Destroy Me Page 21

  ‘Where is she now? Has she got Dylan?’ I demand impatiently.

  ‘We tried to ignore it,’ she continues. ‘We hoped that she would grow out of it. But then after Daisy died, she became worse. She blamed Doug and me for what happened. And she was right. We were to blame. We had a party that night, the night Daisy died. It went on into the early hours of the morning. We let the kids stay up and nobody noticed when Daisy wandered off.’

  ‘And your son. What about your son?’ I ask, remembering the photo in Doug Foster’s house.

  ‘My son blamed us too. He left when he was sixteen. We haven’t seen him for years. After he left, I had a huge fight with Beth.’ There’s a pause. ‘That’s how I ended up in this chair.’

  ‘What?’ I say, stunned and appalled. ‘She did that to you. How?’

  ‘It was an accident. We were screaming at each other. We tussled and I fell down the stairs. We covered up for her, of course, and told everyone that I tripped.’

  ‘Is that why you gave my description to the police? To cover up for her?’

  She moves her head slightly. ‘It was her idea. She showed me a photo of you online – your author page – and told me to tell the police I’d seen you that night. I didn’t want to at first, but then I thought there was a certain poetic justice to it. You escaped without punishment for one murder. I thought it made sense for you to take the blame for another.’

  ‘And the man you said you saw visiting Charlie – you made that up?’ I say, thinking aloud.

  ‘Yes, that was to deflect attention away from Beth. It was all to protect her. You’ll do anything for your children.’

  It’s true. I’ll do anything to get Dylan back unharmed. I would rip out my own heart or strangle this helpless old woman in front of me if I thought it would help.

  ‘Has she got Dylan?’ I repeat. I’m even more terrified that he’s in danger now I’ve heard Meg’s story. If Daisy’s sister was capable of injuring her mother so seriously, what else is she capable of?

  ‘Will she hurt him?’ I ask. My voice cracks.

  There’s a pause. ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s not a bad person. Not really. Whatever you might think. What happened to me was an accident. She didn’t mean to hurt me.’

  Not a bad person? How can Meg be so deluded? What about what she did to Charlie?’ But I don’t have time to argue.

  ‘Where is he?’ I entreat. ‘You must tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I honestly don’t know, but I’ll phone her. I can talk her round. She must know she’s gone too far.’

  ‘No, don’t. Please don’t. Promise me,’ I blurt. I don’t want Meg warning her that I know – alerting her to the fact that I’m coming. ‘Just tell me where she lives, please.’

  Meg seems to consider, then to my relief, she agrees. ‘This is only to help your son,’ she says. ‘I don’t care about you.’ She gives me a local address in an estate on the other side of town and I scribble it down on the back of a receipt.

  ‘Wait. You won’t hurt her, will you?’ Meg calls anxiously after me as I move towards the door. ‘Tell her I want to talk to her. Tell her to phone me. I can persuade her to hand over Dylan. There’s no need for any violence.’

  Thirty-five

  Ever since the accident, I’ve been a careful driver. Theo always used to complain about how slowly I drive and would make fun of me for getting stuck at junctions because I would always give way. He wouldn’t recognise my driving now as I roar up the hill to the edge of town and veer around the corner into Elm Grove estate, screeching to a halt outside a normal, modern, cookie-cutter house.

  It’s surrounded by a plain, trimmed green lawn. There’s nothing to distinguish it from its neighbours and nothing separating it, except for a low wall, which stretches out a couple of metres.

  There’s no car in the driveway, but the garage is closed, so there could be someone at home. A black cat runs up to me as I rush up the path. It meows plaintively and rubs its cheek against my leg when I ring the doorbell. I push it away and press the bell again – a long, insistent ‘dring’. No answer. No one stirs. There’s no one home.

  I sigh. Meg must have phoned her daughter and warned her I was coming. I shouldn’t have trusted her.

  Unless Beth is hiding inside right now, watching me. What if Dylan is with her? The thought ambushes me, winding me and choking me with fear.

