The Breakdown: The gripping thriller from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors. B Paris A
mentioning Jane’s death unbalances me and I desperately want him out of the house. ‘Have you got contact details? From your firm?’
‘Sure.’ He reaches inside his jacket and I take a step back, half expecting him to draw out a knife. But all he brandishes is a card. I take it from him and study it for a moment. It says his name is Edward Garvey. Does he look like an Edward? My suspicion is addictive.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But it might be an idea if you come back when my husband is here.’
‘I could, I suppose. Not sure when it’ll be though. I know I shouldn’t say it but murder is good for business, if you know what I mean? So, if you just give me ten more minutes of your time, I’ll run through everything quickly and you can tell your husband all about it when he gets home.’
He walks towards the kitchen and stands in the doorway, his hand outstretched, inviting me in. I want to remind him that it’s my house but I find myself walking into the kitchen anyway. Is this how it works…? is this how people let themselves be led into potentially dangerous situations, like lambs to the slaughter? My anxiety increases when, instead of sitting down opposite me at the table, he sits down next to me, cornering me in. He opens the brochure but I’m so on edge that I can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying. I nod my head at appropriate moments and try to look interested in the figures he’s totting up but sweat is trickling down my back and the only thing that stops me leaping to my feet and ordering him out of the house is my middle-class upbringing. Was it manners that prevented Jane from closing her window hurriedly and driving off when she realised she didn’t want to give her killer a lift after all?
‘Right, that’s that then,’ he concludes, and I stare at him, bemused, as he stuffs the papers into his briefcase and pushes a brochure towards me. ‘You show that to your husband tonight. He’ll be impressed, take my word for it.’
I only relax once I’ve closed the door behind him but the realisation that, once again, I did something stupid by not asking for proof of identity before letting him in, especially when a woman has just been murdered nearby, makes me question my lack of judgement. Feeling suddenly cold, I run upstairs to fetch a jumper and, as I go into the bedroom, I see that the window is open. I stare at it for a moment, wondering what it means, wondering if it means anything at all. You’re being neurotic, I tell myself sternly, taking a cardigan from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. Even if the man from Superior Security Systems did open it – which he probably did, to see where the sensors could be fitted – it doesn’t mean that he left it open so that he could come back and murder you.
I close the window and as I’m on my way back downstairs, the phone starts ringing. I expect it to be Matthew but it’s Rachel.
‘I don’t suppose you want to meet for a drink, do you?’ she asks.
‘Yes!’ I say, glad of an excuse to get out of the house. ‘Are you OK?’ I add, detecting that she isn’t her usually bubbly self.
‘Yes, I just feel like a glass of wine. Is six all right for you? I can come to Browbury.’
‘Great. In the Sour Grapes?’
‘Perfect. See you there.’
Back in the kitchen, the Superior Security Systems brochure is still lying on the table, so I put it on the side for Matthew to look at once we’ve had dinner. It’s already five-thirty – the whole thing with the alarm man must have lasted longer than I realised – so I grab my car keys and head off immediately.
The town is busy and as I hurry towards the wine bar, I hear someone call my name and look up to see my lovely friend Hannah making her way through the crowd. She’s the wife of Matthew’s tennis partner, Andy, and a relatively new friend but such fun I wish I’d met her earlier. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she says.
‘I know, it’s been too long. I’m actually on my way to meet Rachel, otherwise I’d suggest going for a drink, but you must come over for a barbecue this summer.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Hannah smiles. ‘Andy was saying the other day that he hasn’t seen Matthew at the club recently.’ She pauses. ‘Isn’t it awful about that young woman who was murdered last week?’
The dark cloud that is Jane descends on me. ‘Yes, dreadful,’ I say.
She gives a little shiver. ‘The police still haven’t found the person responsible. Do you think it was someone she knew? They say most murders are committed by someone known to the murderer.’
‘Do they?’ I say. I know I should tell Hannah that I knew Jane, that I’d had lunch with her a couple of weeks before, but I can’t because I don’t want her to start asking me about her, about what she was like. And the fact that I can’t seems like another betrayal.
‘It could be just an opportunist murder,’ she goes on. ‘But Andy thinks it was someone local, someone who knows the geography of the area. He reckons they’re holed up somewhere nearby. He thinks it won’t be the last murder around here. It’s worrying, isn’t it?’
The thought of the murderer hiding nearby makes me go cold. Her words vibrate in my head and I feel so sick that I can’t concentrate on what she’s saying. I let her talk for a few more minutes, not really listening, murmuring responses at what I hope are appropriate places.
‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ I say, looking at my watch, ‘but I’ve just seen the time! I really have to go.’
‘Oh, of course. Tell Matthew that Andy is looking forward to seeing him.’
‘I will,’ I promise.
*
The Sour Grapes is packed and Rachel is already there, a bottle of wine in front of her.
‘You’re early,’ I say, giving her a hug.
‘No, you’re late, but it doesn’t matter.’ She pours wine into a glass and hands it to me.
‘Sorry. I bumped into my friend Hannah and we ended up chatting. I better not drink the whole glass, I’m driving.’ I nod towards the bottle. ‘You’re obviously not.’
‘A couple of colleagues are meeting me for a bite to eat later so we’ll finish it between us.’
I take a sip of wine, savouring its crispness. ‘So, how are you?’
‘Not great, actually. The police have been in the office for the last few days, questioning everybody about Jane. It was my turn today.’
‘No wonder you feel like a drink,’ I say sympathetically. ‘What did they want to know?’
‘Just if I knew her. So I said that I didn’t, because it’s true.’ She fiddles with the stem of her glass. ‘The thing is, I didn’t tell them about the run-in I had with her over the parking space and now I’m wondering if I should have.’
‘Why didn’t you tell them?’
‘I don’t know. Actually, I do. I suppose I thought it might make me look as if I had a motive.’
‘A motive?’ She shrugs. ‘What, to murder her? Rachel, people don’t commit murder over a parking space!’
‘I’m sure people have been murdered for less,’ she says dryly. ‘But what I’m worried about now is if somebody else – one of her friends in the office, because she’s bound to have mentioned it – tells the police about the row.’
‘I doubt they will,’ I say. ‘But if you’re that worried, why don’t you call the police and tell them yourself ?’
‘Because they might start wondering why I didn’t tell them in the first place. It makes me look guilty.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re reading too much into it.’ I try to smile at her. ‘I think that’s the effect this murder is having on everybody. I had a man over this afternoon to give me a quote for an alarm and I felt really vulnerable