The Woman Who Lied(72)

So if the praying-mantis murderer had come looking for Louise, how would he have known that Emilia’s new book was about him? Unless it was someone who had actually read Her Last Chapter. And the only people who had read it were her inner circle.

Horror washes over her as the pieces finally click into place.

Someone she knows is the praying-mantis murderer.





49





Saunders is unusually quiet in the car on the way back to Devon and I wonder if he’s still feeling queasy.

‘So, you’re wondering if Martin Butterworth’s son might be Ash from Emilia’s book?’ he asks, when I finish filling him in on Louise Greene and Emilia Ward.

‘That’s what we’re going to find out. Apparently Anthony Butterworth lives in Torquay nowadays and runs a guesthouse. Anthony and Ash. Both begin with an A. Maybe that was deliberate,’ I muse, as we pull into a side road. I reverse park between two cars, thankful I only have an Audi A3. It was raining when we left London but here the sun is beating down, bouncing off the car bonnets. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, just a flock of seagulls that screech menacingly as they swoop overhead and descend on a half-eaten sandwich that has been left on a wooden table in the nearby pub garden. I slip out of my raincoat and throw it onto the back seat. Saunders keeps his jacket on.

‘It’s around here, on the seafront, according to Google Maps,’ says Saunders, glancing at his phone and nearly getting knocked over by a cyclist.

‘Oi, watch it, mate,’ the cyclist calls back over his shoulder.

‘He should be careful who he’s speaking to,’ mutters Saunders, darkly, under his breath. Something is definitely up with him. Maybe he’s still feeling ill, but this isn’t like him. Normally I can’t shut him up. I actually feel a pang of nostalgia for the old Saunders, which I’d never thought I’d experience.

Anthony Butterworth’s guesthouse is a powder-blue Victorian building overlooking the bay, with black-painted window frames and a white front door, which is open when we arrive. Saunders glances at me, shrugs and steps over the threshold into the hallway. The red and gold swirly carpet is so loud it would deafen us all at karaoke, and Saunders looks queasy again. ‘Wow, this is an assault on the senses,’ he says. ‘Imagine coming here with a hangover –’

He’s interrupted by an inner door opening to reveal a slightly harassed-looking man. He’s a few years older than Saunders, I’d say, maybe mid thirties, with a receding hairline and piercing blue eyes. He’s still good-looking but I imagine he would have been very handsome in his youth. Is this our Ash?

‘Are you looking for a room?’ he asks us. ‘Or here to check in?’

I explain who we are and show him our identification. He looks resigned, as though he’s used to being visited by police. He shows us through an empty dining room into a cosy sitting room. A white Persian cat is curled up in the corner of a navy blue linen sofa, leaving a smattering of hairs on the nearby cushion. He sits on a chair opposite while we take the sofa. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

I appraise him. He’s tall like his father, but that’s where the similarities end.

‘I just want to confirm that you’re the son of Martin Butterworth,’ I begin.

A shadow passes over his face. ‘I haven’t seen him in years. We lost touch after my mum divorced him.’

‘When was this?’

He pulls at the hem of his blue Fred Perry polo-shirt. ‘Ah … years ago. After my dad went to prison. I was probably nineteen.’

I take my notebook out of my pocket and turn the pages, trying to read my scribbled writing. ‘I know this is a strange question, but did you know someone at university called Daisy Greene?’

He opens his mouth to speak but we are interrupted by a woman entering the room. She’s petite, with long blonde hair and a wide smile. Anthony introduces her as his wife, Sharon, and she asks us if we would like a cup of tea. When we decline she says, ‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘No. Please, stay,’ says Anthony, desperation in his voice. She pulls up a leather pouffe next to his armchair and sits down. She looks a little awkward and I smile at her reassuringly.

‘So,’ I prompt, ‘did you know her?’

Anthony shakes his head, his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘So you didn’t date anyone by that name?’

‘No, definitely not. And I didn’t go to university either. What’s this got to do with my dad?’

I glance at Sharon, who looks like she wants to ask Anthony questions but is politely waiting until we’ve left.

‘Just to reiterate, you have no relationship with your father?’

‘Like I said, no.’ His pleasant face darkens. ‘He’s a misogynist and a wife beater.’

Sharon reaches over and places a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘He used to hit Ant’s mum,’ she says softly. ‘And Ant when he was a boy.’

Anthony dips his head and I feel a surge of anger towards his father. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, biting back my feelings. I hear about this kind of thing too often. ‘Do you think he’s capable of murder?’ I ask.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Saunders sit forwards, his elbows resting on his thighs.