Telling Lies to Alice (23 page)

Danny Watts from Lenny’s address book. And on his list of
People Who Deserve To Be Shot
. And who got shot. Last week.

Keep calm, I told myself. Be rational. I read it a second time, then got off my knees and sat down with my back to the door. Those films Jack was in,
Teacher’s Pet
and the other one, those starred Candy Knight as well. If Danny Watts had worked on her other films—apart from the ones in the paper—then Jack did know him. He’d asked me if I remembered him, so he must do . . . must know
of
him, at any rate. And Danny Watts was a cameraman. And—of course,
of course
—

Kitty’s accomplice. I tilted my head back against the wooden boards and stared up at the rafters. It all made sense. I hadn’t thought before—too upset, too tired—but there was no way she could have set up that film by herself. You have to know what you’re doing to work a movie camera, and she wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the box—not that I can talk—but even if she’d done films like that before, it didn’t mean she’d understand the technical stuff, whereas Danny Watts . . . that was his
job
. Anyway, how would she have set the film running? If the camera was positioned behind the mirror, she’d have had to keep popping next door, wouldn’t she? Unless there was some sort of remote-control switch, and that didn’t seem very likely . . . Jack said she’d organised the whole thing . . . with Danny Watts’s help. I’d made a chance remark to Lenny about a threesome, and Lenny’d told Jack, and Jack wouldn’t let it go, so Lenny’d agreed, and they’d walked right into it. Talk about lambs to the slaughter. And they’d blamed
me
. What is it about men? I mean if Jack, if
either of them,
had just thought with his brain for half a second, instead of his dick . . . I shook my head in disbelief. How could two intelligent people be so
stupid
? The blackmail hadn’t ended with Kitty’s death, of course it hadn’t. When she’d disappeared, that was even more reason . . . Even if Danny Watts hadn’t been at that party, it wouldn’t have taken long to find out that
she’d
been there, and that Lenny and Jack had been there, and that that was the last time anyone had seen her . . . it wouldn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. I groaned. That was why Danny Watts, assuming it
was
him, had visited Lenny in Wiltshire two days before he died. Not to bring him pills, but to ask for more cash . . .

Lenny had never said anything to me about money problems. He’d never said anything to me about money, full stop. He wasn’t mean, just vague. I wasn’t doing badly at the club, but of course he earned way more than I did, and when we were living together he often gave me money. I never asked, he just handed it over, handfuls of notes, never counted it, never told me what to spend it on—not that he had a clue about housekeeping, he used to open the fridge and say, “What’s all this stuff doing in here?” Completely bewildered—as if he expected to find, I don’t know . . . a hat or something. Occasionally he’d have a go at me for spending too much, but then he’d go out and buy a case of Chateau d’Yquem or an expensive present for someone and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. We’d never talked about money. Thinking about it, there were a lot of things we’d never talked about.

I made myself think back to that visit to the cottage at Ivar, when I’d found him. The journey, the taxi, asking for him in the pubs, up at the house . . . “Not you as well.” That’s what the man who answered the door had said. As well as who? Not Danny Watts, the taxi driver hadn’t said anything about taking him up to the house, just that he’d dropped him at the cottage, waited, then taken him back to the station afterwards. In any case, if Danny was blackmailing Lenny, he’d hardly want to advertise his visit, would he? But if
Jack
had gone to see Lenny as well . . . He said he’d found out about Lenny’s death from a newspaper when he was on holiday, but this would have been at least three days before, so . . . But Jack had been pissed off with Lenny for not telling him we were engaged, and surely Lenny would have said something, if . . . it didn’t make sense. They weren’t even speaking, so why would Jack go all the way down there? To try to patch it up? They might have argued, and Jack might have . . .

No. Impossible. Lenny’d left a note.

It still didn’t make sense. And why had Lenny taken Kitty to the party?

Her
death might have been an accident . . . but Danny Watts’s wasn’t. And Lenny, however much he may have wanted it, couldn’t have had anything to do with that, because he was already dead.

Jack killed Danny Watts.

Jack has a gun.

Jack is still here.

The world—
time
—stopped, and I was in the middle of that big, empty space again. The place where you realise truly terrible things and it’s all silent and dead calm. I could feel blood pounding in my ears. Breath inside my nose. Air against my skin. I won’t feel any of those things when I’m dead.

