‘I don’t know what you mean,’ says Emilia, her stomach clenching. She can’t believe this is happening to her. This whole sorry nightmare started with that stupid story.
‘Well,’ DI Murray presses her glasses more firmly up her nose, ‘how you could possibly have known that a Jennifer Radcliffe was one of the serial killer’s victims.’
Emilia swallows. ‘I … It was just a made-up name.’
‘Hmm.’ She taps her pen against her teeth. ‘Interesting, then, that Jennifer Radcliffe was also the name of Louise Greene’s mother, wouldn’t you say? And that Louise’s full name was actually Daisy Louise Greene, Greene being her father’s name. She must have dropped the Daisy at some point. Maybe when she moved from Devon to Yorkshire. Or when she joined the police. I wonder whether …’
But Emilia can’t bear to hear any more. The kitchen spins and she has to rush out of the room to be sick.
46
I patiently sip my water while waiting for Emilia to return. She’d sat there in front of me, going paler and paler until I hit her with my final sucker punch. I’m assuming she’s fled to the bathroom to vomit. Maybe it’s the same bug that’s floored poor old Saunders.
I tap the pen against my teeth, weighing up my next move. There is something very disturbing about this book, about Louise, and especially about how Emilia Ward ended up writing this story. Why would a proficient, successful author with nine novels under her belt resort to stealing someone else’s idea? And I’m assuming that’s what happened here, because Daisy’s story in Her Last Chapter is too similar to Louise’s past. Both having mothers called Jennifer Radcliffe who were killed by the praying-mantis murderer. Come on, this is not a coincidence. I don’t know how it all fits together yet, but for the first time in a long while I feel the identity of the serial killer is tantalizingly close.
I look up as I hear footsteps in the garden. A man is coming out of one of those fancy home offices that popped up over lockdown. He’s handsome, with broad shoulders and dark wavy hair, just a smattering of grey around the temples. He looks like he works out – muscular arms protrude from his linen shirt. I watch as he scans the garden, wondering what he’s looking for. He reaches up and moves something near the fence. Perhaps it’s one of those hidden cameras. I don’t blame him for installing them. It’s particularly unnerving, what has been happening to Emilia and now this with Louise.
He glances up and spots me, a stranger at his table. And then he quickens his pace as he strides across the lawn towards me, leaving indentations in the still damp grass. The bifolds are already pulled back and he steps into the kitchen, his face open and friendly.
‘Hi, you must be DI Murray. Emilia said she was going to call you. I’m her husband, Elliot.’ He reaches across the table to shake my hand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say pleasantly. ‘I’m sorry about everything that’s been happening to your wife.’
His shoulders slump and his face drops. ‘Thanks. It’s been horrendous.’ Then his gaze lands on the manuscript in front of me. ‘Is that Em’s latest book?’
‘Yes. I found it on Louise’s bedside table. Although I’m not sure if she’d read it all.’
‘She usually checks the police procedural things for my wife.’
I nod noncommittally. His body language is interesting. His expression is open but the way he’s standing, arms folded, chin jutting out, there’s something defensive about it. I don’t want to tell him anything else until I’ve spoken to Emilia.
‘Here she is,’ he says fondly, as Emilia walks back into the kitchen, a bit unsteady on her feet, a sheen to her skin. She flashes him a pale smile and he wraps an arm around her shoulders almost possessively. I can tell he’s one of those manly men, who view their wives as someone to look after, to provide for. It’s no bad thing, I suppose, although it doesn’t float my boat. My ex, Julian, and now my girlfriend, Kim, hopefully see me as tough and independent. Emilia is tiny, though, just about reaching Elliot’s shoulder. I can imagine a lot of men would put themselves forwards to protect her. She’s like a young Goldie Hawn. She extracts herself from him and sits down again. Elliot doesn’t look as if he wants to leave and grips the back of his wife’s chair.
‘You can go, El. Just boring stuff here.’
Now this is interesting. Emilia obviously doesn’t want her husband to hear our conversation.
‘Okay, cool. I’ll … Well, I’ll see you later, then.’ He sounds unsure now and smiles uncertainly. Then he bids farewell to me and heads back into the garden.
Once he’s gone Emilia breathes a long sigh.
‘Are you feeling okay?’
She nods, sipping some water. ‘I don’t think I’ve eaten enough today. I’m going to make a sandwich. Do you want one?’
I pass, telling her I’ve already had my lunch, and I watch as she faffs about behind the island retrieving condiments and a loaf of bread. I can see that she wants to keep busy. The island is behind where I sit at the table, so I turn my chair to face her. ‘So, go on, then. Tell me how you ended up writing about Louise and her murdered mother.’
Emilia stops what she’s doing to throw me a disapproving look. ‘I didn’t realize I was writing about Louise.’
‘Then how did you get the story?’
She continues buttering the bread so vigorously that she tears it. ‘You have to understand how hard it is to keep coming up with this kind of plot,’ she says. ‘And I’ve been writing about my detective Miranda Moody for nearly ten years. I’d lost inspiration, I suppose, but I was contracted to write this book. And for months all I could do was stare at a blank page …’ She stops and clutches at her chest. ‘It was awful. I told Louise and then she revealed she’d written a short story, almost like a diary, about a girl whose mother had been murdered by a serial killer that would be perfect as a Miranda Moody case, but she didn’t want it for herself. She said she didn’t have time to write a whole book and that she’d just written it for a bit of fun. And then … she offered it to me …’
‘She gave you the story already written?’ I ask in disbelief.
Emilia looks like she wants to burst into tears. Her face reddens. ‘Yes. Well, just the Daisy sections. It wouldn’t have been enough to fill a whole novel but enough for a side story. I liked it and thought it was interesting, the whole thing about a girl who suspects her boyfriend’s dad of killing her mother and of being a serial killer. And she’d promised me that she’d never let anyone else read the short story. She was adamant about that.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Yes. She said she’d only just written it. The rest, Miranda Moody’s investigation, I added myself, but based on the praying-mantis murderer parts of Daisy’s story.’
I leaf through the pages. ‘So, the stuff about Miranda’s death, her missing niece and Miranda’s colleague being murdered – in a very similar way I might add to how Louise was murdered – was all yours?’