The Breakdown: The gripping thriller from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors. B Paris A

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СКАЧАТЬ to have it in bed though.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, trying to hide how depressed I feel.

      ‘And then I’ll do the shopping while you make the salads.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I mumble gratefully. ‘I’m sorry.’

      His arms come around me. ‘Hey, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. I know how tired you are at the moment.’

      I’m glad to be able to hide behind the excuse but how long is it going to be before he says something to me, because coming on top of having forgotten he was going away on Monday, this fiasco over the barbecue is one thing too many. I go through to the bathroom, trying to ignore the voice in my head: You’re going mad, you’re going mad, you’re going mad. It would be so much easier to pretend that Hannah, wanting to come round for a barbecue, had decided to manipulate an invitation. But that’s not something she’d ever do and I’d be mad to even think it. Anyway, what about my obsession to get the garden looking perfect? I’d been so sure that it was just a way of distracting myself, of keeping myself busy but, maybe, somewhere in my brain, I knew that I’d invited them.

      Thinking back, I can guess what happened. I’d been so distracted by the talk of Jane, I’d only been half listening to what Hannah was saying by the end of our chat. Maybe it was then, during those lost minutes, that I’d invited Hannah and Andy to come today.

      It used to happen to Mum all the time. She’d be there, nodding away at things I was saying, offering her opinion, even making suggestions, but a few minutes later she couldn’t remember anything that we’d said at all. ‘I must have been away with the fairies’, she’d say. ‘Periodic amnesia’ the nurse who came to check on her called it. Was that where I’d been, away with the fairies? For the first time in my life, fairies seem like evil creatures.

      *

      Hannah and Andy arrive a little after twelve-thirty, and it’s not long before the conversation inevitably turns to Jane’s murder.

      ‘Did you see that the police are appealing for people to come forward in relation to that young woman’s death?’ Hannah says as she passes a plate to Matthew. ‘Don’t you think it strange that nobody has?’

      ‘Maybe, but I don’t suppose many people take that road late at night,’ Matthew says. ‘Especially when there’s a storm going on.’

      ‘If I’m coming back from Castle Wells, I take it all the time,’ says Andy cheerfully. ‘Day or night, storm or no storm.’

      ‘So where were you last Friday night?’ Matthew asks and, when they all start laughing, I want to scream at them to stop.

      Matthew catches sight of my face. ‘Sorry,’ he says quietly. He turns to Hannah and Andy. ‘Did Cass tell you she knew her?’

      They stare at me.

      ‘Not very well,’ I say quickly, cursing Matthew for mentioning it. ‘We had lunch together once, that’s all.’ I close my mind to the image of Jane shaking her head reproachfully at my quick dismissal of our friendship.

      ‘I’m so sorry, Cass, you must feel terrible,’ Hannah says.

      ‘Yes, I do.’ There’s a short silence where nobody seems to know quite what to say.

      ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll catch whoever’s responsible soon,’ Andy says. ‘Somebody somewhere must know something.’

      I manage to get through the rest of the afternoon but as soon as they’ve gone I wish they’d come back. Their constant stream of chatter may have been exhausting but it’s preferable to the silence that leaves me too much time to think about the things tumbling around in my mind.

      I clear the table and carry the plates into the kitchen and, as I walk in through the door, I stop in my tracks, staring at the window I hadn’t remembered closing yesterday, before I’d gone up for my bath. Because now, when I think about it, when I’d been making the curry, the back door had been open – but not the window.

MONDAY, JULY 27TH

      After Matthew leaves for the rig, I’m unnerved by the sense of abandonment I feel, but I can finally make the phone call I’ve been dreading. I find the piece of paper where I jotted the number down and, as I’m looking for my bag, the phone starts ringing.

      ‘Hello?’

      There’s no reply so I presume whoever it is has lost their signal. I hold on for another ten seconds, then hang up. If it’s Matthew, I know he’ll phone again if he needs to.

      I run upstairs to fetch my purse, push my feet into some shoes and leave the house. I had thought about driving into Browbury or Castle Wells and using one of the payphones there but it seems a bit extreme when there’s one five minutes up the road, near the bus shelter.

      As I approach the payphone, I feel as if someone is watching me. I look to the right and left, then turn and look surreptitiously behind me. But there’s no one around, just a cat sunning itself on a low stone wall. A car drives past; lost in her own thoughts, the woman driver doesn’t even look my way.

      In front of the phone, I read the instructions – because it’s years since I used one – fish for a coin in my purse and with shaking fingers push a pound into the slot. I take out the piece of paper where I jotted down the number to call and punch it into the phone, my heart racing, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. But before I can change my mind, my call is answered.

      ‘It’s about Jane Walters,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I passed her car in Blackwater Lane at eleven-thirty and she was still alive.’

      ‘Thank you for coming forward.’ The woman’s voice is calm. ‘Could I—’ But I’ve already put the phone down.

      I leave quickly, hurrying down the road towards the house, the same uneasy feeling that I’m being watched following me as I go. Once inside, I make myself calm down. There wasn’t anybody watching me, it was only my guilty conscience at doing something secretive that made me think that there was. And because I’ve done what I should have done at the beginning, I begin to feel better about everything.

      After all my hard work on Saturday, there’s nothing left to do in the garden but there’s plenty of housework waiting. With the radio on for company, I drag the hoover upstairs and, armed with polish and cleaning materials, I make a start on the bedrooms. I work methodically, focusing on the task in hand, steering my mind away from Jane. And it works – until the news bulletin comes on at midday:

      ‘Police are appealing to the person who contacted them earlier today with information relating to the murder of Jane Walters to get back in contact with them. Jane Walters was found murdered in her car in the early hours of the eighteenth of July and…’

      I don’t hear any more over the hammering of my heart. It reverberates in my eardrums, making me deaf. I sit down on the bed and take deep, shaky breaths. Why do the police want to speak to me again? I had told them everything I know. I try to squash down the panic rising inside me but it just keeps on coming. Even though nobody knows it was me who made that phone call, the fact the police have made it public means I no longer feel anonymous. Instead, I feel horribly exposed. The police had said something about the person who called them having information in СКАЧАТЬ