DC Waterhouse doesn’t seem to have noticed. I’m not surprised. There’s something intrinsically idyll-repellent about him.
‘Can I come in?’ he says, and I wonder why he sounds furious.
Do I have a choice? I don’t think I do, so I might as well sound welcoming – as much as I can fake, anyway. ‘Sure.’ I stand back to let him pass.
‘Are your husband and daughter in?’ He stays where he is, as if he’s had second thoughts about entering my home.
‘No. Work and school respectively,’ I say.Thank God. I don’t want this strange man anywhere near Lottie. ‘I’d normally be at work too, on a Wednesday, but they’ve given me compassionate leave. Ironic, some might say.’
‘Where’s your laptop?’ he barks at me.
Shit.
‘It’s here, isn’t it? I need it, and any passwords?’
‘I—’
‘DS Kombothekra says he’s got all the devices belonging to your family, and they’ve got your phone, but no computer for you.’
‘You seem agitated,’ I tell him. ‘Remember, you don’t care if people murder their stepmothers.’ I flash him my most annoying fake smile. ‘You made that clear on Monday. Not that I did – kill Marianne, I mean.’
‘Where’s your laptop, Jemma?’
‘At my work,’ I lie.
‘So I can collect it from there?’
‘Yup. The Vanadiss School in Lower Heckencote. And alsothe only school in Lower Heckencote.’ I laugh nervously at my own feeble joke. ‘Is that all? Because I should probably—’
‘No, it’s not all. Not by a long way,’ says Waterhouse.
Damn. ‘You’d better come in, then.’ My bag, with my laptop inside it, is hanging from the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, just a few inches from where I’m standing. ‘Come through,’ I tell Waterhouse.
Why did he have to turn up now, when I’m finally feeling human again and breathing normally for the first time since Monday evening? I’ve only just managed to convince myself, with a lot of help from Suzanne, that I’m not going to end up in prison, despite the many rash, stupid things I’ve done. ‘Send the mother of a thirteen-year-old girl to jail – a nice, upper-middle-class mum with no criminal record? No way. You’re a crimepreventer, Jemma. No, I mean it. You effectively handed yourself into save Marianne’s life, remember? That shows good character.’
From the expression on Waterhouse’s face, I don’t think he’d agree. Maybe I should ask Suzanne to speak to him on my behalf, or to DS Kombothekra.
I have to destroy my laptop before he gets his hands on it. If no detective ever reads my diary entries about the plan to kill Marianne, then they won’t be able to prove any such thing ever existed. I never sent anything to Tom – we only ever discussed it in person – so I can pretend I was just desperate for attention and talking nonsense when I went to Spilling Police Station on Monday, as long as there’s nothing in black and white, nothing that can be read out to a jury.
I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, me and Lottie.Wasting police time is a far less serious offence than conspiracy to commit murder.
I offer Waterhouse a cup of tea and he says yes, then doesn’t respond to any of the pleasantries I throw out as I make it –just sits at the kitchen table, waiting to have my full attention.
‘What do you know about the terms of Marianne’s will?’ he asks as I hand him his drink.
The question takes me by surprise. ‘I’ve never thought about it. I assume everything she owns goes to Dad.’
‘That wasn’t always the case. Not according to DS Kombothekra. I just spoke to him before coming here.’
Well, bully for you.
‘He’s talked to Marianne’s lawyers. Her most recent will was signed and witnessed on 13 December 2012, not much more than a month after she was attacked and left for dead on her kitchen floor. Before that, there was another will – one that left you a million and Paddy five hundred grand.’
‘What?’My stomach lurches. ‘I … I didn’t know that. That’s a lot.’ I take a gulp of my tea. It’s too hot and burns my mouth: a welcome distraction from the confusion.
13 December 2012 …
‘I don’t want her money,’ I tell Waterhouse. ‘Not a penny of it.’
