Out Late with Friends and Regrets (35 page)

“We don’t know it
was
your mystery figure, of course,” said Petra.

“No, we don’t.
 
And to be perfectly honest, there are no details standing out in my memory anyway.
 
No wonder the police have such a difficult job finding witnesses.
  
I mean – at that distance. Height? Medium.
 
Build? Average, I think.
 
Colour of clothing? Dunno.
 
Wonderful description.”

“Well then,” said Petra, will you take this one in with the previous two and tell them about it? Even if they’ve not got a lot to go on, it might help to report it, at least.
 
You never know, you might not be the only one.”

You, she said.
 
Petra didn’t even consider the possibility that the note might be for her and not Fin.
 
And so it was Fin’s job to deal with it and somehow remove the threat.
 
The trouble was that Petra was right; she had become the stalker’s target only because Fin had been the one carrying most of the things into the house, and thus presumably identified as the occupant.

“Right,” she said, being as positive as she could manage, “can you give me an envelope for it, and I’ll take it to the Nick tomorrow.
 
I don’t know if they’ll be able to do anything or advise us in any way, but then at least they know.”
 
She didn’t add, “in case things go any further”.
 
Best not to think in those terms.
 
Petra smiled a tight little smile, and said, “I know you’ll do every thing necessary, Fin.
 
Let me know what happens.”

Fin looked along the avenue as she left the house.
 
It was twilight, and there was not a soul to be seen.
 
She turned to say goodbye, and had a thought.

“Tell you what, Petra, stick your name up by the bell, with ‘Petra’ in full.
 
Then if I’m the one they’re after, they’ll know they’ve made a mistake.”

“All right, Fin.
 
Good night.”

“Good night.”

She walked down towards the tree where she thought the figure had been, looking down in case there was anything left behind, cigarette ends, sweet wrapper, button. Nothing.
 
The September wind and commuters striding the neat pavement would have seen to that.
 
She walked back towards The Laurels to pick up her car.
 
She cast one last glance down the road before getting behind the wheel.
 
There was a figure in the distance, running.
 
Wearing a hooded jacket.
 
She rushed into the road, to see the figure a good way down the avenue.
 
She set off at a run in pursuit, soon feeling the inadequacy of her leather-soled loafers on the paving stones, wishing to goodness she had her usual air-cushioned trainers on.
 
She thought she had gained on her quarry a little, but at the junction with the main road into the city centre there was nothing to be seen in either direction.
 
She was sobbing for breath as a result of her supreme effort, and felt nauseous.
 
For a tiny instant, she wished Paul were there to put his arms round her, telling her he would fix this.
 
Almost immediately, she thanked God he wasn’t, and wouldn’t.

The walk back to The Laurels seemed a lot longer than the distance it actually was, partly because of the patch of skin removed from her heel by her left shoe.
 
The heel burned, hurting out of all proportion to the injury.

She sat in the cockpit of the car for a few minutes.
 
There was a soft glow from behind Petra’s tapestry curtains; she was evidently unaware of the chase.

Fin started the engine, flinching as she rocked her forefoot down on the clutch and back, causing the tight piping round the back of her shoe to drag her sock across the raw flesh.

She would have to take her three scraps of paper to the police tomorrow.
 
Thursday she would need to put in an appearance at the shop, and on Friday the furniture, and hopefully the missing bed, would be delivered.

On the short journey home she thought what she might tell the police, and how she might put it.
 
She didn’t want to give the impression she was suffering from an over-active imagination regarding the figure in the hoodie.
 
Of course, it could be an innocent jogger.
 
One could see them in the streets all the time, pounding along, red and sweaty, bottle of water in one hand, running on the spot and looking pissed off at the kerb of busy crossings.
 
No, this one wasn’t a jogger, she was sure of it.
 
Would the name on Petra’s doorbell throw the stalker off?
 
No, if he thought she and Petra were living together at The Laurels, and no, if he didn’t know Fin’s name in the first place. She could simply be a random target, or it might be a homophobic thing. She didn’t know if that made her feel worse or not.
 
A husband, perhaps, betrayed by his wife with another woman? It was the sort of thing Paul might have done.
 
The innermost part of her stomach went ice-cold, and lurched.
 
Paul, come back to haunt her, seeking vengeance. Just as he always said he would.

Ridiculous.
 
She parked, and experienced that new, small but powerful charge of elation as she went through her front door.
 
Nevertheless she pulled all the blinds down, switching the lights on and checking every room.
 
She wouldn’t be controlled by fear, but sensible caution was, well, sensible.
 
She listened to the radio for a while, sipping a whisky whilst reclining on the temporary bed.
 
Despite the doubled-over duvet she had put between herself and the carpet, it wasn’t the acme of comfort.
 
Never mind, everything would be OK in the long run; it had to be.

This particular WPC was very pretty, and young.
 
Or was that just like they said about police getting younger, the older you got?
 
Fin wondered if the girl was up to the job, then scolded herself mentally for being so ageist.
 

“I believe I have a stalking situation,” she began.