  I cup my hand over my eyes, press my face against the window and peer into the living room, but it’s dark inside and I start with surprise when the front door flies open and a young man with a towel around his waist peers out.

  ‘Hello?’ he says.

  He’s solid-looking with a pleasant gnome-like face, a thick, wet brown beard and tattoos running up his arms and over his chest. ‘Sorry I took so long to answer,’ he says. ‘I was in the shower.’

  Did Meg give me the wrong address? I think. Did she set me on the wrong track deliberately? Or could this be Beth’s partner or husband?

  ‘Um, is Beth Darley here?’ I hazard.

  ‘She’s not here right now,’ he says politely. ‘Can I take a message?’

  I repress the urge to scream. Is he covering for her? Does he know what she’s done? On the whole, I doubt it – his manner seems too natural and relaxed. It seems like he genuinely has no idea what’s going on.

  ‘Actually, it’s kind of urgent,’ I say in a tight voice. ‘Can you tell me where she is? I need to speak to her and she’s not answering her phone.’

  He frowns. ‘I’m sorry, who are you exactly?’

  I think quickly. ‘I’m Catherine. I’m a care worker,’ I improvise. I’m standing in for Sophia. It’s about your mother-in-law, Margaret Darley. She’s had a stroke. She’s gone into hospital.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ he claps his hand over his mouth. ‘She’s going to be okay though, right?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be okay. But can you tell me where your wife is? I need to contact her asap.’

  ‘She’s still at work,’ he says. ‘But I’ll give her a call.’ He disappears inside and reappears with a phone.

  ‘Where does she work?’ I demand.

  ‘Um . . . At the school.’ He’s distracted, swiping agitatedly at his phone.

  My breathing becomes shallower.

  ‘Which school?

  ‘Green Park Primary, but wait—’

  Too late. I’m already getting back into my car.

  Thirty-six

  Ten minutes later, I pull up outside the school gates and veer into the staff car park, ignoring the ‘Staff Only’ signs. There are three cars still there. One, a silver Mazda I don’t recognise – maybe it’s Nicky’s. One is the head teacher’s old Mercedes and the third is Lizzie Hamlyn’s distinctive red and white Mini with the eyelashes on the headlights.

  Lizzie. Lizzie . . . Beth. Elizabeth.

  I stand and stare at that car, bile rising in my throat.

  Of course. I should have known. It makes a horrible kind of sense. Beth’s maiden name was Darley, but if she’s married to the guy I just met at her house, she could have easily changed her name to Hamlyn. Lizzie Hamlyn and Daisy’s sister, Beth Darley, are the same person.

  I trusted her, I think furiously as I rush across the playground and round the back of the old Victorian building to Dylan’s classroom. I’d thought the school would keep my son safe. How could I have been so blind? I was taken in by her innocent appearance and the fact that she was in a position of trust. It seems incredible. But the more I think about it, the more certain I become. Lizzie Hamlyn is the right age to be Daisy’s sister and, if she lied, it explains how easily Dylan could have disappeared at pick-up. Other things, small incidents, come back to me and take on a new significance in the light of this new insight: the way she seemed to single out Dylan for special attention; the fact that she had a job she was so blatantly overqualified for.


  The classroom is empty and the door is locked. I rattle the handle in frustration and call for help. But there’s no one around. The place is deserted. There are just a couple of forlorn lunch boxes lying around and PE bags hanging on the pegs, the empty water tray and plastic pots scattered over the floor. I peer in the other classrooms, in the toilets and then head to the office.

  ‘Have you seen Ms Hamlyn?’ I ask Nicky, who is still there but packing her bag, ready to go home.

  ‘You’re back,’ she says cheerily. ‘Any luck with the hand-bag?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say impatiently. ‘That’s all sorted now. I’m looking for Ms Hamlyn.’

  ‘I thought she’d already left,’ she says surprised. ‘Why—?’

  I don’t wait to hear the rest of her question. I just dash back out into the playground.

  Why didn’t I see it before? It wasn’t a mistake when Lizzie Hamlyn told me Dylan had left with Harry. Of course it wasn’t. I should have known she was lying. But how did she get him out of the school without anyone noticing?

