The Best Friend Read online

  ‘I was tactful and nice. I didn’t say anything to provoke her. And anyway, I’m pretty sure she lied about him leaving her. I told you on the phone, Mike says she kicked him out.’

  ‘Maybe she lashed out without thinking. I’m sure she’ll apologise.’

  ‘You weren’t there,’ I say, trying to keep my voice under control. ‘She’s not right in the head, Jared. She’s trying to wreck my life.’

  He nods and takes another swig of beer. ‘So, what do you want to do about it? What can we do? Because this is getting beyond crazy. Every day there’s something else with Darcy. I don’t think I can deal with it for much longer.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I say.

  ‘No, Lou,’ he says through gritted teeth, ‘I mean, I don’t think I can deal with your obsession for much longer.’

  ‘My what!’

  He stares across at me. ‘Every day, Lou. Every day. It’s Darcy’s done this, or Darcy’s done that. I want to be supportive, but I think it would be better for everyone if you just stayed away from her. Don’t go to her house, or organise joint parties, or go for coffee with the woman. Just stay the hell away, and then we won’t have all this constant drama.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair and takes another swig of beer. His plate of cheese and crackers still sits untouched on the table.

  I scrape my chair back and stand up, my whole body shaking with hurt and rage. Then, I turn my back on my husband and leave the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he calls.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Louisa!’

  I ignore him, fumble on the floor for my handbag and snatch at my coat from the coat rack. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get my arms through the sleeves. Jared comes out of the kitchen.

  ‘Lou, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s fine, you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m a demented woman who’s making a mountain out of a molehill. So, I’ll leave you in peace. Joe’s in bed. It’s Saturday tomorrow, so you can have a nice boys’ weekend together.’ I glance around for my car keys. They’re not in my bag, or on the hall table. I pat my coat pockets and hear the metal jingle.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he says, putting a hand on my coat sleeve. ‘Stay. Please. I’m sorry. I’m just cranky, that’s all.’

  I glare at him, open the front door and walk out into the cold night, closing the front door behind me with a soft click. My hurt over Darcy’s behaviour is bubbling up into a cold, determined fury. I’m sick of being a victim. Sick of being treated like I’m behaving unreasonably. That woman has been undermining my confidence since the day I met her. Manipulating me, fooling my family, and I’m not going to stand for it anymore.

  I’m shivering, my hands are clammy and my head doesn’t feel right, but the best thing now is to get this over and done with. I draw the keys from my pocket and unlock the car.

  I’m going to go to Mike’s place and I’m going to get him to tell me all about his wife. I’m going to ask him exactly what Darcy’s problem is with me and why she told me he left her when it was quite clearly the other way around. I’m going to tell Mike exactly what she’s been saying and doing, and I’m going to get answers. And if Mike doesn’t know, or if he won’t talk, then I’ll drive round to Darcy’s and demand that she tell me exactly what the hell is going on.

  I slide into the car. It’s cold enough in here to see my breath. There’ll probably be a frost tonight. I take my wallet out of my bag and draw out the business card Mike gave me earlier. It’s too dark to see, so I switch on the car’s interior light and check the address – Chaddesley Glen – I know where that is, so I start the engine and pull away with a judder and screech.

  Disappointment pulls at my gut, reminding me that Jared didn’t follow me out of the house. That he didn’t try to persuade me back in. I might have let him if he’d at least tried. Maybe it’s better this way. I need to find out what’s really behind Darcy’s passive-aggressive behaviour. If I can end her subtle attacks on me, then I can go back to having a normal life with my family.

  The apartment isn’t far away – only about ten minutes by car, yet it might as well be on the other side of the world. Jared and I couldn’t afford a garden shed on this road. Mike’s place is situated on the top of a hill, minutes from the harbour. I pull up outside a new block of blue and glass apartments. I don’t give myself time to stop and think about anything. Determined, I turn off the engine and exit the car, the chill air making me catch my breath.

