Destroy Me Read online

I turn a bend in the road and suddenly, I’m back there – and it’s all exactly as it was: the tree with the twisted trunk, the wooden gate and the grass verge. I swerve into a lay-by and kill the engine. Sitting in the car for a few moments, I try to control my breathing. Then I get out and walk through the drizzle a short way up the road. When I reach the tree, I stand still, my heart hammering. I can’t turn my head. There’s the strong, superstitious sensation that someone is behind me. I’m afraid that if I turn, I’ll see her.

  Ghosts don’t exist, I think. There’s no such thing as ghosts, I repeat to myself firmly, and clenching my fists, I swivel round swiftly. As though if I turn quickly enough, I might catch her – like that game ‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf?’ Or those moving statues in Doctor Who.

  I breathe out slowly. There’s no one there, of course. Just the empty road and the tree shifting a little in a breeze. Out of nowhere, a car whizzes past, splashing through a puddle, kicking up spray. I step back, but too late to avoid being splattered with dirty water. I brush down my jeans, then I take the photo out of my bag – the printout from Dylan’s book bag. Raindrops land on the paper, creating dark grey spots that spread and wrinkle the page. But it matches exactly, as I knew it would: the tree, the gate, the long grass. The faded white lines.

  In the distance, at the far end of a yellow corn field there’s a church spire and a small white house – the same house I saw with Charlie that night. It has never occurred to me before, but Daisy Foster must have lived there. Where else? There are no other buildings near by. Five-year-old girls don’t just appear out of nowhere in the middle of the night. I close my eyes, trying to block out the image of her small, startled face lit up in my headlights – her limp body lying on the hard, cold tarmac and the tiny, yellow shoe left on one foot.

  ‘What were you doing, Daisy? Why did you rush out in front of my car like that?’ I murmur aloud.

  Then I remember the article I read online and think about the dog that dashed across the road immediately before the crash. She was chasing him, I think. Though what she was doing out and about at five in the morning in the first place is a mystery. Where were her parents? Who lets a five-year-old wander about alone like that? They have to take some of the blame. I’m not the only one responsible. The thought should be comforting, I suppose, but somehow it isn’t.

  I glance back at the small white house. Who lives there now? Could Daisy’s parents still be there? Seized by a sudden idea, I get back in the car, turn on data roaming and Google house prices. Then I lock the car and head across the fields, retracing what I think must have been Daisy’s steps that morning. The corn has recently been cut and is wet from the rain. It’s full of crows pecking at the grain. Disturbed by my arrival, they rise into the air, a black cloud of thrashing wings, cawing loudly. It feels like an ominous sign. And as I get closer to the house, my courage wavers. What if I’m wrong? Or worse, what if I’m right and her parents still live in here? Are they the ones trying to frame me? What if I’m walking into a trap?

  In the front yard there is a rusty old caravan with one wheel missing, balanced on a pile of bricks and a skip on the lawn full of random junk. A vicious-looking Alsatian runs up barking and snarling as I open the gate and I walk quickly up the overgrown pathway and press the bell. There’s no answer.

  The windows are dark, smeared with grime and I can’t see in, but I sense movement inside. Maybe the doorbell isn’t working. I rap on the door instead and listen to the sound of someone stirring within. A few seconds later, a flabby-looking middle-aged man with a shock of wild grey hair and a prominent, round belly emerges from the gloom, blinking at me as if he hasn’t seen daylight in years.

  I plaster a smile on my face. ‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘Are you Mr Foster?’

  ‘That’s right, Doug Foster,’ he nods slowly and my heart leaps to my mouth. My knees start trembling and I steady myself by leaning against the doorjamb. I was right. Daisy Foster lived in this house. This must be her father. He is the right age – in his late fifties, at a rough guess.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m Amanda Potter, from Cooper estate agents.’ I hold out my hand. It’s only shaking a little. I’m getting used to lying.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ he picks at his teeth and stares at me. There’s something not entirely friendly in that look, but there’s no sign of recognition, nothing but a faint, generalised hostility. I take a deep, shaky breath. It’s okay, I think. He has no idea who you are.

