘Aw, thanks.’ She tucked the parcel under her arm. ‘I’ll save it for Christmas Day. What are you up to?’
Charles sidled up behind Kristy. ‘I trust you won’t be on your own, Lucinda?’
Lucie examined their enquiring faces: genuine interest, or nosey parkers? ‘No, no. I’ll be busy.’
‘Enjoy. See you next Thursday. Kristy blew her a kiss and hurried off.
Charles leant over the workstation and lowered his voice. ‘My, ah, wife and I would be delighted if you’d join us on Christmas morning after church. A sherry or two?
She couldn’t think of anything she’d like less. ‘That’s awfully kind, Charles, but I’ve planned a big day with a group of old friends.’
It was the same excuse she’d given Jonathan, when he’d asked. He hadn’t really been listening, his thumbs agitating his phone screen. Without lifting his head, he’d said, ‘Come with me, instead. I’m sure my mother and father would welcome another person.’ Lucie couldn’t believe it—an invitation to meet his parents, whom he rarely spoke of? She’d thanked him before making her apologies, relieved not to be cornered into time with his family, enduring a sticky afternoon of polite chitchat. Pink spots had flared on his cheeks, and he’d resumed his typing.
Now Charles made a palaver of checking his watch. ‘Goodness, five-thirty already. I must get home.’
‘Me too.’ She had a date with Alan at Claridge’s for cocktails before he caught the Caledonian Sleeper to Inverness. He was heading to a house party at some laird’s castle owned by a client, an institutional investor. It brought to mind snow, kilts, bagpipes and whisky. He hadn’t invited her, and she suspected there was a wee Scottish lass in the glens to keep him entertained. Or else he’d taken offence at Lucie’s recent string of excuses not to be alone with him—until she sorted the Martin mystery, it felt safer.
The exterior of Claridge’s gleamed, resplendent with sparkling fir trees and life-sized toy soldiers. Lucie gasped in delight: this was how she imagined a fairytale Christmas in London. Inside, firs freckled with fake snow dotted the lobby and public corridors, turning the hotel into a forest of frost. Dominating the foyer stood the most beautiful Christmas tree she’d ever seen, topped with a golden crown and decorated with red and gold baubles, twinkling fairy lights, and stilettos made of gingerbread.
At the base of the grand sweeping staircase, Alan stood grinning beside a red train that had a golden sign above its entry: Loubi Express. He waved her over. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
‘What the—?’
He took her hand. ‘God knows how I managed it, but I’ve got us a table and ordered a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. Step aboard.’ She followed him through an arched entryway into an exquisite carriage. Red decor from carpet to ceiling. Cosy booths, lamplit tables, red floral displays. Red-and-gold velvet-trimmed curtains.
A waiter approached them, uniformed in a white shirt, black waistcoat and flat black cap. ‘This way, sir, madam. I’m your cocktail conductor.’ He gestured to the far corner booth, where a table was set with red linen and crystal glasses.
Alan laughed. ‘Your face is a treat.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s amazing—a fairyland.’ ‘Nothing like this in Australia, eh?’
‘No way. Back home it’s prawns on the barbie, speedos and full-blast air conditioning.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘This may be a bit tacky, but do you think I could take a photo?’
Their cocktail conductor finished pouring their drinks and whipped away her phone. ‘Allow me.’ He took one of her and Alan smiling across the table, and she took a couple more of the carriage to send home.
Christmas by herself didn’t seem so lonely anymore. ‘Thank you for this,’ she told Alan. ‘Very thoughtful.’
He winked. ‘If I had more time, I’d’ve booked us a room.’
That familiar tug between her thighs. ‘This is better.’
‘Cock teaser.’
Canapés arrived, along with the waiter’s longwinded explanation of the ingredients. Conversation moved to the mundane, stuttering between the weather, TV shows and news headlines. Alan didn’t ask how she planned to spend the next day, and she didn’t ask how long he’d be in Scotland. Without sex to bind them, they struggled to connect.
Just before eight-thirty, he pulled a box from his pocket, wrapped in Harrods paper. ‘I forgot … I bought you this, but I gotta go or I’ll miss my train. Put it in your bag and open it tomorrow.’
‘I’m so embarrassed, I didn’t get you—’
He flashed his credit card to the passing conductor and asked for their coats. ‘It’s a small insurance policy.’
Lucie stared at the package, intrigued. A sex toy? From Harrods? Hardly. Or was this Alan showing his hand as her tormentor. She hovered, unsure whether to take it.
He leapt up. ‘C’mon. Let’s go.’
She pushed the box into her handbag.
