‘We’ll need you to write a statement.’ Fanshawe got to his feet and looked down at her. ‘The sooner you do so the better, but I think tomorrow will be time enough. You look done in.’ He stood a moment more. ‘We would still like to speak to your husband, Mrs Chatwell. He’ll be able to corroborate some of what Mr Forster said.’

‘Charlie said he was staying at his place.’ She saw the detective’s surprise. ‘He must have told me before I pressed the speed dial for you.’

‘We’ll have a warrant to search Mr Forster’s apartment within an hour. If your husband’s still there I’ll fill him in on what’s happened. I’m sure he’ll want to come home.’

When Fanshawe left, Molly turned the key in the lock, slipped the security chain in place and hobbled back to the sofa. When Jack heard what had happened, she was sure he’d rush home, there was no point in dragging herself up the stairs.

Her head ached where Charlie had wrenched her hair. She put a hand up to it and rubbed it gently. She supposed she should feel horror and disbelief that a man she knew had tried to kill her, but all she could seem to feel was intense relief. Jack’s gambling problem, their precarious financial state, they paled into insignificance in comparison.

Exhausted, she lifted her legs onto the sofa and relaxed back. With her mind whirling, she didn’t think she’d sleep but she did, a restless sleep where Charlie chased her and caught her again and again.

35

It was the sunlight filtering through the window that woke Molly and made her push up with a groan of pain. Her phone was on the coffee table, she checked the time. Seven. There was no message from Jack. Perhaps the police had taken longer to get the warrant than they’d expected.

Carefully and very slowly, she got to her feet. The few hours’ sleep had served to clear her head a little, but they’d made no impact on the pains and aches that seemed to have doubled overnight. It wasn’t surprising considering she’d been dragged, yanked, punched and pulled by a maniac. What was surprising was that she could move at all. She was lucky; her broken rib hadn’t sustained further damage. Reluctantly, she headed to the kitchen, found a packet of paracetamol and swallowed two.

Later, she’d ring Fanshawe and see what the story was. She had a mug of coffee while she waited for the pills to take the edge off the pain then dragged herself up the stairs. She pulled off her clothes and examined the damage in the mirror. Her body was a mass of old and new bruises. She ran a hand over them; they hurt and probably would for a while.