Night Terrors (16 page)

‘I have a sweet tooth,’ she mutters when she catches sight of my expression.

I nod and clear a space on the passenger seat. From the shadow of the oak tree in my front garden, the Chairman eyes me accusingly. He turns his back and starts to wash himself. It’s pouring with rain but the tree offers some protection and the Chairman has always seemed to have a penchant for the wet.

‘Sorry,’ I mouth in his direction. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ Rawlins continues, ‘I might be messy but at least I don’t talk to animals.’

‘You never know,’ I say lightly, holding my breath for a second as she drives off. ‘They might talk back one of these days. Stranger things have happened.’

She shoots me a look from under her lashes. ‘Indeed.’

It’s slow going through the town; the speed limits are restrictive and there’s no way that Rawlins is going to exceed them. She’s a careful driver even though she must have taken an advanced driver’s course with the police. It helps to calm me somewhat. I button my lips and gaze out of the rain-drenched window.

When the houses start to thin out and we reach the outer limits of the town, the tightness in my chest begins. My breathing must alter because I sense Rawlins sending me odd looks. I duck my head down and busy myself picking up the multi-coloured sweet wrappers which litter the car. As long as I concentrate on this job, I won’t worry about how we’re drawing further and further away from the safety of my house. I count in my head as I pick the wrappers up, emptying my mind of nothing more than the reassuring uniformity of numbers. I find an old plastic bag and toss them inside.

We’re just passing the last sign, stating a cheery farewell and ‘Visit us again soon!’, when there’s a click and I realise Rawlins has locked all the car doors. I flinch.

‘I thought it might help,’ she says quietly.

‘It’s unlikely anyone could get into a moving car whether the doors were unlocked or not,’ I reply, impressed at my ability to string a coherent sentence together. ‘I appreciate it though.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She speeds up once we’re out of the town. I draw in a sharp breath and my movements to clean her car become more frantic. I’m grateful that she doesn’t try to hold a conversation. I tighten my fingers round the cluster of sweet wrappers until my knuckles are white. Breathe, Zoe. Breathe.

Rawlins fiddles with radio, searching for a station. She skips by one playing country music and settles on a chirpy pop song. Unfortunately for us, the song abruptly ends and the DJ settles into what sounds like an ongoing discussion of sleep paralysis.

‘Now,’ he intones sombrely, ‘it’s been stated that up to ten percent of the country are experiencing these symptoms. The question remains, however, as to why this is happening now.’

With a vicious jerk, Rawlins turns off the radio. I don’t comment. I put down the now brimming plastic bag by my feet and try to relax my fingers. It takes considerable effort as I encourage each one to uncurl and flex separately. I close my eyes. It’s only Manchester. It’s only six hours away. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to stay rational though, the pressure inside me keeps building. I grip the edges of the car seat.

There’s a rustle and I feel Rawlins reach down for the plastic bag. I squint one eye open as she upturns it. ‘Oops,’ she says. ‘Now you’ll need to start all over again.’

And so I do. I pick the wrappers up one by one, depositing them back into the bag. When I’m done, I pass it to Rawlins. Yet again, she empties the contents and I start again. This continues until we’re through the series of roundabouts which signal the small city of Dundee. I don’t feel calm exactly, but I’m no longer about to simultaneously scream, bang my head against the windshield and throw up.

‘I think I’m okay now.’

Rawlins grunts. She overtakes a lorry smoothly, ignoring the spray of water from its huge wheels, and opens the window. The cool breeze is very welcome.

‘Just tell me one thing, Ms Lydon.’

‘You know, you can call me Zoe.’

She doesn’t respond. ‘Am I crazy?’

I laugh shakily. ‘I just spent forty-five minutes picking up rubbish over and over and over again. Between the two of us, I’m pretty sure I know who the crazy one is.’

‘You know what I mean. It wasn’t just a dream, was it?’ I bite my lip. ‘It was you who stopped it, wasn’t it?’

I don’t know what to say. I reach behind and rest my hands against my spine to give my back some respite. ‘You’re not crazy,’ I say finally.

I’m not sure whether I should elaborate on her assault. They were dreams; she wasn’t really assaulted – but then again, she was, kind of. I’m not sure even I understand it.

She nods. ‘That’s good enough. This woman who you think might be in trouble. Is she related to all this … stuff?’