Waking up alone on a raw, dark English morning struck Lucie as a strange way to start Christmas Day, rather than bright sunshine and the promise of a swim before breakfast. She peeped between the curtains, hoping—childishly, she knew—for snow, but London could only manage a sleet-like drizzle. A stab of guilt pierced her as she thought of David on the other side of the world; despite his hostility, she hoped he’d had somewhere to go, someone to share the day with.
Trim at her heels, she pottered downstairs in bedsocks, made a strong black coffee and turned on her laptop. Several e-cards and Christmas circulars from friends waited to be opened, including one she read straightaway.
Yuletide greetings from Down Under … sweltering in 35 deg heat here. Took kids to Bondi this morning. Watched the surf lifesavers in their Santa hats. Barbecued bugs and yabbies. Hope there’s lots of nice things under your tree. There’s nothing like an English Christmas—log fire, gluhwein, reindeer, snow sleighs. Keep cosy and warm. Best, Everett
Hearing from him gave her a ridiculous thrill. She glanced at the carriage clock and did a quick mental calculation: it was about 9 P.M. in Sydney. She’d reply in the morning and maybe, if she timed it right, he’d be online at the same time. Right now, she wanted to open her presents and phone her family to say thanks before they were all too tipsy to make sense.
Even after she drew back the curtains, a gloom filled the living room. She turned on sidelights, lit the gas-flame heater and played Handel’s Messiah. A choir of five hundred exquisite voices boomed from the speakers in glorious harmony, and surrounded by a small pile of gifts, her spirits lifted. Feet tucked up on the sofa, she opened a cream pashmina from Zoe; the requested books from her mother; soaps and body lotion from Kristy; a cashmere scarf from Em; a batik beach wrap from her dad; and a set of tea towels and oven gloves from her nephews.
Last, she unwrapped the Harrods package. Alan hadn’t bothered to include a card with the navy-blue box. Inside was a Longines watch, handsome and expensive, its large round face on a gold bracelet. She sat back against the cushions. ‘Wow,’ she murmured.
From the speakers, the words ‘He was despised’ cut the air, the alto soprano’s voice firm, decisive.
She stroked the watch face. There was something familiar about it. Someone she knew had one like it, she supposed. A picture flicked into her mind: a washstand, a watch, an arm reaching around her to strap it on his wrist. Martin—he had owned a gold watch. A Longines? She couldn’t recall. Maybe it had been a Patek Philippe. Or Cartier. On a black leather strap. The more she tried to conjure the image, the hazier it became.
Disquieted, she pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and went to check the front door locks. A few shags, and Alan had given her glamorous, exclusive Christmas drinks at the classiest place in London, topped off by an expensive gift. Who did that? In her book, someone creepy. She pulled a bottle of brandy from the drinks cabinet and half-filled a balloon glass.
Her phone rang, and she jumped. It was just Zoe. No longer in the mood to chat to her drunk, happy family, she ignored it. They’d assume she’d gone off to some jolly gathering. She drank the brandy, nestled Trim to her chest and curled into a ball.
Images of unsolicited gifts circled, teasing her. The watch. That Parker pen, similar to Martins. Almost identical red stilettos. Deliberate or coincidental?
She got up and paced the living room. Drew the curtains against the outside world and prying eyes of passers-by. She muted the music, listening for strange sounds in the house; the tick of the clock, the whirr of the fridge. Then she turned the volume up louder.
As a distraction, she re-read Everett’s email, which gave her an idea. She googled gluhwein but as she had none of the ingredients, poured another brandy.
Dear Everett
I was so happy to get your email. Life’s all shit and upside down here. It’s been a miserable fucking Christmas so far and it’s not even lunchtime yet. Someone’s trying to send me crazy.
She deleted the draft. Not a good idea. Write drunk, edit sober, some famous writer had wisely said.
The Hallelujah chorus swelled in joyous rapture. She scrunched up all the wrapping paper, put it in the kitchen bin and poured another drink.
Lucie picked up on the third ring, her mouth dry. Her head was pounding as she opened one eye. A mellow glow filled the room; she’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on and a half-drunk glass of brandy on the bedside table. The clock showed 10.25 P.M.
‘Merry Christmas.’ A male voice, American. ‘I hope it’s not too late.’ Not Alan’s smooth, buttery Californian accent but another—clipped, efficient.
Bleary, she raised herself onto one elbow. ‘You’ve got the wrong number.’ Her chest tightened.
‘Don’t hang up. It’s me, Martin.’
‘No, it’s not. You’re dead.’ Her voice was strangled, high-pitched, as she struggled for air. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘It’s not a trick, I promise. Will you let me tell you?’
It sounded like him. Her memory of him. You’ve called the cell phone of Martin Cornish. I’m sorry …
She gripped the phone, weighing the options. She could press the red icon, cut him off. That wouldn’t solve the mystery, though, and she’d lie awake, waiting for another call.
