Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller

CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_9bba2205-536c-5997-bbe4-d33df5cf2837)

Eli (#ulink_9bba2205-536c-5997-bbe4-d33df5cf2837)

A polite female police officer has made two cups of sweet tea. Mum’s sipping gingerly at hers, the rattling of the cup on the saucer showing that she’s still on edge. I’ve put my cup down. I only had to glance at it to know there’s no way I’d be able to drink it. My stomach is swirling, my head now sore, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I want to ring Martin. Now. Ask him. Now. Accuse him?

I excuse myself and stand up. I walk to the sink and fill a glass with water so I can wash down one of my anti-sickness pills. Not that I think it’ll make any difference just now.

The police officer, Debbie, or Denise, or Dotty or something – I hadn’t quite caught it – eyes me sympathetically.

‘Sickness tablet,’ I tell her. ‘It’s hyperemesis – morning sickness that doesn’t want to go away, essentially. These help.’

‘That must be tough,’ she says.

‘It is. But I’m told it’ll be worth it.’

That, of course, was before someone had pointed the finger directly at my husband, telling me he isn’t to be trusted. Romantic walks? Theatre dates? Sex? Intimacy? Love? My stomach turns again and I close my eyes, breathe deeply, try to quell the sickness. She must think me such a fool.

‘How far gone are you?’ she asks.

‘Thirty-two weeks. Almost there.’

‘Babies have a great way of bringing people together,’ she says, and I wonder, is it true? Especially if people don’t want to be together to start with. Or at least one of them doesn’t appear to.

I shrug my shoulders, walk back to the sofa, where I sit beside my mother. Dotty or Daisy – actually, I think it was Deirdre – sits across from me. Adopts an ‘I’m listening’ face while her colleague, tall, cropped red hair, eyes bleary with tiredness, continues to make notes.

‘So you can’t think of who might have done this?’ he asks.

William. His name is William. I remember that.

I shake my head.

‘Who on earth would want to frighten Eliana?’ my mother asks. ‘She’s a nurse in the hospice, for the love of God. And she’s pregnant.’

‘And your husband’s in London, like the note says?’

My face blazes with embarrassment or shame, I can’t decide. My name is Eliana and I can’t keep my man. I feel my wedding ring pinch at my finger. It’s started to get too tight, but that doesn’t mean I want to take it off.

‘We’ll have to talk to him, of course,’ William says.

‘Of course,’ I nod.

‘And when is he due back from London?’

‘Tuesday,’ I reply. ‘He’s working there.’

William nods, as does Deirdre. I wonder what else they’ve dealt with tonight. Do they think I’m just some crazy woman with a cheating husband? A waste of police resources.

‘If you give me his number, I’ll give him a call. Ask a few questions.’

‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘I imagine he’ll be worried. The security company will probably have called him first.’

I rhyme his number off. It’s one of only two mobile numbers I remember by heart – his and mine. Deirdre writes it down, stands up, takes her phone from her pocket and taps in the number. She walks out of earshot just after I hear him answer. I’m tempted to follow her … I want to hear his reaction. His first reaction.

William speaks again. ‘We’ll investigate all angles,’ he says. ‘We’ll get SOCO out as early as possible in the morning to examine the scene.’

‘Can they not come now?’ my mother asks, a hint of impatience.

He shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. It’s more useful if they come when the light’s better. They can get a good look at any unusual tyre tracks or the like. We’d ask you not to disturb anything before they get here.’

I feel embarrassed again. I’ve already lifted the rock, read the note. I did cover my hands, but I probably should’ve left it where it was.

‘It’s possible Mr Hughes’ll be able to shed some light on everything,’ William says, nodding in the direction of his colleague.

‘Well, it was hardly him, he’s out of the country. I told you that,’ my mother fusses.

I say nothing. I know exactly what this policeman isn’t saying. This is a domestic. A wronged husband maybe, making sure that his hurt is shared by me, and by default Martin. I think of the note in my bag. The note that just hours ago I was convinced I was going to bin.

‘There’s something else I need to show you,’ I tell him.

I can see my mother’s eyes widen. I blush again as I get up and go to fetch my bag from the hall. She’ll be annoyed that I didn’t tell her about it when it happened. But it was so vague and I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t want to believe it.

It’s a bit more crumpled, but it’s still there. I pull it out, straighten it and hand it to William. He pauses to put on latex gloves before taking it from me. I suppose it’s evidence now. I really must ask his full name again. His rank.

‘Sorry, my head’s all over the place. Can you tell me your name again?’

‘Constable William Dawson,’ he replies, not looking up from the note. ‘And where did this come from?’

‘What is it?’ my mother asks impatiently.

‘It was delivered to my work. No postmark, so I think hand-delivered. No one saw who left it; I asked our admin officer.’

‘And when was this?’

I try to think … two days ago, wasn’t it?

‘The day before yesterday.’

I’m aware of my mother’s sharp intake of breath beside me.

‘And what actually is it, Eliana?’ she says.

I notice William, Constable Dawson, look up at her. Her motherly tone is fierce when in full flow.

‘A note, Mum,’ I say.

‘Well clearly,’ she says. ‘But what does it say?’

Dawson holds it out in her direction. ‘Can you make sure not to touch it? We’ll be taking this with us for forensic analysis.’