Simon knew he had to come up with a presentable lie, and quickly. ‘I was just thinking: his wife’s obviously put that vase there, hasn’t she? No way a bloke arranges a Zoom backdrop like that if he’s got any say in the matter. He looks like he’s been abandoned in an art gallery.’
Sellers frowned. ‘It’s just a big vase. Nothing wrong with it.’
‘What are we supposed to notice about it?’ Sam asked.
‘Just how stupid and weird it is, that’s all,’ said Simon, hoping he’d get away with leaving it at that. There was no way he was going to tell them – not with his brain buzzing like a bomb about to go off and when he still didn’t quite believe it himself.
25
Wednesday 1 November 2023, 6.15 p.m.
JEMMA
Iknock on Lottie’s bedroom door, loud enough to make sure she hears it over her music, then walk in and close the door behind me. I don’t have time to wait for permission. Paddy could be back any second. This conversation needs to happen before he gets home.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Lotts doesn’t seem to mind me barging in. She’s sitting with her back against the wall, legs up on her bed, phone in her hands. Her room’s still tidy – has been for the last month. Ever since she and her friends painted the walls a colour called ‘Sardine’ and we swapped her old faded curtains for white-painted wooden shutters, she’s been keeping it spotless. I try not to think about the clothes strewn all over the floor in Paddy’s and my bedroom, which has become a junkyard in recent months – since July, when my obsession with Marianne and secrets and murder first took hold.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ Lottie says in a measured voice, as if she’s anticipated the question and prepared her answer in advance.
‘You sure?’
She nods.
‘Suzanne says you told her something today.’
‘Oh, great. Thanks, Suzanne.’
I walk over to her bed, sit down on the end of it. ‘She says—’
‘Look, Mum—’
We both stop talking at the same time. Then Lottie says, ‘I was talking rubbish, okay. I know Dad’s my dad. I was just being an attention-seeking brat, I guess.’
‘You’ve never been a brat, Lotts. You’re perfection on a stick.’ I smile. I’ve said this to her regularly since she was little. ‘And there’s no question about it: Dad’s definitely your dad. I wouldn’t lie to you about something so important.’
‘Guess I’m the only liar, then,’ she mutters. ‘Suzanne must think I’m a total dick. I’m going to have to apologise to her, aren’t I?’
‘Of course she doesn’t think you’re a dick. Suzanne adores you. You know that. Lotts, how did you know Ollie Mayo’s name?’
‘Heard the police talking about him on Monday, at Grandad’s. But, I mean … that wasn’t the first time I’ve heard his name mentioned, was it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t it?’
She sighs. ‘No, Mum. You and Suzanne whisper about him all the time.’
Great. No parenting awards coming my way any time soon.I don’t know what to say. I feel not at all like the parent in this moment. Desperately in need of one, more like.
‘I’m going to apologise to Suzanne for lying to her,’ says Lottie. ‘I just wanted to see how she’d react.’
‘She’ll understand. After what you’ve been through—’
‘No.’ Her voice is quiet but hard. ‘I haven’t been through anything. You don’t understand.’
‘Tell me.’ I have to know, though I’m not sure I want to hear it, whatever it is.
It can’t be Lottie. Lottie can’t have done it. You know this.
