She nods. ‘Yes. But obviously the idea for all that came after I’d read Louise’s story about Daisy and Ash and Daisy’s search for her mother’s killer. The praying-mantis moniker was Louise’s idea and, once I had that and the Daisy sections, the rest just came to me. I know it’s not particularly ethical, but Louise didn’t mind. As I said, she didn’t want it. And I never knew – never dreamed in a million years – it was true, that Daisy was really Louise and it was about her mother and a real praying-mantis killer. I just thought Louise had made it up.’
I can see she’s telling the truth. She walks over to the table with her sandwich and I swivel to face her.
‘I wonder why Louise wanted you to write this story,’ I say, putting my pen down.
She frowns, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She picks at the sandwich but doesn’t eat it. ‘I don’t know. I thought she was trying to help me. But it seems now she had a different motive …’
‘In your book the way the tattoo is administered is different.’
‘From the Daisy sections it sounded like a drawing, so I made the killer murder the others in the same way. Was – was her mother’s killer ever caught? Obviously in the book he was.’
‘No. If Louise really did believe that the father of a past boyfriend killed her mother, then it was never proven. The fictional ending she came up with might have been how she wished things had turned out. How they should have turned out. Did Louise ever mention a man called Martin Butterworth?’
Emilia shakes her head. ‘Not that I can recall. Who is he?’
‘Just a person of interest. The murders started up again in February last year after a sixteen-year hiatus. When did Louise give you this information?’
‘Last spring. March. I started writing this book not long after, May, I think.’
‘Interesting that she gave the story to you when the killer struck again after a sixteen-year break.’
Emilia is silent, staring at me expectantly, like I have all the answers.
A gentle breeze floats in from the doors and I lay my hand on top of the manuscript to stop any of the papers flying away. ‘We’ve been watching Martin Butterworth closely since Trisha Banks was killed last year – we have a witness to say he had been hanging around her address before she died and she lived in the bedsit above his sister. There are other things, but not enough evidence to bring a conviction right now. As yet there have been no further murders. Until Louise.’
‘Do you think this Martin Butterworth killed Louise?’
‘I don’t know. The branding is different. But he does have a son – who would be in his late thirties now. I’ll speak to him to find out if he could be our Ash.’
Emilia takes a bite of her sandwich and sits in silence, chewing. She doesn’t look like she’s particularly enjoying it. After she swallows she says, ‘The reason I called you was because I wanted to show you something.’ She gets up from the table and goes to the island. She returns with a birthday card and a note. She explains about the night her daughter disappeared again. ‘I think Louise wrote this note. The writing is the same.’
I take the card and the letter and examine both. Now this is interesting.
‘And if she was behind this note, it’s likely she was responsible for all the other horrible things that have been happening to me. But why?’ she asks, and I can see the hurt behind her large blue eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But I intend to find out.’
47
Emilia is glad to see the back of DI Murray. Her whole body is drenched with sweat and she still can’t get rid of that sick feeling. It’s worse than she’d thought. How can she publish this book now? She’ll have to tell her publisher the truth, that unbeknown to her she’d been writing about a true-life crime – an unresolved case. And that parts of the book weren’t even written by her but by the daughter of one of the victims. She groans into her hands. Humiliation washes over her and she feels the urge to be sick again. How can she tell them? They’ll never trust her again. Her Last Chapter is currently with the copyeditor. The book is nearly ready. Early review copies will be going out next month. Oh, God. She can’t breathe. She slumps onto the bottom stair. Why did Louise lie to her? Why did she pretend it was a fictional story? Didn’t she realize how much trouble this would cause Emilia? Was this what she was going to tell her the night she died? She’d apologized in her voice message. Was she saying sorry for everything she’d put Emilia through? Or was she trying to warn her?
Because if Louise had been behind all of this – if she was trying to scare her by mirroring her plots – then why? And, if so, who killed her?
She’s planning her next move when Elliot comes in from the garden, bringing with him the scent of cut grass. ‘Just gave the garden a quick tidy,’ he says, kicking off his shoes at the door and placing them neatly on the mat. He has a leaf in his hair. ‘I suddenly saw it through DI Murray’s eyes.’
‘Surely you have better things to do on your lunch-break. But,’ she adds, when she sees his face fall, ‘I’m grateful.’
He goes to the sink to wash his hands. There are sweat patches under the arms of his T-shirt. ‘How did it go with the detective?’ She can tell he’s trying to appear nonchalant.
Now would be the time to tell him the rest, to admit everything, but she can’t. Not yet. She can’t face going through it all again. She knows she’ll have to admit to him that Louise wrote some of the book, but how was she to know the Daisy sections were true, and were about Louise’s past? She’ll need to tell her publishers too. Everyone will be so disappointed in her. The book will likely need to be canned, if not severely revised. She brushes his cheek with her lips. ‘I’ll tell you about it later. I’m just going out.’
Elliot turns off the tap and stands there with his wet hands hanging over the sink. ‘What? Where? You should be careful, but you’re off gallivanting all over the place.’
‘I’ve got my alarm,’ she says, throwing him a tea-towel. He catches it and dries his hands, then folds it up and hangs it on the peg. ‘And nothing has happened since Louise died, has it?’
‘It’s only been five days.’
‘But if Louise was the one to do all this, which looks likely, judging by the letter, then that’s the end of the harassment.’
He sighs and she knows he’s thinking the same as her: that Louise’s murderer is still out there. ‘Em, you really need to be more careful. Just until this has all been sorted out.’ He grabs her hand. ‘It won’t be long now, I expect.’
She pulls away. She needs some space, some air. ‘I can’t stay here for ever. I have to pick up the kids soon anyway.’ She wants to call the journalist Gina Osbourne and ask her again who contacted her about the incidents. She thinks she knows the answer, but wants to be sure.
‘Suit yourself.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’ She grabs her bag and her jacket, makes her way to the front door and double-locks it behind her. Then she stands on the driveway, unsure where to go. She doesn’t want to be totally alone. She gets into her car and heads to Richmond Park. She pulls over in the car park next to a row of other vehicles. There are enough people around for her to feel safe and she’ll keep to the main paths.