‘Reads like you’re trapped in a jar with a buzzing fly.’
‘The style’s neither here nor there, is it? Anyone can decide to change their writing style – and the different spellings of Ollie aren’t enough to prove Jemma didn’t write the laptop diary. She’s explained that: Marianne went through the file and changed all the “ie”s to “y”s, either to wind her up or threaten her or … just generally mess with her mind.’
‘Oh, Jemma wrote the laptop diary.’ Simon smiled enigmatically as he sat down on the sofa next to Charlie.
‘So Tulloch’s wrong?’ she said.
‘He is and he isn’t.’ The infuriating smile widened.
‘What do you mean? Simon, it’s the middle of the bloody night – just tell me. You mean he’s not wrong because Marianne did change something?’
‘Nope. I mean—’
‘I know!’ Charlie was determined to get it right. ‘Marianne forged Jemma’s 2006 diary – the handwritten one – in order to make Tulloch believe Jemma was nastier and more deranged about her than she ever really was?’
‘You think the writer of the 2006 diary is nasty and deranged?’ asked Simon.
‘Aha! I’m right, aren’t I?’ Charlie clapped her hands together in triumph. ‘And yes, obviously: the writer of the 2006 pages is a stone-cold bitch, I’d say. Whereas Real Jemma, in the laptop diary, is more measured, more sensitive … I mean, she’s also someone who plans murders in a very step-by-step way, like a conscientious teacher planning a school trip … but wait, Tom Tulloch was at school with Jemma, right? Wouldn’t he have spotted if this wasn’t her handwriting?’
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Think about it. Who were you close to at school? Would you recognise their handwriting now, or spot it if someone had forged their handwriting? Did you exchange lots of letters with your school friends and keep them into adulthood?’
It was an excellent point. ‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘So … Wow, so Marianneforgedthese handwritten diary entries and sent them to Tulloch, claiming they were Jemma’s?’
‘Nope.’ Simon’s face was expressionless.
‘Clumps of hair are about to be torn out in front of you,’Charlie warned him. ‘If it wasn’t Marianne and it wasn’t Jemma, then who the hell wrote these 2006 diary pages? Oliver Mayo? Paddy Stelling? Lottie? Can’t be Lottie – this isn’t a thirteen-year-old’s handiwork.’
‘Did you read the bit in the 2006 diary about the “Tyrant’s” favourite cocktail?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Mai Tai, wasn’t it?’
‘I asked Jemma Stelling what her favourite cocktail was,’ said Simon. ‘Guess what she said?’
‘If you think I can guess, then it must also be Mai Tai.’
‘It is. But there’s no “also”.’
‘Simon, I’m going to throw myself out of a window.’ Charlie groaned. ‘And we’re on the ground floor, so hopefully that shows you how desperate I am.’
‘This diary isn’t a forgery by Marianne,’ he said. ‘She’s not writing it pretending to be Jemma, hoping to fool Tom Tulloch or anyone else. She’s writing it as herself.’
Charlie felt her mouth drop open.
‘These handwritten pages from 2006come from Marianne Upton’s 2006 diary,’ said Simon. ‘And, what’s more, she never said, wrote or pretended any different – not to anyone. Read them again. It’s obvious, once you know.’
31
Friday 3 November 2023, 12.55 p.m.
JEMMA
‘Do you have an appointment?’ today’s receptionist at the Cedarwood Centre asks me. It’s a different woman from last time. For my second visit to Ollie’s workplace, I have come as myself, not as Jenny Judge or under another false name.
You mean you’ve come as the walking definition of crazy and deluded: believing Ollie will tell the truth this time even though he didn’t in July.
Don’t they say that expecting a different result from the same action is the definition of madness? I prefer to think of it as dedication mixed with optimism, the only two things keeping me going.
The effort of hoping for the best – proceeding as if the best might be true – is exhausting. My marriage is falling apart, and looks likely to take Lottie’s safe and stable home life with it. Most of my dreams are of being in prison. Still, somehow I’m still functioning. Somehow I managed to get myself to the station and onto two trains today.