  The street is silent. Next door to the apartments, a beautiful 1920’s arts-and-crafts house sits on its own, alone amid all the shiny new blocks, its garden wild and untended. I have a sad feeling its days are numbered. I wonder how long it will remain there. How long until developers like Mike and Darcy seize the land and dump another multi-million-pound concrete and glass apartment block on it.

  I make my way up the stone steps and through the automatic doors into the spacious lobby. A man comes out and holds the inner door open for me. I murmur a thank you, go straight through and call the lift. Flat 9 – Mike’s flat – is on the top floor. It’s the penthouse, of course. After a short wait, the lift doors slide open and I step inside. The unforgiving lights and the gleaming mirror inside declare me a mess. My face is pale, my mascara smudged, my hair greasy and my clothes crumpled. I don’t even try to repair the damage. Instead, I turn away from the mirror and face the doors, trying not to inhale the cloying scent of pine air freshener.

  The lift whooshes up and the doors open with a loud ding. Stepping out, I find myself in a small lobby with a leather armchair and a tall, leafy pot plant.

  There’s only one door. He must have the whole top floor to himself. I’m curious to see what it’s like inside. I press the buzzer and wait. No answer. I check my watch – almost nine o’clock. He said he would be in all evening. I press the buzzer again.

  Nothing.

  I was all geared up to get this sorted out. I’ll be gutted and annoyed if he’s not at home. Maybe he’s got the TV turned up too loud to hear the buzzer. I’ll call his mobile. I sit in the leather armchair and root around in my bag for my phone and Mike’s card. I punch in the number. It goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Hey, Mike,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Louisa. I’m at your apartment. You asked me to pop by this evening. No worries if you’re out. Anyway, give me a call if you need to talk. Bye.’

  Maybe he forgot, or maybe he changed his mind. Maybe Darcy didn’t want me to come over here, so she invited him to hers. Whatever. I’m done with it. Done with the Lanes and their crazy lives. What am I even doing here? I need to go back home, make up with my husband and stay the hell away from all three of them. I’ll talk to Jared about moving Joe back to his old school. Everything will be fine. Relief sweeps across me and I suddenly feel lighter.

  I slip my phone and Mike’s business card back into my bag and stand up. As I do so, I notice that Mike’s front door isn’t closed properly. I push with my fingertips and it swings open, revealing a large hallway with polished wooden floorboards, a geometric-patterned rug and Scandi-style hallway furniture. The hall light is on but the rooms beyond appear to be in darkness.

  ‘Hello!’ I call out.

  There’s no reply. I tilt my head, listening for any sounds within, hesitant to step over the threshold.

  ‘Mike?’ My voice sounds loud. The back of my neck prickles. Everything suddenly seems too quiet. Maybe he had to go somewhere in a hurry and forgot to lock up properly. I hope he hasn’t had a break in. The hall looks untouched. I should probably go in and double-check that he’s not here, then I can lock up and leave him a message that his door was open.

  I step inside. All my senses on heightened alert, telling me to get out. To leave and call the police. But I can’t stop myself moving forward into the silent hallway. I push open one of the inner doors and press the light switch. A bedroom. Empty. I move to the next two rooms, one is another bedroom, the other an office. No
thing looks as though it’s been disturbed. I enter the living room, next. It’s a vast space opening out onto a glass balcony, the harbour lights twinkling below. The TV is on with the sound down, bright images of some American city flickering across the screen. I can’t imagine Mike would have left without turning the television off. Unless there was some kind of emergency . . .

  I leave the lounge and open the next door along the hallway. It’s dark, so I fumble for the light switch. And now I see him. Mike is here. In the kitchen diner. On the floor. Eyes wide and staring. The tang of blood and fear in my nostrils.

  He’s dead.

  His shirt is torn. There’s blood everywhere. Staining his pale blue shirt, darkening his jeans.

  I want to scream or run, but I don’t. Instead, I stay rooted to the spot as I hear myself whisper Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, over and over again. It’s like I’m in some TV drama. It doesn’t feel real. I tell myself to keep it together, not to faint or panic. I have to do something. Should I call an ambulance? Maybe they can do something. Save him . . . No. He’s dead. He’s not coming back. He’s actually dead. I’ve never seen a dead person before.

