In the Still of the Night

The house seemed very empty. Annie was too tired to eat much; she had a boiled egg and a slice of toast, and went to bed with next week’s scripts. At least she wouldn’t have to go to work next day, she could sleep late.

She put the light out at nine and was half asleep when the phone rang. She stared at it as if it was a snake which might bite her if she put out her hand to it, but it might be a call from the hospital with bad news. She finally snatched it up.

‘Yes?’

‘Annie? How was your mother?’

She recognised the voice at once and sighed. ‘Hello, Harriet. Not very good, I’m afraid. When she fell, she broke her hip.’

Harriet sounded shocked. ‘Oh, no! That’s serious, at her age, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid so. She’s in a lot of pain, they’ve sedated her and she isn’t making much sense.’

‘Do you want some time off? Sean says he’ll rewrite to leave you out of the next episode altogether, no problem.’

Was he there with her? wondered Annie, feeling that curious prickling in the chest again. Were they sleeping together?

‘No, I’d rather work,’ she said. ‘I’ll be able to see her on my way home every day, and if there’s an emergency the hospital can always reach me at the studio. Most of next week is being shot on the set, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, no location work for you at all. OK, you’re probably wise. Work will keep your mind off your worries. Well, that’s a relief – Sean and I were just trying to figure out a way of rejigging next week’s scripts. You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you? Back on Tuesday.’

‘Yes.’ So he was with Harriet? Annie frowned,

her eyes dark. What had he said to Harriet about her? Had he repeated everything Annie had told him?

About Roger and the Valentine’s cards … the threats … Annie shivered, resenting the possibility. She would never have told him if she had thought he might tell anyone else.

He must have driven straight to Harriet after leaving her. Were they lovers? Maybe he often spent the night there – for all she knew, he and Harriet could be living together. They were both highly discreet and far too clever to get caught out by dropping any clues.

Thank God I didn’t let him stay here for the night. Her imagination was in a fever; what if he had stayed, had made a pass … what if she had been at such a low ebb that she let him share her bed? She felt sick. Betrayed.

She had wanted him for a minute, wanted him to hold her, to come to bed with her, make love to her, comfort her with the pleasure she had only ever felt with Johnny and sometimes dreamt about but had never taken with anybody else. She had suddenly needed it, wanted Sean, thought of sleeping in the bed with him, his arms around her all night, keeping her safe.

It was a tiny comfort that she hadn’t.

Harriet said cheerfully, ‘Well, have a good rest tomorrow. Don’t spend all day at the hospital, try to get some fresh air and exercise.’

‘I had enough of that today!’ Annie muttered, and Harriet laughed; she was in a very good mood. Looking forward to getting to bed with Sean, no doubt.

‘Freezing, wasn’t it?’ Harriet said. ‘Never mind, back in the studio on Tuesday. Oh, and don’t forget – Friday you haven’t got any scenes, so publicity has fixed you a couple of interviews. A woman from The Sun and some guy from a real-life crime magazine. There will be a photo session, too, of course. Now, you get some sleep. Goodnight.’

Annie put the phone down and lay back against her pillows. She looked at the clock. Nearly ten. Had Harriet rung her from home? Or from Sean’s place?

She switched off the light, turned over and thumped the pillows. She must get some sleep.

He let himself into the house an hour later. Before he moved an inch he studied the glowing panel of the burglar alarm. Yes, he knew this type. Taking a deep breath, he tapped in Annie’s birthday. If he was wrong, all hell would break loose in a second.

He was poised, ready to run, if it did.

It didn’t. The alarm print-out changed to STATUS DAY. It was off. He breathed again.

After closing the door silently he stood listening. No sound from above, every light out. Sitting down on the bottom stair, he slid socks over his trainers; it was a difficult job for his gloved fingers but he was in no hurry. The socks made his movements almost noiseless as he crept up the stairs later.

He stood on the landing, trying to work out in the dark which room could be hers. Only one door was closed. He crept from one open door to the next, checking each; they were all empty.

Hers must be the closed door. For a second sweat broke out on his brow as it suddenly occurred to him that the door could be locked or bolted. He put out a gloved hand to the door-handle. When it turned and the door clicked open he caught back an instinctive sigh of relief.

Then he froze, listening, in case she had heard the little sound. For half a minute he stood in the doorway, listening intently to the unbroken rhythm of her breathing.