Page 84 of The Perfect Son
“Now?” She sounds surprised. No, it’s more than that; she sounds uncomfortable.
“I just have a few questions, and you did say I could call you anytime,” I add, pushing at her guilt.
“Yes, sorry, of course. What can I help you with?”
I pause, suddenly unsure how to word what I need to say. “Do you know if Mark was working on something secret?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Something... something that might have got him in trouble. Something he wouldn’t have wanted people to know about.” Something that would make a man call in the middle of the night and threaten Mark, threaten us.
There’s silence on the line. I pull the phone from my ear to check that I’ve still got a signal.
“I can’t talk now.” Her voice is so low I barely hear. “I’m sorry. I need to call you back.”
“Why? What can’t you talk about?” I ask, but it’s too late; she’s gone.
What the hell, Mark?
I shiver again and stare at the blank screen of my mobile. Even in my panic I thought Denise would laugh off my question. I thought she’d reassure me there was nothing to worry about. Instead there is something, and she wouldn’t tell me, or couldn’t tell me. I think of her whispered response. She sounded scared.
I pull up my call log and try her number again. Denise might be scared, but so am I, and I have Jamie to think about.
It doesn’t ring this time. Instead an electronic voice asks me to leave a message. I don’t.
A sudden flash of light fills the kitchen. Headlights from a passing car. Except it doesn’t pass; it pulls onto the drive. I gasp and drop out of sight from the window, crouching to the cold tiles. My hands shake as I pull up the keypad, ready to dial 999.
A car door slams. Footsteps crunch on the gravel. I stare at the side door and bite down on my lip until warm, metallic blood trickles into my mouth.
Is it Richard back again? I told him to leave us alone, but maybe he didn’t listen.
The footsteps pass the window and reach the side porch. Knuckles rap against the wood.
Knock, knock.
I breathe shallow breaths, wobbling in my crouch and placing a hand to the tiles to steady myself.
Knock. Knock.
“Tess?” a voice calls through the door.
Knock. Knock.
It’s not Richard, it’s Ian. I reach a hand for the counter and I’m about to pull myself up and open the door when I hear the sound of keys—a jangle first as he finds the one he wants, then the click of metal on metal as he pushes it into the lock.
He thinks I’m out. He’s trying to let himself in. My eyes grow wide, the cold air stinging my pupils.
Ian leans against the door with a thud and wiggles the key. He doesn’t know I’ve changed the locks. He swears under his breath and tries again, and all the while I stay in my crouch less than three meters away from him. The muscles in my thighs burn, crying out for me to move. It was him who was in the house that day. I knew it, Mark.
The key clinks, then jangles again. He’s giving up.
Then the home phone rings again. When the answerphone beeps I think it’ll be Ian telling me to call him, but it’s not, it’s Shelley.
“Hi, Tess, it’s Shelley,” she says, her voice dancing through the house. “Just checking you’re still on for Saturday. I found out today that my pool is closed for repairs until eight, so I won’t be at yours until ten. Hope that’s OK. There’s a nice Italian next to the Buttermarket shopping center. I’ve booked us for a late lunch. We have to hit Debenhams first. They’re having a one-day half-price sale. Oh, and your mum phoned me again. She says she’s been leaving you messages too. Call me when you get this.”
She signs off with a cheery “Bye,” plunging the house into silence.
A moment later, Ian’s shoes crunch on the gravel and his car door bangs. The engine purrs, headlights fill the kitchen, and he’s gone.
