“They found her,” Julian said quietly.
“Where?” Izzy said. “Where is she?”
“Is she all right?” Yash added.
Mumbled versions of these questions came from almost everyone. But not Theo. Theo looked down at her plate.
“They found her,” Julian said with an obvious effort to keep his voice clear and steady. “In the river.”
26
SHE HAD SURFACED NEAR A PLACE CALLED LIMEHOUSE, WHICH WAS A section of the Thames on the east side of London, where the river bends. This was all there was to know. The breakfast broke up. Izzy got up and left the room. David went after her. Janelle, Vi, and Nate immediately made quiet exits. Stevie wanted to do the same but found she could not move. Angela had been her case, her charge, her person to protect. She had known something was very wrong, but now it was final.
“Let’s go and sit in the other room,” Theo said gently, putting her hand on Yash’s arm as he wept. “It’s more comfortable.”
Sooz and Peter supported each other. Sebastian sat at the table, stoic, for several more moments, looking at Julian.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “For . . . making the calls.”
Julian nodded grimly.
“Come on, Seb,” he said. “Let’s go with the others.”
They all left, and Stevie sat at a long, empty breakfast table, dotted with squares of weak sunlight and bowls of beans and sausages.
Stevie felt the overwhelming need to get out of this house.
It wasn’t raining yet, but there was a taste of it in the air. She put in her earbuds and listened to a podcast, mostly to drown out everything around her. She had failed. Failed utterly and totally. She had not saved Angela, not found Angela, not figured out what happened that night in 1995. Sure, she had gotten partway, but to something that wasn’t murder, not even close.
Merryweather was a good place to get lost. Its twisting paths and walls of green invited you inside, to wander, to be absorbed and never look back. The house vanished behind the curtain of trees, the walls, the high yew hedges. Here, there were only the calls of birds, the giggle of the slender brook that wriggled through the grounds. She found herself in the room of topiary with the burbling fountain. The meditation spot. When she had first been diagnosed with anxiety, she had to take a meditation class. She kept forgetting to do it, even though she knew it helped and that it worked better as a practice. It changed the brain. She turned off her podcast and closed her eyes, trying to settle herself. She listened to the birds complaining overhead, the sound of the fountain.
Someone was there. She opened her eyes in a flash.
“Sorry to startle you,” he said. “I came out for some air and to . . .”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“Do you mind?”
She shook her head. What was she going to say to him after what had just happened? That he couldn’t have a cigarette outside at his friend’s house now that his other friend was dead?
“I’m the only one who still smokes, I think,” he said, sitting next to her on the bench. “Don’t tell Theo. She’d be livid.”
He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. Even now, maybe especially now, she saw the allure of Julian. He had an elegant slouch, a way of leaning on one knee. His eyes were so arresting. Double lashes, maybe? What was it about hair around the eye that was so mesmerizing?
“I’d like to speak to you, actually,” he said, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “It’s clear you’re very perceptive. I read up on you last night, in fact. The cases you’ve solved. Quite remarkable.”
Stevie mumbled thanks.
“Last night,” he said, “you asked me if they’d traced Angela’s phone. I had a bit more detail about that than I let on.”
“I could tell,” she said.
“The pings indicated that she was walking between Waterloo and Vauxhall—that’s along the river. It’s about a mile and a half. That time of night, parts of it would be desolate. I had a pretty good idea what that probably meant. I didn’t want to upset everyone before we knew for sure.”
He took a long drag, examined the cigarette, then stubbed it out carefully on the metal arm of the bench. He pinched the end to make sure it was fully extinguished, then slid it back into the pack. The pack went back into his pocket, and then he withdrew his phone.
“My contact sent me some more information just now. I want your opinion.”
He passed his phone over to Stevie. There was an email up on the screen that came from someone at the Metropolitan Police.
Body found at Limehouse at 19.50 in the evening. Pronounced on scene. Time of death unable to be determined but likely over 48 hours. No visible injuries. Purse contained: wallet （containing ?40 and credit cards, intact）， set of keys, phone, Oyster card, new Oral-B toothbrush in package, box of Strepsils, blister pack of Nytol （can hold seven tablets, six were missing, one remaining）， five large rocks. Identification based on cards in wallet, verified through photo match pending formal identification. Postmortem scheduled for tomorrow morning.
“Nytol is sleeping medicine,” Julian said. “I’m sure you could gather that by the name. There’s little doubt what happened here.”
“Where did she get the rocks?” Stevie asked. “Where do you get rocks in London?”
“There are many beachy areas along the Thames. It’s not hard to find rocks along the shoreline, especially when the tide is out. I did check. Low tide was at eleven p.m. that night. What I want to ask you . . . these details, do you think knowing this would be easier for Izzy or harder? You’re her friend, and you seem to have a head for this sort of thing. Should I tell her about those?”
“I think,” Stevie said after a long moment, “she should know, but it would be easier coming from us. Could you share that with me, and we can show it to her when the time is right? Or, David will.”
“That’s very sensible,” Julian agreed. He screenshotted the message and sent it over to Stevie. He thanked her, excused himself for interrupting her privacy, and left her sitting in the calm greenery.
Stevie also had little doubt what had happened here. Six sleeping pills and five large rocks. She was looking at the tools that had led to Angela’s murder.
When Stevie stepped back inside Merryweather, the house had an uneasy quiet. The doors to the sitting room were open, but no one was inside. People had dispersed. The great grandfather clock ticked heavily. The house made an occasional conversational creak, but otherwise, all was silent.
She returned to her bedroom, hearing only slight noises from behind some of the doors—muffled sobs and voices. She packed quickly, pressing the fire safe back into the suitcase. Then she walked down the hall on the tips of her toes; it didn’t feel like the right time to be heard walking around. She approached David’s door and wrapped on it softly. There was no reply. She decided to walk around a bit more, turning the corner and entering a bit of the upstairs she had not been in before. Behind one of the doors, she could just make out David’s voice, soft and low. She knocked on this one, and after a moment, she was told to come in. She pushed open the door to a cheerful rose-pink bedroom with a four-poster bed dominating the center of the room. David and Izzy were sitting on the bed. Well, not sitting. Reclining. Izzy was curled up in a near-fetal position, her head resting on David’s chest.