  ‘We’re doing free valuations of properties in the area and I was just wondering if you would like to take advantage of the opportunity,’ I continue. I’m breezy and professional. My voice sounds alien to me.

  ‘Not really, thank you very much.’ He starts to close the door.

  ‘The market is really hot just now,’ I continue glibly. ‘Did you know, for example, that a house in this area, similar to yours, sold for over five hundred thousand pounds just last month?’

  That’s it. I’ve got him. I can see the glimmer of greed in his eyes.

  ‘Five hundred thousand?’ he says slowly. He hesitates only for a second. Then he stands back. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Entering the house is like disturbing the dank, dark underside of a rock. The curtains are drawn in the living room and it smells strongly of cigarette smoke, damp and something else, something pungent and foul – maybe cat pee. I’m guessing that no one has cleaned in here properly for a while. There’s a thick layer of dust on everything and there are overflowing ashtrays and unwashed dishes and mugs strewn around the place. I fight a desperate urge to pull back the curtains and open a window to let in some air.

  ‘How long have you lived here exactly?’ I ask, looking around pretending to examine the fireplace and running my fingers over the grimy tiles.

  He gives a loud hacking cough – the cough of a lifelong smoker. ‘Oh, a long time. I moved here when I married. So about twenty-five years.’

  I look around. There’s no sign of anyone else. Everything about the place speaks of a drab, lonely existence. ‘And your wife? Is she here today?’

  His eyes cloud over. ‘Nope. There was an accident. She’s gone. Gone to a better place . . .’ he tails off.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say inadequately. How much bad luck can one family have?

  He shrugs.

  ‘This fireplace is really a nice feature,’ I say, stooping over to move a dead plant out of the way. I wonder when his wife died. It’s no surprise he seems so bitter. Who wouldn’t be, having to deal with so much loss?

  I wipe at some of the dirt. ‘These tiles are gorgeous. Is there a reason why you’ve never moved?’

  ‘Not really.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I suppose there are a lot of memories here. I’ve grown attached to the place.’

  I inhale sharply, stifling a gasp, because at that moment, I notice a dusty photograph in a frame on the mantelpiece. It’s of three children in the garden; two girls and a boy. The eldest, a boy of about nine or ten, is holding a football, while two small girls are in the paddling pool in their swimming costumes. It’s the youngest, lying on her belly holding on to the edge of the paddling pool that catches my eye. She’s smiling up at the camera. Her blonde hair is wet and sticking to her head. Two of her front teeth are missing. She looks shy and sweet.

  Daisy Foster.

  The photo must have been taken not long before she died – just before I killed her.

  ‘My kids,’ he says, following the direction of my gaze. His eyes glaze over. ‘One of them died when she was just a baby, and I hardly ever see the other two. They grew up and they don’t come and see me any more. Think they’re too good for their old dad.’

  I can’t speak. I feel as if the room is folding in on itself, like a bad trip. I try to think of an appropriate response.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say inadequately.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s life.�
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  ‘Mm,’ I agree vaguely. ‘How many bedrooms have you got?’ I ask, trying to turn the conversation around. If he starts talking about Daisy, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it. I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself. I might just throw myself at his feet and beg his forgiveness.

  ‘Three,’ he answers. ‘Do you want to see them?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I follow him upstairs. I don’t feel afraid of him any more. Just desperately sad and guilty. This man has every reason to hate me, but I’m almost certain he doesn’t know who I am. And if he wanted to hurt me, he would have done something by now. Anyway, noticing his slight limp and the way he wheezes and coughs as he climbs the stairs, I’m sure if it came to it, I could take him in a fight.

  The first bedroom is being used as a storage room and the small bunk bed is hidden under a pile of boxes. On the dresser there’s a collection of semi-precious stones and shells, a shabby-looking dolls’ house and an unopened box of Sylvanian Families. This must have been the bedroom Daisy shared with her sister. I close the door quickly. I don’t want to look at the small, sad evidence of her short existence. The second room, I’m guessing, was the boy’s bedroom. There are still faded posters of football players on the wall, their edges curled and yellowed. And by the bed, there’s a lamp in the shape of a spaceship.

