I gasped as her words sank in.
Someone needed to stop her.
‘Wait, are you saying… ?’ I faltered. ‘You killed her?’
‘I did it for Bill.’
I closed my eyes and slumped against the wall as the events of the previous night rearranged themselves in my head. I thought Bill had returned to the warehouse after I’d left. I’d pictured him screeching back through the industrial estate in his powerful Range Rover, overcome with fury. Grabbing a piece of raffia from the footwell of his car and stalking towards the empty building, twisting the string around his hands to create a makeshift garrotte.
Bill had confessed, hadn’t he? I replayed his words in my head. I can’t put things right. Niamh’s dead and it’s my fault. Sheila said…
He never told me what Sheila said.
He hadn’t confessed, either. I was the deluded one. I’d seen what I wanted to see - that guilt consumed Bill because he’d killed Niamh. But I was wrong. Bill was culpable, but of rape, not murder. The tightness in my chest eased a little.
Sheila walked over to the coffee table and picked up the plate and beaker.
‘How did you know where she was?’ I asked.
She looked at me, confusion wrinkling her forehead. ‘Who?’
‘Niamh. How did you know Niamh was at the warehouse?’
‘Bill told me, of course. He wanted me to clear up his mess, you see.’
‘He said that, did he?’
She gave me a contemptuous smile. ‘He didn’t have to. He knew I always did.’
And she was right. If Bill was late filing the accounts or drawing up a new contract, Sheila always stayed late to help him. If he didn’t want to take a call from a supplier, she pretended he was in a meeting or had been held up in the packing room, the lies tripping off her tongue. Sheila bought last-minute presents for Melanie when Bill forgot her birthday. She cleared up his messes. But this time she’d gone too far.
I reached for my mobile. Seeing my hand fumbling for my back pocket, Sheila loomed over me.
‘What are you doing?’ she barked.
‘I need to call the police. Tell them what’s happened.’
For a second she stiffened, watchful and calculating. And then her shoulders drooped. ‘I suppose you’re right. But your phone’s in the kitchen. You dropped it when you fainted. I’ll get it. Would you like a glass of water?’
‘A cup of tea would be nice.’
She arched an eyebrow but left the room, closing the door behind her. I thought I heard the click of the lock, but my head was throbbing so badly I could have imagined it.
I staggered to my feet, tramped over to the window and pulled away a corner of newspaper. It was pitch black outside, save for a scattering of stars and a curved new moon. I felt my wrist for my watch, but the strap must have broken when I fell. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious. No matter. As soon as Sheila was back, I’d phone the police and get this whole bloody mess sorted out.
I shifted the yellow duvet and pillows out of the way and sank onto the sofa. Footsteps outside heralded Sheila’s return, and I sat up, almost salivating at the thought of tea. The door swung open, and she appeared with a mug and two rich tea biscuits on a plate.
‘Thanks,’ I said, as she handed me the mug. I took a sip, eager for the liquid to moisten my parched throat even though I knew it would scald my tongue. She’d made it far too strong and sweet for my liking, and if we’d been at the office, I’d have sent her back to make a fresh cup. But I was on her turf, so I kept my mouth shut.
Instead I said, ‘Do you have my phone?’
‘I only have one pair of hands,’ she said tartly. ‘I’ll get it once you’ve had your tea and biscuits.’
I drank my tea and nibbled the biscuits and once I’d finished Sheila took the mug and plate and disappeared again. And I felt tired, so tired, so I drew my legs up onto the sofa and rested my head on the folded duvet and closed my eyes and for one ridiculous moment I could feel Immy’s presence so keenly I knew that if I opened my eyes, she would be standing next to me, her hot breath on my cheek, urging me to wake up because the sun was shining and she wanted to play Pooh sticks. And so, I opened my eyes, my heart thudding in my chest, but she wasn’t there, of course she wasn’t, because someone had taken her and I should be out looking for her, not curled up on Sheila’s chintzy sofa having a catnap. But I was so damn tired, and the thought of sleep was too enticing to resist, so I closed my eyes again. As soon as Sheila came back, I would phone the police, sort this mess out, find Immy. But while I waited, I would sleep.
Chapter Forty-Five
FRIDAY 18 JUNE
It was light when I awoke, groggy and disorientated, with a stiff neck and pins and needles in my left leg. I hauled myself upright and took stock. I must have fallen asleep while I was waiting for Sheila to bring my phone. Drowsiness was a symptom of concussion. Stuart had once slept for two days after he was knocked out during a university rugby match. I felt the back of my head. Although it was smaller than it had been, the bump was still there.
My phone lay face down on the coffee table and I snatched it up. But the screen was blank, and when I tried turning it on, nothing happened. The battery was dead. I growled with frustration and threw it onto the floor. What bloody use was a dead phone?
I pulled myself off the sofa, shuffled to the door and tried the handle, even though a sixth sense told me
