Chapter 2
Casey jumped up out of the wheeled office chair, causing it to freewheel backward toward the door and bang against it with a thud.
Where had the woman gone? She scanned the other cameras on the floor and, finding no sign of her, checked the stairwell.
The woman and her feast had apparently disappeared into thin air.
The officers continued to search the furniture department and then made their way to the staircase and began a descent to check the lower levels.
There was no sign of the woman on any of the screens in any department on any floor.
“It’s official, I am losing my marbles,” Casey said to herself.
Eventually, having watched, cringing, as the officers made a comprehensive sweep of the entire store, there was a knock at the office door. “Ms. Smith, it’s the police,” said one of the officers.
Feeling rather sheepish at having seemingly sent them on a wild-goose chase, Casey unlocked the door, and the two officers came in.
“Hello there,” said the younger man, offering her another smile that was rather more potent in real life, causing Casey’s heart to thump. “I’m Officer Williams, and this is my colleague, Officer Peel.”
East Sussex—the county in which Weaverston was situated—was only a couple of hours away from the capital by train, but Officer Williams’s Estuary English accent stood out beside the softer-edged diction of the Weaverston natives.
She liked it; it reminded her of where she’d grown up, the good parts at least. She smiled at him.
“Hello, I’m Casey. Smith. Casey Smith. I’m the stock replenisher. ”
Officer Peel, a balding man in his mid-fifties with jowls and gray hollows beneath his eyes, glared between them as he tried to catch his breath and flopped down into a chair, which creaked in complaint.
Officer Williams’s face broke into a wide smile. “You’re Casey!” he said, holding out his hand. “Of course, he said you worked here. I’ve heard so much about you! Sorry, sorry, I’m talking at you like I’m your biggest fan.” He laughed awkwardly. “It’s just that I feel like I already know you…”
Casey’s stomach dropped, a drip of fear rolled up her spine; she’d been recognized, here of all places. Oh bugger! She could actually feel the blood draining out of her face. The officer looked alarmed. “Casey? Are you all right? Is Nigel here?”
Her head was a fug of panic. “You know Nigel?” she asked, confused.
“He’s my landlord, that’s how I knew who you were. Is he here?” He scanned the camera monitors looking for signs of Nigel.
His landlord! Of course! Relief washed through her, making her lightheaded, and she burst out a laugh.
“You’re Ajay! Nigel’s tenant. I’m so sorry, you must think I’m a complete weirdo.
I didn’t make the connection.” Nigel was forever trying to set her up with various people he knew, and she was consistently resistant.
So, when he’d begun extolling the virtues of the “handsome chap” who’d started renting the cottage on their land a few weeks back, she’d not paid much attention.
Crikey, she felt like a right idiot. “Nigel slipped on some ice this afternoon and hurt his back. He was chasing a chicken.”
Ajay laughed. “Of course he was! But oh no, poor Nigel, I didn’t know. So you’re here alone?”
“Yup, it’s just me and the mice, and the weird lady who broke in with a picnic,” she joked. Gosh he was handsome, with his big brown eyes and his perfect nose, he made her feel quite twinkly, on the verge of batting her eyelashes at him.
“We didn’t find a sign of anyone,” the older man grumbled, breaking their smile-off. He was looking over the bank of screens, his fat fingers drumming on the desk.
Officer Peel’s comment seemed to remind Ajay that he was here in a professional capacity. He cleared his throat. “We checked all the exits, and nothing appears to have been disturbed. Is there a possibility that someone has a key?”
Casey shrugged. “The managers have keys, and the maintenance team and Nigel and I do obviously, but it wasn’t any of them.”
“Well, there’s no one here now,” said Officer Peel. “Is there any chance you could have nodded off for a few seconds?”
Casey bristled. “I didn’t dream her if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said, though even as she said it, she was beginning to question herself. This damn season brought all her anxieties crawling back to the forefront, and she hadn’t been sleeping well. “I’d only just started my shift.”
PC Peel swiveled the chair around to face her, his cheeks blotched.
“Do you ever add a nip to your coffee, Ms. Smith? A little something to help the shift go quicker? Or maybe something a little more recreational?” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together and imitated sucking on what Casey could only assume was an imaginary spliff.
Ajay looked horrified at his colleague’s line of questioning, his full lips pressed into a thin line.
“No! Flipping heck, no, of course not!” What kind of employee did he think she was?
Okay, so she and Nigel had shared a can of pina colada on the night he’d turned sixty back in the summer, but otherwise the only stimulants they partook of on shift were buckets of coffee and Nigel’s occasional foray into energy drinks despite Vern’s disapproval.
“Nobody is accusing you of anything, Casey—Ms. Smith,” said Ajay apologetically, shooting PC Peel a disapproving glance.
PC Peel squinted at her as though trying to see into her mind. “Could you have mistakenly taken one of the mannequins to be an intruder? It’s easily done; shadows can play tricks on the eyes in the dark.”
“No.” This was hopeless. She tried to keep the frustration out of her tone.
“I promise you, I haven’t been drinking or taking drugs, and I didn’t imagine a woman scarfing an all-you-can-eat buffet on a five-hundred-quid sofa.
” Casey rubbed her eyes and wondered if stress could make people hallucinate.
From November to January she was a bag of nerves, jumping at shadows, afraid to open social media in case she came face-to-face with herself.
“Maybe we could look at the CCTV footage?” Ajay asked. His tone was calm and friendly.
“Oh, um, sure. I’ll have to isolate that camera feed and wind it back,” she said, moving over to Nigel’s desk, which had been commandeered by PC Peel.
“If I can just, um…” She motioned to the keyboard on the desk, and PC Peel wheeled himself out of her way with a huff.
