Emilia looks down at the letter, the words swimming. She didn’t bring the birthday card with her so can’t compare, but she’s known Ottilie long enough to be able to tell her friend is genuinely shocked and pissed off.
Ottilie’s expression softens. ‘I’m hurt you could think it’s me, but I know how fucking awful this must be for you. All I can tell you is that it’s not my writing.’ She sits up, her face serious. ‘I swear to you, Mils, on my mother’s grave, I never wrote that letter. I’d never do anything to hurt you. You’re my best friend. You’re one of my favourite people in the whole world and I hate seeing you like this, distrusting everyone.’ She holds up a hand when Emilia starts to speak. ‘I know, and I understand why. And I’d love to throttle whoever is behind this, but you can’t seriously think it’s me, can you?’ Her eyes are shining with tears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emilia says, throwing her arms around her friend. ‘Of course I believe you.’
She feels as if she’s blindfolded, like a child playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, except she’s pinning the blame on her friends at random, without anything concrete.
45
When Emilia gets home she heads straight to her office and retrieves the birthday cards. As soon as she’d clapped eyes on the most recent one Ottilie had sent, and seen for herself how similar the writing was, she hadn’t looked at the others. But now she’s studying it more closely she realizes what Ottilie means about the letter E. The writing is similar but not identical. She’d jumped to conclusions without thinking it through and is now kicking herself.
She flicks through the rest of the cards until she gets to the last one, right at the back, the biggest, which holds all the smaller cards inside. She opens it and her heart races. It’s the same beautifully calligraphic writing as Ottilie’s, but with a few differences. Like an E that looks like a backward number three. Her hand trembles and she grabs the letter from her bag, comparing the two. It’s the same: there is no doubt about it. Ottilie’s had been similar, but this is an exact match, messier and more hurried than Ottilie’s.
The writing belongs to Louise.
Emilia gets up from her desk and runs downstairs. She needs to speak to Detective Inspector Janine Murray again. She’s rummaging through the kitchen drawer, trying to find the contact card she’d given her on Friday, when she feels a presence behind her. She spins around, her heart thumping, but it’s just Elliot standing there, watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.
‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’
‘Have you seen the card DI Murray left me with her details on it?’ she asks. ‘I thought I’d put it in here.’
‘You’re just messing up the drawer,’ he says, coming over to her. ‘Make us a cuppa and I’ll find it.’
She moves away to put the kettle on, trying to remain calm but inwardly screaming. Louise. It’s Louise’s writing. Why? Why would her friend have done all this?
‘Here it is.’ He hands it to her. ‘Why do you need to speak to her? Have you found something out?’
She tells him all about the letter and Louise’s birthday card. ‘So now I think it has to have been Louise behind all this,’ she says, pointing to the letter and the card that she’d placed on the kitchen island.
He picks them up and studies them. ‘I can’t believe it was Louise. She – she helped you, didn’t she? When Jas went missing. Why would she do that otherwise?’
‘I don’t know,’ Emilia cries. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’ Her cheeks are hot and sweat is pooling in her armpits. ‘I’m going to show this to DI Murray anyway,’ she says, with resolve. ‘Don’t you think?’
He shrugs. ‘Sure, but I don’t think it proves anything. It could have been copied so that it looks like Louise sent it to you.’
She feels like they’re going around in circles. She watches as Elliot pours them both a mint tea. ‘Here, this is supposed to be refreshing. I’d better get back to work.’
‘Have you checked the smart cams lately?’
‘I have. There’s been nothing for weeks. Not since we saw the man … or woman … lurking outside that night – apart from whoever stole my bike, that is. Have you told DI Murray about that?’
‘Not yet. I will.’
‘I check the cameras every day, especially since Louise … Please don’t worry. We’re safe here in this house. We’ve got cameras, alarms, everything. Nobody can get in without us knowing about it.’
Except someone did get in. To steal the bike. She blinks, trying to erase the memory of finding Louise dead in her flat. A place where she should have been safe.
He comes over to her, carrying his mug with Super Dad on the front, and kisses the top of her head. ‘It kills me that I can’t do more to make you feel safe.’
‘El …’
He smiles sadly at her, then leaves the kitchen.
Janine Murray is at her door within twenty minutes.
‘I’m staying at a hotel in Kingston,’ she says, by way of explanation, as soon as she sets foot inside Emilia’s house. She’s looking around in that way of hers that slightly unnerves Emilia. ‘I’m not heading back to Devon for another week.’ She has on a smart jacket and a blouse with a bow tied loosely at the neck. Emilia wonders if she’s hot. Not that she looks it. She has a calm aura about her, even if she does smell of smoke, which she’s tried to disguise with perfume.
DI Murray sits at the oak-topped table and throws her jacket over the back of the chair next to her, while Emilia brings her the glass of water she asked for. DI Murray is rummaging in a large tote bag and retrieves a wedge of papers bound with two elastic bands. ‘Actually, I’m glad you rang, as I was aiming to come and see you either today or tomorrow anyway. My partner, Saunders, has come down with some bug so he’s been about as much help as a chocolate teapot.’ She sighs and snaps off the elastic bands. ‘I have your manuscript here.’
Emilia lowers herself onto a chair opposite. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘It was beside Louise Greene’s bed.’
Emilia swallows painfully. ‘I emailed it to her to read. She must have printed it out.’
‘It’s a good story and it makes for very interesting reading. I’m assuming Louise told you about the praying-mantis murderer, being a police officer herself?’
Emilia nods, not trusting herself to speak.
‘I thought as much. I wish you’d just admitted it last time I was here. It would have saved me some time.’
A whoosh of heat floods Emilia’s face. ‘I’m sorry.’
DI Murray continues, ‘God only knows how Louise knew so much about it when she’s never worked on the case. But then I started considering the rest, and the sub-plot with the character of Daisy interested me.’
Emilia’s back breaks into a sweat. ‘How so?’
‘Because she believes her mother was murdered by the serial killer. But what I really want to know is how you knew the name of one of the real victims.’