You Belong To Me: a psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Read online

  ‘Why would he hire a private investigator to find you?’

  Rob shrugged, heart pounding. He opened the letter, took out the single sheet of paper and read the same message as Josh McBain had a day earlier.

  It’s happened again. We need to meet. My place, Saturday 4 July. Danny.

  ‘Rob?’

  Rob stood up and walked to the bedroom. Thoughts appeared in his head and then vanished like lemmings over the edge of a cliff.

  Burn it.

  Find out what he wants.

  Forget it.

  Ask Michelle what she thinks.

  Jump out the window and make sure you do a proper job this time.

  5

  Kieran Clarke was in a good mood after attending church and listening to a sermon about forgiveness – a subject high on his list of important virtues. Kieran had spent half an hour with Reverend Moore after the service talking about God’s grace and His capacity to offer an olive branch to even the most sinful of sinners. Reverend Moore had reminded Kieran that they were all rough diamonds – it just took longer to polish some than others. Perhaps many lifetimes, although he wouldn’t be drawn on the subject of reincarnation.

  Reverend Moore had helped Kieran through his darkest days since he’d first walked through the doors of St Thomas’s Church six years ago. With nowhere left to turn after gambling and drugs had failed to clear his conscience, Kieran had turned to the church in one last desperate attempt to get his life back on track.

  The move had turned out to be the best thing he’d ever done. Not only had Reverend Moore become his own spiritual mentor, he’d met his future wife at a weekday service. He’d never told Reverend Moore the real reason for his downward spiral, just the catalyst that had pushed him into a maelstrom of drugs and gambling.

  Kieran had always wanted to be a boxer ever since he was old enough to have thoughts of his own. The ring was his calling. He’d dreamed of standing in front of thousands of people, holding his world champion’s belt aloft and listening to the roar of the crowd. Weighing in at barely eight stone, and small enough to go almost anywhere without ducking his head, Kieran was quick on his feet and a real prospect according to the gym owner where he’d trained. He was even put forward to fight in a tournament being held at a local nightclub in Portsmouth.

  All was on track. After winning his first bout, they’d pitted him against a guy several years older than him. The guy was also taller and had a much better reach. Kieran was losing the bout by quite some distance. Outfought and on his last legs, Kieran had been about to hit the deck and give up the ghost when the guy had leaned in close and called him a retard.

  Kieran had no recollection of what had happened after that. His trainer told him later that he’d torn into the bloke like a man possessed. Pinning him to the ropes and raining down blow after blow. By the time they’d pulled Kieran off, the man was unconscious. Lying on the canvas and pouring with blood.

  Kieran had kicked and lashed out at the two trainers and the referee as they’d hauled him out of the ring. Kieran would later wonder if it was his opponent’s use of the derogatory term ‘retard’ that had sparked his furious outburst. His brother had learning difficulties, and people could be so cruel and ignorant if you just happened to be different. Or maybe it was just years of pent-up frustration pouring out of him. Either way, it was his last fight. His gym membership had been cancelled and he was damned lucky the guy hadn’t wanted to press charges.

  Kieran had swapped the ring for the bookmakers. The thrill of the race. The excitement of the football match. But Kieran soon found out that the odds were well and truly stacked against him. He’d chased his losses with evermore ridiculous stakes.

  Within two years of pitting his wits against the bookmakers and losing, Kieran was consoling himself with booze. Lager turned to strong cider; strong cider to vodka. His job as a window fitter was becoming too much for him as the debts mounted and his life plummeted. Threatened with the sack and unable to pay his rent, Kieran had gone to St Thomas’s with the sole purpose of asking the vicar if he knew of anywhere he could stay for free.

  Reverend Moore had asked him if he’d wanted to talk. A problem shared and all that crap Kieran didn’t give a donkey’s hind hoof about. Kieran just wanted somewhere to stay to buy him some time. Allow him to get his head straight. Think about where to go when all the signposts seemed to be pointing straight to hell.

  Reverend Moore had made him a cup of tea – that great British cure for everything from heartache to missing limbs. He’d not said much. Just occasionally smiling and nodding as if assessing him.

  ‘What are you running away from?’ he’d asked, after treating Kieran to a stale sandwich and three fairy cakes.

  ‘Nothing. I’m just a bit down on my luck.’

  ‘Your eyes tell a different story, young man. A very different story.’

  And then, from nowhere, he’d spent the next half an hour telling Reverent Moore about what had happened in the boxing ring. How the guy had called him a retard and he’d responded by beating the crap out of him. He’d even broken down several times recounting the story.

  Moore hadn’t said a word for a long time afterwards. Just sat there in the vestry gazing into space. When he did speak, the words were simple and measured: ‘I know you’ve had a rough time, lad. I can see it in your eyes. I also know your loss of control stems from something far greater than you’d care to talk about right now. But I want you to know I’ll be here for you should you need me. If you want to talk. If you need a friend.’

  The man’s kindness and compassion had moved Kieran to fresh tears. He didn’t believe in God – he’d seen enough of life to know He didn’t exist. But he believed in Reverend Moore. Or, more importantly, the goodness inside him.

