Saturday, 2nd November 2019
Sitting at her kitchen table, Sarah stared at the letter which she’d found beneath the cat flap in the back door last night. Weary from lack of sleep, she sat hunched over the letter, her concentration broken by a long miaow. Sherlock’s tail flapped from left to right as he demonstrated his disapproval of having to wait for his breakfast.
‘Sorry, mate,’ she said, fetching some cooked chicken breast from the fridge. ‘We need to get you on a healthy diet, eh? No more pizzas, no more greasy chicken. Cat food for you, and Slimming World for me.’ She caught sight of herself in the mirror; a study of loneliness as her words bounced around the walls of her kitchen. Another furtive glance at the letter. Her stomach clenched at the sight of it.It’s just hate mail,she told herself.As worthless as the paper it’s written on.
She plopped the chicken in Sherlock’s bowl and topped up his water. At least the kitchen smelled clean. One cat was enough for anyone, God only knew how Elsie coped with six.
But she could only distract herself with cat thoughts for so long. The letter called her by her real name … herchildhoodname. She had only taken her mother’s maiden name of Noble because of the anonymity it offered. Back then, when her mum’s side of the family took her in, it seemed like the natural thing to do. She felt the familiar spiral of panic and shame spreading up her body. Just when the abuse about her husband had died down, it seemed that someone was intent on dragging up her own personal hell. What did the sender of this letter want with Sarah Middleton? It was the invasion that bothered her. Someone creeping around her overgrown garden. A hand darting through the cat flap. She had been so spooked last night that she’d done a full sweep of the house. The back door had been locked. There was no forced entry and she had thoroughly checked upstairs. So why was she still standing here, staring at the damned letter?
Letters were more personal than emails, more intimate somehow. Her senses heightened, she re-read the handwritten words.
Dear Sarah,
Congratulations are due. How you have managed to stay beneath the radar in a small town like Slayton is impressive. People underestimate you, don’t they? But then, you have a forgettable face. Your clothes blend in … even your house feels like it’s hiding. We’re not that different, you know. I too am underestimated by the grand folks of Slayton. Not for much longer, I think.
You slouch when you walk, did you know that? You keep your hair long, so it shadows your face. You think people can’t see who you really are. Don’t worry. The residents of Slayton are too wrapped up in their own lives to notice little old you. Heaven forbid that the papers would get hold of your true identity. But then, Blackhall Manor has always stolen your limelight, hasn’t it? You should pay the old place a visit. It would be happy to see you again.
I’m sure by now you’re wondering who I am and why I’m writing to you. Maybe you think I’m a crackpot, or some kid with too much time on their hands. I imagine all sorts of thoughts are going through your head. I know a lot about you, Sarah, but I’m not here to suggest that we meet if that’s what you’re wondering. I don’t think you’re ready to play the Midnight Game yet, are you? Have you figured out who I am? No. Of course you haven’t. You’re not really cut out for policing, are you, Sarah? If incompetency was a sport, you’d come in first every time.
Let me help you a little, God knows you need it. I’m the one who wiped that privileged waste of space, Angelica Irving, out. And she had been so delighted by my invitation. She thought it made her special! Isn’t that funny? All the reverence of their game playing … Don’t feel bad for her. She invited me in. She drew her own blood because she was so desperate to spend the night with the Midnight Man. You could say she got what she asked for. Girls like Angelica usually do.
Have you figured it out yet, or are you ready to throw in the towel? But then, anincompetent loser like you wouldn’t have the guts to enter the ring. I bet the cogs in that tiny brain of yours are turning now, aren’t they? Save yourself the embarrassment of bringing this to your police bosses. You won’t trace it back to me. It’s circumstantial evidence. You’ll have heard the term on one of those cop shows that you watch. Does it make you sad, knowing you’ll never make the grade? Even your cat hates you. But don’t worry, your time is coming. You weren’t meant to live, I’m just righting a wrong. Feel free to correct it any time you like. When you’re gone, then I will be too. So do the world a favour and swallow those tablets in your bedside drawer.
