I want to tell her to be kinder to herself, but depression is part of the grieving process. She rocks Victoria in her arms. The toddler is struggling to stay awake.
‘Dean seemed to lose interest in sleeping with me after Victoria was born. I tried to spice things up, arranging date nights and romantic dinners. Maya would come and babysit, but Dean was more interested in talking to her about her sex life – living vicariously through her adventures – imagining that he was single and available.
‘I guess we all want that sometimes, but I hated how it made me feel – like he’d married the wrong twin.’ The words get caught in her throat. ‘But he isn’t a killer. He would never hurt Maya.’
‘He filmed her.’
‘That makes him a sleaze – and if he had ever tried anything, Maya would have sent him packing.’
‘You trust your sister.’
‘More than my husband.’
Something else topples upstairs.
‘They’ll pay for any damage,’ I say. ‘And put everything back.’
‘Not everything,’ says Melody, talking about more than furniture.
Hoyle walks into the kitchen like a gunslinger entering a saloon. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he pulls up a chair and sits on it backwards, propping his elbows on the backrest.
‘Where was your husband on the night your father died?’
‘In Leeds. He drove up on Sunday afternoon.’ Melody looks from face to face, wanting us to believe her. ‘He’s working on a big project. A block of flats. A dozen bathrooms. Kitchens. Laundries. He’s been staying in Leeds during the week and coming home on weekends.’
‘Where does he stay?’
‘At a pub near the railway station. The Clayton.’
‘Does your husband own a computer?’
‘Yes. A laptop.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the third bedroom. We use it as a study.’
‘We didn’t find a computer,’ says Hoyle.
Melody hesitates, clearly surprised.
‘He also seems to have misplaced his phone,’ says Hoyle.
She looks miserable. ‘I can’t help you.’
‘Right! We’ll just keep looking,’ says Hoyle, who bounces to his feet and smacks his hands together, making Victoria jump and begin to cry. Melody quietens her quickly, rocking her gently until her eyes close and she falls asleep with her head resting against her mother’s chest. Behind them, the refrigerator is covered in crayon drawings and finger paintings. A tap drips. The clock ticks. The searchers have gone quiet.
‘Does he have a secret place?’ I ask.
Melody blinks at me.
‘Everybody has one,’ I explain. ‘Somewhere they put personal items of special value.’
She shakes her head.
‘A workshop. A lock-up. A caravan. A shed. A lower drawer. A shoebox. That’s where he’ll be hiding the memory card, or USB stick. He’s been watching Maya undressing, showering, sleeping.’
Melody wants to block her ears.
‘Where is he?’ she whispers.
‘Outside, sitting in a police car.’
‘Can I talk to him?’
‘No.’
She bites her bottom lip, leaving carmine tooth marks on the soft pinkness of her skin.
‘I can’t help you.’
Dean Sterling is in the back seat of the police car, eyes closed and head back, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world. When I open the door, he raises his cuffed hands and scratches his nose. ‘We have to stop meeting like this.’
I slide alongside him and take a stick of chewing gum from my pocket, offering him one.
‘I’m going fishing tomorrow with my mates. Should I cancel?’ he asks.
‘I would.’
He nods, trying to appear unconcerned, but I can see the uncertainty in his bloodshot eyes and smell it on his skin.
‘Lying to the police isn’t going to help you,’ I say.
‘Don’t look so serious. I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘You keep saying that. I hope that alibi in Leeds holds up.’
‘I was there,’ says Dean, growing circumspect. ‘But I wasn’t staying at the pub.’
‘Where were you staying?’
‘With a friend.’
He watches me, waiting for the penny to drop. ‘Who is she?’
‘A single mum, making ends meet. She’s a good girl. Decent. She’s had a tough time. Fella walked out on her when she was pregnant.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘Online.’
‘Through a dating app?’
‘Not exactly. She was looking for a sugar daddy. I know how that sounds but she’s not a prostitute – not really. She has a few regulars. Guys who help her out.’
‘Out of the goodness of their hearts.’
A rictus smile creases his face.
‘You should tell the police,’ I say.
‘I don’t want Melody knowing.’
‘You either tell the truth, or they’ll charge you with obstruction, or worse.’
He blows some air into his cheeks and exhales. ‘If I give you her address, you could talk to Tessa and confirm my story. You could keep her name out of this.’
‘Sounds like you care more about Tessa than you do Melody.’
Again, he grimaces. ‘If I admit to filming Maya, what happens to me?’
‘You’ll be convicted of voyeurism and put on the sex offenders’ register.’
‘Will I go to prison?’
‘The maximum sentence is two years, but if you cooperate and if you haven’t disseminated the footage—’
‘I wiped the files.’
‘What about footage from the night of the murder?’
‘All gone.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I say. ‘You might have been able to do a deal.’
Dean seems to weigh up this information. His thoughts are self-serving, and he cares more about his own fate than Melody, or Tessa, or Maya for that matter. There is a long silence during which we watch police officers carrying bags of his clothes from the house.
‘I’ve always fancied Maya, you know – the other sister. The forbidden fruit. I used to wonder if everything else was the same, you know. Underneath. Naked.’
My stomach churns.
‘Maya was the naughty one, the sexy one. Melody was nice and neat and polite, but she never really did it for me, not in the sack. Know what I mean?’
You’re an arsehole, I want to say, but I keep listening in the hope that he might say something incriminating or less self-serving.
‘When did you start filming Maya?’ I ask.
He acts surprised. ‘Me? I didn’t film her.’
‘You just said you wiped the files.’
‘Which means you have no proof.’
‘We have the broken cameras.’
‘No idea what you’re talking about.’
He smiles, thinking he’s so clever.
‘Are you going to give me Tessa’s name?’
‘Will you keep her out of it?’
‘I can’t make that sort of deal.’
‘Well, find me someone who can.’
30
Evie
Elias is late. Rampton called and said his transport was delayed, making him sound like a package they’re delivering. Cyrus has been walking from room to room, adjusting a book on a shelf, or a photograph in a frame. Now he’s checking the fridge.