Every step you take, p.1
Every Step You Take, page 1
EVERY STEP YOU TAKE
M. A. HUNTER
For my beautiful children,
I love you both more every day.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
More From M. A. Hunter
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by M. A. Hunter
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
1
NOW
21 April 2024, Blackheath, London
My skin pocks with tiny bumps as something brushes past my ankle. I yank my leg back under the thin sheet and force my eyes apart, staring into the dimness of the room I don’t recognise. My pulse quickens as I try to make out the odd shadows cast by unfamiliar furniture. There is a strong smell of cleaning products in the air.
This isn’t my room.
The television hangs from the wall beyond the end of the bed, instead of balancing on the single chest of drawers unit to my right. Where my tiny kitchen area should be is a large wardrobe, and the door to the bathroom is on the wrong side of the room.
Where the hell am I?
My phone isn’t on the nightstand where I usually charge it, and when I check my wrist, my watch is missing too. I pinch at the tan lines where my watch should be, trying to wake myself from whatever nightmare this is. I try to recall the last thing I can remember, but there is a black hole that I can’t get past.
Think!
I drag the edge of the bedsheet up to my nose as if the fabric will act as any kind of force field should I be attacked in this moment. I check the shadows for any sign of movement, and strain my ears for any sound, but there’s nothing above the constant, gentle whirring. I blink away my exhaustion, willing my mind to process what I’m seeing. And then, after what feels like an age, I remember I checked into the hotel room late last night at my agent Jamie’s suggestion. The cool breeze of the rotating fan at the foot of the bed once again passes over my covered feet, and my racing pulse begins to slow.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming about – I never do – but the sheen of cold sweat at my hairline suggests it wasn’t a dream worth remembering. With everything that’s happened in the last five months, it doesn’t surprise me that my subconscious is working overtime to process. There have been so many moments that have felt nightmarish that it’s a wonder I’m able to decipher reality from dreams. I pinch myself again just to make sure, and am relieved when I open my eyes and am still in the hotel room.
Sitting up in the almost-too-comfortable bed, I gingerly straighten my tired legs, careful not to overstretch my calf muscles, and then I repeat the process with my arms. There’s a slight crook in my neck from where the cloud-like pillow embraced my head, and I now wonder whether staying in a strange bed ahead of the biggest race of my life was such a good idea. I never feel rested after sleeping in a strange bed. If anything, this bed is more comfortable than those I’ve become accustomed to since moving to London in November, and whilst I would like to get used to the finer things in life, it’s going to take time to adjust.
Jamie said it made sense to be closer to the start line than having to commute across London from my tiny flat, in amongst the fun runners and thousands of supporters estimated to be cheering along the route of this year’s London Marathon. There were 48,000 runners who completed the course last year, and although the elite runners are segregated from the rest of the pack, battling across the city is an added stress I just don’t need. With so many roads closed and diversions in place, navigating through London is going to be a nightmare for everyone. At least I can see the start line from the window here, even if it did wipe out the last of my savings. And it’s not like I’ve had an easy route to be here.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then slowly exhale through my mouth.
That is all behind me now. I remind myself that he is in prison, and cannot get close to me again. I have one objective today: cross the finish line in the quickest time possible, and qualify for the summer Olympics. I try to picture myself as my feet fly over the white painted line, and all the glory that will bring. One of the sports psychologists I spoke to said many athletes benefit from visualising their goals and almost manifesting the outcome. I’ve tried, but I can never escape that cynical voice in the back of my head that always wants to put me down and tell me I’m not as good as the other Team GB runners. Mam used to say my inner cynic allowed me to be more pragmatic about life, but I don’t agree. Every day feels like a battle of wills: mine versus cynical me. And more often than not, I don’t win.
I take another deep breath to try to ease the nerves, and push back the bedsheet. Standing, I shuffle across the carpet, and play with the light switches by the door until I find the right compromise: not the main lights in the ceiling, but bright enough to see. I have no idea what time it is as the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains are doing a great job of blocking out the real world. How easy it would be just to stay in this moment, away from judgemental critics, and safe from him.
My running vest and competitor number stare back at me, hung over the back of the heavy wooden chair beneath the desk. This is why I can’t keep hiding. Six months ago, I would have given anything to be here right now. Lying in that hospital bed, the pain so eye watering and the doctor reciting the potential complications of spinal surgery, it felt like I would never recover, let alone be able to run competitively. My career as a professional athlete was in tatters, and coming so soon after I lost Mam… I came so close to just giving up. Although I’d said goodbye and repeatedly told her how much I loved her, when the doctor’s call came, it still felt like I hadn’t told her enough. She was my guardian, my guide, my best friend. I don’t think I’ve even acknowledged my grief yet, but now isn’t the time to start. Considering everything that followed the funeral, maybe I should have listened to that cynical voice in the back of my head.
