The Breakdown: The gripping thriller from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors. B Paris A
to music but take them off again when I realise they’d mask the sound of someone creeping up the stairs. The two windows I found open, the one in the bedroom after the alarm man left on Friday and the one in the kitchen on Saturday play on my mind, as does the man I saw outside the house this morning. When the sun begins to rise and I find myself falling asleep, I don’t bother fighting it, telling myself that I’m less likely to be murdered in daylight than at night.
I’m woken by the phone ringing in the hall. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, hoping the caller will give up. Yesterday morning the phone had rung insistently at half-past eight but when I’d answered it there’d been no one there. I look at the clock: it’s nearly nine so it’s probably Matthew, phoning before he starts work for the day. Leaping out of bed, I run downstairs and snatch it up before the answering machine kicks in.
‘Hello?’ I say breathlessly. There’s no answering hello, so I wait, because the connection is often bad from the rig.
‘Matthew?’ I try. There’s still no answer so I hang up and dial his number.
‘Did you just call?’ I ask when he picks up.
‘Good morning, darling,’ he says pointedly, but with laughter in his voice. ‘How are you today?’
‘Sorry,’ I say hastily. ‘I’ll start again. Hello, darling, how are you?’
‘That’s better. I’m fine, it’s cold up here, though.’
‘Did you call me a moment ago?’
‘No.’
I frown. ‘Oh.’
‘Why?’
‘The phone rang but there was no one there so I thought it was a bad connection from the rig.’
‘No, I was going to call you at lunchtime. I’m afraid I have to go, sweetheart, let’s speak later.’
I hang up, annoyed at having been got out of bed. There should be a rule against cold-callers calling so early. The day stretches in front of me and I realise I don’t want to spend another night on my own. During the night, when I’d got up to go to the loo, I’d looked out of the window and, for a second, I thought there was someone there. There wasn’t, of course, but after that I couldn’t get back to sleep until the early hours.
‘Then go away for a couple of days,’ Matthew says when he phones and I tell him I’ve hardly slept for the last two nights.
‘I could, I suppose,’ I say. ‘Maybe the hotel I went to a couple of years ago, after Mum died. It has a pool and spa. I’m not sure they’ll have any room though.’
‘Why don’t you phone them and find out? If they do, you could go today and I’ll join you on Friday.’
My spirits lift immediately. ‘That’s a great idea! You really are the best husband in the world,’ I say gratefully.
I phone the hotel and while I wait for them to pick up, I take the calendar from the wall, just to make sure of the dates I need to book. I’m just calculating that I’ll need to book it for four nights if we’re to stay until Sunday when the words ‘Matthew to rig’ jump accusingly out at me from Monday’s square. I close my eyes, hoping they won’t be there when I open them again. But they are, as are the words ‘Matthew back’, written on the square for the 31st – Friday – followed by a smiley face. My heart drops and worry begins its familiar gnawing in my stomach, so that when the hotel finally answers and the receptionist tells me they’re fully booked apart from a suite, I don’t even ask him how much it costs, I just go ahead and reserve it.
I hang the calendar back on the wall, turning the page over to August, ready for when we come back from the hotel – and so that Matthew won’t see he was right when he said he’d told me he was going to the rig.
*
It’s only once I’m at the hotel, waiting to check in, that I begin to feel better. The suite is fabulous, with the biggest bed I’ve ever seen and once I’ve unpacked, I text Matthew to let him know where I am, then change into a swimsuit and make my way down to the pool. I’m just pushing my belongings into a locker when a text arrives, but from Rachel:
Hi, just to let you know I’ve arranged to leave early tonight so will be with you around 6. Are you cooking or shall we go out?
My heart plummets so fast I feel as if I’ve stepped off a cliff. How could I have forgotten that Rachel was coming to stay tonight when we’d only arranged it on Monday? I think of Mum and a hot-sick fear claws my stomach. I can’t believe I forgot. Jane’s murder and the guilt I feel have distracted me, yes, but to forget about Rachel coming to stay? I fumble with my phone and press the Call button, desperate to confide my growing fears in someone.
Despite Rachel only just sending the message, she doesn’t pick up. The changing room is empty so I sit down on a damp wooden bench. Now that I’ve made the decision to tell Rachel I’m worried about my short-term memory, I’m desperate to act on it in case I dissuade myself later. I call Rachel again and this time she answers.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to spend the night in a luxury hotel instead of at the house,’ I say.
There’s a pause. ‘Depends where it is.’
‘Westbrook Park.’
‘The one with the fantastic spa?’ She’s whispering, so I guess she’s in the middle of a meeting or something.
‘That’s the one. Actually, I’m already there. I felt like having a bit of a break.’
‘It’s all right for some,’ she sighs.
‘So will you join me?’
‘It’s a bit far to come for one night – I have to work tomorrow, remember. How about I join you on Friday?’
‘You could,’ I say, ‘Matthew’s coming here straight from the rig, so it’d be the three of us.’
She gives a quiet laugh. ‘Awkward.’
‘Sorry for standing you up tonight.’
‘Don’t worry about it. See you next week?’
‘Hang on, Rachel, there’s something else…’
But she’s already gone.
By the time the afternoon comes, I’m desperate to see Matthew. The weather isn’t brilliant so I hang around in our room, waiting for his call to tell me what time he’ll be arriving. I watch a bit of television, relieved that there’s nothing on the news about Jane’s murder, yet strangely annoyed that two weeks on from her violent death, she’s already been forgotten.
The phone rings and I snatch it up.
‘I’m at the house,’ Matthew says.
‘Good,’ I say happily. ‘You’ll be here in time for dinner.’
‘The thing is, when I arrived, there was a man here from that alarm company, practically sitting on the doorstep.’ He pauses. ‘I didn’t realise you’d actually gone ahead with it.’
‘Gone ahead with what?’
‘Well, the alarm.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The guy said he agreed with you that someone would fit the alarm this morning but when the technician turned up there was nobody in. They’ve been phoning every half an hour, apparently.’
‘I didn’t agree to anything at all,’ I say, annoyed. ‘All I said was that we’d get back to him.’