“No!” I knocked the back of my head hard against the stable door. Don’t give way to it. Don’t cry, don’t panic, and whatever you do, don’t scream, because if you start you’ll never stop. . . . Think of something, anything . . .
Scotch, Canadian, Bourbon, Rye
. . . Our Father which art in heaven . . .
Irish, Gin, Vodka, Rum
. . . Hallowed be Thy name . . . Be calm. Be rational.

Why? Jack wasn’t being rational, he was falling apart. Booze, pills, Kitty, Lenny, Danny Watts, his daughter . . . He had nothing to lose.

I have
got
to get out of here. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and got to my feet. I took hold of the handle of the bucket, lifted it a couple of inches, gasped, and transferred it to my left hand. I was about to tip the water on the floor, then changed my mind, took it over to the manger, and poured it in there instead. The manger’s plastic, sealed. I might need the water later on . . . if I’m still alive.

WHICH I BLOODY WELL WILL BE BECAUSE I AM NOT GOING TO DIE. I took the bucket over to the partition, upended it, and stood on it. On tiptoe, I could just hold on to the top. I’d got no idea how I was going to climb the wall. I was wearing monkey boots, which was good—more grip—but there were no footholds at all, and my arm was throbbing from just lifting it above my head. I certainly wouldn’t be able to pull myself up with it. I turned and looked back at the manger. It’s triangular, with a flat bottom, so if I took it out of its metal frame in the corner, upended it, and put it on the floor underneath the bucket, then I could stand on both of them. It would mean I’d lose the water, but what the hell.

It felt pretty wobbly. The bucket only just fitted on top of the upturned manger, but it was okay, and when I stood on it my head and neck came above the partition. The bales were wedged together really tightly—I’d bribed the Boyles to help me stack them a few months ago. I glanced at my watchless wrist. Trudy and Lee should be back soon . . . the letter box was at the front of the house, but everyone local came through the yard at the back. If I could get their attention somehow, they could get Fred to call the police—although knowing Fred, he’d probably be straight round here himself . . . But either way, I’d get help.

Or they might be in a hurry and just run up the path to the front door, in which case they could have been and gone already and I wouldn’t have heard them. But there’s always Ted in the morning, although anything could have happened by then—except there isn’t, because tomorrow’s Sunday, so he won’t come. Oh, God. But it’s all right because I won’t
be
in here tomorrow. By tomorrow I’ll have got out and I’ll be safe and all this’ll seem like a bad dream. I pushed my arm between the bales and hooked my fingers under the twine, but the tough orange plastic cut into my skin and wouldn’t budge, and I couldn’t get enough purchase on it without falling off the bucket.

Okay, start again. I reassembled my makeshift stool, climbed back on, and started trying to tug the hay away from the bale.
Jeff.
I’d left him a message. Perhaps he’d . . . No, he won’t, I thought. He’ll probably just think I’ve gone round the bend, and besides, he might not get it for a week—he could be on location, on holiday . . . anywhere . . . I groaned. Why had I tried to get the bloody gun? What on earth was I thinking? I must have been out of my mind. That sort of thing only ever works in films, not real life. In real life people end up
dead,
I thought grimly. Or crippled. I was lucky Jack hadn’t shot me on the spot. And I shouldn’t have let him have the brandy. Just made it worse. Oh, yeah, and how were you going to stop him, jeered a voice in my head.

Too late now. Get on with it, get on with it. Hay was starting to come out now, first in wisps and then in handfuls. Soon I’d be able to demolish the whole bale. I climbed off my manger and bucket for a moment, repositioned them so it was easier to reach, and carried on. What about Val? Would she come? Not on my behalf. “You’ve made your bed, now you can go and lie in it,” was what she’d said on the phone. But surely she’d come for Jack if he was in trouble? It hadn’t sounded like that, but afterwards she might have changed her mind, and my address was in the phone book, and—
Address.
I froze.

Jack had recognised the handwriting—but not because he’d been sent cuttings. He’d recognised it
because it belonged to his wife.