I shake the negativity away. No, I have fought to be here today, and the months of uncertainty and terror have only served to make me a stronger person, even if I don’t always feel it. I have to remember that there are hundreds of other athletes out there who would swap places with me in a heartbeat; many of whom will likely be running today as well. I’ve come too far to give up, and no matter what happens today – whether I realise my lifelong dream, or fall at the final hurdle – I’ll know I’ll have given it my all. I was only milliseconds away from a bronze medal three years ago, and I have to prove to myself that I can go one step further.
My phone vibrates in my hand as I collect it and my smart watch from their respective chargers on the large desk that dominates the room. A message from my coach Finn, advising me he’s already at the start line, and has a specific warm-up he wants me to complete ahead of the race. Today is the forty-fourth consecutive marathon in London, and although I’m not here to try to win it, I know I need to complete it within two hours and twenty-eight minutes if I am to qualify for the Team GB Olympic squad. The fact that I have recovered from a slipped disc to be here today only serves to show how hard I’ve worked. The last British athlete to win the race was Paula Radcliffe almost twenty years ago, and though I’m not in her league, I deserve my crack at it. When I close my eyes and try to visualise myself crossing the finish line, all I can see is the large clock telling me I wasn’t fast enough.
My finger hovers over the Instagram app. I shouldn’t look. I know he is in prison so won’t have access to the app or have any means of messaging me today. I should just lock my phone and shower as I’d planned to do, but I continue to stare at the screen, unblinking. If I don’t check it, I’ll never know whether he’s messaged or not, and I don’t think I will be able to move forward without knowing for certain.
I stab at the screen with my thumb and open my messages. My eyes widen and I gasp as I see there is a new message request.
No, not again. This can’t be happening!
I don’t need to look at the message. I know I should just close the app, and get in the shower. I can let Detective Zara Freeman know about it, and move on. She told me he was in prison and if that’s the case, there’s no way he could have messaged me overnight. No. Wa y.
I put the phone down, and march myself into the small bathroom, reaching behind the shower curtain, and running the water until it’s hot. But rather than climbing into the bathtub, I march back out to my phone and scoop it up. Curiosity has got the better of me, as it always does, and I open the message, expecting the worst. But instead of the usual abuse I’ve become accustomed to, I see two words:
Good luck
I click on the sender’s avatar, and although they’re not someone I’ve interacted with before, their profile appears genuine. They have posted hundreds of times, have dozens of followers, and have been following my account for a few weeks. Is the message just a genuine attempt to wish me well? I take a screenshot of both the message and profile as Zara has instructed, just in case.
The bathroom is a fog of steam as I step back in and allow the shower’s hot stream to wash away my lingering doubt. I keep my head under, massaging the shampoo into my scalp, and try to focus on what I need to do today. I know the course, and having watched recordings of last year’s race, I know what to expect. Adrenaline will push me at the start, but I know the first 5K is downhill so I need to avoid the temptation to run faster, so I can maintain a steady and manageable pace. I will have Finn in my ear for when I need his encouragement, and I have handpicked the soundtrack I intend to run to.
I switch off the shower, and tie the large towel around my chest, then wrap another around my dripping hair, and return to the main room. I start when I hear what sounds like scratching at the door, and I hurry to the peephole. All I can see is what looks like an empty corridor.
You’re imagining it!
I listen again, but don’t hear any noise, but just as I’m moving away, I hear the strange scratching again. I scan the room for something I might use as a weapon, and pick up my umbrella, holding it out like a truncheon, as I unlock and open the door, peering through the gap. I open the door wider, and poke my head into the corridor, turning one way and then the other, but there is nobody there. I’m sure I didn’t imagine the sound, but there’s nobody who could have made it. Closing the door, I decide to dress and get myself to the track, knowing that seeing Finn will help put my mind at ease. I need to load up on carbs and protein before the race, but my stomach is turning and I have no appetite. I’ll just have to grab some fruit on the way to the park.
After drying most of the water from my hair, I pull my tracksuit over my shorts and vest. According to the forecast, it’s supposed to be a mild start to the day, with the threat of rain before lunchtime, but I’m hoping it stays dry until I finish. Grabbing my sports bag, I open the door again, and jolt at what I see.
2
NOW
21 April 2024, Blackheath, London
Blue orchids?