  The answer, when it comes to me, is so simple, so obvious I’m amazed I didn’t think of it before. Of course, she didn’t. She didn’t have to. He was here all along, even when I came to pick him up. The thought makes my stomach turn. But where was he exactly? I try to recall what the supply teacher said. Something about afternoon club. What if Lizzie Hamlyn had taken him there? Hidden him in plain sight. It would be easy to pass off as a simple mistake if anyone queried his presence.

  I look at my watch. It’s already seven o’clock. Afternoon club will have finished long ago. But Lizzie, Beth – whatever her name is – is still here. Where?

  I’m heading back towards the front of the school and the assembly hall when I bump into Ms Gregory, the head teacher.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she says, mildly surprised to see a parent on school premises so late. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Do you know where Ms Hamlyn is?’ I ask breathlessly.

  ‘Um, you just missed them. Lizzie and Dylan left just a couple of minutes ago. That girl is a treasure. She works so hard. She’s often the last to leave. You might be able to catch them if you’re quick.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I blurt, speeding towards the car park.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she calls after me. ‘Lizzie said you had a hospital appointment?’

  I reach the gate just in time to see Lizzie Hamlyn bundling something into the boot of her Mini.

  In the back seat I can just make out the shape of a child. He’s just a shadow, a black silhouette. I can’t see properly, the low sun is glaring, bouncing off the window into my face. I hold up my hand to shield my eyes. But I know instinctively that it’s him. It’s Dylan.

  My heart leaps with hope and fear. ‘Dylan!’ I call out, running towards the car.

  He doesn’t hear me, but Lizzie Hamlyn turns and stares at me, her pale face jerking upwards, grim determination stamped all over it.

  ‘Wait! Stop!’ I shout desperately, but she completely blanks me, and she walks quickly but calmly round to the driver’s door and ducks inside.

  ‘Dylan!’ I scream – a primal sound of outrage and terror that comes from deep in my guts. ‘Dylan!’ I break into a sprint as she starts up the engine.

  I arrive in the car park just as she approaches the exit and I throw myself in front of the car, trying to block her way. But she just speeds up and swerves around me, missing me by a hair’s breadth. She’s so close I get caught in the slipstream and am nearly pushed over by the force of the air. I recover my balance and watch with helpless rage as the car roars past me out of the gate. As it turns, I catch a glimpse of Dylan looking out at me through the rear window, his pale face frozen in surprise and alarm.

  Fuck fuck fuck. This can’t be happening. Please God let this not be happening. There’s no time to think. I tear across the car park to my car and leap inside. All I know is that Lizzie Hamlyn is unstable, Dylan is in danger and I can’t afford to let them out of my sight. My heart is thumping, adrenaline coursing through my body. I start up the engine and screech out of the school gates, just in time to see her turn left on to Cotswold Street. I veer left after her, narrowly missing the SUV parked on the corner and we bump down the narrow, cobbled road. Then she swerves left on to the high street and I follow, close on her tail, determined not to lose her.

  Where are you taking him, you crazy bitch?

  On the high street she runs a red light, ignoring the cars from the other direction hooting and screeching to a halt. Then she heads out on the ring road towards Swindon. The road is straight and nearly empty. I stamp my foot flat on the accelerator, the speedometer approaching 80 miles an hour, then 90, then 100, 120. I’ve never driven so fast. This car is not made for speed. It rattles along the highway as if it will fall apart at any second, hurtling along, hedgerows whizzing past, but I’m gaining, and slowly but steadily the distance between us decreases.

  Then suddenly, Lizzie swerves off the main road and on to another smaller road.

  ‘What the . . .?’ I mutter to myself as I brake sharply and screech round the corner after her. We’re on a narrow country lane now, bumping over potholes. There’s a tractor up ahead, crawling along at a snail’s pace. Lizzie speeds up and overtakes. I start to try to pass too, but a car hurtles towards me in the other direction and I tuck back behind the tractor just in time.

