Charlie waited for Liv to notice her red nose and puffy eyes, but Liv pushed past her into the hall. She stopped when she drew level with the radiator, eyeing the stained plaster all around her. ‘I know the look I’d go for,’ she said. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought, and picked out a few goodies, nice fabrics and stuff. Obviously it’s your choice . . .’
‘Liv. I don’t give a shit about fabrics.’
‘. . . but I’m
almost
going to insist on Allegra Gold wallpaper for the hall, with a basketweave nutmeg carpet. And for the lounge, a Burlington distressed leather three-piece suite. Laura Ashley’s not all country-spinster chintz and flowers, you know. They’ve got some strong, solid stuff too. They do everything—literally everything—and the beauty of getting it all from one place is that they come and—’
Charlie pushed her sister aside and ran up the stairs. She slammed her bedroom door and leaned against it.
Spinster.
That was her, would always be her. She heard Liv huffing and puffing her way up the stairs; more exercise than she’d done in years, probably. Charlie walked over to the bare, curtainless window. She took hold of one end of the curtain rail and ripped it off the wall. There. Now Liv wouldn’t be able to hang any Laura Ashley curtains from it.
‘Char?’ A small knock at the door. Olivia pretending not to want to intrude. ‘Look, if you don’t want me to interfere, why not take charge of the decorating yourself? You can’t live with bare floorboards for ever.’
‘It’s fashionable,’ Charlie told her. ‘Carpet’s out. Wooden floors are in.’
Olivia flung open the bedroom door. Her face matched her pink scoop-necked sweater. ‘Properly sanded and polished ones, yes. Not ones that look like this. You haven’t even got a bed!’
‘I’ve got a mattress. King size.’
‘You’re living like . . . like someone who’s plotting a terrorist atrocity in a squat! Do you remember the shoe bomber, that ugly git with long hair and a turnip nose who tried to blow up a plane? I bet his bedroom was nicer than yours!’
‘Liv, I’m upset. That’s why I asked you to come round. Not so that we could talk about floorboards. Or terrorists.’
‘I
know
you’re upset. You’ve been upset for over a year. I’m used to it.’ Liv sighed. ‘Look, I know why you gutted the house, and I understand that you can’t be bothered to sort it out. I’m happy to project-manage it all for you. I honestly think you’d feel better if you—’
‘No, I wouldn’t!’ Charlie yelled. ‘I wouldn’t feel better if I had an Allegra Burlington to sit on, whatever the fuck that is! And this has got nothing to do with what happened last year—nothing! You think that’s why I’m in a state?’
Olivia’s eyes darted left and right, as if she’d been asked a trick question. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No! It’s Simon. I love him, and he asked me to marry him, and I swore at him and threw him out.’
‘Oh, right.’ Olivia sounded deflated.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Boring, isn’t it? Simon Waterhouse again.’
‘But I thought . . . from what you said on the phone, you dealt with it. He proposed, you said no—’
‘Of course I said no! This is Simon we’re talking about! If I’d said yes, his feelings by now would be slightly more lukewarm than when he proposed. By the time we announced our engagement, he’d have gone off me a bit more. By our wedding day he’d be indifferent, and by the time we arrived at the honeymoon suite—hah!—I’d be all his nightmares and worst fears rolled into one.’
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘I seem to be missing some vital components of this situation,’ she said. ‘Simon’s never even taken you out for dinner. You’ve never so much as kissed!’
Charlie mumbled something non-committal. She had kissed Simon—at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party, shortly before Simon had decided he wasn’t interested after all and rejected her in the most humiliating and public way possible—but she’d never told Olivia. She couldn’t, even now. She could hardly bear to think about that party.
‘He’s got a tragedy fetish,’ she said. ‘He feels sorry for me because of last year.’
‘And because you’ve got a bedroom like the shoe bomber,’ Olivia reminded her.
‘It’s not inconceivable that he loves me, is it? For all the wrong reasons.’ Charlie’s voice cracked. ‘And if he does, and I say yes, then he’ll stop. Not straight away, but he will.’ She groaned.
‘Char, you’re . . . Please tell me you’re not considering saying yes.’
‘Of course not! What do you think I am, a headcase?’
‘Good.’ Olivia was satisfied. ‘Then there’s no problem.’
‘Oh, forget it. You might as well go.’
