‘It’s my fault that she died because I didn’t pick up on the signals that she needed me,’ Doon continued. ‘I have to live with that and sometimes, like today, I wonder how much longer I can keep going for.’
Doon sat on the sofa and buried her head in her hands as Sinéad put her arm around her shoulder while Doon sobbed. Sinéad recalled the photographs of the plush hotelsuite in which Isla had died. She saw with clarity the paleness of the girl’s semi-naked body, her post-mortem bruising and the dried blood around her mouth. ‘You can’t keep feeling responsible for what may or may not have happened,’ said Sinéad.
‘There’s no may or may not about it,’ Doon cried. ‘If I could turn back the clock I know I could’ve saved her life.’
In that moment, Sinéad’s stitch came loose and she knew what she must do. To hell with the programme this one time. Telling Doon the truth couldn’t do any harm to it. Her stomach cartwheeled at the prospect. She held Doon gently by the forearms and stared her directly in the eye. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she began. ‘It’s about Isla. I know things, Doon. I can’t tell you how I know them, but you have to take my word for it that I’m privy to sensitive information.’
Doon sat upright. ‘What do you know?’
Sinéad took a deep breath; there was no going back now. ‘Isla didn’t commit suicide. She was killed.’
Doon immediately withdrew herself from Sinéad’s grip. ‘No, she wasn’t; I was at the inquest. I know what happened.’
‘Your daughter died in room forty-six of the Loughborough hotel in Russell Square on July the sixth, eight years ago, is that right?’
‘Yes, how do you know that?’
‘That part is a matter of public record. But what isn’t is that the friends she was with were part-time professional girls, Doon. They were escorts, university students paying for their education by keeping wealthy foreign men company.’
‘You mean they were prostitutes?’ Doon asked, her head tilted and brow creased.
‘Isla was hired to entertain a wealthy Saudi Arabian sheikh, one who regularly gave MI6 important intelligence but who was known by them for his violence towards women. He was responsible for Isla’s death.’
‘No,’ Doon replied, adamantly. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m sorry, I really am. It was covered up by our intelligence services because the sheikh was worth more to them as a free man than he was extradited or behind bars.’
Doon shook her head and became increasingly agitated. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’
‘Because it’s the truth. And as your friend, I cannot allow you to spend the rest of your life believing Isla’s death was your fault when it wasn’t suicide that killed her.’
The slap across Sinéad’s face was so swift and unexpected that she hadn’t seen it coming.
‘You’re a liar!’ yelled Doon. ‘How dare you tell me Isla was a prostitute! My daughter wasn’t a whore! You’re sick! You’re a sick woman!’
‘But I was only trying to help you understand …’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she continued, now close to hysterical. ‘You come into our village trying to be one of us, pretending you want to be our friend but all you’ve done is stir up trouble for Gail and me. You’re cruel and you’re heartless and you’re not wanted here. Get out of my house.’
Sinéad hurried to her feet. She badly wanted to defend herself. However, the fire in Doon’s eyes made her realise she had completely misjudged the situation. There was nothing she could say that would make it any better. Being informed that Isla had actually been murdered, her death hushed up and that her killer was unlikely to face justice would be even harder for Doon to process than her own culpability. Because with the former, there would never be closure. It was easier for her to blame herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sinéad muttered, before leaving the sobbing woman alone. Her attempt at trying to help someone by imparting her secrets had failed abysmally. Not everyone craved the truth. For some, ignorance was a far better option.
Chapter 46
EMILIA
The house Ted told Emilia they’d designed and built together was empty when she returned to it.
There were no cars parked on the driveway, no lights were shining from inside and there was no one to greet her. An apprehensive Emilia unlocked the front door, tentatively stepping inside. Her footsteps were quiet as she made her way along the corridor to the main living area. She listened closely for signs of company, but she appeared to be alone.
Earlier that morning, Adrian and Bianca had accompanied her on the recently launched Eurostar from Switzerland to France and then to London. And at King’s Cross St Pancras station, a waiting car drove them out of the city and to the house. It came to a halt a few hundred metres away from the gates to Ted’s property.
By reaching the house as the sun had yet to rise, Emilia hoped to avoid Ted’s staff. It gave her a small window of opportunity to search the property for evidence as to where in the country Ted had hidden the four people who knew the truth about Emilia.
‘He was the only one who was aware of their locations,’ Bianca had explained in the car. ‘That information was too important to have died with him. You need to find it. Andyou’d better hurry up because his body has washed up ashore.’
The memory of his swift but savage murder flashed again before Emilia’s eyes. Despite his lies, he had not deserved to die, especially at the hands of terrorists. She briefly contemplated telling the police all that she knew, but whatdidshe know? What evidence had she that they existed or who they – and now her – were working for? It sounded like the ramblings of a madwoman with a missing memory. They could just as easily be a figment of her imagination.
