LC:Her name and contact details would be very helpful.
HW:Fine. Gabriella. What? Why are you staring at me like that?
LC:The woman claiming to be your wife last night also said she had a daughter called Gabriella.
HW:Well, she was clearly deluded about many things. She pretended to be my wife, so why not pretend to be the mother of my child too?
LC:Is there anyone else who might have had a grudge against you or your wife?
HW:Why are you asking about grudges if you think she committed suicide?
LC:Am I right in thinking you still have a flat in London as well as your home here in Hope Falls?
HW:I don’t think it’s illegal yet to own two properties.
LC:No, but I imagine it must be expensive. Did your wife have life insurance?
HW:I think I’m going to leave now. If you have anything else to say to me you can do it via my solicitor.
26BIRDY
I stop reading the transcript and close my laptop because my drink has arrived. I rather like my new “office.” The Smuggler’s Inn is one of the oldest pubs in the country. I only know this because there is a sign on the wall behind the bar that saysONE OF THE OLDEST PUBS IN THE COUNTRYand yet they do not know how to mix a mojito. The pub is indeed very old, but it has been redecorated recently—I can still smell the paint—and the new soft furnishings are tasteful if a little twee. There is another framed print behind the bar that saysSTRANGERS ARE FRIENDS YOU HAVE NOT YET MET.
What a crock of shit that is.
Friends are strangers in waiting if you ask me.
Aside from the signage I like the place, with its old-fashioned bar, open fire, and low ceilings with wooden beams. I also like that I’m the only person here.
I take a sip of my drink and text Carter:
SEE ME IN MY OFFICE.
“You called?” he says, walking into the pub five minutes later.
“Technically I texted, but thank you for coming so quickly.”
He stares at Sunday and I’m starting to think Carter does not like dogs.
“I thought you didn’t drink?” he says, eyeing my cocktail.
“What a good memory you have, and you’re right, I don’t. I know, a teetotal detective, whatever next? This is a virgin mojito, or at least an impression of one. I’d offer to buy you a cocktail but you have work to do. I’m only halfway through the transcript of your interview with the husband, and I needed to ask you something. What’s all this about a woman pretending to be Eden Fox yesterday?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. Last night I was called to Spyglass—”
“You mean my grandmother’s old house?”
“Yes. Harrison Woolf and Eden Fox live in the house your family used to own.” He pauses to let that news sink in then asks, “Did you ever meet them? They must have bought the house from you.”
“No. It was a probate case, so I had very little to do with it. The solicitors and the estate agent dealt with everything. They hired a house clearance company, put the place on the market, and it all happened very fast. Sad how quickly an entire lifetime can be tidied away.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, they did a lovely job renovating the place,” he says.
“You’ve been inside?”
“A few times. Yesterday evening Harrison Woolf dialed 999 to report that another woman was claiming to be his wife, and trying to break into their home.”
“Was she?”
