The Cruellest Game (20 page)

First I had to protect myself. And I didn’t need PC Bickerton to remind me not to repeat the mistake I had made after the first break-in at Highrise. I needed to get my locks changed.
Fast. I called an emergency twenty-four-hour locksmith company in Exeter. Rather to my surprise, they agreed to have someone at Highrise within a couple of hours. Apparently coming to the rescue of
panicking householders really was their speciality.

While I waited for one of their employees to arrive I went out to the car to fetch Florrie. And as I led her along the hallway I remembered I hadn’t yet fed her. I left her outside the
kitchen door, aware of how much she could damage herself walking amidst all the debris inside, piled some tinned food into her bowl, thankfully made of stainless steel or I imagine that would have
been smashed too, and carried it out into the hall for her.

Then, unwilling to face the horrors of even beginning to clear up the desecrated house that night, I sat on the bottom of the stairs cuddled up with Florrie until the locksmith arrived, actually
only just over an hour later. He was a cheerful-looking chap, who told me his name was Billy, but his face registered a kind of bewildered embarrassment when confronted with the state of Highrise.
Billy said little as he crunched about over broken furniture, shattered glass and smashed crockery, but he worked fast, taking little more than an hour and a half to change all three of my
locks.

After Billy left I realized I was still quite numb with the shock of what had been done to Highrise. And all this on top of Robbie’s horrible death. I didn’t dare dwell on any of it.
Not that night. What I needed was oblivion.

Automatically I began to lead Florrie to the kitchen, then I realized that I could not leave her there overnight amidst layers of broken glass and crockery. Indeed, it was a miracle she
hadn’t cut her paws already.

‘You’re going to have to sleep upstairs with me tonight, girl,’ I told her. She wagged her tail gleefully. I swear that dog understood every word I said.

I also realized that while I had fed Florrie I had eaten nothing myself. But I still had no interest in food. Drink was a different matter. I stepped across the hall, wriggled my way through the
little door leading to Robert’s wine store in the cellar, which had mercifully and miraculously escaped the attention of whoever had destroyed so much of the house – presumably they
just hadn’t found it – and selected two of his finest and most expensive French reds.

I found a bottle opener among the wreckage of the kitchen and uncorked them both. Then, after checking the back door was locked and all the windows downstairs firmly closed, I carried the wine
upstairs to the guest bedroom I had been using. The bedclothes, along with my beloved pink Turnbull & Asser pyjamas, had been pulled off the bed and tossed carelessly around the room, but
otherwise the bed was undamaged and, most thankfully of all, unsoiled.

I undressed, picked up my pyjamas from the floor and put them on. The door to the en-suite shower room stood open and I could see that the tooth mug which lived there remained intact in its wall
bracket. I collected it and filled it to the brim with red wine. I pulled the bedding back on the bed and climbed in.

Florrie, hardly believing her luck, jumped up straight away, snuggled close and lay her head on the empty pillow beside me. Robert would have been horrified. It had been so much more his
decision, rather than mine, that she be confined to her bed in the kitchen at night. I’d never thought about it before but her warm furry presence was extremely comforting, and from now on
one of many changes I intended was that Florrie should have bedroom privileges. Regardless of the hairy residue she would leave behind.

I stroked her head, picked up the tooth mug, downed its contents in almost one swallow, filled it again and emptied it just as swiftly. Even at that moment it gave me a kind of perverted
pleasure to dispose of Robert’s best wine in such a manner because I knew how it would have offended him.

The third mug finished off the first bottle and I drank it more slowly, washing down two zolpidem as I did so. Then, after a moment’s thought, I swallowed another pill just to make
sure.

For the first time since Robbie’s death the only emotion I felt was anger, perhaps because I had no other emotion left. But I did need to block out the world. I was, of course, extremely
anxious about being alone in Highrise in spite of the new locks and in spite of my show of bravado to PC Bickerton. The next day I planned to make it even more difficult for whoever it was to enter
my property again. Meanwhile I just wanted to sink into enough of a stupor to get me through the night. And I did. After drinking slightly more than half of the second bottle, I slept soundly until
about six o’clock the following morning.

