‘People sometimes use metaphors that don’t come from their own personal experience, Waterhouse,’ said the Snowman. ‘That’s not illegal yet in this once-great nation, though I’m sure it soon will be.’
‘Would avoiding speeding fines be the first comparison that sprang to mind for a non-driver?’ Simon looked at each ofthem in turn. ‘I don’t think so. And what about the health check stuff? Jemma Stelling was twenty-one years old in 2006. What twenty-one-year-old has GP health checks, blood pressure and high cholesterol in their head as a point of reference? Whoever wrote the diary is drawing from the metaphor bank of a much older person, and one who’s been driving cars for years.’
Sellers and Gibbs exchanged a look. Were they each trying to work out how convinced the other was?
‘Need more, still?’ said Simon. ‘I can keep going. How about the story of the time Ollie Mayo went with the Upton family to a cottage in the Cotswolds for Christmas? He was worried they were going to be late and said to the diary writer, “Didn’t you tell them we’d be there at four?”, to which our narrator replied with something along the lines of “Yeah, I said four, but they won’t mind if we turn up an hour late.” Crucial part there is the “I” in “Isaid four”. I asked Jemma who went to the Cotswolds that Christmas. It was her and Mayo, and Gareth and Marianne Upton. Remember, Jemma’s twenty-one in 2006, and younger than that before 2006. And this was the family Christmas trip.’
‘And no twenty-one-or-younger person would be the one handling the communications around the booking if their rich, control-freak stepmum was also going on the trip.’ Sam sounded excited.
‘Exactly,’ said Charlie. ‘Marianne would for sure have been the one telling the property caretaker or whoever, “We’ll be there around four.”’
‘I think I’m starting to be convinced,’ Sellers told Gibbs.
‘Good,’ said Simon, ‘because I rang Jemma this morning and asked her. These pages don’t come from her 2006 diary, she told me. Categorically not.’
‘What about the friend, Rosie, the Royal Family fan?’ asked Proust. ‘That was about the pain of being stopped from marrying the person you love – written by someone it had happened to.’
‘Nope,’ said Simon. ‘Jemma’s never had a friend called Rosie, she told me. That was Marianne, saying she’d rather be part of the Royal Family, where duty and the wishes of your elders count for something – much easier to stop junior family members following their hearts if you’re a Royal. Whereas she, Marianne, came from a family wherein theoryeveryone can choose to be with the people they love most. In fact, Marianne loved Oliver Mayo best – her perfect son, son-in-law, confidante, person to talk to for hours – and she’d been deprived of him forever by Jemma’s choice of Paddy. And, unlike a Royal matriarch, there was nothing she could do about it.’
Gibbs gave a small whistle. ‘It’s insane how much all of that writing could totally be either of them. Like, the part where she says, “I should never have let Paddy and Ollie meet each other and be in the house at the same time” – that’s not Jemma saying, “I shouldn’t have acted like a slapper with no class whatsoever”, it’s Marianne saying, “I shouldn’t have let Jemma flaunt her cheating and behave badly under my roof.”’
‘I’m convinced now too,’ said Sam. He’d picked up one of the 2006 diary pages and read aloud from it: ‘“There would be no sympathy for me, even if I were honest about how I feel. No one would understand. I could well be the first person this particular awfulness has ever happened to. No one on this planet has felt what I’m feeling now – at least nowhere near as strongly – for someone who is forbidden to them for the particular cruel, senseless reason that Ollie is to me.”’ Sam looked at Simon. ‘Ifthat was Jemma talking about being separated from the man she loved by a disapproving parent, or parental figure, she wouldn’t think she was the first, or that no one would sympathise.’
‘“Senseless”.’ Charlie shook her head. ‘That’s how Marianne described Jemma having the temerity to … choose her own boyfriend, basically. Woman must have been a nightmare.’
‘Well!’ The Snowman clapped his hands together. ‘I’m delighted that you know who wrote a particular diary in 2006, Waterhouse. If your job were “Diary Authorship Identifier”—’
‘I know who killed Marianne too,’ Simon spoke over him. ‘And who tried and failed to do it in 2012.’
‘Same person?’ said Gibbs.
‘Different people.’
‘Are you going to tell us?’ Sellers asked hopefully.
‘If you want me to, yeah. But you might not.’
‘Why wouldn’t we want to know?’ Sam looked anxious.
‘Because … to put it crudely, the only proper villain in this story, the only person both capable and guilty of true evil, is the one who’s already dead,’ Simon told him. ‘I don’t want anyone locked up for years for anything Marianne Upton-related. You won’t either, soon as I tell you what I know. Both crimes were self-defence at heart, if not legally. Most people would vehemently disagree with that, and they’d be wrong. Both were psychological self-defence if not physical. So, yeah, I’ll tell you the full story if you want to know – and then I’ll beg you all to pretend you’re still in the dark as far as anything official’s concerned. Want to hear the other option?’
‘Can’t wait,’ Gibbs muttered.
‘I can tell you nothing,’ said Simon. ‘That’s the easy routefor you. I keep it to myself. No agonising choice between doing your professional duty and being loyal to me.’
‘There’s a much more appealing third option,’ said the Snowman. And then, for the first time in his police career, he made a suggestion that all present liked the sound of.
33
Friday 3 November 2023, 10 p.m.
JEMMA
Paddy’s still up when I get home at ten, sitting facing the TV in the lounge as if he’s watching it, but the screen’s a square of black. He’s in his pyjamas, a half-drunk mug of tea balanced on the sofa arm next to him.
‘Is Lottie still at Suzanne’s?’ I say.
He nods. ‘Where’ve you been?’
