I appraise him. He’s tall like his father, but that’s where the similarities end.
‘I just want to confirm that you’re the son of Martin Butterworth,’ I begin.
A shadow passes over his face. ‘I haven’t seen him in years. We lost touch after my mum divorced him.’
‘When was this?’
He pulls at the hem of his blue Fred Perry polo-shirt. ‘Ah … years ago. After my dad went to prison. I was probably nineteen.’
I take my notebook out of my pocket and turn the pages, trying to read my scribbled writing. ‘I know this is a strange question, but did you know someone at university called Daisy Greene?’
He opens his mouth to speak but we are interrupted by a woman entering the room. She’s petite, with long blonde hair and a wide smile. Anthony introduces her as his wife, Sharon, and she asks us if we would like a cup of tea. When we decline she says, ‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘No. Please, stay,’ says Anthony, desperation in his voice. She pulls up a leather pouffe next to his armchair and sits down. She looks a little awkward and I smile at her reassuringly.
‘So,’ I prompt, ‘did you know her?’
Anthony shakes his head, his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘So you didn’t date anyone by that name?’
‘No, definitely not. And I didn’t go to university either. What’s this got to do with my dad?’
I glance at Sharon, who looks like she wants to ask Anthony questions but is politely waiting until we’ve left.
‘Just to reiterate, you have no relationship with your father?’
‘Like I said, no.’ His pleasant face darkens. ‘He’s a misogynist and a wife beater.’
Sharon reaches over and places a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘He used to hit Ant’s mum,’ she says softly. ‘And Ant when he was a boy.’
Anthony dips his head and I feel a surge of anger towards his father. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, biting back my feelings. I hear about this kind of thing too often. ‘Do you think he’s capable of murder?’ I ask.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Saunders sit forwards, his elbows resting on his thighs.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a cold, hard psychopath.’ He takes his wife’s hand. ‘It was a relief, to be honest, when he went to prison. It meant my mum could escape him at last.’
‘Thank you for your time,’ I say, standing up and handing Anthony a card. Is he lying about knowing Daisy? It’s hard to tell, but I’ll ask one of the team to check if he’s telling the truth about not going to university. ‘If you do remember anything at all that might be useful, anything, however small, then please call.’
Saunders stands up too, stretching his legs.
Anthony shows us out and I try not to feel disappointed.
50
Emilia can’t stop thinking about the praying-mantis murderer as she heads to Wilfie’s school to pick him up. All those old uneasy feelings resurface along with some new ones. Horror that she might know a serial killer. Terror that they might decide she’s their next victim. She was going to let Jasmine get the bus home after netball but now she calls her and leaves a message, telling her she’ll pick her up.
She has to be honest with Elliot about everything. It’s time. And if he loves her, and she believes he does, he’ll understand why she used Louise’s story. She has to stop trying to be perfect in front of him, worrying that if the fa?ade slips he’ll leave her, like Jonas did. She’ll tell him tonight.
Emilia is hanging around the school gates waiting for Wilfie to come out when she spots Frances standing alone in the shade of a tree. She’s wearing a brown anorak despite the sun, and her usual sensible brown brogues. She reminds Emilia of her old school matron. She hasn’t seen her since Louise died, although she sent a card to Toby that Wilfie had made.
‘Hi,’ she says, approaching her somewhat shyly. She’s always been a little intimidated by Frances’s prickly personality. She can see why Louise didn’t get on with her, both strong women who butted heads. ‘Wilfie will be pleased that Toby’s back. I hope you’re all doing okay in the circumstances …’
Frances smiles stiffly at Emilia. ‘Yes, it’s better for him to be at school with his friends at the moment. It’s a good distraction.’ She hoists her large handbag over her shoulder. She looks as if she’s not going to say anything else and Emilia hovers uncertainly, when Frances suddenly pipes up, ‘I didn’t think Louise had done the right thing, moving Toby when she did. He was happy at the school in Kingston, but she pulled some strings to get him in here, even though it wasn’t local to her, me or his dad. But I have to concede, he’s been happy here. I know he thinks a lot of your son.’
‘Wilfie thinks a lot of him too.’ And then Frances’s words hit home. ‘I thought Louise was local to the school until recently?’
Frances shakes her head. ‘No, she’s always lived in Kingston. That was where she lived with my son, and after their divorce, in a flat. The flat … well,’ she clears her throat, ‘where she died.’
Emilia’s stomach turns when she remembers her last visit and Louise’s prostrate body. ‘I didn’t realize,’ she says. ‘When I first met Louise, she said she’d recently moved to Richmond and that was why Toby was starting here. And then, a few days before she died, I saw her in Kingston and she said she’d only just moved there.’
Frances folds her arms across her large chest and assesses her with a frown. ‘She told me she was enrolling Toby at the school because she already knew you.’
Emilia is taken aback. ‘What? No, we didn’t know each other before Toby joined. We met for the first time at a coffee morning for the year-two parents.’
‘That can’t be right. I distinctly remember her talking about you to me and Mike. That was one of the reasons Mike agreed to the change in schools – not that he ever had much choice when Louise made up her mind about something, but there you are. She knew all about you. About Wilfie and your husband. Your friends. Even your father-in-law, Trevor. She said she knew him from when he was in the police force.’
Despite the heat of the summer sun, a chill descends over Emilia. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I’ve got a memory like an elephant. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, and I was fond of Louise in a lot of ways, but she could be … obsessive. And I always felt, if I can be so bold as to say it as I know she was your friend, but I always felt she was obsessive about you.’
Emilia is lost for words.
Frances shakes back her greying curls. ‘Anyway, I know we didn’t always get along but I’m sad about Louise. Devastating for Toby, losing his mum. She was a good mum.’ She speaks without emotion, and Emilia opens her mouth to say more but the boys come running out, each holding a sunflower and talking about how they’d planted it at school and they now needed to transfer it to the garden, which will be a sure-fire way for it to die, being left in Emilia’s care. A lump forms in her throat as she watches Toby, his little face alight, as he proudly shows it to Frances. The older woman bends down so she’s on his level and Emilia is surprised to see the change in her. Her face, which moments earlier had been so stern and closed, is now open, warm, gentle. It’s like watching a different person. It’s obvious for anyone to see that she adores her grandson. Frances straightens and ushers Toby away without saying goodbye.