  Kieran had never looked back after that first meeting. His secret, the big dark blob that contaminated his heart, would never see the light of day. As much as he now loved the church, and believed in a higher force, he could never tell a soul about what had happened on that terrible day all those years ago. The real reason he’d almost killed that man in the ring. The real reason he’d moved to Portsmouth to get as far away from Feelham as he could.

  Reverend Moore had convinced him that even the most wretched of souls could be forgiven if they truly repented. That had given Kieran hope. A reason to get up in the mornings and carry on with his life. Get a reprieve at work and a job in charge of a fitting team.

  But his greatest reward for turning his life around had been meeting Brenda at a church service. It was as if God had rewarded him for his efforts. Blessed him with something worthwhile. Set him on a road to salvation.

  Brenda was six inches taller than him and without shape. Her long, pointed nose and hawk-like eyes gave her a predatory appearance. But she was tangible proof that looks could be deceptive. She was warm-hearted, kind, patient and non-judgemental.

  He’d told Brenda everything he’d told Reverend Moore. But nothing of what had happened in Feelham. Brenda had listened to his life story without prejudice. Shared his bed and taught him how to love. To be gentle. Giving. A man who could take pride in his life. Face the day and be able to look himself in the eye. Go to bed at night and know he’d done the very best he could do.

  Brenda walked into the front room of their modest two-bed terraced house. She removed her lipstick and her hair was in rollers to give it some body in the morning.

  ‘I enjoyed the service tonight,’ she said, sitting in a floral-patterned armchair and picking up a magazine. ‘I thought Reverend Moore was on good form.’

  Kieran agreed. ‘Let he who cannot forgive remember that we are all sinners who shall one day need forgiveness.’

  ‘How true,’ Brenda agreed. ‘I found the whole evening extremely uplifting.’

  Kieran glanced at his wife. Fifteen years older than him, she was a primary school teacher. A damned good one at that, and a fantastic mother to their two-year-old daughter, Kirsty. The little girl was staying over at B
renda’s parents for the weekend. They offered their services once a month, and although they both missed her when she was away, it gave them a chance to have a bit of time to themselves and recharge their batteries. Kirsty was due to start nursery when the school holidays finished. It would take a huge chunk out of their budget, but things would ease off financially when the little girl started primary school.

  Kieran sometimes had to pinch himself to make sure his near-perfect life was real. The drugs and the gambling were well and truly behind him now. He felt no urge to go back to that ragged existence. He would never forget the incident in the boxing ring. How he could go to places that no man would ever wish to go. But he’d learned to live with it. To control it. Put it away in a separate box in his head and allow himself to move on.

  Unlike events in Feelham which would always haunt his dreams. A permanent reminder that he was always just one step away from despair.

  Brenda finished reading her magazine and laid it on the coffee table. She leaned back in the armchair. ‘Do you fancy going for a walk along the seafront tonight?’

  ‘Sounds good. I think I’ll grab a shower first.’

  Brenda grinned and pinched her nose. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘You saying I stink?’

  ‘Like a wet fish.’

  Kieran stood up. He was about to playfully smack his wife’s leg when the doorbell rang. He thought it might be Brenda’s mother. Perhaps something had happened with Kirsty and she’d had to bring her home.

  ‘Who can that be at this time of night?’ Brenda asked, as he walked past her into the hall.

  Kieran could see a large shape the other side of the glass-panelled door. Way too big for either of Brenda’s parents. He opened the door, but kept the chain on.

  ‘Mr Clarke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name’s Stephen Chambers. I’m a private investigator. I have a letter for you.’

  Kieran’s mind raced. Who the hell would hire a PI to deliver a letter? ‘Who from?’

  ‘Daniel Sheppard.’

  Kieran’s world tipped upside down. He leaned against the wall, heart pounding.

  ‘Mr Clarke?’

  ‘What… does… he… want?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He just paid me to find you and deliver the letter.’

  This was it. The moment he’d been dreading every single day of his life for the last nine years. He’d been a fool to believe he could be happy. That he could have the good things in life when the past was only a private investigator’s knock away.

  ‘Do you want to open the door, Mr Clarke?’

  ‘Just pass it through the gap,’ Kieran told him in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own.

  The white envelope fell onto the doormat. Innocent looking. Harmless. But Kieran knew better if it had come from Danny Sheppard.

  ‘Good luck, Mr Clarke.’

  Kieran closed the door. Almost laughed at the irony of those words. An old gambling buddy of his had once told him he preferred being miserable because it made death more appealing. At that moment, he wished he’d never met Brenda. Never set up home with her and had a beautiful daughter. Because surely it was better to never know happiness than to have it snatched away again.

  Brenda poked her head around the doorway. ‘Who was it?’

  He stepped in front of the doormat, shielding the envelope. ‘Just someone from work.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Nothing exciting. Could you run me a bath?’

  ‘Do you still want to go for a walk after?’

  Yes, Kieran thought. Along the pier and straight over the edge. ‘Would you mind if we give it a miss? I feel a bit worn out.’

