She looks at him quizzically. “I’m sure. But just ask her yourself. Why?”
“No reason. Maybe don’t say anything to her. She’ll kill me if I keep forgetting her appointments.”
“OK.” She looks expectantly at him.
A brief silence.
Then she gestures toward the door. “Aren’t you going in?”
“Oh, right—I just remembered I was supposed to get milk on the way home. You go in. I’ll be back in a bit.”
She nods, and he slides into the car.Physio. There is no physio. He knows that. Susan knows that. “Physio” is code for marriage counseling. Buthewasn’t at marriage counseling last Wednesday. And Susan was hardly there on her own. So where was she? There could be any number of answers to that question. But one stands out. And the idea of it, the very idea, makes his blood run cold. He needs to speak to Greta.
59
Venetia
Wednesday
Just after six on Wednesday evening, Garda Orla Connolly, the guard who broke the news of Aimee’s death last week, turns up at Venetia’s cottage. Her fourth visit now, and this time she’s with a woman she introduces as Detective Kellerman. Venetia leads them through to the kitchen and gestures for them to sit. Felipe is at the hob, stirring Bolognese. He greets them and begins filling glasses with water by unspoken agreement; it’s too hot for tea or coffee.
Venetia faces Orla. “You have news?”
Orla’s expression is hard to read. Sympathy? She nods toward Kellerman, who is doing the talking this time, it seems.
“I’d like to ask you about your sister’s relationship with her husband.”
So they know.Venetia lowers herself into a chair.
“It was good,” she says. “They were together since they were teenagers. They had ups and downs like anyone, but they were good. Solid.”
Kellerman says nothing for a moment. Her eyes roam Venetia’s face. Doesn’t she believe her? This woman is not as nice as Orla.
“Have you found something?” Venetia asks.
“The woman who lives next door to Aimee gave us some new information.” Kellerman’s gaze never leaves Venetia’s face. “She’s the person who called us on Wednesday morning. She’d heard a door bang late Tuesday night, and texted Aimee Wednesday morning to see if everything was OK.”
“I see.”
“Does that strike you as unusual?”
“No?”
“OK.” Kellerman writes something in her notebook. “She got no reply from Aimee but saw that both cars were in the driveway and got worried. We wondered why that had made her worry—maybe Aimee was having a lie-in or had switched off her phone—and she said she’d heard shouting and banging from time to time. The walls are thin. She worried that all was not well in their relationship. Does that tally with your opinion on their marriage?”
“No, not at all. I mean, everyone shouts a bit, don’t they?” Venetia glances at Felipe. Felipe never shouts.
“I see.” Another note. Orla says nothing, but she’s watching Venetia throughout.
“Do you think murder-suicide?” Venetia whispers.
“No. We’re certain both Aimee and Rory were murdered.” A pause. A million unspoken words slip into that pause.
“One more question and then I’ll leave you in peace. Did either of you know a woman called Savannah Holmes?”
• • •
Evening sunlight slips through the slats of the blind, momentarily dazzling Venetia as she sits on the couch pulling on her boots.