  My God, that was a near miss, I think, my heart hammering in my throat, but I can’t afford to lose them. As soon as the other car has passed, I roar past the tractor just in time to see the red and white mini, far up ahead, racing round a bend. I press my foot flat to the floor. I’m absolutely determined not to let them out of my sight.

  My phone is ringing loudly in my bag.

  I’m rooting around in my bag, glancing down to see who’s calling, when out of nowhere, a truck looms out of a side road.

  I stamp on the brakes and wrench the steering wheel, but it’s too late. It’s rushing towards me. I don’t have time to think. Everything is instinctive. I’m going to die. Please don’t let me die, I pray. And I think of Dylan. I can’t leave him. Not now. Not yet. He’s too young. He needs his mother. Dylan is the last thought in my head, filling my mind so I can’t think of anything else. Then I hear a crack and with a violent jolt I’m thrown up into the air and somehow I’m flying. Then there’s another violent thump and searing pain as I’m slammed against hard concrete.

  The last thing I hear is the screech of tyres and a door slamming.

  Thirty-seven

  Am I dreaming? Am I dead?

  The sun is setting behind those trees, casting golden streaks of light up into the blue sky. It’s beautiful and serene and I am not in any pain. In fact, I could be floating on a cloud. It must be the shock. Or maybe I’m in heaven. But when I raise my head, I see to my horror that there is a shard of glass poking out of my thigh. I move my arm experimentally and try to pull it out, but it is stuck there, wedged deep in my flesh. And I realise I’m not on a cloud. Instead, I am lying on hard, unforgiving concrete and there are pieces of broken glass all around me. I’m in the middle of the road. The impact must have thrown me from the car.

  ‘Oh my God. I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay? Can you speak?’ A man’s face comes into focus, middle-aged, panic-stricken. He takes my hand, ‘Just hold on, love. I’m going to go and get help.’

  I don’t want him to leave me and I try to grasp his hand, but he lets go gently and stands up. I hear him talking urgently to someone nearby but just out of my line of vision.

  ‘Can you stay here with her, just until I get back?’ he’s saying.

  A young woman’s voice answers. She sounds calm and capable, just the kind of person you want around in an emergency. ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘I’m first-aid trained. Don’t worry. I know what to do.’

  ‘What about your son? Will he be all right?’ the man asks.

&n
bsp; ‘He’ll be okay. I’ve locked him in the car for now. I think it’s for the best. I don’t want him to see this.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll be as fast as I can. Don’t try to move her, okay?’

  Then I hear the man’s footsteps receding and I feel a flicker of fear. I sit up and try to struggle to my feet, but my legs won’t co-operate, and I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me. I lie back down, fighting to stay conscious. The woman crouches beside me, her long legs folding under her.

  ‘Not so nice, is it, being left to die?’ she says, and I look up into a smooth, pretty face and a pair of dewy, brown eyes.

  ‘Lizzie . . .’ I try to say, but it comes out as a sort of gargle.

  ‘I could kill you now if I wanted,’ she continues conversationally. ‘It would be pretty easy. I could smother you. Everyone would think it happened in the accident, or I could run you over. But I’m not going to kill you. That would be too quick.’

  ‘Dylan . . .’ I choke out. ‘Dylan . . .’

  ‘My sister, Daisy, was the same age as Dylan. Did you know that?’

  Again, I try to move. I heave myself up by the arms and try to drag myself towards the red and white mini I can see parked just a few metres away. Lizzie walks along beside me, gazing down at me dispassionately.

  ‘Dylan,’ I say, collapsing again after I’ve hauled myself not more than a few feet.

  ‘I was supposed to be watching her the night you killed her.’ Lizzie crouches down beside me again. ‘My parents left an eight-year-old in charge of a five-year-old. For a long time, I thought I was to blame, but then I realised. I was only eight years old. I should never have been left with that responsibility.’

  I know it’s very important that I stay awake – that my life and Dylan’s could depend on it – but I keep drifting in and out of consciousness and Lizzie’s voice keeps getting louder and quieter, as if someone is fiddling with the volume control.