‘Sally?’
‘Unlock the door, let me out!’ I hate myself for being pleased to hear his voice.
‘All right. But… Sally, I don’t want you to get a shock. Are you listening?’
What is he talking about?
‘I’m holding a gun. When I open the door, I’m going to be pointing it at you.’
‘I need to phone Nick. Please. Give me back my phone.’
The door opens. He looks exactly the same as he always has, the same helpful, concerned face. The only change is the gun in his hand.
I’ve never seen a gun in real life before. I’ve seen them in films, on television, but it’s not the same. Stay calm. Think. The gun is small, grey and smooth.
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ I tell him. ‘But I do need to phone Nick, as soon as possible. I don’t want him to worry about me.’
‘He won’t. He isn’t. Look.’ He pulls my phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. There’s a message from Nick: ‘Talk about short notice. Yes, can pick up kids if have to. Come back asap. Ring when you can-kids will want to speak.’
Next I read the text that supposedly came from me, the one Nick replied to. It is shorter and less informative than any message I’ve ever sent. It says that I have to leave for Venice immediately because of a crisis, that I’ll be back as soon as I can.
For Christ’s sake, Nick! When have I ever sent such a business-like text? When has my work involved a crisis so dire that I would set off abroad without making sure to speak to you first? When have I ever not signed a message ‘S’, with three kisses?
I clear my throat, struggle to find my voice. ‘You wrote this? As me?’
The man nods. ‘In spite of everything, I didn’t want Nick to worry.’
‘When will you let me go home?’ I ask tearfully. ‘How soon is soon?’
He lowers the gun, walks towards me. I flinch, but he doesn’t hurt me. He wraps his arms round me, hugs me for a few seconds, then releases me. ‘I expect you’ve got a lot of questions,’ he says.
‘Did you kill Geraldine and Lucy? Is your real name William Markes?’ I ask because I think he wants me to. All I care about, at this moment, is when I’ll see my family again; that’s the question that fills my mind, along with all its possible answers.
‘Who?’ His body stiffens. He raises the gun. Silence swells around us.
‘William Markes,’ I repeat. He doesn’t recognise the name. And it frightens him. Not knowing frightens him.
‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘My name is not William Markes.’
‘You said “In spite of everything”-you didn’t want Nick to worry in spite of everything. In spite of what?’
‘His mistreatment of you.’
‘What?’
‘He treats you like a skivvy.’
‘No, he doesn’t!’
‘“I go from room to room tidying up, and before I’ve finished, Nick’s worked his way round most of the house messing it up again, and I have to start from scratch.” Do you remember saying that to me?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘This is the man you want to go back to?’
‘You’re insane.’ If he wasn’t holding a gun I’d call him something worse, much worse.
He laughs. ‘I’m insane? You’re the one who told me what you’d do with the money if you ever won the lottery. I got all this from you.’
‘I never said anything about-’
‘You’d hire a full-time servant to walk round your house seven days a week, arranging each room so that it looked as you wanted it to look. That way you’d never have to encounter Nick’s mess; you’d be able to walk into a room and sit down without having to repair any damage first.’
He’s right. I forgot the lottery part; the rest is familiar. My words. He is taunting me with my own words. ‘I love Nick and I love my kids,’ I tell him, crying. ‘Please, let me go! Put down the gun.’
‘It’s hard for Nick when you’re away, isn’t it? You have to hire a woman to help look after him and the kids or else things spiral out of control pretty quickly.’
Pam Senior. Pam helped Nick, the week I was at Seddon Hall. What does she have to do with any of this?
‘But if he goes away-not that he does very often. You’d like him to go away more often. If Nick goes away, your life gets easier. You’ve got the kids to look after, yes, but not the strewn newspapers and the discarded banana skins-’
‘Stop.’ My head throbs. I want to curl into a ball on the carpet, but I can’t. I have to try and get out. ‘Please, stop. You can’t honestly believe-’
‘What do you think of this room?’ He takes my phone from my hands, puts it back in his pocket and points the gun at my chest.
‘What?’
‘Tidy enough? It can hardly be messy. There’s nothing in it apart from the massage table, you and your bag. More furniture is on its way: a bookcase, a lamp. You don’t like it, do you?’ His voice shakes. ‘Can’t wait to get out. I did it up specially for you. The massage table wasn’t cheap, but I know how much you like your massages. And the carpet, and the lampshade. I chose everything for you.’
‘Including the lock for the door?’ I dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from howling.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry about the prop.’
‘What?’
‘The gun.’ He waves it at me. ‘I’m hoping I won’t need it for much longer.’
I’m too crippled by terror to work out if this is a threat. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘That’s up to you. Do you know how many times I painted these walls? At first I thought pale apricot, but it was too sickly. I tried yellow-too dazzling. And then a couple of weeks ago I thought of the obvious-white. Perfect.’
This can’t be happening. It cannot be that a madman has been creating a room in which to imprison me while I’ve been getting on with my life, completely unaware. My thoughts become more concrete and focused as it dawns on me that what he’s saying can’t be right. A couple of weeks? Two weeks ago, Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick were still alive. But… the carpet is new and the room smells of paint. He can’t have ordered the carpet since Geraldine and Lucy died. It would have taken longer than that…
As if he can read my mind, he says, ‘Your being here has nothing to do with the deaths that have been on the news. Maybe that influenced the timing a bit, but-’
‘I know who you are,’ I tell him. ‘You’re Amy Oliver’s father. Where are Amy and her mother? Did you kill them too?’ I don’t know anything; I’m guessing. But I’m starting to want to know. Maybe finding out the truth is the only way to understand him, my only chance of getting out of here.
‘Did I kill them?’ I’ve made him angry. ‘Look at me. Do I look like the sort of man who would kill his wife and daughter?’ He sees me staring at the gun. ‘Ignore this thing…’ He shakes it in the air, scowling at it as if it’s attached itself to his hand against his will. ‘Look at my face. Is it the face of a killer?’
‘I don’t know.’
He raises the gun, straightens his arm so that it’s closer to my face.
‘No,’ I manage to say. ‘You’re not a killer.’
‘You know I’m not.’
‘I know you’re not.’
He seems satisfied, and lowers the gun. ‘You must be absolutely famished. Let’s eat, and then I’ll give you the grand tour.’
‘Tour?’
He smiles. ‘Of the house, stupid.’
He has already laid the table. The meal is pasta covered in grey, gelatinous gloop, the same colour as the gun. There are flecks of green in the sauce and funny straight sticks that look like pine needles. My throat closes. I can barely breathe.
He tells me to sit. At the far end of the kitchen there is a round wooden table and two wooden chairs. At some point someone who lived here got carried away with small square tiles in primary colours. The room looks like something from a children’s TV programme.