After waiting in silence, when the DI comes back in, I ask him the same question. ‘It isn’t possible to say. At the moment, all our evidence points to you, and you alone being involved in Mr Roche’s disappearance.’
‘What evidence?’ I stare at him. ‘There’s no body. You have what you say is a potential murder weapon, but it could have been planted by anyone. And snippets of gossip from two women who aren’t reliable.’
He frowns slightly. ‘We have a bit more than that – the knife that matches a set in your kitchen, more blood, in your workshop, which someone had obviously tried to clean up, and more in the area of your compost heap. Then there’s the fact that the night Mr Roche disappeared, you were in Brighton.’
‘But I’ve already told you what happened.’ I shake my head, horrified at the thought of where they’re going with this. ‘I went to deliver an order, then I drove straight back home.’ I break off, as all of a sudden, it’s making sense. ‘That order wasn’t genuine – it must have been placed by whoever’s trying to set me up. They must have known there’s CCTV there. They wanted me to be seen. Can’t you see that?’
Ignoring what I’ve said, he carries on. ‘Even if what you say is true, you still knew where Mr Roche had gone. Once you’d seen him, you could have gone home and waited for him. Then when he came back, you were ready for him. You stabbed him– most likely in your kitchen – or in your workshop, after which he tried to get away from you.’
I gasp in horror. Not a single word he’s saying has any truth in it.
The DI goes on. ‘He left a lot of blood behind, though, didn’t he? It must have been splattered all over the place. The bouquet of flowers in blood was inspired. You knew you couldn’t remove every trace of his blood, so you made the huge bouquet of flowers, left it on your doorstep, before taking it inside and purportedly dropping it by accident. The perfect cover for what really happened. As for the van your neighbour saw, that could have been delivering anything.’
‘This is insane.’ However plausible they think they sound, they’re wrong. Backed into a corner, my fear knows another level. ‘I keep telling you, none of this is true.’
‘We still haven’t found his car. Do you have any idea where it is?’
When I don’t answer, PC Page looks at me. ‘There’s too much you haven’t told us, Amy. As well as that, almost everything you say is inconsistent.’ She sits back. ‘Even your friends have described your behaviour as erratic. And I’ve seen it here. Even at your most plausible, it’s impossible to know whether to believe you or not.’
I’m shocked into silence. Where I’d been hoping for a glimmer of light, there is none. Instead, as I look at PC Page and DI Lacey, then at my solicitor sat next to me, within the confines of these dingy walls, I know I’m trapped.
Jess
Even Matt’s Facebook page is embedded with lie after flabbergasting lie, about the fictitious house he’s in the process of buying, a photo of a Caribbean beach on a date I happen to know he was in Brighton. So many lies. How difficult it must be keeping up with them.
As I scroll down over older posts, getting a picture of the kind of friends he has, before I message anyone, I find her. Mandy. I note the heavy jewellery, how skinny and tanned she is, how her face wears the same troubled look I’ve seen on my mother’s, as I bring up her Facebook page. Unlike Matt, Mandy’s actually in her photos of exclusive hotels and exotic beaches. As I keep scrolling down, about two and a half years ago I find a post about them breaking up, followed by dozens of sympathetic messages that make no attempt to hide what they think of Matt. Unlike him, it seems Mandy has real friends, who see him for the rat he really is.
Having already studied her face, I know I’ve met her – just the once, at Sasha’s house. Clicking on her list of friends, I find that she’s still connected to Sasha’s mother. Like I tried toexplain to PC Page, Mandy had been Matt’s way in to the party where he met my mother.
Needing to find out what Mandy knows about Matt, I send her a carefully worded message. Then going back to Matt’s page, I scroll back further, looking at posts I’ve already studied, searching for something I’ve missed. For a few weeks there’s another pretty woman, expensively dressed. Then before her, another. As I go through the posts, there’s a clear pattern of eligible women flitting through his life, confirming my suspicions that he’s a serial charmer. A liar. A fake, who targets specific women, lures them in then leaves them, but they have one thing in common. Money. And somehow, he knew.
Needing to find out what Sasha’s mum knows, I call her.
‘Jess, I’m so sorry to hear about your mum. I couldn’t believe it when I found out. Are you OK?’
Hearing the warmth in her voice, tears fill my eyes. ‘Yes. But I need to ask you something.’
‘Go on.’ She sounds puzzled.
‘That party at your house – when Mum met Matt. How long had you known him?’
‘It’s hard to say, exactly. I didn’t know him that well. I don’t know if you know, but he was with Mandy before that. She and I are not particularly close, but I’ve known her for years. I would certainly have invited her, but they’d broken up long before the party. I wouldn’t have invited him on his own.’ There’s a brief silence. ‘I’ll have to ask Michael.’ Michael’s her husband. ‘Maybe they might have bumped into each other in the pub or something. But thinking about it, it really is strange.’
‘I messaged Mandy but I haven’t heard back from her. Do you have her phone number?’
‘I think so.’ Sounding cautious, she breaks off. ‘Don’t you think this is best left to the police, Jess?’
‘Maybe. But it wouldn’t do any harm, would it? If I gave Mandy a call?’
*
With still no response to my Facebook message, when I try Mandy’s mobile number, it goes to voicemail. But even talking to Sasha’s mum seems to confirm my suspicions. If I’m right, going on the pattern I’ve observed, Matt would already have been planning his next move.
If the other woman who reported him missing to the police is to be believed, she was the woman he was going to leave my mother for. But in time, he’d have left the other woman, too. Maybe he’d already found the next woman to follow her. Maybe it’s her who’s set my mother up. Feverishly, I start going through the profiles of every woman he’s friends with, staring at their photos for a giveaway sign, that I’m right. But if he’s the master of deception he appears to be, he’d have made absolutely sure there were no clues.
My only hope is that somewhere along the line, he’s slipped up, leaving damning evidence. I just have to make sure I find it.
Amy