I don’t look at her. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay then.’ And she doesn’t say another word until we hit Manchester.

***

Navigating the streets and locating Ashley’s flat is surprisingly easy. It helps that she lives in a posh part of the city. Rawlins parks and we both get out and stare up at the high-rise.

‘What did you say your friend did?’ Rawlins asks.

I’m as surprised at the apartment block as she is. It never occurred to me to wonder what Ashley did in real life; if I’d thought about it, I’d have assumed she was a primary school teacher or a nurse. Something caring and respectable. There’s no way someone on those kinds of salaries could live here though. I shrug. ‘I’m not sure,’ I mumble.

‘Do you know
anything
about her?’

I lift my chin. ‘I know that she doesn’t deserve the trouble she’s in.’

Rawlins chews over this. ‘Come on then.’

It’s the kind of building that has twenty-four-hour security. I don’t think anywhere within a hundred miles of my little Scottish town has that. Not for the first time, I’m glad that Rawlins is here. She doesn’t have to show her badge or to state her rank; she possesses an air that says ‘I’m with an important government organisation so don’t get in my way’. The guard buzzes us right up.

‘That was really easy,’ Rawlins mutters when we’re in the lift.

I smile. ‘I know, right?’

She looks at me like I’m an idiot, which isn’t far off the truth. ‘Security guards are there for a reason: to provide security. I shouldn’t have been able to get in that easily. In fact, even if I had told him who I was, he shouldn’t have let me in without a warrant.’

My stomach drops as I see what she’s getting at. ‘If we can get in this easily then…’

‘…so can anyone else,’ she finishes. She tuts. ‘Pay the minimum wage and that’s what you get. Minimum standards.’

I gnaw the inside of my cheek. I was so happy that I’d made it here without wrestling the steering wheel from Rawlins and speeding back in the opposite direction that I’d almost forgotten the reason why we’d come. I chide myself for my self-absorption.

Ashley’s flat is on the seventeenth floor. I knock loudly and wait but there’s no answer. That’s not a good sign.

Rawlins steps up and knocks. ‘Ashley, it’s the police. Can you answer the door please?’

I look at Rawlins but she merely shrugs. I press my ear against the door. I can’t hear anything.

Much like the security guard downstairs, the lock isn’t anything I’ve seen before on a residential apartment. It’s a numerical keypad, like something in a bank. The thing is, I know a lot about locks. I did a lot of research before I bought my own steel-reinforced, multiple-lock front door. I know that there’s a good reason why not many places have gone high-tech like this: it’s because the locks are not much good. They’ll tell you when a door has been accessed but that’s no use after the event.

As someone who works in IT, I have a healthy mistrust of security systems that are run solely through computers. Old-fashioned keys can be copied but that takes time and materials. A keypad like this, or one that requires a swipe card, can be hacked with nothing more than a laptop. I’m not sure I can gain access but it’s not impossible.

Rawlins rolls her eyes again, takes out a plastic card from her wallet, slides it into the door and clicks it open in less than five seconds. I gape. I wasn’t expecting that.

‘Are you a police officer or a career criminal?’ I whisper.

She snorts. ‘Whoever put this in place wants to dazzle you with fancy-schmancy fireworks. You know better than anyone that a good old-fashioned dead bolt is better than anything else.’

I would reply, but I’m more interested in finding Ashley than exchanging quips with Rawlins. She nudges the door with her toe and it creaks open. I clap a hand to my mouth. Oh God. I move to rush in but Rawlins bars my way.

‘It’s illegal to enter someone else’s home without permission,’ she tells me.

I point to the open door. ‘Isn’t busting open a lock illegal too?’

‘What do you mean?’ she asks, the picture of innocence. ‘It was already open. Can you see any signs that I broke the lock?’

I wonder if she realises who she’s talking to. I’m the agoraphobic who lives in a house that I’ve turned into Fort Knox to avoid experiencing exactly what she just did. ‘How about the signs that her flat has been ripped apart?’ I ask flatly.

It’s true. What was probably a beautiful home is now in a state of chaos. There’s broken glass everywhere, upturned furniture and papers strewn across the floor.

‘Ashley!’ I call. ‘Ashley!’

I try to step inside again. Once more Rawlins stops me. ‘She might be in there. She might be hurt!’ I shout.