Jack said Val knew about Kitty. If she’d sent the cuttings, then she knew about Danny Watts, too. What else had she actually said on the phone? That I’d got a nerve to ring her up, and she had nothing to say to me—but she’d known who I was, and she hadn’t been surprised, even when I mentioned Jack . . . But why send the cuttings to
me
? Not because I’d slept with him—hundreds of women had done that. No. It had to be something to do with Lenny . . . that Lenny had—

Eustace started barking. Judging from the direction, he was in the front garden. Trudy and Lee? I couldn’t hear any hooves, but they might not bring their ponies down the path. . . . I got off the bucket and went and stood by the door, heart thumping, desperate to call out but terrified that Jack would hear me. The barks were getting louder, nearer. The dog let up for a moment and I heard Lee’s voice: ” ’Sall right, mate, wassup, then?”

Thank God.
“Lee?” I whispered.

More barking. Very close, this time.

“Come on, mate, leave it out . . .”

I rapped on the door with my knuckles. Eustace stopped barking. I heard his nails clicking on the cobbles as he padded over to investigate and the scuff of Lee’s plimsolls as he followed. The dog sniffed along the bottom of the door, his nose blocking the little strip of light. “What is it, mate? Wassa matter?”

“Lee,” I hissed. “Over here.”

“Alice? What you doing in there?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“What’s going on? You locked in?”

“Yeah. Lee—”

“ ‘S a padlock. He lock you in? The bloke off the telly?”

“Yeah. Can you—”

“What you done?”

“Nothing.”

“My mum and dad had a fight once and Dad locked Mum in the bedroom. We was all laughing, but she was doing her nut.”

“Lee, can you let me out?”

“There’s no key. Dad let her out, though. In the end.”

“Lee . . .”
Keep calm, just keep calm.
“This is really important. The key—can you see it anywhere?”

“ ‘Ang on . . . Dad said he only let her out ’cause he wanted his dinner. He never got it though . . . Nothing doing—ain’t here. You all right in there?”

“Can you turn the light on?”

“Yeah, course.”

I blinked as the box lit up, warm and orange. “Thanks.”

“No problem. What d’you want me to do, look in the house?”

“No, wait a sec . . . is Trudy with you?”

“Nah, she’s gone. That bloke, is he still here?”

“Yes. Just let me think, okay?”

There was silence for a minute, and I heard Lee on the other side of the door, shuffling his feet and fiddling with the padlock. I could imagine him, a suntanned, undersized ten-going-on-thirty with ragged hair and round, boot-polish eyes.

“You scared of him, Alice?” Lee’s voice sounded grown-up, sympathetic.

“Yeah . . .”

“I can tell. You bin crying.”

“Lee, d’you think you can get your dad? Tell him I need some help?”

“Yeah, course. You gonna be all right if I go?”

“Yeah.” The concern in his voice was so touching it almost made me start to cry again. “I’ll be fine,” I croaked.

“I ain’t got the pony, Alice. Trudy took ’im back.”

“Never mind, just be as quick as you can.”

“ ‘Sall right, I won’t stop or nothing.”

“Thanks, Lee. I owe you one.”

“Yeah . . . all right. Cheers, mate,” he said to Eustace. He sounded like his dad.

“Go, Lee. Go quick.”

There was a noise somewhere over to the right. The kitchen door being flung open, banging back against the wall.

Jack.

“He’s got a gun.” Lee’s voice was a child’s again, breathy and terrified. I heard footsteps, heavy, coming towards us. “A gun on him . . .”

“Just go, Lee!” I shouted desperately, “Run!” I heard a scuffle—breathing—ripping fabric, then the thud of Lee’s small body hitting the stable wall and his voice, shrill with terror. “Lemme go—I won’t grass you up—I won’t—lemme
go
!”

I pounded the door with my fists, screaming, “Stop it! Leave him alone! Leave him!”—heard the boy tearing off across the yard—“Run, Lee! Run!”—and then a colossal bang.

It took a second to register—the sound echoed round the yard—
let him have missed, dear God let him have missed.
I couldn’t hear the running feet anymore but perhaps he’d got away. . . . Then the echoes died and there were slower, heavier feet, moving away from the stable in the same direction as Lee’s . . . a moan of pain from somewhere in the middle of the yard—“Jack, he’s a child! For God’s sake, he’s a baby, don’t hurt him, don’t—”