Page 59 of The Stranger in Her House

‘But Krisha, I told you, once I got what I was owed, I was going to give it all to you anyway.’

‘I only have your word for that.’ Christ, this is frustrating. ‘Look Connie, I’m asking you to leave Paul alone. We have enough evidence to charge you with breaking and entering and possibly harassment, and if you’re found guilty it will likely lead to another custodial sentence. Paul says that out of loyalty to his late wife, who was very fond of you, it’s not what he wants. Do you?’

Her face begins to crumple. ‘No.’

‘If it continues, he’s also well within his rights to look into taking out a non-molestation order forbidding you from harassing him, pestering him, communicating with him or going anywhere near his homes. And you will be arrested if you break that order. Do you understand?’

Her nod is almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

I need to make her listen and understand. ‘Connie,’ I say firmly. ‘For your own good, put Paul and Gwen’s relationship behind you and start your life again. Otherwise this is not going to end well for you.’

I wish her the best and make my way to the gate, leaving her alone in her neighbour’s garden. I hope she takes my advice, I really do. But something tells me she won’t and that our paths will cross again.

CHAPTER 47

CONNIE

I’m shell-shocked. I collapse into the sofa, unsure of how to process everything Krisha has just told me. Where do I start? Once again Paul has turned me into the villain. How could I not have seen this coming? I’m an idiot.

If you’re going to get away with multiple murders like Paul has, you must have to plan for all eventualities and have solutions in place for potential complications. And I’m a complication. But the problem I have, is that while he can think like me, I don’t think like him. It didn’t dawn on me that if he had a hidden camera in the room of his mother’s care home, then he’d likely have them inside her old house and Gwen’s place too. Once he knew I’d broken into both, he must have gone back and watched the recordings of me, then passed them on to Krisha to back up his claims I was harassing him. I handed myself to him on a plate.

One thing I don’t understand is why Paul didn’t show her the clip of me holding a pillow over his mum’s face. I’d never have hurt her, but that evidence is more damning than anything else he has.I’m sure that if Krisha had seen it, I’d be in a police holding cell right now and not here, licking my wounds.

How did he delete all my pictures? And leaving me an MP3 player containing that ABBA song was a particularly spiteful touch. The lyrics said it all. My cards have been played, Paul is the winner and he’s taken everything from me. He cannot be beaten, he is too good at what he does. There’s nowhere for me to go from here.

I must say though – and it might be wishful thinking – but there were times when I was sure Krisha was more sympathetic towards me than she was to Paul. It was as if she kept stopping short of saying what was really on her mind.

My phone suddenly vibrates with two sharp bursts, cutting through the silence. The number has been withheld but there’s a blurred image. I think it’s a video clip. Curiosity gets the better of me and I press play. The images are dark and grainy, but they’ve been recorded in a room. There’s a crack in the curtains and a streetlight outside allows a little light in. Then it switches to some kind of night vision mode, the screen filling with greens, blacks and whites. There’s a stationary figure, lying horizontal. Suddenly I realise what I’m looking at.

Me, in my bedroom, asleep.

This is video footage taken in my home.

Paul has been here. He’s not in shot, but I know it’s him. Who else would it be?

I’m too scared to blink and risk missing a second. I watch myself lying on my side in the video, facing away from the camera and towards the window. I recognise the white, patterned T-shirt I’m wearing by the logo on the back. I wore it only last night. He was here just hours ago. The camera angle is high and doesn’t move but the image gets closer and closer, and as I roll over on to my back, I see my chest rising and falling. It edges its way up towards my face, which fills the screen for at least a minute. I’m not usedto seeing myself sleeping; nobody is. And I’m frightened at how exposed and weak I am.

It comes to a sudden end when my body wakens with a start, and then freezes. I already know what happens next because I remember it clearly. I always do. I remain in my bed, paralysed by fear, desperately trying to decide if I have dreamed a noise or if there is actually someone there.

I want to be sick. How many times has this happened before? How many times have I lain there, scared and vulnerable, before finally plucking up the courage to turn and find myself alone? How many times have I then told myself off for letting my imagination run riot? I was right all along.

Another clip begins. This time it’s footage filmed of me in the shower. Once again, it’s taken from an overhead angle. I’m washing my hair, and like the first clip, it zooms in. This time it stops at my bare breasts. I feel violated, and as I watch, I find myself covering them with my elbows. A montage quickly follows: me pouring water from my kettle into a Cup-a-Soup and eating alone, on the toilet, rolling up cigarettes, dancing to music playing from my phone, crying alone in the lounge and even picking my nose. Judging by what I’m wearing, Paul has spent months capturing my every intimate moment on camera. In fact, some of this must have been filmed even before he came into my and Gwen’s lives. Just how long has he had me in his sights?

I search every inch of the lounge ceiling until I find a hole, no bigger than the head of a thumb tack. It’s the same in every other room of the house. I grab the long metal hook from the hallway to unhook the clip to the loft hatch. The ladder drops with alarming speed and I climb it, warily at first, until I find the light switch. The empty space is illuminated, and I continue up and walk carefully across the floorboards, looking for cameras. But there are none. Just holes with tight shafts of vertical light shining through them.Twelve in all, sometimes two per room. Looking around, I spot next door’s loft hatch. There is no firewall separating my half from the neighbour’s empty house. Paul must have climbed in through that side and made his way over to mine.

That’s why my pictures were deleted. He’s been in my home.

I steady myself against a rafter because my whole body is trembling. I have badly underestimated Paul. He thinks that he can do whatever he pleases because he is untouchable. And what scares me the most, is that he is right.

CHAPTER 48

WALTER CLARK, NEIGHBOUR

Connie is already in tears the moment I open the front door. It’s as if the weight that’s constantly on her shoulders has finally crushed her. And she doesn’t have to tell me that this is related to Paul, I just know.

‘Come in, come in,’ I say and give her a weak hug. I curse that last stroke which robbed me of my strength. Anyone who tells you getting old is a positive thing is a liar. I shuffle behind her into the lounge, and as she sits I reach for a box of tissues on the fireplace mantel. I leave them on the arm of her chair.

Despite my best attempts of late to encourage her to open up about what she has planned in the way of bringing Paul to justice, she’s been reluctant to give anything away. She’s palmed me off with claims that she’s not discovered anything new and that as soon as she does, she’ll tell me. But I don’t believe her and I’ve done a little detective work myself.

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