If that’s not enough motivation for you to end your miserable life, then here’s something else for free: there were four other players that night. Four other candles waiting to be snuffed out. For every day you’re alive the game continues. You know what you need to do.
The Midnight Man
Sarah gripped the kitchen counter as the words hit her with force once again. Was Angelica Irving really dead? And was this her killer? Her eyes flicked to the window. Was he watching her now?
Snatching the letter, she ran to each window and drew the blinds before checking the door again. His mocking words rang in her mind, playing on her insecurities. Someone who would never make the grade. Someone who tugged at her fringe. She dropped her hand from her hair. It was as if he had seen into her soul. How did he know everything? Her life, her habits, where she lived. She knew she had to report this, but she could not bear the shame. She felt naked. Exposed. But her tormentor had mentioned four other players. Who were they? And who would write her a letter fuelled with so much hate? She started as the phone rang from the hall, thedring dringof the old-fashioned handset echoing in the empty space.
‘Hello?’ she said, hoping for a sales call, or her sergeant, or BT broadband, anyone except … A heavy exhalation of breath. ‘Hello, who’s there?’ she said, firmer this time. Nothing. Nothing but breath ruffling the phone line, and the low, ominous sense of hatred being conveyed without words. Slamming down the phone, she grabbed her boots from the floor and tugged them on. She was meant to have the weekend off, but she couldn’t spend another second in her home. Fear quickened her movements as she grabbed her coat, scarf and car keys and marched out of the front door. She drove on autopilot to the police station. It was a prank. Nothing to be scared of. But the phone call, so soon after she picked up the letter. It gave a clear message – I am watching you. I will be back.
Sarah monitored her sergeant’s expression as she read and re-read each word. She’d relayed details of the silent call, but it was the letter which intrigued her the most. As Sarah sat in front of Gabby’s desk, she was in earshot of her colleagues who were immersed in their work. ‘Where’s the envelope?’ Gabby said, her gaze falling on Sarah’s empty hands.
‘I … um, I left it at home. He delivered it by hand. No stamp. Through the cat flap in the back door.’ The last thing Sarah wanted was her sergeant seeing her maiden name.
‘The back door?’ Gabby echoed Sarah’s words.
‘The front of my house is visible from the road. Maybe he was worried about being seen.’
‘They … maybetheywere worried about being seen,’ Gabby corrected. ‘Never assume. What’s your home security like?’
‘Crap,’ Sarah replied. ‘The fence needs replacing. Every time there’s a storm it comes down.’ Sarah’s street led to the local playground and kids cycled past on their bikes all the time. But the back of Sarah’s house led to a trail overgrown with brambles which was a cut-through into town. At night, it was dark and gloomy and only used by those in the know. She didn’t tell her sergeant that some nights she went to bed and forgot to lock her back door. She didn’t need anyone else calling her an incompetent loser today. She willed Gabby to keep talking, unable to escape the sound of the caller’s breath. She imagined them, palms moist as they clung to the receiver, getting a kick out of her fear. Her sergeant’s eyes flicked upwards, pinning her with a gaze.
‘What’s this rubbish about tablets?’
‘Dunno,’ Sarah lied. ‘I keep some painkillers in my bedside drawer. Doesn’t everyone?’
Satisfied, Gabby bowed her head as she re-read the words.
‘I take it you’ve not heard from Angelica,’ Sarah said, feeling a sudden urge to fill the silence.
‘No, but we’ve requested a search party with sniffer dogs. We’re going to start at the graveyard, then Slayton’s old asylum and back to Blackhall Manor for a more detailed search.’ Local officers had already searched Blackhall Manor but it made sense to request PolSA to investigate. Slayton’s old asylum was another teenage hangout as it had been empty and abandoned for years. Situated beyond Lower Slayton, it was a mile outside of town. Gabby nodded towards the letter. ‘This is probably related to David. You know what people are like around here.’
‘Yes, that’s probably what it is.’ Sarah nodded. Her sergeant was most likely right, but it didn’t explain how they knew her childhood name. Not that she’d bring it up now. She’d given away enough of herself today. Gabby looked thoughtful.
‘What did they mean when they said Blackhall Manor would welcome you back?’