Florrie, her head resting on my chest, seemed to have been waiting for me to open my eyes. She wagged her tail and licked my face.

My mouth felt uncomfortably dry and I had a dull headache. A hangover presumably. It was so long since I’d had one of those I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. This one, it had
to be admitted, was well deserved. But at least I’d found the oblivion I had both sought and so badly needed, and I did now feel, in a strange way, able to begin to face the chaos that
surrounded me.

I dressed in the jeans and sweater I now kept in the guest room and, remembering the debris all over the kitchen, dug out a pair of old trainers from the cupboard on the landing. Then I led
Florrie downstairs, letting her out of the front door as I did not want to risk taking her into the kitchen again until I’d cleared up a bit.

I found a mug which was chipped and had lost most of its handle, and made myself tea. While Florrie was still outside pottering about I retrieved a spade from the garden shed, and a brush from
the cupboard in the hall. I began sweeping up the debris that covered the kitchen floor and shovelling it into heavy-duty bin bags. I piled these outside the back door.

I switched the big fridge back on and replaced any food that could be retrieved from the mess. Like packets of bacon that had been frozen, now defrosted but surely come to no harm in such a
brief period, packaged sliced bread, a tub or two of butter, packets of cheese and so on.

The rest of it, including the smashed remains of a box of half a dozen eggs (I was thankful that at least there were no more), I binned. I used my vacuum cleaner, which fortunately was one of
those that dealt with liquid, to suck up the worst of the mess left by broken eggs and spilt milk and wine. Then I let Florrie back into the house, gave her a handful of her breakfast biscuits and
checked my watch. It was still only just gone seven o’clock. Too early to begin the phone calls I wanted to make.

In spite of everything my stomach reminded me that I was hungry. I’d eaten nothing since a school lunch of dubious merit the previous day. And a lot had happened since then.

I opened a packet of bacon, and lay five rashers across the base of one of my selection of iron frying pans, something else more or less impervious to any sort of damage. When the bacon started
to frizzle up I moved it to the side of the pan and added two slices of bread. After both bacon and bread were cooked to my satisfaction – I liked my bacon very crispy and the bread too
– I let the pan cool a little then ate directly from it. But then, I didn’t have a lot of choice. It seemed that there wasn’t an unbroken plate in the kitchen.

By the time I’d finished, and made and drank a couple of double espressos, thankful at least that the built-in espresso machine had escaped the wrecker’s attention, it was
approaching eight o’clock, and certainly an hour that would be considered respectable by Tom Farley, to whom Saturdays I knew were just another working day.

Our number one local handyman was an unflappable sort of chap invariably willing to take on almost any job. Above all, he drove a large white van. Even Robert had liked and respected Tom, and
sometimes, I’d thought, actually quite enjoyed his company when Tom had helped him with work on the house. On the very rare occasions when we took a few days’ holiday – Robert
always said there wasn’t a better place in the world than Highrise so why would he want to go away? – it was to Tom we gave a key to the house so that he could keep an eye on the place
and water the indoor plants. I couldn’t help reflecting a moment on those days. In the summer we would occasionally rent a little coastguard’s cottage virtually on the beach just
outside Padstow in Cornwall, walk for miles along the cliffs, barbecue fresh fish, and bathe in the sea when the weather allowed. We never went abroad. Of course, I knew why now, didn’t I?
Robert’s passport would almost certainly be in the name of Rob Anderton, wouldn’t it? I suddenly realized I had never seen his passport and didn’t even know if he had one. He
really had been so duplicitous and I, it now seemed, had been so ridiculously trusting.

I shook myself out of my reverie and dialled Tom’s number.

There was a distinct note of sympathy in his voice when I told him who was calling.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Anderson?’ he asked.

I’d noticed that Tom had been at Robbie’s funeral. He and his wife had briefly paid their respects as Robert and I had left the cemetery, awkwardly muttering condolences, though I
didn’t remember seeing either of them at the pub afterwards. But Tom worked all hours. He’d probably had a job to do.