  ‘This is the master bedroom,’ Doug announces, opening the door to a room that doesn’t really deserve the title ‘master’. There’s a small, unmade double bed with a fluffy grey cat lying on it. It stares at me with malignant yellow eyes but it doesn’t move. On the bedside table there’s another photo. It’s of an attractive young woman on an ice-skating rink. Her hair is tied back tightly in a bun and she’s wearing a leotard. One leg is lifted in the air, her arms outstretched, spinning on the ice.

  ‘My wife,’ he says proudly. ‘She was the national champion two years in a row. Nearly made it to the Olympics. That was before the children were born.’

  ‘Wow, really?’ I pick up the photo and inspect it more closely, brushing off the dust.

  ‘Those were her trophies.’ He nods at a line of cups and medals arranged on the windowsill. ‘I can’t bring myself to throw them away.’

  ‘No,’ I say. I don’t know what else to say.

  He must be lonely here, all by himself, I think.

  ‘And your children, do they live nearby?’

  ‘Quite near –’ he snorts – ‘but you’d never guess from how often they visit their old man.’

  ‘They’ve got busy lives, huh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  I want to ask him more about his children, Daisy’s siblings, but I don’t know how without arousing his suspicion.

  ‘So, how much do you think the house is worth?’ he asks, as I follow him back downstairs.

  ‘Well, it depends. It needs quite a lot of work,’ I say, vaguely.

  ‘Give me a ball-park figure.’

  ‘About four hundred and fifty thousand,’ I hazard.

  ‘Really?’ He looks pleased. ‘Do you have a business card, so I can contact you if I decide to put it on the market?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I rummage in my handbag, pretending to look for them. ‘Sorry, I think I’m all out of cards,’ I say, at last. But you can always contact us through our website.’

  He nods. ‘Oh. Okay.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much for your time,’ I say, hurrying down the stairs. ‘We’ll be in touch.’ I open the door before he has a chance to twig that there’s something odd going on.

  Outside, I turn my face to the sunlight. I gulp in the fresh air and try to shake off the gloom of Doug Foster’s house, wrestling with a mixture of distaste and guilt.

  I’m uncomfortably aware that he might be watching me through the window. So I head down the road, hoping that he’ll assume my car is just parked around the corner. I’m sure he would think it was odd if I headed back across the field the way I came.

  Taking the longer route back to the car through the village, I try to make sense of what I’ve learned.

  Who killed Charlie? I run through possibilities in my head. It seems logical that Charlie’s death was linked to Daisy’s and that therefore Charlie’s killer was someone related to Daisy.

  Daisy’s father? Probably not. Doug Foster has every reason to hate Charlie and me. But I find it hard to picture him as a murderer. Plus, it would have taken strength and energy to stab Charlie, and Doug Foster seems to have no strength or energy left. I got the impression of someone who has given up on life almost completely. Besides which, Charlie’s killer knows who I am, and I’m almost sure Doug didn’t recognise me – unless, of course, he’s a brilliant actor.

  Her mother? No, her mother is dead.

  My thoughts turn to that photograph in the living room. Daisy with her older brother and sister. They must be in their mid-twenties by now. Besides Daisy’s father, they are the people who have most reason to wish me ill. The more I consider it, the more I think it’s entirely plausible that one of Daisy’s siblings is behind both Charlie’s death and the photos. I think about George from Wisconsin. Judging by his profile picture, he’s too old to be Daisy’s brother, and Doug said that his children lived nearby. Wisconsin isn’t exactly nearby. But of course – George might not really live in Wisconsin. He could even have a fake identity. Anyone can create a fake account online, right?

