If you’re reading this then I am no longer alive. Someone has been stalking me for the last three months and, if I am dead, it wasn’t an accident. Tell the police to speak to my ex-boyfriend Alex Carter about what happened in London. That’s where all this started.
The following people came to Rum for a walking tour, arriving on Saturday 2nd June. I am pretty sure one of them killed me.
– Joe Armstrong
– Christine Cuttle
– Fiona Gardiner
– Trevor Morgan
– Malcolm Ward
– Melanie Ward
– Katie Ward
Their bookings and contact details can be found on the laptop in reception and in the medical files in the right-hand drawer of the desk. I have written down everything that’s happened since they arrived (and before) on the attached pieces of paper.
I hope you’re not reading this. I hope it’s screwed up in the bottom of a bin and that I’ve managed to escape. I don’t know what else to say. Please tell my parents that I love them and Alex that I hope he’s okay and that he shouldn’t feel bad about the way things turned out. I wish I’d never come here. I wish I had never agreed to I wish a lot of things. Mostly that I could turn back time.
Anna Willis
Acting Manager, Bay View Hotel, Isle of Rum
P.S. I am so sorry about what happened to David. Please tell his family that he was a wonderful man, full of heart and dry wit, and I was very fond of him. Please reassure them that his passing was very quick and he didn’t suffer.
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Sunday 25th February
The mood in the car couldn’t be more different than it was on Friday. On the way to the Brecon Beacons I couldn’t hear the radio above the chatter and laughter. The team groaned when I told them we’d be spending a weekend in February on a team-building retreat, but most of them rallied once they got in the car. Now, on the way back to London, they’re subdued – physically and mentally exhausted and, more than likely, hungover. Mohammed, sitting beside me in the passenger seat, is snoring. Peter, who amused the table with his impression of Michael Mackintosh over dinner last night, now has his head against the window and his coat pulled up over his shoulders. Beside him, Freddy Laing has his headphones jammed over his ears, his eyes shut and his arms crossed over his chest. I doubt he remembers what he said about me last night. I know he was drunk, they all were, but it doesn’t excuse the things he said when he thought I’d gone to bed.
‘I can’t believe she’s going for the marketing director job. She’s got no chance.’
Freddy’s voice drifted across the hotel lobby to the desk where I was waiting impatiently for the receptionist to replace my wiped room card. I knew immediately that he was talking about me. Helen Mackesy, director of marketing, had been poached, leaving a vacancy. And it had my name on it. Unfortunately, Phil Acres, sales promotion manager, had been making noises about going for it too.
‘She’s really out of touch with digital marketing,’ Freddy said. ‘She’s been in the job for so long she can’t even find the pulse, never mind put her finger on it.’
There was a low laugh. Mohammed, most probably. I knew it wouldn’t be Peter. He was forty, eight years older than me, and kept himself to himself. Mo and Freddy were closer in age, mid-twenties, and sat together at work. They spent more of their time chatting than working but I never told them to be quiet. They were professionals, not children. As long as they got their work done and didn’t disrupt the others I let it go.
There was a pause in the conversation, then Freddy laughed uproariously.
‘MySpace advertising. Fucking love it. Yeah, she’s probably been telling Tim that blogs are the next big thing in social media marketing. GeoCities blogs!’
More cold, cruel, mocking laughter. My stomach tightened. I’d worked to get where I was. I’d been desperate to go to university to study design after my A-levels but we couldn’t afford it. Mum had been working two jobs and I owed it to her to start helping out financially. After what felt like a million interviews, and two years working in a hotel bar, I was finally offered a job as a marketing assistant for a computer software firm. My boss, Vicky, was brilliant. She took me under her wing and taught me everything she knew. That was twelve years ago and digital marketing was still in its infancy but I loved it. I still do.
‘Miss Willis,’ the receptionist called as I marched across the lobby, the blood pounding in my ears. ‘Miss Willis, your room card.’
There was a yelp of surprise, the squeal of trainers on tiles and more laughter. By the time I reached the lounge, Freddy and Mo were gone.
Mo snorts in his sleep, snapping me back to the icy, glistening road beyond the windscreen. The drizzle that clung to our hair and faces as we got into the car a little after 8 a.m. is now icy hail. The wipers speed back and forth, squeaking each time they sweep left. The sky is inky black and all I can see is a blurry refraction of the orange-red tail lights of the car in front. We’ve finally hit the M25. Not long now until we’re back in London. I’ll drop the boys at a tube station, then go home. But I’m not sure I want to.
Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.
The wipers move in time with my pulse. I’ve had too much coffee and my heart jumps in my chest whenever I remember what Freddy said last night. After he fled the lobby I searched the ground floor of the hotel for him, fuelled by anger and indignation, then gave up and went to my room to ring Alex, my boyfriend.
He didn’t pick up on the first ring. Or the second. He isn’t a fan of phone calls at the best of times but I wanted to hear a friendly voice. I needed someone to tell me that I wasn’t a bad person or shit at my job and everything was going to be okay. I texted him instead.
I’ve had a really shit night. We don’t have to chat long. I just want to hear your voice.
A text pinged back a couple of seconds later.
Sorry, in bed. We can talk tomorrow.
The curt tone of his message sliced through what was left of my self-confidence. We’d drifted apart. I’d sensed it for a while but I was
