In the Still of the Night

He laughed. She hung up, seething. As if she wouldn’t remember giving her key to someone! Tracy, her cleaner, couldn’t have brought the rose and the card – even as a joke. A single mother with two kids under five, their father long gone and untraceable, Tracy was disillusioned, down to earth and bleakly honest. She had been working for Annie for two years. When Trudie Lang began to forget things and started having her little accidents, Annie had asked Tracy to take care of her, but Tracy couldn’t work full-time because of her children. She was quite happy to look after Trudie while she was there, but she could only work while her children were at nursery school in the afternoons.

Annie liked and trusted Tracy. They didn’t meet very often because Tracy usually arrived long after Annie had left for the studio, and left before she got home, but when Annie was between series she liked to take a real rest, get up late, laze around in a dressing-gown, watching TV and reading novels as well as scripts her agent sent along.

Those times, Tracy would make coffee for her and sometimes sit and drink a cup too, while they talked; they had got to know each other pretty well. No, Tracy couldn’t be involved in this, and there was absolutely nobody who had another key, despite what that desk sergeant had assumed.

Well, she had better search the house, anyway. She picked up her gun again, unlocked the door, and began a slow, thorough search from room to room.

But the house was totally empty, not a sign of anyone having been there since last night, except the rose and the Valentine’s card.

Frowning, Annie went back to her bedroom, locked herself in again, showered and got dressed in a pair of jeans and a warm sweater. She put her gun back into the drawer, locked it, and was about to go downstairs to have breakfast, when her eye fell on the Valentine’s card still lying on her bedside table. A cold qualm hit her.

Nobody else had a key – yet there was no getting away from the fact that somebody had by-passed the alarm system, got into the house, into this room, while she slept. Icy cold and trembling, Annie stared at the card’s red satin rose and ribbons – the thought of him, in here, standing by her bed, watching her, while she was so unaware of him … Oh, God, he could have raped her, even killed her.

Why hadn’t he done anything except leave the card and the rose? He had been threatening her for years – why had he got in here last night and then gone away again without even waking her? Was this the final phase in the long-drawn-out game he had been playing with her for years – did he want her to know that he could get in and out of her home just as he pleased whenever he chose and there was nothing she could do to stop him?

Roger Keats had been sending her Valentines for seven years. Every year he had simply posted a card – now he had broken into her home. His campaign of terror was stepping up. What next? Was he going to show up any minute now?

But why now? After seven years? Why had he waited so long, and why was he coming now? Was it because his wife was close to her at work and could spy for him? Marty Keats could have told him that Annie was alone the house. She looked at the message again, biting her lip. See you soon, he said, and the threat raised the hair on the back of her neck.

Just when her career was really taking off – when the series was doing brilliantly, the ratings the highest they had ever been. In the late autumn she’d been voted the best actress in British TV – Roger was bound to have noticed that. Had Roger been waiting for her to reach real fame before he made his move? It would be just like him. She had ended his career eight years ago. She could be sure he would love to end hers.

4

She spent a lot of the day curled up on the sofa, wearing jeans and a sweater, answering fan mail, which piled up faster than she could ever reply to it, and most of which was dealt with by the studio if it fell into certain categories. Any letters asking for a signed photo, unpleasant or threatening letters, letters asking questions the studio could answer – none of those were passed on to her, but some letters were considered more personal and Annie answered those, dictating her replies into a tape machine for a typist at the studio to type out later, and, when they ran short of signed photos, signing more of them, to be sent out with the letters.

By lunchtime she had had enough of her correspondence, and wandered out into the kitchen to make herself a light lunch, a green salad, tossed in a vinaigrette she made up from a freshly squeezed lemon, a dash of olive oil and a little English mustard powder, served with a fillet of sole she grilled.

Sean rang her at three o’clock that afternoon. ‘How’s your mother?’

‘A little better today.’ Annie had rung the hospital twice; they were very reassuring.

‘You don’t sound too cheerful,’ said Sean. ‘Did you get another Valentine?’

She wished she hadn’t told him about Roger, but now that she had she knew she wouldn’t shake him off the scent easily, so she reluctantly told him how she had woken up to find it next to her bed.

Sean’s voice deepened, roughened. ‘He’s got into the house? This is getting serious, Annie. Was that all he did, leave a rose and the card? Was anything moved or taken?’

She told him no and he asked, ‘You didn’t wake up at all? Had you taken a sleeping pill?’

She admitted she had, saying that she preferred not to take sleeping pills, but sometimes it was essential if she had to get to the studio very early and had trouble getting to sleep.

‘Have you called the police?’ asked Sean.

‘Yes, and got laughed at for my pains.’ Annie repeated what the policeman had said to her, and Sean sighed.

‘Well, sorry they weren’t more helpful, but they’re probably up to their necks in burglaries in your area; it’s a local hobby. Look, I’ll come over and dust the place for fingerprints, take a look around.’

‘No, don’t bother. Even if you found any fingerprints, what good would that do? He isn’t a criminal with a police record.’

‘Well, you will have your locks changed, won’t you?’

‘Yes, I rang someone, first thing, and a locksmith is coming round this afternoon. I’ve got to go out, but my cleaner is here.’ She could hear the buzz of Tracy’s vacuum cleaner upstairs; they had had a cup of tea and a biscuit together half an hour ago. She frowned. ‘I wish I knew how he got in without my alarms going off.’

‘God knows. He must have found out the number you’re using. What was it?’ He gave a curt laugh as she told him. ‘Your birthday? Well, that was clever, wasn’t it? The first number he’d try. You must change that, too, at once. A good idea is to write down numbers from 1 to 9 on pieces of paper, throw them up in the air and then pick up four at random. And don’t forget to memorise them before you key them in – you don’t want to forget the number and have to get the alarm people round to let you in to your own house.’

‘But I still can’t understand how he got into the house – I keep my keys in my bag, and I always have my bag with me.’

A silence, then Sean said drily, ‘Except for a few minutes yesterday, when your bag was stolen, remember? That motorbike was out of sight of all of us for a couple of minutes. Quite long enough for him to get an impression of your key.’