‘But I’ve brought some fabric swatches . . .’
‘I’ve got an idea: why don’t you stick your swatches up your arse and fuck off back to London?’ Charlie stared at her sister, determined not to blink in case she lost the fight while her eyes were closed.
Olivia stared back. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you’ve at least looked at the Villandry Duck Egg,’ she said, her voice cool and dignified. ‘It’s woven velvet. Look at it, touch it. I’ll leave it by the front door on my way out.’
What was Charlie supposed to say to that?
The phone rang, sparing her the effort of making a decision. ‘Hello?’ she said in a falsely cheerful voice.
‘Charlie? It’s Stacey Sellers, Colin Sellers’ wife.’
‘Oh.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This could only mean one thing: Stacey had found out about Suki, Sellers’ illicit shag, and wanted Charlie to confirm what she already knew. Charlie had dreaded this moment for years. ‘I can’t talk now, Stacey. I’m in the middle of something.’
‘I was wondering if I could come round some time. Soon. I need to show you something.’
‘Now’s a really bad time, and I’m not sure when’ll be better,’ said Charlie. Rude, perhaps, but lying? No. ‘Sorry.’ She put the phone down and forgot about Stacey Sellers instantly. ‘That was Laura Ashley,’ she told Olivia. ‘She wanted to pop round with some more swatches. She says you picked all the wrong ones.’
‘Just wait till you’ve touched the Villandry Duck Egg. It’s from heaven.’
‘I was joking,’ Charlie explained. ‘Sorry if I jumped down your throat.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Olivia, suspicious of her sister’s attempt to appear reasonable when all the evidence suggested otherwise. ‘Look, I understand, honestly I do. You’d like to be able to say yes to Simon, wouldn’t you?’
‘In an ideal world.’ Charlie sighed. ‘If just about every circumstance were different.’
The doorbell rang. Charlie closed her eyes. ‘Stacey,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘How can she have got here so quickly?’ She ran downstairs and threw open the door, preparing to repel all requests for information or advice. But it wasn’t Stacey; it was Robbie Meakin. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on paternity leave?’
‘Had to cut it short,’ said Meakin. ‘It was doing my head in. Not being able to get away from the baby, not sleeping properly . . .’
‘That’ll teach you.’ Charlie smiled. It was reassuring to know that other people’s lives were as difficult as hers. ‘You can’t come and live here, I’m afraid.’
Meakin laughed. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you this late,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to see this straight away. Someone hand-delivered it to the nick early this evening.’ He passed Charlie a folded sheet of paper. It was small, covered in writing, and looked as if it had been torn out of a notebook.
‘How is the baby, anyway?’ she asked as she opened it up.
‘Fine. Hungry all the time, crying all the time. Wife’s nipples are like two giant scabs, caked in dried blood. Is that normal?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Sorry.’
‘It’s normal,’ Olivia shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Tell her to give it time, it’ll get better.’
‘My sister,’ Charlie mouthed at Meakin. ‘She knows nothing.’
He grinned. ‘Right, well, I’ll be off. I thought I should get that to you as soon as possible. I heard you picked up the last one.’
‘Last one?’
‘Letter. About Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick. Didn’t you?’
Charlie nodded. ‘I’m not CID any more, Robbie.’
‘I know, but . . . You know you’re the only one who sent a card and present for the baby? Waterhouse didn’t. Sellers and Gibbs didn’t.’
‘They’re men, Robbie. Do you send cards?’
He flushed. ‘I will from now on, Sarge.’
Charlie sighed and began to read. More interesting than she’d expected. A little hysterical, but interesting.
Suddenly she was impatient for Meakin to leave. She wanted to read the rest of the letter. She examined it with Simon’s eyes, unable to respond independently of what she knew his response would be.
‘I bought and sent that present,’ said Olivia crossly, once Meakin had gone. ‘And did I get a word of thanks?’
‘Liv, bring me the phone.’ Charlie held her hand out, still staring at the letter. She ignored the hearty sighs that arrived with the telephone, and rang the CID room. Proust answered after the first ring. ‘Sir, it’s me, Charlie. I’ve got another letter here about the Brethericks. It’s anonymous again, but much more detailed than the first one. You need to see it.’
‘What are you waiting for, Sergeant? Bring it in. And, Sergeant? ’
‘Sir?’
