Chapter 38 Leila
Leila
I’ve set up one of the conference rooms as a base, and Davina comes in when she can.
The large table is taken up with folders, documents, photos, and empty Starbucks coffee cups.
Jim brings me pastries from the bakery around the corner whenever he nips out, and I couldn’t love him more for it.
I’m mainlining coffee like there’s no tomorrow and only eating things that require one hand to do so.
I’m averaging around five hours’ sleep a night. The classic pretrial ritual.
The external lights switch on as I walk up the driveway, signaling my arrival. The savage January wind wraps around my body and threatens never to let go. I pull the long puffer coat around myself as I make my way toward the house.
The door is unlocked again, and a wave of irritation rushes through me. Why have I bought extra locks for the door if she never uses them?
“Only me!” I yell, as music travels down the hall. Odd. It doesn’t sound like her usual Classic FM.
Walking into the lounge, I see Audrey sitting in her window chair, looking unusually bright and cheery.
Whenever I come to visit her, she has a drawn look about her—a result of being bored all week.
But, today, she looks invigorated and has natural color in her cheeks.
She looks as if she’s been brought back to life.
“You look well!” I tell her.
“I am well, darling! We’ve had lovely, blustery weather this week.”
“Yes, cold but sunny.”
“I love this time of year. It’s made for long walks. Been lovely to get out.”
It takes me a second to register what she’s said.
“You’ve been out?”
“Yes, dear!” She smiles. “Oh, I’ve been all over. To the park, to the butcher’s—got some lovely ribs. Really juicy.”
God, she’s lost it now. Audrey hasn’t gone out by herself for months.
“I brought you some fish and chips,” I say. “I’ll go and set the table.”
As I head down the hall toward the dining room as I have done hundreds of times before, I suddenly stop. Something feels off.
I pause, mid-stride, like a predator who’s sensed a target.
Everything looks the same. It’s not that.
It’s the music.
Only when I listen to what it is does a chill slide down my spine.
The music is grainy and crackly, the way music used to sound in the 1960s. The quality is poor, yet the full drama of the song rips through the air. The deep, penetrating vocals sit alongside a waltz-like rhythm. It’s a song about jealousy. A song about revenge. A song about betrayal.
“Delilah” by Tom Jones.
Delilah.
Poking my head around the door frame, the rest of my body stiff, I stare into the room. Everything is as it should be, still, except for the old record player in the corner. I watch as the single turns around, the old needle propelling the music into the air.
As the song comes to a close, the arm returns to the beginning of the record and starts again. It’s on repeat.
Running into the lounge, I startle Audrey with my insistence.
“Audrey, this is very important,” I say. “Who put that music on?”
“Tom Jones. I saw him, you know, in 1965. Never had a thing for him. All the other women did, but—”
“How long has this music been playing?”
“What music?”
Jesus Christ.
“The music in the dining room. Can you hear it? It’s playing ‘Delilah.’ ”
“Oh! That? All bloody day. I don’t know how to turn it off. Same song all the time. None of his other hits.”
This can’t be happening.
“What time did it start, Audrey? Please think.”
“Erm…about 2 p.m., I think. Or it might have been 5 p.m.”
“Audrey, this is really important. Can you tell me who put that music on?”
“I think I put it on.”
I stare at her, willing, hoping, she’s right.
“Have you been on your own all day?”
“Well, I was with Leila earlier on…”
I close my eyes tightly in sheer desperation. My head spins, and my heart is racing. I want to shake the truth out of her.
“I’m Leila, Audrey,” I say very slowly. “Who’s been here today? Can you remember?”
“Nobody’s been here today, darling! What are you talking about?”
“Audrey, I need you to concentrate. I know this is confusing, but has anyone else been here today?”
The music continues, and it’s like nails down a blackboard, torture in my ears.
I can’t wait any longer. Leaving Audrey to think about my question, I rush down the hallway and into the dining room.
As I push the needle off the record, a scratchy screeching sound punctuates the abrupt end of the music.
Standing in the quiet now, I can feel everything crashing around me.
I have to be calm. She can’t have been here. How would she even know about Audrey? I’m running away with myself and getting paranoid. This would be a step too far. Audrey and I always listen to old music; she definitely put it on herself and forgot. But…“Delilah.”
It’s a coincidence.
You don’t believe in coincidences.
Just as I’m standing in the hallway, trying to cling to the last bit of sanity I have, my phone makes a tri-tone chime sound indicating I’ve got a message.
Pulling it out of my pocket, I look at the locked phone screen to see it’s from someone called @DntMessWithMe.
I’ve had virtually no activity on my Chats at the Bar account for a few weeks, as I’ve been busy, so this takes me by surprise.
It’s not until I start reading the message that it becomes clear what’s going on.
Enjoy your day trip to the salon before xmas? The secret trips to Temptation during the day? How about visiting your dear mother-in-law at Applethorpe Grove tonight? You’re a very busy woman, aren’t you? Watch your step or you’ll get your throat cut.
OK, now I’m scared.
Aside from the obvious anger and fear pulsating through my body like water gushing out of a tap, my attention turns to the commentary on my location. Not only does this person know exactly where I’ve been, they know where I am now.
How? How do they know where I am?
I would have noticed someone following me.
It’s as if they’ve been tracking me. How long has this been going on? Weeks? Months?
And then it hits me.
I dash outside to the car and switch on the flashlight feature on my phone. Shining the light under the arch of the two back wheels, I curl my fingers around each one to see if I can feel anything.
There it is. Behind the rear passenger wheel, a small, black device lifts off the arch and fits neatly into my hand. The reason someone was by my car after my lecture at Mountcross Academy.
I’ve come across tracking devices in cases I’ve worked on. You can buy the damned things off .
Whoever it is has been following me for months. What am I supposed to do? Why now? Could it possibly be someone else? Have I got two maniacs after me days before the biggest case of my life? Surely not. But how does everything fit together?
The trial starts in less than seventy-two hours.
What a mess.
Bursting into tears, I throw the tracker to the ground and plunge my face into my hands. Tears pour so fast and hard, it’s pointless attempting to stop them.
I need a new plan. And there’s only one man who can help.
I don’t stop to think. Activating my phone, I scroll through my contact list until I find who I need.
“It’s Leila,” I sob. “I’m so, so sorry to call you on a Friday evening, but if you’re at home, would it be OK if I came over?”