The Woman Who Lied(18)

He runs a hand over his jaw. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry, bud,’ he says, going over to Wilfie and ruffling his curly hair. ‘Dad’s just got out of bed the wrong side this morning.’

Jasmine looks as if she wants to make some quip but Emilia shakes her head in warning and Jasmine lowers her eyes.

‘’S okay,’ says Wilfie but Emilia’s heart aches to see how subdued he is.

She rubs Elliot’s back. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she says.

‘I know. I’ll be okay once I’m at the airport,’ he replies, in a low voice. ‘I’m just a bit jittery, that’s all.’ He tries to hide his fear of flying from the kids, doesn’t want it imprinted on them.

A beep from outside alerts them to the taxi and he pulls her into a hug. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he says, into her hair.

‘I’ll miss you too. It’s not long. You’ll be back on Thursday.’

‘In time for your launch.’ He pulls away. ‘I just hate leaving at the moment after … you know.’

‘Nothing else has happened and your dad isn’t far. And Louise is just a few streets away. If the worst comes to the worst, I can even call Jonas.’

His expression darkens. ‘That’s a last resort.’

‘It is, don’t worry.’

Elliot hugs the kids, apologizes again to Wilfie, and Emilia follows him into the hallway. He picks up his suitcase. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been grumpy this morning.’

‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s fine. I’ll see you on Thursday. Give me a call when you land.’

She kisses him again, then watches from the open doorway as he walks down the steps and to the waiting taxi at the end of the driveway.

It’s not until the car pulls away that she sees it: a wreath propped up against the brick wall to the left of the front door, behind the pillar. She checks to make sure the kids can’t see, then bends down to look at it. There is a card, which simply says In Sympathy, and her insides turn to ice.

Miranda received a wreath in the third book of the series, No Stone Unturned, to warn her off a serial-killer case on which she was working.

But who would be warning her? And why?





13





Lorraine Butterworth is a tall, thin woman who exudes nervous energy as she constantly uses her hands, either to tuck a lock of dyed black hair behind her ear or light numerous cigarettes. She must be in her early sixties at least. Her hand trembles as she passes me a chipped mug full of too-milky tea. She’s standing with her back against the sink in the small kitchen with the window open, dragging deeply on her cigarette. The strip light above us buzzes, a fly’s corpse stuck behind the plastic. The poor woman looks utterly traumatized. I still remember the first time I saw a dead body. Nothing could have prepared me for it. It had haunted me for weeks.

‘What can you tell me about Trisha Banks?’ I ask, from where I’m sitting at the tiny Formica table. ‘How long has she been living in the flat above?’

‘Not long. I’ve lived here years. Seen lots of people come and go. She moved in five or six months back. Kept herself to herself mostly. I always got the sense she was running away from something or someone. She only went out to her job at Poundland, came home and then stayed upstairs. Very rarely saw her go out otherwise.’

‘Did you ever see any men coming or going? Boyfriends?’

‘Like I told the other copper, I’ve seen a guy hanging around in the distance. Although I’m not sure if he was her boyfriend. I never saw him come into the building, so I don’t think he ever went up to her place. But he was a tall fella.’

I sip my tea and regret it. The milk tastes sour. I put my mug down. ‘When you say “hanging around”, what do you mean exactly?’

Lorraine takes a deep drag of her cigarette, her veins sticking up through the thin skin on her hands. She exhales a puff of smoke that fills the small space. On the fridge I notice a child’s painting of a house, held on with a fluffy-sheep magnet. ‘I dunno, really. Lurking outside, I suppose you’d say. Once I saw her talking to him right on the street out there.’ She waves her cigarette vaguely in the direction of the front of the house. ‘But mostly I’d just notice him a little way off, outside on the pavement. Like he was waiting for her. I called to him once, asked him what he wanted, but he didn’t reply, just walked off towards the beach.’

My heart picks up speed. This could be the man. The killer. This could be the person we’ve been searching for all these years. There have never been any witnesses before apart from once … a long time ago. And that was unreliable at best. ‘What did he look like?’

She scrunches up her face and sucks at her fag. ‘Well-built. Fit-looking. Difficult to say. I didn’t see his face. He always wore a hood.’

‘And did he have any distinguishing features? Anything that stood out about him?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not that I can remember. He had on dark clothing, and it was always at night and, as I said, he always had on a hooded coat. I never saw him during the day.’

‘Hair colour? Eyes?’

‘Like I said, too dark to see and he was too far away.’

‘Height, roughly?’

‘I reckon a good six foot at least. I’m five nine and he looked taller than me.’