‘Yeah, it’s a tough one,’ he said. ‘Let me talk. Hear me out.’
Trim stretched, moved up the bed and turned circles before lying on Lucie’s stomach, purring softly. She stayed silent, too afraid to speak to a ghost—or an imposter.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. You gotta understand, it was spur of the moment. I looked up at those buildings exploding, people screaming. And I ran—escaped. My chance to leave everything behind. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.’
She tried to picture Martin, her Martin, abandoning his life. ‘Where did you go?’
‘Better you don’t know. Safer.’
‘For you?’
‘And for you.’
Her head cleared: this must be a con. ‘It’s ridiculous. You couldn’t simply disappear. Someone would know.’
‘Lucie, sweetheart, don’t you see? I always loved you. Never stopped. So many times I wanted to contact you, but I didn’t dare.’
‘Why? What had you done?’ Her voice rose in anxious staccato.
‘Leave that for now. I want you to believe this is me. I know you moved on. Got married and divorced—’
‘How? Have you been following me?’ As she asked, she realised all he needed was access to her Facebook account, or one of her close friend’s. Even David’s.
‘Sweetheart, I want us to get to know each other again.’
‘It’s all in the past.’ She wavered, shocked at giving him even a mote of credence.
‘It’s never been over for me. I always knew one day I’d come back for you. Now’s our time. Trust me, I’m free. You know it’s me, don’t you?’
‘Where are you?’ She looked around the room and pulled Trim closer. Was he in the street below? Hovering, waiting to pounce?
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘But I’m a different man.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll—’ The line went dead.
She checked the number. No Caller ID again, the bastard.
The whole thing was preposterous. Trim in her arms, she went to the window and opened the balcony door. Barefoot, she stepped out and looked up and down the mews. No one in the shadows. A few glimpses of light between drawn curtains. Sounds in the distance, cars and sirens. She went back inside, shivering, feet hardened to ice.
Armed with a mug of hot chocolate, Lucie returned to bed, expecting sleep to be elusive until she’d calmed her jittery mind. By 3 A.M., still wide awake, she’d conjured no believable explanation for the man’s behaviour. But as long as she let him call the shots, she’d be a sitting duck. She had to be proactive, seek answers, not wait at his pleasure, terrified to trust any men friends or be on her own. To get to the bottom of this, she needed to go to New York City.
One thing was certain: the man stalking her couldn’t be Martin Cornish. People didn’t disappear in literal puffs of smoke then rise like phoenixes. And the Martin she’d known had always called her ‘babe’, not ‘sweetheart’. But whoever it was knew a lot about her time with him.
She checked her diary. Charnbrook and Henley would be closed until mid-next week. In New York, however, Christmas holidays didn’t cause a business hiatus, with most white-collar workers back at their desks after Boxing Day. If she got a flight tomorrow, she’d have a week in Manhattan. Enough time to retrace the past—and enjoy a break, spoil herself, make the most of a few days away from the office.
In the morning she booked flights and a hotel, and texted Sonya to cancel next week’s training sessions. She phoned her elderly neighbour, Mabel, who said she’d be delighted to feed Trim. Lastly, she emailed Kristy to let her know she’d be away, and how to deal with any urgent client matters. As an afterthought, she explained where she kept a spare set of house keys, in case of emergency.
NEW YORK
2001
Lucie and Martin sat at the bar in the Rainbow Room, at the top of Rockefeller Plaza, sipping daiquiris like any normal couple. She was perched on a bar stool, legs crossed, shoe dangling from her foot. Around them the room buzzed with energetic conversations: New Yorkers completing business deals, office workers winding down with a cocktail, people on dates, friends catching up on news.
‘Perfection.’ Martin stroked the tip of his shoe up the length of her calf. ‘This is that moment.’
Lucie gave him a quizzical look. ‘It is?’
He nodded to her foot. ‘The moment when everything changes. When life spins on its axis and all the chips are thrown in the air.’
‘That’s a mangled mess of mixed metaphors.’
He laughed. ‘And that’s an array of alliteration.’ A man’s bulk moved between them. Martin’s head jerked up, and in an instant he moved his shoe. ‘Brian.’ He stood. ‘Good to see you.’
Brian towered over them, the height of a basketball player and the width of a sumo wrestler. He wasn’t looking at Martin at all. ‘And who might this be?’
As if he’d rehearsed for this moment, Martin didn’t miss a beat. ‘Lucie Wilkinson from Lockstein Feltermann, my attorneys. Lucie, meet my old friend, Brian Jessop.’ He slapped Brian on the back. ‘Forgive me, buddy, but Lucie only has a few minutes to spare, and we have to finalise a couple of contract clauses. I’ll call you, eh? Lunch?’