  Call the police, Louisa, call the police. I’m muttering. I think I must be in shock. I want to call Jared. Instead, with shaking hands, I pull out my phone and call 999.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  I can’t get the image of Mike’s face out of my head. Of his open eyes and slack mouth. Of the blood. I wait outside his apartment in the hall, sitting in the chair next to the pot plant. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home but the police told me to stay put. Who killed him? Why? A robbery gone wrong? A business deal gone bad? Something more . . . personal? Poor Darcy. What’s she going to do now? Unless . . . No. That’s just crazy. She’s certainly got a screw loose, but would she really go so far as to kill her own husband?

  The strains of Mr Brightside startle me. I stare at my phone screen, my vision hazy, and see it’s Jared calling. I answer.

  ‘Hello,’ I say shakily.

  ‘Louisa, I’m sorry about before. I was being a knob. Come home.’

  ‘Jared, something’s happened.’ My voice cracks.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No. No I’m not.’

  ‘Where are you? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. It’s Mike. He . . .’ I look up as the lift door opens, disgorging two male uniformed police officers. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, rising to my feet. ‘The police are here.’

  ‘The police! Lou, tell me where you are. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I’m at Mike’s. Look, I’ll call you back.’ I’m well aware that Jared is probably freaked out by now. But one of the officers is asking me to end the call.

  ‘Louisa, don’t hang up.’

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ I repeat and end our conversation.

  ‘Are you Louisa Sullivan?’ the older officer asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it you who made the 999 call just now?’

  I nod.

  ‘My name is Sergeant Merton, and this is my colleague Constable Santani. Are you hurt at all?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you saw―’

  ‘In there,’ I interrupt. ‘In the kitchen.’ I point through the semi-open door to the flat. ‘I don’t want to go back inside.’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ he says. ‘You can stay out here. We’ll be out in a minute.’ He nods to the other officer and they stride into Mike’s flat.

  My phone rings again. It’s Jared. He keeps calling. The music from my ringtone is making my nerves even worse, so I set my phone to silent. I’ll wait until I get a proper chance to talk to him before calling him back. A small, petty part of me is punishing him for how he spoke to me earlier. I want him to worry about me. The officers’ voices float out of the apartment, deep and low, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then, I hear the louder static click of a police radio, and a woman’s voice, asking questions about the body and the female witness. I guess they mean me. Only I didn’t witness anything.

  The officers come back out into the lobby.

  ‘Did you touch anything inside the flat?’ Sergeant Merton asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Only the door handles. Oh, and the light switches.’

  ‘How about the deceased? Did you touch his clothing or the weapon?’

  ‘No. He was . . . he was like that when I got here. I didn’t touch anything.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod.

  ‘Good, okay. CID are on their way, and they’ll want to talk to you when they get here.’

  ‘Can I call my husband?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  They make no move to go back into the apartment, so I guess I’ll have to speak to Jared while they’re listening in.

  I don’t need to make the call. My phone buzzes and Jared’s tanned face flashes up on my screen – a photo of him I took last year on holiday in Cornwall. I press reply.

  ‘Hi. Sorry I had to hang up before. The police just got here and wanted to talk to me.’

  ‘God, what’s happened? You’re at Mike’s?’

  ‘Yes, look, hang on and I’ll tell you.’ I run a hand through my hair and sit back down on the seat. The younger officer shakes his head and motions to me to get up, so I stand and walk over to the edge of the lobby where a window looks down into a car park full of expensive vehicles. ‘I came over to see Mike,’ I say in a low voice. ‘I wanted to hear his side of things. And then I changed my mind. I was about to come home and forget all about the Lanes. But Mike’s apartment door was open, so I got worried. I went inside, and he was on the kitchen floor. Jared, he’s dead.’

  ‘Shit. No. Dead? What happened? An accident? Or . . .’