The WPC immediately reached for a report pad.

“Right, let’s get a few details,” she said, “I’m WPC Karen Boland. May I take your full name and address first?”

Fin gave her the full story, such as it was, and showed her the three flyers.
 
The policewoman wrote everything down.

“And you have no idea whether the person involved is male or female? As you can appreciate, Ms. Hay,” she said, “there’s not a lot to go on, and unless the culprit takes it further, we can’t really get a handle on him, or her.”

“Er, how much further would things actually have to go?”

“We could start to look into it if there were phone calls which identified the person, for example.
 
Or physical contact.”

Fin shuddered.
 
“Assault, you mean?”

“Not necessarily.
 
Once identified, we could give whoever it is a warning-off, and it could even go to a restraining order, if it came to it,” said the WPC
 
“But so far it looks pretty low key, though I appreciate it may not feel that way to you.”

Fin smiled.
 
No, it didn’t feel that way to her.
 
There had been horrific times with Paul, but at least she knew him, knew what she was dealing with, knew that there was still a vestige of the impulsive, wild romantic she had run away to marry, trapped somewhere behind the strangeness.

Then, quite conversationally, as WPC Boland copied down details of the wording on the flyers, she said, “We find the vast majority of stalkers are ex-partners.
 
Straight or gay, it’s not uncommon behaviour.”

“I, er, haven’t had a long-term partner for, oh, a very long time indeed.”
 
Fin could feel her face burning.
 

“And only, um, mildly active recently,” she added.
 

What an idiot.
 
Most people were having sex like cups of tea; she didn’t need to sound quite so embarrassed.
 
Call yourself a grown woman...

Formalities complete, Karen Boland said that panda patrols would keep an eye open round and about the area of Hamilton Avenue, and look out for anyone acting suspiciously.
 
Yes, for a time or two, thought Fin.

“Thank you, officer.
 
I’ll let you know if anything else happens,” she said, picking up the evidence, and leaving.

It was unusual for Fin to be at any sort of a loose end, but apart from reporting the presence of the stalker, she actually didn’t have a plan for the day.
 
She could buy some paint, of course, and maybe start on the bedroom walls. She had come in by bus, though, and she would be needing rollers and brushes too.
 
That would be cumbersome.
 
Much as she liked to support independent shops, it would be so much easier to drive to Fairlands where there were at least two DIY warehouses.

No.
 
She didn’t feel like painting anyway.
 
Since she had a free day, she could walk around the centre of Harford, maybe have a look in the sports and leisurewear shops, and see what was selling in the big city.
 
She was attracted by a waft of coffee from a bistro with a red, white and green fascia.
 
They probably pump the smell out into the street, she thought, responding to the siren call.
 
There was a high stool free at the bar along the window, and she took her time over the coffee and pain au chocolat she had ordered.
 
How come I can never make coffee as good as this, she wondered.
 
A matter of being unwilling to spend the time grinding beans, perhaps. Getting equipment out, clearing it all away, washing it all up.
 
Chin in one hand, she was enjoying analysing the passers-by: bank clerk, lady who lunches, perfume counter Barbie, two students, white witch, wife desperate to keep her husband (on her way to Ann Summers), vintage hippy who still thinks he’s twenty, rep., oh yes, definitely a rep....

“Fin!”

The voice next to her ear made Fin jump.

“Oh! June!”

The shiny, lacquered lips left no print on Fin’s skin, but June’s cheek brushed hers both sides, releasing little zephyrs of her perfume.

“You’re looking wonderful, Fin, how are you?” asked June.

Fin glanced down at the worn jeans and scruffy trainers she had thrown on this morning.

“Flattery is your second language, June! It’s a utility day today, so I’m not dressed in my city best, I’m afraid.”

“I know you’ve just moved into your new house, so I’ll let you off.
 
No, you’re more relaxed and confident-looking, than when we met at the party.”

Not all that surprising, thought Fin.
 
Hard to be relaxed and confident, with a strange woman’s scarlet talons down your knickers.
 
Her eyes were drawn to June’s white hand, now resting on the part of her wrist revealed by her rolled-back shirt cuff.
 
Its coolness, and the lightness of its touch, connected with her physical memory, and caused a twitch of recognition at deep level.

“Oh, well, lots of new people, knowing hardly anyone, that sort of thing,
you
know,” said Fin.
 
Parties can be quite difficult if you’re not with someone.”

“I don’t honestly think I’ve ever been in that situation,” said June, drawing up a stool and sliding on to it.

“No, I get the impression that there isn’t a lot that would faze you, June.”

June laughed, and the hand patted Fin’s thigh.

“So.
 
What are you planning on doing with yourself, now that you’ve made the break with your old life?”

“I’ve still my shop to run, in Cantlesham,” replied Fin, “but to be honest I don’t need to go in more than a couple of times a week, so I’m hoping to develop the internet sales side of things.
 
And my social life, of course.
 
When you came in I was just congratulating myself on how many people I would recognise in the street already.”
 
Well, it was almost true.