I explained that Robert had returned to work, that our house had been wrecked by a person or persons unknown, and that I needed help to clear up the mess, take irreparable items away and so
on.

He wondered what the world was coming to, asked who on earth would do something like that to a woman in my situation, and said that under the circumstances he’d come round that very
afternoon.

‘I’ve got a job on this morning I can’t put off,’ he said. ‘But I should be able to make it about one. And I’ll ’ave our Eddie with me. Good as a man
now, that lad.’

I thanked him, ended the call, and removed my iPad from my schoolbag, grateful that I was in the habit of taking it to school with me or it would surely have been destroyed or stolen. I knew I
might be closing the stable door after the horse had bolted, and in a way rather hoped that I was, but I’d already decided that I wanted more security if I was going to stay at Highrise. I
looked up burglar alarm companies which supplied systems linked to some kind of security service – an unconnected bell, however strident, would be no use at all, alerting only the birds and
the beasts of the moors to any intrusion. I called the most likely looking one, Top Alarm Security, based in Exeter, hoping fervently that they operated on a Saturday. They did. I told them I
needed my case to be treated as an emergency. They offered to send an advisor to give me an estimate later that day. I told them I just needed some sort of alarm system to be fitted straight away,
and I would accept whatever their standard charges were. They warned there would be an extra charge for Saturday, and they might not be able to complete a full installation. Ultimately we agreed
that two of their engineers would arrive at 4 p.m., thus giving the Farleys and me time to clear up the worst of the mess.

Then I decided to have one last crack at convincing the police that I was a victim of crime, not a perpetrator of senseless destruction as I thought they believed.

I called DS Jarvis to tell him what had been going on. I quite expected, however, to be patched through to Heavitree Road again, and was mildly surprised when the detective sergeant himself
answered almost at once. I got the impression, though, that he had been expecting another call and had not looked at his phone’s display panel before answering. But he seemed quite pleasant
and helpful. At first anyway.

‘Yes, I do know about it,’ he said when I began to explain the events of the previous night.

‘It is the second incident,’ I persisted.

‘I know that too,’ he said.

‘Right. So is anyone actually doing anything about it?’

‘Of course, Mrs Anderson. Inquiries are proceeding, and we are doing all we can.’

‘But the two policemen who came round yesterday gave every impression that they thought I imagined the first break-in, then trashed my house myself,’ I said. ‘It’s
ridiculous.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m really not aware of that, Mrs Anderson,’ he answered patiently. ‘This force takes all incidents of burglary and damage to property very seriously indeed . .
.’

There was another pause.

‘Look, hold on a minute will you.’

I could vaguely hear him talking to someone else. When he returned he did not sound quite so patient.

‘Look, Mrs Anderson, we have two officers investigating the incidents you have reported,’ he said. ‘It’s their case, not mine now. I really cannot help you any further
and—’

‘Please listen to me,’ I said. ‘Something is going on that I don’t understand. It’s not burglary, that’s for certain. Hardly anything’s been taken.
It’s some sort of attack on me, and maybe my husband too. And I feel sure it must be connected to Robbie’s death. I don’t know how, but it just must be. Robbie’s death is
your case, isn’t it? And you told me to call you any time.’

DS Jarvis sighed.

‘Actually, to be honest, Mrs Anderson, we are, of course, awaiting the inquest and the coroner’s verdict, but we feel it is unlikely that we can take your son’s case any
further,’ he said. ‘As for the other matter, the two incidents at your home, as I told you, our inquiries are proceeding and we are doing all that we can.’

He sounded weary. And no longer that interested.

‘I don’t believe that,’ I said angrily. ‘At the very least, and whatever you say, I don’t think I am being taken seriously.’

‘Of course you are being taken seriously, Mrs Anderson. But I have seen the reports of your two suspected break-ins and we do have to look at all possible scenarios—’

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ I interrupted again. ‘You don’t believe me either, do you? I’m the victim here, for God’s sake.’