They were Mam’s favourite. I can remember her telling me they symbolised the rare and beautiful. She used to call me her blue orchid. But why on earth is there a box of them outside my hotel room? Were they there when I opened the door a few minutes ago, and I somehow missed them?
I’m sure I would have noticed them on the lime-green carpet, but then I was distracted by the scratching noise and was searching for someone in the corridor. I lean out now, and peer in both directions, keen to find out who left the flowers, and check that they’re for me. I’m certain there was no knock at the door from the person trying to dispense them, and surely a staff member wouldn’t just leave flowers outside a guest’s door if they’d been asked to deliver them?
‘Hello?’ I call out, surprised by how strained my voice sounds.
There’s no answer, and I’m not surprised as it doesn’t look as though anyone has been along this corridor recently. I sniff the air, trying to sense a trace of perfume or cologne, but there’s nothing. Whoever left the flowers either was scent-free or left them some time ago.
I reach out and lift the cardboard box, only now realising there is a ceramic plant pot inside containing water. Careful not to spill any of it, I carry the box over to the large oak desk, and carefully rummage through the leaves in search of a card. When I first saw the flowers on the floor, I instinctively thought they must be from Mam wishing me luck, which, of course, is ludicrous and impossible. But who else would have chosen this particular plant to send to me? It can’t be coincidence that someone would gift me Mam’s favourite flower on the morning when I would really benefit from a boost of dopamine.
There’s no card amongst the leaves, and as I continue to rummage, one of the delicate blue buds snaps off and floats down to the desk. Mam always used to say that anyone can grow and maintain an orchid, so long as they’re careful, and treat them like they would a child. That was the year she sent me two as a birthday present. They died within a week, and in the days running up to her visiting me I’d had to go online to source replacements. She never said, but I suspected she knew what I’d done.
But if she didn’t send the flowers to me, then who did? I can’t think of anyone who would know about Mam’s love of blue orchids, aside from Aunt Rachel, Mam’s sister. The last time we spoke was when I visited at Christmas, and although I did tell her I was hoping to compete today, I can’t imagine she would have remembered. Nor could she know I’d be staying in this hotel. In fact, the only person who knows I’m here is Jamie, so presumably he must have sent them. Maybe I mentioned Mam’s love of the blue orchid in passing. I’ll be sure to phone and thank him for the gesture.
The flowers smell incredible. The sweet and salty scent evokes so many memories of growing up surrounded by these beautiful and dainty plants; so powerful and yet delicate too. I’m going to treat these with the respect they deserve, and in homage to Mam, I’m not going to let them die this time.
I carefully grip the side of the ceramic pot and extract it from the box. It’s a beautifully decorated glossed white pot, with green spots, and as I rest it on the desk, a piece of paper the size of a business card flutters to the carpet. It must have been squashed inside the box. I reach down to the floor to retrieve it and as I do so, I see it’s an envelope. A chill runs the length of my spine as I remember the last time I held a similarly sized envelope in my hands.
I chase away the doubt.
He’s in prison. They can’t be from him.
I slip my finger beneath the lip and then extract the card from inside. My jaw drops as I read the printed words.
I’M RIGHT BEHIND YOU.
SEE YOU AT THE RACE.
xxx
Not again.
It’s like I’m immediately transported back to that night at the television studio when I received a similar message in my dressing room. If he’s in prison, how can he have sent me these flowers? And how could he know the significance of the blue orchid, and that I would be in this room, in this hotel, on this day?
Like last time, there’s no name, and nothing to suggest a company was used to deliver the plant here. Which means they must have been delivered by hand. I shudder at the thought of him being on the other side of my door, and I instinctively dart into the bathroom in case he’s there right now, peering through the wrong side of the peephole.
Condensation continues to cling from the corners of the large mirror above the sink, but my reflection is painfully pale as the blood has drained from my face, neck and shoulders.
‘It might not be from him,’ I say loudly to the terrified girl staring back at me. ‘Detective Freeman said he’s in prison. And there’s no way he could know you’re here.’
The words provide scant relief, and I fight the urge to cry as my eyes water and the reflection blurs before me.
I unlock my phone, and locate Jamie’s number.
He answers on the third ring.
‘Good morning, Molly. Are you all set for the race?’
I open my mouth to reply, but I don’t want him to hear how upset I am, so I swallow the emotion down. ‘Um, sure. Ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear! Not that I want to add any additional pressure, but I have Nike and Adidas ready to battle it out for your signature if you qualify today. Everything that’s been building in the last five months has led to this. And, if we play it right, you won’t ever have to do a real job after this summer’s games; even after you officially retire from competition. This race could set you up for life.’
