Ottilie doesn’t say anything, just stares at Emilia. Did she get a key cut when she came to stay? She would know the code for the alarm too.
Her head is swimming and she has an unpleasant taste in her mouth. From her peripheral vision she notices Hamish saunter back into the room and rub himself against Ottilie’s leg.
‘Why did you take Louise’s cat?’
Ottilie glances at the cat beside her feet. But she doesn’t release Emilia’s hand. ‘I couldn’t leave the poor thing behind. I’m not a monster!’
Emilia stares at her friend in disbelief. Who is this person who can kill a woman and save an animal at the same time?
‘Ottilie,’ she presses gently, ‘let’s call the police. DI Murray is very sympathetic. She’ll –’
‘No!’ Ottilie starts sobbing then, her body shuddering. ‘I can’t go to prison, Mils. You know that. I wouldn’t cope in prison.’
‘You might get diminished responsibility. All that pent-up anger and emotion. You could get some help.’
Ottilie squeezes Emilia’s hand. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Please, Ottilie. You can make this right. You need to tell the truth.’ She goes to stand up but Ottilie yanks on her hand so hard that she’s forced back onto the sofa.
‘You know I love you, Mils. You know that, right? It’s important you know that.’
‘Of course.’ Emilia swallows her anxiety. ‘Of course I know that.’
‘Good.’ Ottilie’s grip intensifies and one of her hot tears splashes onto the back of Emilia’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry. I never wanted it to come to this. But I can’t let you leave.’
60
We are half an hour away from London when Saunders gets the call. He’s sitting beside me in the passenger seat.
‘That’s brilliant news, thanks, mate. Yes, yes, she’s here. I’ll tell her.’ He ends the call and stares at me, excitement radiating from him like heat. ‘Oh, my God, ma’am, we’ve got him. After all this time, we’ve got him. They’ve arrested him. The fucker was trying to flee the country.’
I laugh in relief and jubilation. Prison must have done something to Martin Butterworth’s brain because he made a stupid mistake when he killed his latest victim, Suzanne Chambers. A tiny spot of blood that wasn’t the victim’s was found at the scene, on the hem of her nightdress. Martin Butterworth’s DNA is in the database, and it matched. Something as simple as that. He must have cut himself when he was carving the insect’s head on Suzanne’s ankle. Coupled with the information Saunders has from the newsagent, who confirmed he sold menthol cigarettes to Butterworth, we’ve nailed the bastard. After all these years and eight victims. But we haven’t got him for Louise yet. I’m convinced someone else killed her.
I’ve guessed that Saunders was in a relationship with Louise. They’d met on a training day and it started there. I had it confirmed by one of Louise’s colleagues, who had also been at the event. That was why he’d run from the crime scene that day, and pretended he had a stomach bug. He’d recognized Louise. And I suspect it was him who told her that the praying-mantis murderer was back, setting in motion the chain of events that has led us here. I’ll talk to him about it another time, when we’re back in Plymouth and after we’ve seen Butterworth locked up. But not now. Now I’ll let him have his moment.
No lie-ins for us on a Sunday morning. Saunders is already on the train back to Devon to interview Martin Butterworth now an arrest has been made. I will join him later but first I want to speak to Emilia Ward again. And also her friend Ottilie Bentley-Gordon. I recognized the name when I spoke to Emilia last night. Her father, Charles Bentley-Gordon, was my boss twenty-five years ago when the praying-mantis murderer started killing, before he went into diplomatic service abroad. I believe this was the man Louise suspected was having an affair with her mother. His daughter, Ottilie, has to be Ash. I’ve tried to call Emilia several times and have left messages but there is no answer. I’ve also been to her house but it’s empty. Remembering that she said she was staying with Ottilie last night, I find her address in High Street Kensington – which is under her father’s name – and drive over there. I forget how long it takes to travel anywhere in London. I’m used to the relatively open roads of Devon but here it takes me nearly an hour to drive a few miles. When I pull up in a side road and find Ottilie’s flat it’s nearly 11 a.m.
Ottilie’s apartment is in a beautiful white stone-pillared building with a black front door. There is a concierge at a desk in the foyer and a lovely old-fashioned wooden lift in the middle that reminds me of the ones in old movies. He smiles at me as I enter. I show him my identification and tell him I’m here to see Ottilie.
‘Oh, she left late last night. Or, rather, in the early hours of this morning, according to the night manager.’
‘What time?’
‘Around two a.m. She has a friend staying. She’s still there, apparently.’
I push down an uneasy feeling. ‘What number is her apartment?’
‘Seven.’
I don’t wait for the lift, instead I run up the back stairs, out of breath by the time I get to Ottilie’s apartment on the second floor. I knock on the door but, as I’d thought, there’s no answer. I’m sure I can hear a cat miaowing behind the closed door. I rap my knuckles again and call Emilia’s name. An elderly woman from the next flat opens her door, her face screwed up in annoyance. ‘What’s all the racket?’
I explain who I am and show her my police ID card. ‘I might have to kick the door down,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about the person inside.’
‘No, don’t do that. Wait.’ She disappears back inside the flat. I can smell something cooking. She emerges again, holding a key. ‘We all swapped in case we locked ourselves out.’
‘Fine. Thanks. Please, open the door.’
She takes her time about it, and just when I’m about to wrestle the key from her and do it myself the door swings open. She steps aside and I rush in. I can sense the old woman behind me as I hurry through the square hallway into the galley kitchen. It’s empty. So are the bedrooms, one of which has all the drawers and wardrobes open, with clothes flung on the bed and floor.
‘Emilia,’ I call, running now into the living room, pushing open the door. The room is dark, the heavy curtains tightly drawn, but in the corner by the radiator there is a body on the floor.
The old woman turns the overhead light on and gasps.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I say, rushing over to where Emilia lies fully dressed. She’s on her side, her eyes closed, and she would have looked like she’d just fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the unnatural pallor. Deathly pale, blue-tinged lips. I kneel down and try to find a pulse, fearing I’m already too late.
61
The first person she sees when she opens her eyes is Elliot, and she wonders if she’s dead. Or dreaming. She blinks a few times, his face coming into focus as he looms over her.
‘She’s awake,’ cries a familiar voice and she turns her head to see Wilfie and Jasmine on the other side of the bed. They’re all beaming at her but it looks as though both her children have been crying.