The Woman Who Lied(42)

Martin looks suspicious. ‘It’s upstairs.’

Once Saunders has left the room, I say, ‘Do you live here alone, Martin?’

‘No. With a mate.’

‘Can I take his name?’

‘Shane Long. But he’s out at the moment. Working.’

I write this down. ‘And are you working at the moment?’

‘Bit hard for an ex-con to find a job,’ he says, leaning forwards and stubbing out his cigarette on an old newspaper.

‘There are organizations that help –’

‘I know all that,’ he cuts in coldly. ‘Where’s the other copper? He’s been a long time in that toilet.’ He stands up, almost filling the small room. I hold my nerve and continue sitting down.

‘I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute.’

‘I need to get on. There’s nothing else to say.’

I stand up, too, so that I’m facing him. ‘Do you know that a woman was murdered in the bedsit above your sister’s on Monday?’

His face closes in on itself, his jaw tight. ‘No, I didn’t. I haven’t spoken to my sister since I saw her. You do know I went to prison for armed robbery, right? Not murder?’ He folds his arms across his substantial bulk and lifts his chin. His sludge-coloured eyes narrow, challenging me.

‘I know. But can I ask where you were on Monday?’

‘I was here. All day. And all night.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that? Was Shane here with you?’

‘Shane was out working during the day and at night he was at his girlfriend’s.’

So he has no alibi. We need far more than that, of course. It will be interesting what Forensics and the pathologist come back with. We already have his DNA on the system from his armed-robbery conviction.

‘Thank you for your time,’ I say, and he looks surprised, as if expecting that I’d arrest him there and then. I can hear Saunders thundering down the stairs and heading into the hallway. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the thought of Martin behind me. There is something dark, unsettling about him.

‘You took your time, mate,’ says Martin, gruffly, as Saunders joins us.

‘Sorry,’ says Saunders. ‘Dodgy kebab last night.’

I try not to smile as Martin hurries us out and shuts the door on us without saying goodbye.

‘Well?’ I say, as we walk to my Audi.

‘I had a bit of a nose about. One bedroom was quite tidy and the other was a bit of a mess. I don’t know if it was Martin’s but there was a desk shoved up into the corner of the room and on it …’ He looks back over his shoulder as though Martin might be following us. He reaches into his pocket for his phone. ‘I took a photo. But look …’

By now we’ve stopped alongside my car. It’s too cold to be standing on the pavement. The February wind whips at my hair and coat. It’s not until we’re in the car that I take his phone.

It’s a photo of a messy desk, but among all the paraphernalia is a penknife … and a photograph of a woman with the eyes scratched out.





28





Elliot has bought Emilia a personal alarm from a company that Trevor recommended and has instructed her to have it on her constantly. ‘Keep it within touching distance at all times,’ he’d said, when he presented it to her yesterday, sending chills through her. And it strikes home again how serious this is if even Elliot is forced to admit there’s reason to worry. She can feel the weight of the alarm now, tugging down the hem of her denim jacket, as she walks to the café in Kingston where she’s arranged to meet Gina Osbourne. It’s Tuesday after the hoax call, a gorgeous late-spring day, with the sky so clear it looks like a sheet of glass the colour of forget-me-nots. Next week they’re due a heatwave, according to the Meteorological Office.

Emilia takes a deep breath, enjoying the scent of newly bloomed hyacinths, as she makes her way down a residential street full of 1930s houses where she’s parked her car. She’s relieved to be out. Elliot has been a little short-tempered ever since Saturday. He refuses to go into the office, wanting to work from home. Every time she leaves the house he wants to know where she’s going and who she’s seeing. It’s like being married to a possessive husband and Elliot’s never been like that. The only times she sees him irritable or stressed are when he’s worrying about something that causes his anxiety to flare up: flying, giving presentations, or having to stay away from home for too long. And she knows all this is getting to him as much as it is to her, because he wants to protect her. To protect all of them.

She’d wanted to charge straight over to Jake Radley’s house after finding out about the letter, to demand to see it, to snatch it from him, and to pore over it for clues about who could be behind this, about who could be trying to ruin the life that she was so grateful for, but Jasmine had told her not to, suggesting she call him instead and explain. ‘I don’t want him to think he’s done something wrong,’ she’d told Emilia, in a tone that belied her fifteen years and gave Emilia a glimpse of the young woman she was becoming. ‘I’ll ask him to bring the letter to school.’

When Jasmine got home from school last night she told Emilia that Jake had thrown it away.

First thing yesterday she’d called Lara, her cover editor while Hannah is on maternity leave, and told her what had happened at the weekend and how it appeared in her unpublished manuscript. ‘Can you please give me the names of everyone who has read it so far?’ she’d asked. ‘It’s really important.’ Lara had sounded shocked but had agreed to compile a list. Her agent agreed to do the same.