‘You said yourself you look like the other girls. She’s obviously got a thing for young blonde things. Maybe she’s in the closet.’
I push her gently so that her drink nearly slops onto her lap. ‘Stop it.’ I laugh. I tell her about the necklace and Kathryn’s insistence it had belonged to someone else.
‘Who did she say it belonged to?’
I shrug. ‘I have no idea. But I don’t believe her. I think it was Jemima’s.’
Later, I walk with her to the bus stop and she leans over to hug me. She smells familiar, of alcohol and Marc Jacobs perfume. I wait with her until her bus arrives, then walk the few streets back to The Cuckoo’s Nest. It doesn’t feel right to call it home. Home is still the flat in Horfield with Courtney. This is just temporary, I remind myself.
The street is empty by the time I turn onto Sion Hill. Clifton Suspension Bridge looks eerie in the distance, the mist haloing around the lampposts and the lights blurring against the inky dark night. I can’t help but think about Matilde, walking home alone on a night out. How did she not see the car coming? It must have been driving fast.
A twig snaps behind me. I spin around but nobody’s there. I pull my hat down further over my head and walk faster towards Elspeth’s house. I can hear footsteps getting closer. I break into a jog, my imagination running wild. That’s all this is, I remind myself, just like the monsters I imagined under my bed, or the witch trying to get in through my window, or the person breathing down my neck last night outside Elspeth’s bedroom. I can almost hear my mum’s soothing voice, telling me there’s nothing to worry about.
I stop running when I reach The Cuckoo’s Nest, and wrench open the metal gate, darting down the front path. I almost drop my key in my haste to open the door. I can’t get into the house fast enough. I’m only brave enough to peek through the crack in the glass panel of the door when I’m safely inside. And that’s when I see a figure in a dark coat, the hood pulled up, crossing the road towards the suspension bridge.
I blink, trying to focus on the person scurrying away, but my contact lenses are irritating me, causing my vision to blur. As I turn away, though, I can’t shake the disconcerting feeling that it was Vince.
I was stupid. You saw me, didn’t you? I could have given myself away. I tried to get too close, too quickly. The time wasn’t right. I could have ruined everything. Patience isn’t my strong point. If I hadn’t stood on that fucking twig you’d never have known I was there. I was with you long before that. I was with you when you left the bar with your tarty little friend. I was with you when you both wove your way to the bus stop, giggling and acting younger than your twenty-two years. I was with you when your friend got on the bus and you waved her off. And I was with you when you walked home alone. I could so easily have reached for you, placing my hands around your long, slender neck.
You need to be more careful.
18
Una
I don’t get a chance to do any amateur sleuthing for the next week or so because Elspeth is constantly by my side. When we’re not in the house I’m accompanying her on excursions, or sitting patiently in one of her shops while she discusses business with the manager. I also have to walk her to her twice-weekly hair appointments. Unfortunately she doesn’t use the salon where Courtney works （it would have been great to catch up with her for a chat） but a more upmarket affair in the village. When I saw the price of a cut and colour I nearly passed out.
I’m sure Kathryn is deliberately avoiding me. When she comes over she’s polite but distant – even colder than usual. I think she’s angry with me for telling Peter about the necklace. Perhaps she thinks we’re ganging up on her, accusing her of knowing more about Jemima’s death than she lets on. But that’s not what this is about. Yes, I believe she lied about the necklace, but I can’t believe she harmed Jemima. Why would she?
Peter keeps in touch by text. He’s much more communicative by phone than he is in person. He had to go back to London for work. But he’s promised to visit in a few weeks, saying he’ll stay nearby in a bed-and-breakfast. I told him I’ll try to find out who Jemima’s mystery man was before he returns.
Sometimes, when I’m alone in bed at night （door locked with the chair jammed under the handle）， I miss Mum so much it physically hurts. The weight of her death sits heavily on my chest so that I feel suffocated by it. I understand Peter’s pain. If I thought someone had harmed my mum I would go to the ends of the earth to find out the truth. I’m not stupid – I know that my interest in Jemima’s death is also a distraction from my own grief, from my failed relationship and my boredom in a job where I mostly have an old lady for company, even though these days – since I stopped asking probing questions – we get on well. I know all this. The only thing that gets me through these depressing cold winter days is the thought of the hot climes I’ll visit in September.