‘You know she’s not. And this is now a crime scene. We need to call the police.’

I open my mouth but she shakes her head. ‘The Manchester police. To do anything else would be stupid.’

I know she’s right. If I’d been here with Bron or Rob, we could have gone in and claimed ignorance but Rawlins can’t do that. My shoulders slump. We have to play this by the book. I’ve not shown all my cards just yet, though.

‘Call them,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going back down to talk to security.’

Rawlins narrows her eyes but I ignore her. It’s time for me to do my thing. And this time it had better bloody work.

***

The lift doors ping open just as my phone starts buzzing. I wrinkle my nose in irritation and check it. I don’t recognise the number but curiosity gets the better of me and I answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Zoe!’ Adam’s voice is warm.

Suspicion rattles through my brain. ‘How did you get my number?’

‘Your mum gave it to me.’ He suddenly sounds nervous. ‘Is that alright? I felt like we ended things badly the other day and I wanted to talk to you. Is this a good time to come round?’

‘I’m not at home.’ There’s a pause; I guess Adam still isn’t used to the idea of me going outside. ‘I’m in Manchester,’ I tell him, filling the silence and wishing for a moment that I could see his expression.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Meeting an old friend,’ I lie glibly.

‘Oh.’ He sounds disappointed and I feel awkward. I don’t want to lead him on. The memory of his dream still makes me uncomfortable.

‘Look,’ I say finally. ‘Let’s talk when I get back. We can still be friends. I just don’t think that there’s any more going to happen than that.’

He sighs heavily. ‘I understand.’

I hope so.

I peer round the corner. The security guard is in exactly the same position as we left him. ‘Look, I have to go. Enjoy your day.’

‘Sure.’ Adam’s voice is distant.

I hang up. Why does life always have to be so complicated? I give myself a shake and try to focus on what’s important as I walk towards the guard. He beams at me, then glances behind as if expecting to see Rawlins. I stride up to him and hold my out my hand. He looks at it then shakes it.

‘The police are on their way,’ I say. ‘When was the last time you saw Ashley?’

‘The blonde chick?’

I frown at him and he colours instantly. At least he has some shame, I suppose.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect. Is she alright?’

‘Just answer the question,’ I say brusquely, checking his name badge. ‘Mr Powers, when did you last see her?’

He’s suddenly nervous. His demeanour until now has been friendly, if rather incompetent. I don’t think he has anything to do with her disappearance but at the moment he mistakenly believes that he’s talking to someone official. Sometimes that makes people fidgety; it doesn’t mean they’re criminals, they’re just conditioned. I walked in with Rawlins, who exudes police from every pore, therefore he’s assumed I work with her.

‘Wednesday morning.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘And was she leaving or entering?’

He swallows. ‘Entering.’

‘What time did your shift end?’

‘Midday. Carter took over then.’

I sniff. I feel like I’m getting into my stride. ‘And where is Carter now?’

In answer to my query, a door behind the desk opens and a bespectacled man appears. His uniform is ill-fitting and bulges across his stomach; at least two of the buttons are in danger of popping off with the strain. He takes one look at my folded arms and Powers’ tense face and a muscle above his eyebrow starts to twitch. Well, well, well. Carter, it appears, has a nervous tic.

I do the same as I did to Powers: hold out my hand for him to shake and try to look official. Carter doesn’t budge from his position by the door, however. He looks at his colleague and says, ‘I don’t feel well. I think I might have to go home.’

No chance, buddy. ‘We need you to stay here, Mr Carter.’

If Powers is a bundle of nerves then his co-worker is a bag of aggression. ‘How do you know my name?’ he demands.

I sigh. ‘You’re wearing a name badge.’ And it’s pretty obvious from what your mate just said. Honestly, some people.

He backs off. ‘You can’t keep me here.’

There’s a screech of tires outside. We all turn to look. Mr Carter isn’t going anywhere: the real police are here now. Rawlins must have pulled rank for them to arrive so quickly.

All I need is one chance to touch Carter and I’ll gain access to his dreams. It won’t take much.

Two uniformed police officers stride in. The lift pings and Rawlins appears, walks up to them and introduces herself. Rather than watch her explain the situation, I keep an eye on Carter. If he does have something to do with Ashley’s disappearance, then he must be prepared for the police to get involved sooner or later.