‘But not all of them from kids.’
The faint shake in her voice had betrayed her; either that or some tiny reaction in her face that had not escaped those watchful aquamarine eyes.
‘No.’ Her voice was very low.
‘And not all just expressing innocent admiration.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No.’ She shook her head, grateful for the way the movement made her fair hair fly around her face, concealing the vulnerability of her expression.
‘Cathy’s been the victim of a campaign of harassment,’ her father put in. ‘A stalker, I believe the current word is—an obsessive fan.’
‘An adult fan?’ Evan’s attention was concentrated on Catherine. ‘When did all this start?’
‘About seven months ago; just before Christmas. The first letter came in a bundle of ordinary mail, and really it was just very complimentary about my appearance.’ Catherine’s laugh was shaken. ‘He said I was just what he wanted in his Christmas stocking. But there was a tone to it—some rather sexual comments that made it plain it didn’t come from a typical fan. Your friend’s daughter and son are the sort who usually write.’
‘It was anonymous, I take it?’
‘Yes. There was another one the next week, and the next, and every week after that—sometimes two or three in a row. They started off mild enough, but they soon got more and more sexually explicit—more expressive of his personal fantasies—more disgusting.’ She shuddered, remembering.
‘But they just came to the television studios?’
‘No. I think I could have coped with that, but after a month or so they started arriving at my flat. He’d got my address from somewhere—where, I don’t know. And the letters were just the beginning. The next thing that happened was the parcels—’
‘Parcels?’
Catherine nodded miserably.
‘They contained underwear mostly—stockings, suspenders, G-strings. He’d write that he wanted to see me in them.’ She tried another laugh, one that broke up in the middle. ‘He must have spent a fortune.’
But Evan wasn’t laughing. As she’d told her story his expression had grown grimmer, darker, more dangerous—so that, looking at him, she could barely suppress a shiver of fearful reaction.
‘Go on,’ he prompted harshly when she hesitated. ‘I take it there was more?’
‘That was only the beginning…’
Now she wanted everything out in the open, wanted to pour the whole story out, as if by doing so she could purge herself of the horror, the fear with which she had lived for so long. So she told him how the letters had grown more and more sexually threatening, how the unknown stalker had declared that he believed she was his destiny, that one day they were meant to be together.
‘He even started to interpret things I’d said on the programme—things I’d said to children—as being messages just for him.’
Once again she shuddered, her blue eyes dark and shadowed.
‘He referred to them in his letters, giving them totally different meanings—making them disgusting and dirty. That was when we called the police, but of course there was no real evidence.’
‘The letters?’
Sadly, Catherine shook her head.
‘I burned most of them. Oh, I know I shouldn’t have done, but at first I just didn’t think it would last—I thought he’d soon get tired of pestering me. And then, later, they were so horrible that I couldn’t bear to have them around, and I destroyed them without thinking that they would be needed. Once I’d told the police they said I should pass the letters on to them unopened.’
‘Good advice,’ Evan put in quietly. ‘Did that help?’
‘I wish I could say it had; if anything, it made matters worse. It was as if he knew what I’d done and he changed his routine as a result. That was when the phone calls started.’
Evan muttered something violent and obscene in a savage undertone, drawing her pansy-dark eyes to his face. Seeing the cold fury etched around his nose and mouth, she hesitated, almost fearful of continuing. Immediately he made himself relax, wiping the harsh lines from his face with a speed that made her blink.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged with an unexpected softness, warm fingers tightening slightly on hers.
‘He started ringing me at my flat—sometimes in the evening, just after I’d got home from work, sometimes in the middle of the night.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’ The question came sharply.
‘No—but I think he’d done something to disguise itput a handkerchief over the mouthpiece or something— and he always whispered, so that distorted it too. He seemed to be getting more obsessed—more angry. There was one time when he’d seen me on the show with another presenter. He thought I’d been flirting—“unfaithful” he called it! He said I was a two-timing bitch and if I didn’t change my ways he would punish me—’
Her breath caught in her throat, threatening to choke her, and she had to pause, struggling to control the panic that rose up in her. Evan waited silently, seeming to sense intuitively that to speak would be to destroy her composure completely, but those strong, warm fingers still intertwined with hers tightened in an eloquent communication of sympathy.
‘I’d had an answering machine installed, but I found that I was just standing by it, waiting to hear his voice, and he always seemed to know when I was there. He said that he’d make sure I never had a relationship with anyone else—he’d kill anyone I dated—and—and if necessary he’d kill me.’
Her voice broke again, her eyes flooding with tears, but it was as if Evan was passing his strength on to her through his touch on her hands, and in a moment she was able to continue.
‘The police did what they could. They tried to trace the calls, but they were all from payphones scattered all over London. They even offered to escort me to and from work, but I couldn’t take that—it was like being a prisoner—and I couldn’t rest in my flat, never knowing when the phone might ring again, whether it would be him…It all came to a head last week when I was out shopping. I’d just gone to the supermarket to get some groceries, but suddenly I heard someone running behind me.’
Once more she shuddered, reliving the fear she had felt in that moment.
‘It was only a man running for a bus, but it panicked me. I realised that he could be watching me all the timefollowing me. I just snapped. I came straight here, didn’t even go home to get any clothes. I was afraid he might be there waiting for me.’
Abruptly Catherine became aware of the fact that she was still holding onto Evan’s hands, her fingers clenched on his, tightening in response to her inner distress, and with a muffled exclamation she released them sharply, her confusion growing as she saw the red marks on his skin, the indentations where her nails had dug into his palms.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ She couldn’t believe her own thoughtlessness.
Evan barely spared his hands the briefest of glances, his shrug dismissing both the damage she had done and her apology.
‘And what’s happened since you came here? Have things been easier?’
‘Oh, yes. Only one person knows where I am and that’s my agent. I had to tell her, because she’s a special friend as well as working with me. And I rang work and told them I was ill—exhaustion due to stress. Well, it’s near enough to the truth. Luckily, we’ve just finished filming the last of the current series, so I’m not leaving anyone in the lurch—and I was due two months’ leave anyway. They probably realise something’s up; my mind hasn’t exactly been on