Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

eyes seem to be flicking up and down, looking at the monitor on the portable stand next to her computer and then the computer next to her speaks in a cheerful American woman’s voice.

‘Hi there.’

‘I’m Catherine,’ I say, taking a cautious step towards her, holding out my hand for her to shake, then I drop it, flushing with embarrassment as I realise that of course she can’t lift her arm. ‘I’m an old friend of Charlotte’s – the woman who lived in flat one. Did you know her?’

Again, there is an unsettling silence as her eyes move purposefully across the monitor.

‘Nice to meet you, Catherine. I’m Meg. Yes, Charlie was a good friend,’ she says at last. ‘She was a special person,’ the machine voice continues.

‘Yeah, Charlie was one of a kind,’ I agree. ‘I still can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her. I mean who could do something so despicable . . . so . . .’ I search for the right word. ‘So evil?’

‘Why don’t you take a seat for a minute? I’d offer you a drink, but I can’t move. I’m paralysed from the neck down in case you hadn’t noticed.’

I’m not sure if this is meant to be a joke and I smile awkwardly.

‘It’s okay, I’m not thirsty,’ I say, perching on the edge of the garden chair. As I turn and face the road, it occurs to me that this is a good vantage point to see anyone coming and going. Meg has an even better view of the entrance than Ben.

‘I wish I knew what happened to her,’ I sigh.

‘Yes, me too.’

‘You didn’t see or hear anything the night she was killed? Or in the days before she was killed, anything out of the ordinary?’

There’s a silence. I watch a sparrow flutter down to the bird feeder hanging from the maple tree and a car crawl past along the road.

‘I went to bed early that night. I had a headache,’ Meg says at last. ‘The only unusual thing about that weekend was that Adam was away.’

‘Did Charlie have any visitors?’

‘Just the man who came that afternoon.’

‘The man?’ I lean forward. My heart is thumping with excitement. ‘Who was he? What did he look like?’

‘He had dark hair, dark complexion. Good-looking. He brought flowers – a bunch of irises.’

‘And do you know who he was?’

‘No, but I’ve seen him here before.’

So, someone Charlie knew, a friend, then. Or maybe even . . . Is it possible Charlie was having an affair? It seems unlikely. She and Adam hadn’t been married long.

‘How long did he stay? Did you see him leave?’ I’m aware that I’m firing questions at her, but she doesn’t seem to take offence or become defensive; though it’s difficult to tell – her eyes are the only clue to what she’s thinking and at the moment they seem bland and friendly.

‘I didn’t,’ she says simply.

So, it’s entirely possible that this man, whoever he is, didn’t leave at all. It’s possible he was still here in the early hours of the morning when Charlie was killed. He could have killed her. I feel a twinge of excitement. This is the first real lead I’ve had.

‘Did you mention him to the police?’ I ask.

‘I did.’

So why hasn’t his picture been broadcast on all the news stations? I think bitterly. Why only mine?

‘Did you hear anything later in the night?’ I ask. ‘Ben Wiltshire said he heard a car drive up about one o’clock in the morning.’

‘No, I was sound asleep. I take pills to help me sleep. I didn’t hear anything. But I did notice Charlie’s car was still parked outside the next morning and I was surprised because she usually goes in to work at the shop on a Saturday. But I just assumed she’d decided to take the day off. She was the boss so she could do what she liked.’

I want to ask more about the man Meg saw visiting Charlie that weekend, but at that moment we’re interrupted by another woman who emerges from inside. She’s in her forties, stocky with dyed black hair and a tough, belligerent face like a bulldog. She has rubber gloves on, and her sleeves are rolled up, as if she’s been cleaning.

‘Are you okay, Meg?’ she asks, staring at me suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m fine, Sophia. It’s okay,’ says Meg. ‘This is Catherine. She was a friend of Charlie’s.’

‘I see.’ She nods curtly at me, but her eyes still glitter sharp and watchful. It’s easy to see that she feels very protective of her charge.

‘This is Sophia,’ Meg says. ‘She’s my nurse, cleaner, friend and my own personal Sergeant Major.’

Sophia laughs gruffly. ‘She thinks I’m a bully just because I make her do her exercises every day.’

I wonder what exercises Meg can possibly have to do. She can barely move.

‘Nice to meet you, Sophia,’ I say, holding out my hand to shake hers.

She takes it, frowning stiffly. Then she seems to soften slightly. ‘Sorry. I probably seem rude to you, but we’re all a bit on edge lately with what happened just next door – and the killer still out there. The police are useless. They’ve done next to nothing. I asked them for a guard, protection for Meg, but nothing. Nada. And I can’t be here all the time. I’ve got my own family to look after.’

How much more terrifying it must be if you’re stuck in a wheelchair, unable to move, literally unable to defend yourself? I wonder how Meg seems so calm. She seems so stoical, humorous even. If I were in her situation, I probably would have given up long ago. But perhaps we all have reserves of strength and endurance inside us that we are unaware of until we’re tested.

‘I don’t think you’re in any danger though,’ I say. ‘The police seem to think that it was a personal attack – that they targeted Charlie.’

Sophia sits down at the table next to Meg.

‘Who on earth would want to hurt that sweet, young woman?’ she says