  Back in my car, I look at his profile again on my phone and scroll through his posts. There’s almost nothing there; a photo of a house with an American flag outside and a couple of professional-looking shots of autumn scenes that I’m pretty sure have been downloaded from the net. He is almost certainly a catfish. He hasn’t even gone to very much trouble to make his account look real.

  ‘Who are you really, George?’ I say out loud, peering at his photo. ‘And what do you want from me?’

  With a sigh, I start the engine and drive slowly back towards town in the gathering dark. My mind is only half on the road. I’m thinking furiously. Plainly, George – whoever he is – wants the police to be suspicious of me, but he hasn’t made a serious attempt to frame me. Perhaps he has other plans, I think, with a chill. And a question forces its way into my head and lodges there.

  If he killed Charlie, who wasn’t even driving the car, what might he want to do to me?

  Twenty-six

  By the time I arrive home it’s already late. The street lamp on the corner is broken and my house, swathed in darkness, seems unwelcoming and menacing. The ornate white lintel reminds me of bared teeth and the windows are like baleful eyes. I try to ignore the unsettling sense that someone is inside watching me. I’ve got an over-fertile imagination, I know – that’s all it is – but even so, I wish I’d left a light on. All the lights are off in Eileen’s house too. She must have gone to bed already. Right now, I’d be happy to see anyone, even Eileen.

  When I enter the dark hallway, I’m assailed by a strong sense that something is wrong. For a start, I’m met by a gust of cold air as soon as I open the door. And when I pop the keys in the pot on the dresser, I get the distinct feeling that something is out of place. It takes me a few moments to work out what it is. It’s the photo of Dylan in blue wellingtons. It’s not where it should be. It should be on the other side, next to the bronze elephant statue that Theo bought in India. It’s a small detail, but all the same it nags at me. Has someone moved it? Has Theo let himself in again? Damn him. I knew I should have changed the locks.

  ‘Theo?’ I call out tentatively, and my voice sounds small and timid in the darkness. I switch on the light, trying to control my nerves. I flood the house with light, looking in the living room and upstairs in the bedrooms, but there’s no sign of Theo. And that’s another thing: where’s Delilah? Normally, she would be under my feet, reminding me with her silent, reproachful presence that it’s way past her dinner time.

  Deli
lah isn’t in the kitchen, but I discover the source of the cold air. The French doors leading on to the garden are wide open. How? Why? I stare out into the darkness, feeling increasingly bemused and scared. Of course, I reassure myself, there’s a simple explanation. I must have forgotten to close them. I was so preoccupied when I left the house. And Delilah will be fine. She’s probably just wandered out into the garden.

  I open a tin of dog food and empty the contents into her metal bowl, tapping it with a spoon. If Delilah doesn’t hear this, she’s sure to smell the meat and come running. I wait impatiently by the door for the sound of her nails clicking on the patio and the rattle of the ID tag on her collar, but she doesn’t appear. Where the hell is she? I have to find her. I need to make sure she hasn’t escaped from the house somehow and got lost. It’s happened before. Once, when she was barely more than a puppy, she went missing for two days. We’d given her up for dead when she turned up again perfectly healthy and well. We never did find out where she’d been. But she was lucky to be unharmed. I can’t risk that happening again. So, even though I’m feeling increasingly spooked, and all I really want to do is lock the door and barricade myself in, I switch on the flashlight on my phone and step out into the darkness.

  ‘Delilah!’ I call softly.

  No answer.

  ‘Where are you, Delilah? Bloody stupid dog,’ I mutter. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to worry about.’ I pick my way carefully down the garden path, shining the light into the flower beds and under the shrubbery. I look in her favourite spot under the hydrangeas. Maybe she’s fallen asleep. Sometimes she likes to dig a little hollow in the earth and make a sort of nest for herself. But she’s not there.

  The wind hisses in the branches of the old oak tree and the garden seems alien in the torchlight, sapped of all colour. My legs grow heavy as I approach the shed and the darker area at the back of the garden, but I force myself on. On the patio around the shed I notice a couple of piles of grassy vomit and I almost step in a fresh pile of watery dog shit.