The Woman Who Lied(59)

Emilia can’t bring herself to admit the rest. This is bad enough. She hates that she has become this person when her natural instinct is to be open and honest, but since last March she’s become someone who keeps secrets and tells half-truths. She’s so tempted to tell Ottilie everything, to let it spill from her mouth like word vomit until there’s nothing left. She gulps and takes another sip of her drink, wishing she’d also ordered a gin fizz. ‘What I don’t understand is, why? Why did Louise give me the story of a real-life case? And …’ she puts down her glass ‘… is that why she’s been killed, and why I’ve been targeted in this way? Because someone knows she’s told me about the serial killer. Possibly the praying-mantis murderer themselves, and they’ve killed her to shut her up? I’ve been going over and over it in my head, replaying her last message to me and wondering what it could have meant. She wanted to tell me something important. She kept saying she was sorry. And that she’d explain everything to me. And it has to be something to do with the book and the story she told me. Did she know who was behind it all? Was she trying to warn me about the real killer?’

‘But why haven’t they tried to kill you too?’

A chill washes over Emilia. ‘That’s what’s terrifying me. I think I’m next.’





40





Daisy,

2005

Daisy couldn’t relax that Christmas. She missed Ash with every fibre of her being, but more than that, she couldn’t stop thinking about Donald. It consumed her every waking moment, and she dreamed about the morning she’d found her mother dead: the sterile tidiness of the living room, the lingering smell of cigarettes mixed with the metallic smell of blood.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone of her suspicions about Donald being the Doodle Man, especially not her father. She needed some kind of proof first, and she was determined to get that when she went to stay with Ash.

It snowed in Yorkshire on the morning she was travelling to Devon. Her father was worried about her as he drove her to the station. ‘Let me know if there are any problems. I’ve checked the weather and down south it’s milder. You must bring Ash up to see us next time.’ And then he and Shannon waved her off as the train pulled out of the station. She felt a pang of love for them as they stood, arms wrapped around each other, snowflakes falling onto their shoulders and woolly hats. He’d have a fit if he knew she was going to the home of a potential killer.

The journey was long and slow due to the snow. It wasn’t until they passed Birmingham that the journey became easier and the snow-topped fields turned green.

She had to change trains at Plymouth to get to the little village station where Ash and Donald were waiting for her. It wasn’t the village where she’d spent the first ten years of her life with her mother, but it wasn’t far, less than two miles away.

Donald smiled warmly at them as she fell into Ash’s arms.

And then she remembered why she was there. As much as she adored Ash – although her feelings were conflicted now – it was Donald she had to concentrate on for the moment.

Donald insisted on carrying her bag and they followed him out of the station to the car park at the back. The sight of his sticky-up hair made her stomach turn. It had been eight years and there were now strands of white in his sandy mop but she was sure it was him, and she wasn’t fooled by his helpfulness or his cheery nature.

It was a short drive back to their home, a big old house by the sea. It wasn’t until they turned down a lane and pulled into an expansive shingled driveway that she realized this was the only house for miles around.

‘Wow, this is remote,’ she said, as they stepped out of the car. A strong wind smelling of sea salt whipped around her, pulling at her hair and the hem of her coat, like an eager child.

‘We love it here,’ said Ash, leading her to the pretty front porch with its pointed white roof. ‘Secluded, just how we like it.’ It should have sounded romantic, but with Donald just yards behind them it made her shiver. She’d had all these plans for confronting him, but how could she do that now they were here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields and little lanes and sheer cliffs and the sea, which sent spray flying into the air so that she could taste the salt on her lips? Confronting a killer in a place like this wouldn’t be wise.

Ash steered her into the house, which was huge and rambling but lived-in and homely, with a farmhouse kitchen that looked out over the cliffs and the sea beyond. Stef stood at an Aga, her hair curled around her attractive face. When she saw them, she rubbed her hands on her apron and embraced Daisy in a whiff of Chanel perfume and cake mixture. ‘I’ve just put a Victoria Sponge into the oven,’ she said, beaming at them. ‘Ash, love, why don’t you show Daisy around?’

‘Gladly.’ Ash twinkled at her and grabbed her hand. God, she already loved the warm, welcoming house, with the lights at the windows, a large Christmas tree in the hallway, and the garland decorated with pretty tartan bows woven around the banister.

And she was about to throw a bomb that would blow it all up.

Perhaps she was mistaken, she thought, hoped, in the days that followed. Perhaps the fact this man had sandy-coloured hair and a double crown was just a coincidence. After all, there couldn’t be only one man in Devon fitting this description. And she’d never seen his face. He seemed nice too. Jolly, loving, constantly checking in with her and Ash, making sure they were happy, comfortable. It was hard to believe that Ash had suffered a breakdown as a teenager with a family like this.