‘Cancel whatever plans you’ve made for tonight.’
‘I was planning to get a good night’s sleep. My shift only finished at seven.’
‘Cancel it. I need you here, helping me. Am I sleeping?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Exactly,’ said Proust. He sounded pleased to have won the argument so decisively.
To whoever is investigating the deaths of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick:
I wrote before, saying Mark Bretherick might not be who he says he is. I have just found a dead ginger cat by the wheel of my car with parcel tape over its mouth. Whoever left it also slashed the tyres. I believe I’m in danger—being warned off. Two days ago someone pushed me in front of a bus in the centre of Rawndesley, and yesterday a car followed me—a red Alfa Romeo, with a registration that began with a Y.
Last year, in a hotel, I met a man who told me he was Mark Bretherick. His real name might be William Markes. He might be the driver of the car that followed me.
I found pictures of a girl in a St Swithun’s uniform and a woman hidden behind photos of Geraldine and Lucy in two wooden frames at Corn Mill House. They were in a bin-bag. Mark Bretherick was going to throw them away. All four pictures were taken at the owl sanctuary at Silsford Castle. Jenny Naismith, the head’s secretary at St Swithun’s, has these two photographs. There was a girl in Lucy Bretherick’s class last year called Amy Oliver—the pictures might be of her and her mother.
Speak to the woman who used to be Amy’s nanny: her number is 07968 563881. You need to make sure Amy and her mother are still alive. And her father. Talk to anyone you can about the relationship between the Bretherick and Oliver families. Cordy O’Hara, the mother of Oonagh, who was best friends with Amy and Lucy, might know something. Talk to Sian Toms, a teaching assistant at St Swithun’s. Look for more bodies in and around Corn Mill House—in the garden. When I went to Corn Mill House, Mark Bretherick was in the garden with a trowel in his hand. Why would he be gardening when his wife and daughter had just died? Search his business premises—anywhere he has access to. Ask him why he hid photographs of Mrs Oliver and Amy behind ones of his wife and daughter.
Jean Ormondroyd, Geraldine Bretherick’s mother, was a small woman with a long neck and tiny shoulders. Her iron-grey hair was bobbed, and hung like curtains around her face, curling up at the edges. From her seat by the wall, Charlie could see only hair and from time to time the tip of a nose. Jean was looking at Proust and Sam Kombothekra, speaking only to them. No one had told her who Charlie was and she hadn’t asked.
‘I’d like you to tell the inspector what you told me, Jean,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t worry about repeating yourself. That’s what I want you to do.’
‘Where’s Mark?’
‘He’s with DC Sellers and DC Gibbs. He won’t leave without you.’
Charlie hadn’t needed to ask Sam how seriously the new information was being taken; Proust never sat in on interviews except in emergencies. If someone who wasn’t Geraldine Bretherick had committed two murders at Corn Mill House on the first or second of August, they’d had six or seven days to cover their tracks, six or seven days of the police believing that the only murderer had made things easy for them by killing herself. Emergencies didn’t come much more dire than that.
Jean addressed Proust. ‘Mark showed me Geri’s diary. I’ve been asking to see it since I first heard about it, and he finally showed it to me, thank goodness. That diary wasn’t written by my daughter.’
‘Tell Inspector Proust why you’re so sure,’ said Sam. Was he wondering why Charlie was there, why Proust had been so adamant about needing her? It can’t be easy for Sam, she thought. He’s trying to do my job, and I turn up to watch him do it.
‘Lucy’s night light,’ said Jean. ‘What the diary says—it’s wrong. Lucy had a night light, yes, but it was a plug-in one, Winnie the Pooh. It went in the plug socket in her bedroom, next to her bed. It’s about the size of a normal plug, but round instead of square.’
‘The diary doesn’t specify the sort of night light, does it?’ Proust asked Sam.
‘Let me finish,’ said Geraldine’s mother. Both men turned to face her. ‘It says in the diary that Lucy wanted her door open because she was scared of monsters, the same reason she wanted it to be a bit light. It says that from that night, the first time she talked about being scared of monsters . . .’ Jean stopped, took a few breaths. ‘Every night after that, it says, Lucy slept with her door open and her night light on, but why would she have needed the door open? The night light was in her room.’
‘We assumed the night light was outside Lucy’s room, and the door was left ajar to let the light in,’ said Sam.