Collecting the eggs and milk from the fridge, Sarah smiled, imagining her friend doing just that. There were secrets and there were secrets, though. And that one was pretty harmless as secrets went.
They’d cracked the second egg into the bowl, Sarah praising Ollie’s expert egg-cracking skills, when there was a knock at the front door. The postman, she assumed, with something that didn’t fit through the letter box. ‘One second,’ she said to Ollie, grabbing the tea towel to wipe her hands as she went to answer it.
Pulling the door open, she was surprised to see a parcel sitting on the doorstep. Strange that the postman hadn’t waited, she thought, bending to retrieve it; a nondescript cardboard box that was relatively lightweight. She had no idea what it was – she hadn’t ordered anything – but it was definitely addressed to her, the name and address scrawled in capital letters on a plain white label. Furrowing her brow, she scanned the top and sides of the box, peered at the bottom of it. There didn’t appear to be any postmark. So who on earth had delivered it? There was a woman walking a dog a way off, but no one visible in the close vicinity, no courier vans disappearing into the distance. Had a neighbour received it by mistake and dropped it off? It seemed odd that someone would do that without stopping to speak to her. Assuming that was the explanation and that whoever it was must have been in a hurry, she carried it inside.
‘Won’t be long, Ollie,’ she called, placing the box on the hall table and grabbing her keys to score the brown parcel tape it was sealed with. She was momentarily startled when, pushing aside the tissue inside the box, she was confronted with a fluffy blue bunny. What on earth …? Laura had dropped it off, presumably, trying to make amends and probably apprehensive about hanging around – with good reason. Sarah hadn’t hidden the fact that she wasn’t very happy with her when they’d been at the hospital. Not sure what to make of the gesture, she lifted the bunny somewhat tentatively from its nest of shredded paper and her heart lurched violently.
It had an ear missing.
The opposite ear to the bunny sitting upstairs in her wardrobe.
Her mind faltering as she tried to make sense of it, she pulled out the folded sheet of paper that had been tucked underneath it, opening it with trembling hands. SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS, she read – and her heart stopped dead in her chest.
Cold terror and nausea churning inside her, she dropped the rabbit as if it might bite her and spun around towards the kitchen.
‘Ollie, we need to get you dressed, sweetheart. We—’ She stopped inside the door, her world careering off kilter as she realised he wasn’t there.
The back door was open. Her blood ran cold. He was obviously in the garden, she tried to reassure herself. Her throat dry, she hurried outside. He still hadn’t got any shoes on. She really would have firm words with him when—
He wasn’t there either, but the side gate was open. Fear gripping her chest like a vice, she flew through the gate, down the path and onto the road, scouring it left and right. There was no sign of him. No sign of anyone. No cars. Nothing.
‘Ollie!’ she screamed, willing herself not to buckle right there and sink to her knees. ‘Ollie!’
Fifty-Four
Joe
Seeing Grant Caldwell heading away from the property astride a formidable-looking horse, Joe debated what to do. Approaching him would probably spook the animal. In any case, he wanted to get a look at his car before speaking to the man, or his not-so-delightful wife. Grant Caldwell, he’d discovered, drove a Range Rover Sport, black in colour. Sarah’s description had been vague – it could be any number of vehicles – but it fitted, and this car would certainly be pretty nifty if the need arose, off or on the road.
Negotiating the long drive, he pulled up a way from the house, a detached Georgian farmhouse set in a good two acres of paddock. Impressive, he thought, letting himself through the five-bar gate into a large gravelled parking area that boasted a pond, complete with fountain. The bloke must be making a bob or two just to pay for the upkeep. It was the sort of property most people could only dream of.
Glancing around, he bypassed the four-car garage, heading for the front door. The Range Rover was parked outside. Guessing it wouldn’t be there if the man had anything to hide, he decided to take a look at it before knocking anyway. If he was spotted, he could always say he was admiring it. He hadn’t quite worked out his story as to why he would be calling unannounced, but he would get to that when he needed to. If they didn’t know about Steve’s accident – or claimed not to – then that would be a reasonable excuse.
Bingo, he thought two minutes later, surveying a sizeable dent in the bumper. No scratches, he noted, meaning the impact was unlikely to have been metal against metal or the car hitting any other hard object. Impact with an animal might result in that kind of damage, but Joe reckoned it was more likely to have been caused by hitting something on two legs rather than four. No doubt Grant – or Sherry, whichever of them might have been driving it – would have an explanation. He was betting, though, that if he could get the vehicle towed in and examined forensically, it would yield the evidence he suspected was there.
Crouching down, he peered more closely at it. There were no visible signs of blood or fibres, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. He wasn’t sure he was likely to get a request for a forensic road collision investigation sanctioned, though, considering there were no fatalities or life-changing injuries. The only witness had been Sarah, who understandably hadn’t been able to provide much detail. They had no registration number, and the initial responders hadn’t come up with much; tyre marks wouldn’t help without specific identification marks, and the chances of pursuing that line of investigation was also minimal.
Sighing, he straightened up. Except for the fact that Sarah had said the car appeared to be coming right at her, which had shaken him, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here. It could be that the Caldwells were involved, one or both of them. Sherry, maybe, going to see her daughter after imbibing too much wine over dinner? It might be no more than that, an accident, the driver running scared because they’d been drink-driving. Joe couldn’t escape the niggling worry gnawing away at him, though, that it wasn’t that simple. That what had happened to Steve was malicious intent. Taking into account the definitely weird things going on, his overriding worry was that Sarah might have been the prime target.
So, what could he do about it? Pose a few questions, he supposed. Ideally to Sherry and Grant Caldwell separately. Maybe he would get lucky and one of them would slip up and contradict the other’s story.
Running a hand over his neck, he was about to turn to the front door when something cracked into the back of his skull with the force of a sledgehammer. Blinking hard against the blinding jagged lights that danced across his eyes, he dropped heavily to his knees. He didn’t have a chance to wonder what the fuck was going on before the second blow floored him.
Fifty-Five
Sarah
‘Where is he?’ Cutting the call to Joe, whose number she’d rung repeatedly on her way here, Sarah pushed through Steve’s front door almost before he’d opened it.