  ‘It’s awful. He’s in there right now. There’s blood. It looks like he was killed.’

  ‘Fuck. Where are you?’

  ‘In the hallway outside, with the police. They’re waiting for CID to arrive. They want to talk to me. I’m freaking out, Jared. What if they think I’m something to do with it?’

  ‘Did you touch anything? His body or . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, good. And you were the one who called the police, right?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘So, then that’s fine. You’re hardly going to call the police if you killed the man, are you?’

  ‘No. No, I guess not. Unless it’s like a double bluff or something.’ My heart is suddenly loud in my ears, my whole body pulsing with fear.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘I’m coming over. Where’s the flat?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You need to stay with Joe.’

  ‘I’ll get a babysitter.’

  ‘No, it’s too late, you’ll never get anyone at this time.’

  ‘What about your sister?’

  I pause. Beth would do it . . . No. I don’t want to call her out at this time of night. She’ll be tired from work. ‘I’ll be fine, Jared.’ I’m not fine – far from it, but it’ll be too complicated for him to come here. ‘Look, hopefully, they’ll ask a few questions and then I can come straight home.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jared says, ‘But, I’m not happy about it. I should be there with you. And anyway, I still think I should call your sister. It might to handy to have a lawyer, just in case.’

  ‘Oh my God, Jared. Do you think I need a lawyer?’ I take a breath and press my fingers to my forehead.

  ‘Calm down. You’ll be fine. I’ll call Beth just as a precaution.’ He pauses. ‘What about Darcy? Should someone tell her about Mike?’

  ‘Let the police do it,’ I say. ‘You need to stay with Joe, and it’s not something you can tell her over the phone. She’ll need to be with someone.’

  ‘Okay. So, let me ring Beth and then I’ll call you straight back.’

  ‘I might not be able to answer. The police . . .’

  ‘Well, okay, ring me as soon as you can. Give me fiv
e minutes to talk to your sister.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The lift door opens again and several people get out. I assume they must be police officers, even though they’re not in uniform.

  ‘They’re here,’ I say to Jared. ‘The other officers. I better go.’

  ‘Okay, speak soon.’

  ‘Love you,’ I say.

  ‘You too.’

  I notice Jared didn’t say the actual words. He normally says he loves me, too. The window has steamed up. I run my finger across the glass, turn around and brace myself for more questions.

  * * *

  I’ve been “invited” to the police station for an interview to answer more questions. I already told them everything back at Mike’s flat but apparently they want to clarify some things. So here I am, two-and-a-half hours later, in a tiny interview room with stained blue walls and no window. A musty smell permeates the small space – it’s so bad, I’m not sure whether it’s better to breathe through my mouth or my nose.

  Sitting opposite me are the investigating officers DS Locke and DC Benson. They’ve both been studiously polite, offering me a sandwich and a cup of tea, but I’m not hungry. So I sit on my chair with a plastic cup of water, waiting for the interview to begin, a black video-recording device between us on the fake wooden table, a ceiling camera angled down at me.

  When I first got here, they took my clothing as evidence, so now I’m wearing a borrowed navy tracksuit. It’s clean, at least. I voluntarily gave them my fingerprints and DNA as a precaution to eliminate me from their enquiries. I’ve been told I’m not under caution and I don’t need a solicitor. That this is purely a witness interview. Yet my heart still clatters like a guilty person. It’s so loud, I’m sure the two officers can hear it. I wish Jared or Beth were here with me to tell me everything’s going to be okay.

  ‘Stick the air con on, will you,’ DS Locke says to his colleague. ‘It smells rank in here.’

  I’m already freezing but at least the fresh air might get rid of the cheesy smell. Benson nods, stands and leaves the room. I’m left alone with Locke for a moment. Rather than look at him, I stare fixedly at the wonky blue carpet tiles. After a brief moment, a faint hum emanates from a vent high up on the wall. Benson re-enters the room and sits next to Locke, their faces merging as my vision blurs with anxiety.