56
Another victim. This time a woman called Suzanne Chambers, a forty-five-year-old who’d moved to Plymouth only a year ago. That’s two now in the last eighteen months, not including Louise. Because I’m certain DC Greene’s death is something different entirely. It doesn’t fit with the rest: Greene wasn’t stabbed, and the etching on her ankle was drawn rather than carved. Something else about it all is nagging at me too and I can’t work out what it is.
‘We’ve got to get this fucking bastard,’ mutters Saunders, as we leave the bedsit that afternoon. It’s only a few streets away from where Lorraine Butterworth lives. Is that a coincidence? ‘I hope he’s getting sloppier now. Two who live so close together.’
‘I hope so too,’ I say, lighting a fag as we head to my car. I unlock the Audi for him to get in and stand outside to finish my cigarette.
I think about my call with Emilia Ward earlier and her fear that the killer is her father-in-law. After our conversation I’d asked DC Michelle Doyle to run a background check on Trevor but haven’t had the results yet. We’re also working closely with the Met. They’ve sent someone to find out where he was last night when the latest victim was killed and if he had an alibi.
I stub out my cigarette and am just about to get into the car when my phone rings. It’s a colleague, Matheson. ‘We’ve finally tracked down the supplier we’ve been after for months,’ he says, sounding jubilant. ‘Lee Fairbrother was picked up in France on another charge. But we’ve managed to get him to cooperate on that list we wanted.’
‘Of where he’s been selling his illegal stashes?’
‘Yep.’ Including menthol cigarettes.
‘Excellent. Can you email it over to me and copy in Saunders?’
‘Will do,’ he says, and ends the call.
Saunders is already in the passenger seat when I slide behind the wheel. As I strap on my seatbelt I say, ‘Just had a call from Matheson. He thinks this Lee Fairbrother has been selling menthol cigarettes to a newsagent near where Butterworth lives. He’s made a list of suppliers, and if this newsagent is on it, you can go over and check if he recognizes Butterworth as a customer for these cigarettes, okay?’
Saunders sits up straighter. ‘When will we have the list?’
‘He’s emailing it over now.’ I give him the name of the shop and he sits scrolling through the email, then punches the air.
‘It’s here,’ he says.
‘Great. I’ll drop you there now.’ I take a left turn towards the centre of Plymouth. ‘Also, I’m looking into whether DC Greene’s mother, Jennifer Radcliffe, actually was a victim of the praying-mantis murderer. In the notes I’ve been looking through there are a few inconsistencies.’
Saunders lowers his phone. ‘In what way?’
‘The house wasn’t broken into, like in all the other cases. The door was left open. She lived outside Plymouth in a village, and she wasn’t tied up. It’s made me wonder if perhaps it was just made to look like she was one of the praying-mantis murderer’s victims. If I’m right, well …’ I turn to him and grin ‘… it changes everything.’
57
Emilia stares down at the beanie in her hands as she sinks to the floor. She pictures her husband creeping out of bed in the early hours of the morning, beanie disguising his hair, deactivating the alarm, tiptoeing out of the back door, around the side of the house, then letting himself in at the front door to ‘steal’ the bike. She buries her head in her hands and groans, the beanie falling to her lap, devastation ripping through her. She’d so wanted to believe him, but how else can she explain the beanie and what it must mean? She grabs it and shoves it into her bag, a sob escaping her lips. She needs to go to the police but she has to get out of the house first, just in case he comes back.
She picks herself up off the floor, hoists her bag over her shoulder and makes her way outside. Her whole world has imploded and she can’t stop the tears rolling down her face. She stands, looking back up at her house: her beautiful, perfectly symmetrical home with the grand pillars either side of the front door and those pretty dormer windows protruding from the roof, like hooded eyes. How excited they’d been when the estate agent had first shown them around. ‘It looks like the perfect child’s drawing of a house,’ Elliot had said, staring in awe at the sash windows and the whitewashed plaster. Her dream home. She’d really thought she had a second chance at happiness, after Jonas, but she’s walked into something far, far worse.
She turns and makes her way down the tiled driveway and onto the main street, blinded by tears. She brushes them away as she heads down the hill towards the station. The sun is going down, streaking the sky a beautiful pink and teal blue. She can smell cut grass, sun-soaked pavements, a barbecue: people going about their lives, eating with family, enjoying a night out with friends, basking in the fact that it’s a sunny bank-holiday weekend.
Forty minutes later, Ottilie is standing at the threshold of her apartment, enveloping her in a huge hug. Emilia doesn’t have much recollection of the journey, or even of getting into the old-fashioned lift in her best friend’s building.
‘Oh, Mils,’ she says, ushering her inside and through to the cosy sitting room. ‘Come and sit down. I’ve made you a brandy.’ Emilia sinks gratefully onto the large velvet sofa. She loves this room: inky blue walls, faded pink sofas, lots of gilt-edged photos and pictures on every surface and Persian rugs dotted about the hardwood floors.
A black and white cat with a pink nose mews at her from the rug. He has a tartan collar on and something blooms in the corner of her mind, some memory, but then it’s gone and she’s taking the amber liquid from Ottilie and downing it, enjoying the burning sensation at the back of her throat, and Ottilie is saying something about the cat, Smudge, and how she’s looking after it for friends. She drops the animal onto Emilia, where it settles in the nook of her lap, opening and closing its fluffy paws into the fabric of her dress.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ she says, stroking his soft coat and leaning back against the huge velvet cushions. She’s suddenly utterly exhausted. She needs to tell Ottilie about the beanie she found, but she’s so tired.
‘It’s a she. I’ve made up the spare room,’ says Ottilie, fussing around her, tucking a throw either side of her legs, careful not to dislodge Smudge who is now asleep on Emilia’s lap. Before long she feels her eyes grow heavy too.
When she opens them the room is dimly lit. She must have dozed off, which she’s surprised at, but now she feels groggy, her tongue thick. She can hardly believe she was able to sleep with all the adrenaline that had been coursing around her body. Smudge is no longer on her lap, and Ottilie isn’t in the room. It’s gone ten. Perhaps she’s gone to bed, although that’s way too early for Ottilie. She’s left a table lamp on in the corner that throws shadows on the opposite wall, but other than that the room is in darkness.
She gets up, no longer tired, anxiety bobbing to the surface again. She still has on the denim jacket she’d grabbed on the way out of her front door, and reaches into the pocket for her phone. She can see she’s had three missed calls. One from Trevor and two from DI Murray. Both have left voicemails. She stands at Ottilie’s large bay window and parts the heavy curtains. The moon is up, fat and bright in the sky. She listens to the message from Trevor first, flinching at the desperation in his voice.