  Brenda smiled and walked upstairs. Kieran waited for her to go into the bathroom before snatching the envelope off the mat. He folded it in half and stuffed it in his back pocket. He decided not to read it. He would take it to work and shred it. Forget it. Maybe this would be a good time to move. Get a bigger house with a decent garden for Kirsty. Stay one step ahead of the game. One step ahead of Daniel Sheppard. Tonight he would pray as he’d never prayed before.

  For all the good it would do.

  6

  Danny Sheppard tried to stay calm. It wasn’t easy when his mother was in one of her awkward moods. No, ‘awkward’ wasn’t right. Too much of a blanket term. It deserved something much more specific. Like a fully-fledged pain in the arse who seemed to take pleasure out of making his life hell.

  He’d known trouble was brewing when he’d returned home from work to find sausages doing what sausages do best when they’re left under the grill for too long: turn to inedible charred lumps.

  Rose Sheppard sat at the kitchen table, a cigarette in one hand, the other plucking at her top lip. Her red puffy eyes stared blankly at the grill.

  Danny rushed to the cooker and turned off the grill. He left the sausages to spit and sizzle. ‘Do you want to burn the house down?’

  Rose didn’t look at him. She puckered her lips and sucked on the cigarette. Ash spilled onto the table.

  Danny noticed that she didn’t even have an ashtray. He grabbed one off the windowsill and plonked it in front of her. ‘Have you taken your medication?’

  Rose stopped plucking her lip and used her free hand to forage in her hair.

  ‘Mum?’

  The cigarette burned down to the filter. Rose dropped it onto the table. Looked at Danny with insolvent eyes. ‘It’s Calum’s birthday today.’

  Danny put the cigarette butt in the ashtray. He ignored the reference to his brother. ‘I’ve got a friend coming soon. I’d appreciate it if you could stay in the front room.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘You don’t have any friends.’

  ‘Do you want me to cook you something else?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the sausages?’

  Progress. At least she knew she’d been trying to cook the damn things. ‘They’re burnt to a crisp.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You hate burnt sausages.’

  ‘Calum likes them like that.’

  ‘Well, Calum’s not here, is he?’

  ‘He should be. It’s his birthday. I might make him a cake later.’

  ‘Would he like that burnt as well?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. No one likes burnt cake.’

  Danny went to the cupboard near the back door. He opened it and took out his mother’s packet of buspirone. Held them up to her. ‘Have you taken these today?’

  Rose looked away and lit another cigarette. ‘Stop being bossy, Daniel. It doesn’t suit you. I’m not a child.’

  Danny checked his watch. Five-fifteen. Stephen was due at six. Just three quarters of an hour to get his mother straightened up and out of the way.

  ‘Do you know where Calum’s got to? He’s never usually this late home. Especially on his birthday.’

  Hopefully, he’s dead. ‘I don’t have a clue.’

  ‘Your brother’s a good boy.’

  Danny was gripped by a sudden urge to clamp a hand over her mouth. ‘Well, he’s not here, is he?’

  ‘Has he called you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Little wonder, the way you are with him sometimes.’

  Danny changed tack before he said something he might regret. ‘Pointless is on TV. Do you want to go in the front room to watch it?’

  Rose sucked on her cigarette and disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. ‘I prefer Neighbours.’

  Hope. ‘Shall I put that on instead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Chase?’

  ‘I don’t like TV. Anyway, I’ve got to bake a cake for Calum.’

  Danny busied himself tipping the burnt sausages into the bin. He then made himself a ham sandwich. His head felt as if it would explode any minute. If he didn’t have Stephen Chambers coming at six, he would have vented his anger and frustration on Warcraft. The way he felt right now, he could go up a few levels in a single sitting.
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  Danny ate his sandwich and washed it down with a glass of milk. Feeling marginally more human, he went upstairs and had a wash. Studied himself in the mirror. Decided to have a drink later. Something to take away the pressure building inside his head. It was as if his mother had been sitting at the kitchen table all day planning how best to antagonise him. As if it wasn’t bad enough her prattling on about Calum coming home for his birthday, she seemed to delight in acting as if she’d regressed to three years of age.

  He knew it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask to have her life destroyed by a slab of concrete. He had to make allowances. But it was hard when he barely had enough strength to get through the day.

  To make matters worse, he’d had a crap day at work. He’d almost gone up a car’s arse at a roundabout because his mind had been elsewhere. It was a good job he was starting a two-week holiday on Saturday. At least he wouldn’t be a risk to other road users for a while.

  He went back downstairs, took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen.

  Rose looked up. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I’m worried about your brother. He hasn’t called all day, and now he’s late.’

  An idea. Not a good one, but better than nothing. ‘How would you like to go to the summerhouse for a while?’

  Rose frowned. ‘Summerhouse?’

  ‘In the garden. You like watching the birds, don’t you?’

  ‘They carry our souls to heaven when we die.’

  ‘Better remember to be nice to them, then.’

  ‘You should always be nice.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There are too many wicked people in the world who think everything’s just for their benefit.’

  ‘Do you want to go down there, then?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I need to get your brother’s tea on and bake his cake.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘I don’t want him poisoned.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘Did you get the eggs?’

  ‘What eggs?’

  ‘For his cake.’