The Woman Who Lied(64)

She thinks of Ottilie and the letter. She’ll tell him tomorrow after she’s spoken to her. She’ll make sure not to be alone with her. For once she actually feels afraid of her friend and that, despite meeting when they were just children, she feels she doesn’t know her at all.

‘I’m sure,’ she lies. ‘Now goodnight.’





43





Daisy,

2005

It was him. Her instinct had been right. Why had she tried to fight it? But she knew why. Ash. How could they be together now?

After seeing the doodles in the margin of the newspaper, she couldn’t get her thoughts in order and sat at the kitchen table in a daze while Ash and Stef buzzed around her. She had to pretend she had a headache so that they would stop asking her why she was being so quiet, which just resulted in Stef rummaging in cupboards until she had found some paracetamol and fussing even more.

She needed to broach it with Donald. She had to get him on his own, away from Ash and Stef, to confront him. The weekend was nearly over, and they were both returning to university tomorrow – she was running out of time. But it was difficult because Ash hardly left her side. On the rare occasions they were apart, Donald was always with his wife. They seemed close and still to be very much in love. Could this man not only be her mother’s murderer but also a serial killer? Her dad had told her about the other women killed after her mother. Daisy had looked up serial killers in the local library, and had been shocked to discover some were charming, handsome even, like the one she’d been reading about from the USA called Ted Bundy. Is that who Donald is? she wondered. The UK’s version of Ted Bundy? She shuddered right there at the kitchen table despite the heat of the Aga.

‘Are you okay, Daise?’ Ash asked, staring at her with concern. From the kitchen window she could see Donald at the edge of the garden, puffing at a cigarette, hunched against the wind, the smoke blowing out into the cloudy skies. This was her chance to speak to him alone.

She pushed back her chair, which scraped across the terracotta tiles, causing Stef to look around from where she stood dolloping cake mixture into two round tins.

‘I just need some fresh air,’ Daisy said, unable to bear it any longer. Part of her wanted to run to the safety of her father’s house, and never look back. She wished she’d never gone to Exeter. But the other half knew she had to grab this opportunity while she could. For years she’d been dreaming of coming face to face with her mother’s killer. It was down to Fate that she was here, eight years after her mother’s murder.

‘It’s really windy outside,’ said Ash, getting up. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No!’ It came out too harshly. ‘I’m sorry but I just need some – some time by myself.’ She hurried out into the hallway, grabbing her coat and shoving her feet into her wellies, and almost ran out of the front door. She stood on the path lined with bushes, her heart racing and her throat dry. She imagined it would be idyllic here in the summer even though she knew she wouldn’t get the chance to see it. Now she was certain that Ash’s dad was the Doodle Man she would have to end things.

She rounded the corner and watched Donald for a while as he stood smoking in his wool coat. The hair at the back of his head had thinned a bit since she’d last seen him but there was no mistaking that double crown. More than that, there was no mistaking those doodles. He’d carved one on her mother’s ankle after he’d killed her. Had he done the same to the other women he’d murdered? How could he have hidden it from his family for all these years?

She was staying in the house of a murderer and she knew she had to tread carefully. As soon as she was back at university she’d go straight to the police.

She faltered, suddenly afraid. There was a steep drop at the end of the garden, with a flimsy fence protecting them from the cliff’s edge. It would take just one push and she’d be dead. He must have sensed her behind him because he turned around then.

‘Hello, Daisy,’ he said cheerfully, stubbing out his cigarette on the trunk of a nearby tree and walking towards her. His breath clouded in front of him as he trudged over the grass, his trousers tucked into knee-high boots. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I …’ She stepped back against the house, touching the rough brickwork with the tips of her fingers as though it could anchor her. ‘I … It’s strange, but I think I recognize you.’

He laughed. ‘Recognize me? What do you mean?’

‘I think you were friends with my mother.’ And I think you killed her, you arsehole, she adds silently, under her breath.

His warm, open expression suddenly snapped shut, his eyes hardening. ‘Who was your mother?’

‘Jennifer Radcliffe.’ She watched as his jaw tightened and a muscle near his jaw spasmed.

And then his mouth turned down and he shook his head. ‘No, sorry, that name doesn’t ring any bells.’

Of course he was going to deny it. But she was sure she’d noticed the flash of recognition on his face when she mentioned her mother’s name. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, smiling benignly again. ‘Anyway, better get back in. The wind is picking up.’

‘It was about eight years ago.’ Her words tumbled out desperately. ‘My mum didn’t want to introduce him to me. I called him her secret boyfriend. He’d doodle in the margins of the newspaper. He looked like you.’