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.’
‘Well, I can assure you, it wasn’t me. I’m a happily married man.’
‘Someone killed her.’
‘I’m very sorry, Daisy, I really am, but I never knew your mother.’
The wind picked up then and Donald braced himself against it, leaning closer to her as he did so. He was eight years older now, but still strong, still fit. It was her word against his. How could she ever prove it?
He moved towards her and she shrank back against the wall, her heart racing. ‘Daisy,’ he said sadly, ‘have you said anything about this to Ash?’
She shook her head. She could smell smoke on his breath.
‘Good. You should probably keep it that way. I expect lots of people doodle in the margins of newspapers.’ His gaze was pitying. ‘I’m sure you’ve realized by now, but Ash is fragile, and if you say anything about this, well …’ His shoulders rose. ‘I don’t need you upsetting my family and making accusations.’
She stood there, not sure what to say. He spoke softly, as though he was talking about something as anodyne as the weather, but she could detect the menace in his voice. He was standing even closer to her now, and she felt uncomfortable, pinned as she was against the wall of the house. ‘Does Ash know about your mother’s murder?’
Daisy shook her head. ‘No. Just that she died when I was a kid.’
‘I am sorry. But please believe me when I say I didn’t know her.’ He turned away from her and she watched as he walked back into the house.
44
Emilia stands for a while, staring at Ottilie from a distance. She’s sitting on the wall overlooking the river in a white T-shirt and a patterned maxi skirt. Her long blonde hair is in a ponytail, black-rimmed sunglasses pushed back on her head, and she looks fresh and young, her face turned up to the sun. Nearly thirty years of friendship shrinks away so that all they have is this moment. Ottilie has been a constant in her life since they were eleven years old. She’d been family when Emilia was missing her own. She’d been her comrade when Kristin betrayed her. Throughout it all she’d felt Ottilie had her back. She has to broach this carefully, because if she’s wrong and she accuses Ottilie, it will ruin everything.
The banks of the river are busy and populated by families or workers out for lunch. Her mouth is dry as she approaches her friend.
‘Oh, hello, you,’ Ottilie says, looking up at Emilia, shielding her eyes with an elegant hand. ‘I got you a Diet Coke. Do you want to go to the café or are you okay staying here?’ She hands a can to Emilia, who takes it and sits down. It’s ice-cold and fizzes when Emilia opens it. She has to drink some before she can get any words out and takes a large gulp. Ottilie is watching her with a smile. ‘You’ll burp if you drink it all too fast. Café or here?’ she prompts.
Emilia shakes her head. She couldn’t possibly eat. ‘Here’s fine.’
‘What a scorcher.’ Ottilie turns her face back up to the sun. ‘So,’ she says, her eyes closed. ‘What did you want to see me about?’
Nausea rises in Emilia’s throat. She places the can of Coke beside her on the ground. How the hell is she going to broach this? She doesn’t know where to start.
Ottilie must sense her hesitation as she turns to look at her. ‘What is it, Mils?’
She has to get it out before she chokes on her words. ‘Remember I told you about Jasmine going missing and the hoax call and the note with the tickets being sent to Nancy’s boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’ Ottilie frowns and pushes her sunglasses from her hair onto her face.
Emilia wonders if this is deliberate so that she can’t read Ottilie’s eyes. She reaches into her bag and hands Ottilie the letter. ‘This is it.’
Ottilie falls silent as she reads it.
‘Do you notice anything about it?’ Emilia asks.
‘Well … only that whoever wrote it didn’t intend Jasmine and her friend to come to any harm by the sound of it. It was designed to scare you.’ She hands it back to Emilia.
‘Anything else?’
‘Beautiful handwriting. Someone has taken a calligraphy course …’ And then she falters, as though it has dawned on her. ‘Shit … is that what this is about? You think I wrote this?’
‘The handwriting is so like yours but I can’t …’ There are tears in her voice now. ‘I don’t want to believe you wrote it.’
‘Of course I didn’t write it! For fuck’s sake, Mils, how long have we known each other?’ She pushes the sunglasses back onto her hair. ‘Do you really think I’m capable of all this?’
Emilia shakes her head. ‘No. But the writing …’
‘Don’t you think if I was warped enough to be behind this I would have at least tried to disguise my writing? Let me see it again.’ She snatches the letter back. She’s silent for a few moments while she studies it and then, ‘This here. I don’t write my Es like this. Yes, the Ms and Ns are similar, but that’s it. Christ.’ She shoves the letter back at Emilia, her green eyes flashing.