The Woman Who Lied(53)
Kristin frowns. ‘Louise? Louise who?’
She looks genuinely puzzled but Emilia knows Kristin has always been an accomplished liar. ‘My friend Louise. The detective. She came over last weekend to help out after Jasmine disappeared.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Kristin is still frowning.
She has a straw bag over her shoulder with a baguette sticking out. So much for no carbs, thinks Emilia, upset that she can have spiteful thoughts about Kristin even in these circumstances.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead. Murdered.’
Emilia watches carefully for Kristin’s reaction. She steps back from Emilia and her hands fly to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. That’s awful. How? I mean, why? God, I’m so sorry.’
‘I don’t know why. I found her with a head injury …’
‘Oh, my God,’ she says again. ‘That must have been traumatic for you.’ She looks genuinely shocked, but she’d acted in that way after Emilia told her she and Jonas were splitting up all those years ago. Before she’d found out it was Kristin he was leaving her for. She swallows, and an expression Emilia can’t read passes over Kristin’s face. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Is it in connection to a case she was working on?’
Emilia opens her mouth to tell her about the inking on Louise’s ankle but then thinks better of it. If DC Haddock plans on interviewing Kristin she doesn’t want to give her any advantages.
‘I don’t know. Look … I have to go …’ She stumbles away from Kristin and walks as fast as she can back to her car. She glances over her shoulder once to see Kristin staring after her.
She’s relieved when she pulls up on the driveway, until she remembers what might be waiting for her and her heart sinks. She’s so tired she can barely think straight, and she needs to be alert, watchful, now more than ever. She approaches the front door with trepidation, terrified of what she might find. But there is no sinister gift waiting for her on the front step and she takes a deep breath before unlocking the door and stepping into the porch. She can hear voices coming from the front room. She reels back in surprise to see her parents sitting on the sofa under the bay window, their Golden Retriever, Lloyd, at their feet, resting his head on the throw she’d slept with earlier. Elliot is sitting opposite in a high-backed navy blue armchair that was a mistake buy: it’s pretty but uncomfortable.
‘Here she is,’ he says, trying to sound cheerful although his smile is strained. Her husband would not welcome her parents turning up unannounced. The knot of anxiety in her stomach intensifies.
‘Hello, darling,’ says her mother, crisply, her hands in the lap of her floral dress.
Her father stands up and embraces her. She’s so shocked that she can only stand, like a mannequin, for a few seconds, her arms hanging limply at her sides, before hugging her father back. He leads her to the sofa so that she’s sitting between her parents, like a child. She bends down to pat Lloyd, marvelling that he’s still going. He must be nearly thirteen.
‘Hugh and Annabel have come to stay for a few days. Keep you company,’ says Elliot, with the same rictus smile. ‘Isn’t that lovely of them?’
She’d have to make up the spare bedroom. Nobody has slept in it since Ottilie stayed a few weeks ago. ‘Sure,’ she says, feeling as if she’s stumbled into a play, and she’s unsure which part she has to perform. She can feel the tension emanating from Elliot. He gets up and claps his hands together, like a bad actor. ‘Right, well, I’d better get on. I’ll see you all later.’ And then he does this weird salute thing that she’s never seen him do in the whole time she’s known him and leaves the room.
‘I’ll be right back,’ she says to her parents, and she follows Elliot down the hallway to the kitchen. She pushes the door closed. ‘What the hell?’
He folds his arms across his chest. ‘They just turned up, and with the fucking dog!’
‘What? That’s unheard of. My parents aren’t the popping-in sort. They haven’t stayed the night with us since Wilfie was a baby.’
He shrugs. ‘They’re your parents. I’ve got to work. I’m on a deadline,’ he says curtly, leaving the house through the utility room.
Her mother is standing at the fireplace, looking at the framed photos, when Emilia walks back into the room. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks bluntly.
‘Charming,’ replies her mother, putting down a wedding photo.
Her father gets up from the sofa, straightening his trousers. He looks well, she thinks. Ex-military, he’s always smartly dressed and trim, with a neat little moustache that’s darker than his hair. At sixty-five he’s still fit. As a kid she was always a little terrified of him. At nearly six foot two he was imposing in his RAF uniform. They moved around a lot, which was why they put her in boarding school so young so she has never felt truly close to them. She doubts it was the boarding school – her other friends, apart from maybe Ottilie, didn’t experience that problem. She suspects it was more that her mother has never been particularly maternal and her father believes in a stiff upper lip.
‘I read about your stalker in the paper. Why didn’t you tell us?’ her father says, folding his arms across his broad chest. ‘You didn’t mention anything at your launch. I had to read it in yesterday’s paper. I called you straight afterwards, on your mobile, but you didn’t answer.’