Don't Get Caught

Chapter 20 - Ariel

Without my old phone, Peter wouldn't be able to contact me, so after spending all of Thursday once again with a hangover and wallowing in self-pity, I looked up the number of his law firm.

"Peter Blackwood." His usual greeting when I finally got put through.

"Ariel."

"Ariel. I've been trying to reach you." His tone oozed formality.

I sat up straighter. "I know. I lost my phone. Tell me what's happening. You spoke to Danny? How's he doing?"

"I did. It's not good news I'm afraid. He's set on taking the blame for Malcolm. He'll be sentenced next week."

I sank back onto my sofa which I'd barely moved from in ten hours. I closed my eyes and groaned Peter's name into the phone.

"I'm sorry. I did all I could. Go to the police with your evidence if you want - I can't stop you - but you know what my view is on that."

"Will Danny see me?" I asked, ignoring his suggestion. That evidence had long gone. "I keep requesting a visit and he always turns it down. But I know if I could talk to him before he's sentenced, I might be able to knock some sense into him."

"If he refuses your visitation requests, I'm not sure what you think I can do. Look, maybe he'll get a lighter sentence if we convince the judge it was self-defence. Anyway, I've got to go. I'm due in court. Take my advice and drop this, will you."

The phone went dead before I had the chance to respond. My eyes stung with unshed tears at my complete and utter failure. The only thing I had to cling onto was that Danny hadn't killed anyone. I could be almost certain of that at least. The idea of him being in prison for it made my stomach churn though; I wasn't prepared to let it go.

That afternoon I headed to Danny's house. I wasn't sure why, but given I was unable to see or speak to him, his house was the closest thing I had. I peered into the dark front room as I had the day I went looking for him; tried the immovable front door; headed around the back, climbing over a low fence to reach the back door. The view of the conservatory reminded me of our first night together, causing my insides to clench. I tried the windows but none would open.

I sat on the grass, leaning back against the fence and considered my options. I take Peter's - and Hasmita's - advice and forget about it. Who was I to Danny anyway? Just some woman he shagged every now and then. Who knew how long he would go down for? Months, years, decades. By the time he came out I'd be even less than no one.

My other option was to go to the police about Malcolm. I had no evidence and, if Danny was dead set on taking the blame, he wouldn't thank me for interfering. And, as Peter had pointed out in Spain, Danny may still be charged with obstructing justice and lying under oath. A decent judge would surely go easy on him, but there was no guarantee.

I returned to the house Saturday and Sunday too, for no other purpose than to skulk around. I was about to get into my car to leave on the Sunday when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

"You know, he keeps a spare key under the flowerpot around the side."

I turned away from my car to see the neighbour who had helped me a few weeks ago. She had her teeth in, and wore a thick, fluffy dressing gown.

"Thank you. Have you been in?" I asked.

"No love. I just know these things. What do you think I have to do all day? He never came back from the police station, did he?" Her voice penetrated me, deep and gravelly as if she'd been a smoker once; maybe still.

I shook my head miserably. "I just want to go in and sort a few things for him. Remove food from his fridge, throw out the junk mail, change the bedding, freshen things up, make it ready for when he comes home."