‘It was a regular occurrence.’ Emilia laughs. ‘Right, I need to get changed.’ She slugs back more of her wine, then gives the glass to Elliot. Before heading upstairs she checks on Wilfie. He’s sitting on the sofa in the kitchen watching a cartoon while simultaneously leafing through a Beano.
‘Grampy will be here soon,’ she says, ruffling his hair.
Wilfie groans. ‘It’s going to be boring grown-up talk.’
‘You know Grampy used to be in the police force a long time ago when your dad was a boy. You could ask him about it.’ This week Wilfie has decided he wants to be a detective when he grows up, like Toby’s mum, Louise. Last month it was a fireman.
‘I wanted to ask Toby’s mum about it the other day but she wasn’t there.’
‘Toby’s mum isn’t around that often. You know that.’ Louise has become a good friend to Emilia since her son joined the school in year two and has been invaluable in helping her with her latest Miranda book. But Louise works long hours so it’s usually Frances, her mother-in-law, who is at school pick-ups and play dates.
He sighs heavily. ‘Fine. I’ll ask Grampy then. But he’s old now. What if he can’t remember?’
Trevor is sixty-two. Hardly old. And he’s fitter than she is, regularly running half-marathons. She laughs. ‘I think he’ll remember just fine.’ She kisses the top of his head and tells him she’s going to get dressed.
She runs upstairs to her bedroom and throws open her wardrobe, taking out a selection of clothes and tossing them onto the bed. She settles on a pair of taupe trousers that suck in her tummy, a black silk top that is flattering around her large chest, and gives her dark-blonde hair a quick comb through.
As she’s coming down the stairs she sees Trevor standing in the porch, trying not to knock into Elliot’s bike as he turns the handle on the internal glass doors. There is a dusting of frost on the shoulders of his navy blue trench coat and his nose is red. He grins at her as he hands her a parcel. ‘This was in your porch,’ he says, as she takes it from him. ‘I’ve told you before you should really keep this front door locked.’
‘I lock the glass inner doors.’
‘Well, they aren’t locked now. I could walk straight in. And glass can be smashed.’
She rolls her eyes in mock frustration. ‘Typical security-guard talk.’
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘There have been burglaries in this area. The shop got broken into last month.’
Trevor is a security guard for Currys, a job he loves because, as he says, it makes him feel useful.
‘The shop is in Brentford.’
‘Emilia.’ He lets out a puff of exasperation.
‘Okay.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I get what you’re saying. And I do lock it at night. It’s just during the day … you know, with everyone coming in and out. And I figured Elliot’s bike is too ugly for anyone to want to nick it.’
She dumps the box on the hallway table next to the white lilies she was sent a few days ago. There had been no note on the card and she’d assumed it was either her publisher or agent – although both said it wasn’t.
Trevor shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the stand in the corner. ‘I hear the divine Ottilie will be in attendance this evening.’
‘Oh, stop it with the sweet-talk. You know she’s way too young for you!’
‘What’s twenty-five years?’ He winks at her and runs a hand through his thinning white hair. He’d gone completely grey after Elliot’s mum, May, died.
‘Ah, Trev, you know you’re my number-one guy,’ says Ottilie, emerging from the living room. She hugs him, then takes his arm and lets him lead her down the Victorian tiled hallway towards the kitchen, as if they’re two actors at a premiere. Emilia is about to follow them when Jasmine comes down the stairs – the scent of the roast dinner is clearly pervading the house.
‘I’m starving. There’s never anything to eat at Dad’s, apart from gross rice cakes and salad. Ooh, is that my parcel?’ Jasmine breezes past her, smelling of mint chewing gum and her favourite watermelon Body Shop spray. She picks up the package, her face alight. ‘I’ve ordered some new notebooks from Amazon.’ She’s obsessed with stationery. And then her expression falls. ‘Oh, it’s for you.’ She dumps it back on the table and saunters down the hallway to join the others in the kitchen. She hears the pop of a cork, followed by Ottilie’s laugh.
Emilia picks it up. It’s not from her publishers because it’s typed out to her married name of Rathbone rather than her maiden and pen name of Ward. The last thing she ordered was a new top in the sales, which has long since arrived, been worn once, then discarded because it was an impulse buy. Curiosity gets the better of her and she rips it open. Inside there is another box, royal blue with a crest on the front, as if it’s come from a jeweller. Maybe this is a surprise from Elliot. Although she doesn’t know why. She suddenly wonders if there’s an anniversary she’s forgotten about, but no. They met in November and married in June. Carefully she takes the blue box from the cardboard. It feels light in her hand. She lifts the lid, intrigued. There, nestled in the blue tissue, is a ceramic seagull. It’s quite ugly and cheap-looking, as if it was found at a charity shop or a bargain-basement sale. Not a jeweller. And definitely not the kind that has a fancy silver crest pressed onto a royal blue box. She stares at it, mystified. Then she picks it up, but just the body comes away in her hands. The head still rests in the blue tissue paper, severed at the neck. She checks inside the box, then the packaging, expecting to see a note. But there is nothing.
DI Miranda Moody has a phobia about seagulls. It’s a running theme throughout all ten books. She checks the packaging again and her heart beats faster. There is no postage stamp. It looks like it’s been hand delivered.
And, despite the large old-school radiator pumping out heat, she shivers.
6
I watch, repulsed, as a seagull by the shoreline necks a fish in one fell swoop. I despise the things. Vermin of the sky, my mother always said. I’m relieved when it flies off into the clouds. I light a cigarette and take a few drags. The sun has gone down, casting dappled ochre light on the grey surface of the water and streaking the sky a nicotine-orange. I’m still haunted by the scene I’ve just left behind. How can the world be both beautiful and so very ugly?
‘Here we are, ma’am,’ says Saunders, beside my shoulder, handing me a coffee.
‘Thanks.’ I take the cup from him. He jumps up to sit beside me on the wall. At thirty-five he’s twenty-two years my junior and only a few years older than my son, and most of the time he annoys the fuck out of me, but right now I’m comforted by his presence. I sip the too-weak coffee and stare into the darkening sky. The wind is picking up, swirling around my ankles and I grip my cup tighter for warmth.
Eventually he says, ‘I can’t believe he’s back.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s been … What did you say? Fifteen years?’
‘Sixteen. Almost to the day. His last victim was in February 2005.’