The Woman Who Lied(55)
‘I just wanted to write something else.’
It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him everything, the stoic man she knows would be used to keeping secrets and would probably keep hers.
Yet he’s so proud of her for fulfilling his dream when he could not. Her mother told her once that, after he’d retired, he’d tried to publish a novel about life in the RAF but could never find a publisher for it. He’d be so disappointed – she’d shatter their tentative closeness as suddenly as if she’d stamped on a mirror. It was only when she became a bestselling author that her father noticed her.
But now she wishes she’d never written that stupid book.
Because it can’t be a coincidence: Louise gave her the idea for Her Last Chapter. And if she hadn’t, maybe she’d still be alive.
37
It looks as though Louise has tried to personalize her drab flat as much as possible, disguising the worn brown leather sofas with colourful throws and bright cushions with fat-faced animals on them. On the mantelpiece there is a beautiful black-and-white photograph of Louise with a golden-haired toddler on her lap. It must be her son, Toby, and my heart aches for him. I can tell from the other photographs dotted around her living room that he must be eight or nine now. Next to the photos is a clay dog that looks as if it was made by a child, and a framed cross-stitch picture of a hen. I reach out and touch it, wondering if she had made it.
I move away from the photographs. I can’t think of the family: it’s too emotive, and I need to concentrate on my job. Saunders has already called in sick this morning with apparent food poisoning and is holed up in the hotel. We’re supposed to be heading back to Devon tonight, although I’m tempted to stick around for a few more days.
There is still a patch of russet-coloured blood on the carpet in the middle of the room. According to DS Watkins there is no sign of a break-in. Who was this woman and why was she a target? I can’t work out whether this is linked to the other murders or if it’s just random and copied from Emilia Ward’s book. Louise’s marking is a drawing rather than a carving.
I nod hello at Watkins, then move into the victim’s bedroom. I can’t bring myself to look into the single room next to it, knowing it is her son’s room when he’s not at his dad’s. Her bedroom is tidy, the quilt neat. It’s sparse, like the living room, with just a wardrobe, a small shelf full of paperbacks and bright scatter cushions on the bed. On her bedside cabinet a document of some kind is printed on A4 paper. I pick it up and read the front page, which has the title Her Last Chapter by Emilia Ward typed in large letters. It doesn’t look like Louise had the chance to read it before she died, as the pages are all neat, no dog-eared corners or fingerprints.
I put it down, then wander along the narrow hallway and back into the living room.
‘So, what do you think?’ Watkins is surveying the room with his hands on his hips. It’s just the two of us for the moment. Most of the work was done overnight. He’s wearing a tweed jacket with velvet elbow patches that make him look like a college professor. He runs a hand over his bald head. ‘Is this the work of your guy?’
‘I’m not sure. The past victims have been stabbed. They’re usually laid out on a bed. And they were murdered in the early hours of the morning, not late afternoon, and always in the Devon area, mostly Plymouth, except once where a victim was killed in a village about two miles from the city. But, like the other victims, there are no signs of sexual assault.’
‘Although we won’t know that for definite until the pathologist reports,’ he states.
I press my lips together to stop myself saying, ‘Obviously,’ and instead make a kind of grunting noise. I’ve never worked with DS Watkins but I can already tell he’s one of those men who likes to think he knows more than women, even though I’ve been in the job at least ten years longer than him and I’m a rank higher.
‘There’s some paperwork on Louise’s bedside table,’ I say. ‘Do you mind if I take it? There might be something of interest.’ I’d like to know how Emilia Ward has written a story that is spookily similar to the case I’ve been working on for the past seventeen years. I need to read the book to see what else is in there.
‘Knock yourself out,’ says Watkins, moving away from me and to the little kitchen at the front of the flat to talk to a uniformed officer who has just walked in.
I go back to Louise’s bedroom and gather up the manuscript carefully, making sure not to dislodge any pages, and leave the flat without saying goodbye to Watkins, hoping that the clues about the praying-mantis murderer are somewhere within these words.
38
Emilia’s parents stay for the weekend and, despite herself, she finds she’s enjoying their company. There is something reassuring in their steadfast natures, in her dad’s stiff upper lip and her mother’s chit-chat about the Rotary Club. Since her dad left the RAF, she’d always thought of their lives as so provincial, so mundane, but now she’d swap hers with theirs in a heartbeat. Oh, to live a normal life again, without fear, anxiety and the unease that is now her constant companion. She’s lost weight and she feels like she’s aged ten years, something her mother has mentioned more than once since she’s been here.