The Woman Who Lied(23)
But not before she’d spotted it. A drawing of an insect’s head on her mum’s ankle that was definitely not a tattoo.
Her mother’s mysterious boyfriend flashed through her mind, with his double crown, his wide, ham-like neck and his penchant for doodling in the margins of newspapers.
And she knew – she just knew – that he was responsible for this. The Doodle Man, as she came to think of him, had killed her mother, and she vowed, right there at the age of ten, standing in that living room surrounded by police, that she wouldn’t rest until she had found him.
16
With a scream in her throat Emilia darts out of the front door, slamming it behind her, and calls the only person she knows who might be able to help.
‘Hello,’ says a familiar voice at the other end.
‘Trevor. I’m sorry to bother you at work but …’ Emilia hesitates. She’s standing in her driveway looking up at the house. Those windows didn’t open by themselves. ‘I’m worried someone is in the house.’ She explains about the skylights.
‘Don’t go back in. I’m coming straight over,’ he barks, ending the call before she’s even had the chance to reply.
She stares up at the windows. It begins to rain, light drizzle that settles on her coat and darkens the path. She feels impotent standing there, afraid to go into her own house. Her home has always been her sanctuary. The first place she and Elliot had owned together after a succession of rented flats. And now it’s tainted. Tainted by the unwanted packages turning up at her door, by the troll doll hanging from her tree. This invasion of her personal space, her life. The life she makes such an effort to keep separate, refusing to go on social media, not least because she has a phobia about anything she deems too technically complicated but mainly because she’s very private and always has been. And now her fiction is blending into her reality.
While she’s waiting for Trevor, she assesses her Ringcam app to see if it’s picked up anyone. Her heart is racing as she rewinds the footage on the cameras at the front and the back. But there is nothing. Could someone have got in by circumventing the cameras? She looks up at the roof. It’s high, with its two dormer windows and the skylight at the side. It would be easier to access the kitchen, with a single-storey roof at the back, but the culprit would have to climb over her neighbour’s wall to do so without being seen by the cameras.
By the time Trevor pulls up in his Honda Civic the rain has stopped, leaving behind the familiar earthy smell she’s recently learned from Jasmine’s science lessons is called petrichor. She breathes it in, feeling instantly calmer now she can see Trevor hurrying towards her, still in his security-guard uniform, fit and lithe at sixty-two. He’d been young, just twenty-three, when he had Elliot. His face is serious, but he gives a reassuring smile when he sees her. ‘You okay?’ he asks, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way (not that her own father ever did that. Physical affection seems to terrify Hugh Ward).
She nods. ‘Thanks for coming, Trevor. I’ve not been back inside.’
‘Good. Stay here. If I’m not out within ten minutes call the police.’
Her insides fold over. ‘What?’
He raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that.’ He takes her front-door key and marches purposefully towards the house. She remembers all the times she’d left the porch door unlocked, feeling completely safe in this neighbourhood. A false sense of security in middle-class suburbia. What a fool she’d been.
‘Everything okay?’
Emilia turns to the sound of her next-door neighbour Madge’s voice. She’s walking her beagle and pauses at the entrance to the driveway. Madge is mid-sixties, fit and robust, with rosy cheeks and a variety of different-colour quilted gilets. Today she’s in pink with a navy blue waterproof slung over the top and looks spring-like and bouncy. ‘Have you locked yourself out?’
‘No. My father-in-law’s inside. Just checking the house for me.’ She explains about the windows, and a kaleidoscope of emotions passes over Madge’s face. ‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t, but you can’t be too careful. Apparently there have been a few burglaries around here lately.’ She lowers her voice and glances fearfully over her shoulder as though said burglar is listening. ‘We don’t even have security cameras. Truth be told, the house is way too big for myself and Philip now the kids have flown the nest, but …’ She sighs and consults her watch. ‘Better get on. I’m meeting my daughter for coffee.’ She waves at Emilia as she makes her way down the hill and Emilia feels a pang for what will never be. She can’t remember the last time she met up with her mother. It’s hard to entice her from the depths of her detached mock-Tudor house in Middle England.
Her toes have turned numb and she stamps her feet. What is Trevor doing? It’s a big house, granted, but he’s been ages. She looks at her watch. What if the intruder has hurt him? Just as she’s contemplating calling 999, Trevor appears at the front door. He beckons her over. ‘It’s okay. I’ve looked in every room, behind every door, in every wardrobe. No one’s in the house.’ He sounds officious standing there, reminding her of the cop he once was. She’s so grateful she wants to hug him.
‘Thanks so much. I just don’t understand why the skylights were open. Was the one outside my office open too?’