“An hour should do it,” she said as the screen trained on the furniture department flickered, lines streaking across it as she rolled the film back.
She stopped it at 8:45 and pressed Play.
PC Peel wheeled himself back over to the desk and Ajay stood beside Casey as they scrutinized the screen.
She could smell his soap from here, something fresh, probably with a name like “arctic blast” or “forest mountain.” She tried not to think about it.
After a full five minutes of absolutely nothing happening on the screen, she began to play the footage at double speed.
Still nothing. A bead of sweat dribbled down her back beneath her white cotton shirt.
When the two police officers came into view, Casey pressed Stop.
The evidence was conclusive. There was no sign of any woman, with or without a vintage cocktail cabinet.
“But I—I don’t understand,” Casey stammered.
“She was right there. I saw her. She was eating cornichons with a cocktail stick; there were baskets of food; I couldn’t have imagined that! ”
PC Peel, much more amenable after a sit-down, took pity on her.
“Like I said, it’s easily done. All alone in the dark in a big place like this, the mind plays tricks.
I once thought I saw a nun hovering at the end of my bed.
Turned out it was my school blazer; my mum had hung it on the front of my wardrobe. Scared the living daylights out of me.”
“But I…” What could she say? It was no good trying to convince them when evidence to the contrary was plain to see.
“Maybe you can speak to your managers,” said Ajay. “Ask them if they could hire a contract night guard to cover while Nigel’s off sick. I’m not sure I’d want to be here on my own all night.”
“I’m not afraid of being on my own.” It was true. Ever since her ex-boyfriend had infamously proposed in a busy restaurant on Christmas Eve three years ago, Casey had chosen to be alone most of the time.
“It’s not about being afraid, it’s about being safe,” said Ajay, reasonably, and even though she knew this was simply professional concern, the way he looked at her made her pulse quicken.
“I’m fine. Really.” She gave a chipper smile. “I’m so sorry for wasting your time. I don’t know what happened. I could have sworn…But maybe you’re right, all those mannequins…”
“Well,” PC Peel said, heaving himself up out of the chair. “There’s no harm done. It’s always better to be safe than sorry. I think we’ll take the lift down, PC Williams, don’t you?”
Ajay looked reluctant to leave. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? Nigel will have my guts for garters if he thinks I’ve left you feeling unsafe. Is there a friend you can call to come sit with you maybe…?”
She forced a laugh. “I’ll be fine.” She wasn’t about to divulge that friends were not something she had in abundance. “Thank you for coming so quickly and putting my mind at rest.” Feeling foolish and embarrassed, she just wanted them gone now. Ajay probably thought she was unhinged.
“Take care, yeah?” he said.
“You too,” she replied, and mentally slapped her forehead. You too? Jeez!
She watched them walk down the dim hallway, their heavy jackets swishing loudly in the quiet.
When they reached the lift, she heard PC Peel grumble, “Well, that was a merry waste of time. I’ll let you do the paperwork for this one,” and she felt her cheeks burn.
Ajay looked back down the hall toward the office as the lift doors pinged open, but Casey quickly closed the door and locked it.
The microwave whirred as it reheated her cold mocha and she watched the officers on the security feed make their way back through the building and out the staff door.
There was no way she could have imagined that woman; the state of her writing lately was proof that her imagination was on hiatus.
Blowing on her coffee she sat down at the desk and checked her phone. A message from Nigel.
Everything all right? Just had a text from Berty.
She smiled at the message. Bless him for checking on her even if it did make her feel even more of a tit than she did already. The last thing he needed was to be worrying about her. She typed back, False alarm. All good here. How’s the spine?
Like someone’s sticking me with a cattle prod every time I move.
Casey winced. Let Vern look after you and stop worrying about me. You know I’m a tough nut.
That you are. I know you can handle yourself; I just don’t like not being there.
Can’t be helped. Would you mind not mentioning this to my brother? You know what he’s like.
I do! No problem. Stay safe x
Their friendship would probably seem odd to some, him being sixty to her thirty-two, but somehow, they just clicked; Vern said it was because she was an old soul, and Nigel was young at heart. Whatever the reason, Casey trusted him, and in her experience, trust was a rare and precious thing.
Still a bit jittery, she decided to take her break early.
Picking up her pen and opening her journal to a clean page, Casey looked at it longingly, trying to remember the sense of promise that a blank page in a beautiful notebook used to incite: the delicious anticipation, the tingle in her fingers as she steeled herself to begin, and then the gentle susurration of a fine-liner pen on good-quality paper.
It was as though all her words had deserted her these last couple of years.
She had begun keeping a journal, a finger in the dam of her writer’s block.
In it she jotted down title ideas and things that historically had caused a spark: a lone animal bone, twisting storm clouds, the silhouette of a leafless tree.
The kinds of images that used to crank the engine of her mind into life.
Now she was lucky if her engine even turned over.
Still, she collected her observations in the hopes they might reignite her writing process.
She’d had some successes writing freelance for a quarterly horror magazine, and through the connections in her writers’ group she’d written for the occasional speculative fiction anthology.
Her writers’ group was one of many friend circles she had necessarily drifted away from after “the dreaded proposal.” Given how frightful her reality was, she would have expected inspiration for fresh horror stories to be gushing out of her like the blood from a slasher movie victim.
But she simply couldn’t tap into the darkness like she’d used to, and recently her efforts had been enthusiastically rejected by editors all over magazine land.
Now, she began to relay to her journal everything she could remember about the strange woman she had seen downstairs. Because she had seen her, regardless of what Officer Peel believed.
She looked up from the page, chewing the top of her pen when a movement on camera 9 caught her eye. She peered closer.
The woman in the green coat was sat on a stool in the cosmetics department on the ground floor, one foot resting on the glass Estée Lauder counter as she painted her toenails.