She really had been naïve, hadn’t she? How much had it turned him on, using her the way he had? He probably hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her. Her heart plummeted at the thought that she might have repulsed him. He was using this woman too, though, she would bet her life on it. She was tempted to text her and tell her just how much of a bastard he was, but that would only alert him to the fact that she knew.
What had she got herself involved in?Whyhad she? Humiliation rising hot inside her, she swallowed back the bile in her throat and got to her feet. She wasn’t going to face him with it. She’d thought she was, but he wasn’t worth wasting the emotion on.
Disgusted with herself more than anything, she tossed the phone onto the bed, then hurried to retrieve it as it slid off the edge of the duvet onto the floor. Cushioned by the carpet, it hadn’t made any noise – thank God.
As she bent to pick it up, her eyes snagged on something under the bed. His Banksy Ratapult T-shirt. She’d bought it for him online from the Banksy Shop. It had a stain on it, deep crimson, stark against the white cotton. Her eyes sliding once again to the door, she reached tentatively for it and shook it out. And her heart somersaulted in her chest.
Dropping it as if it might bite her, she tried to imagine where the blood had come from, but couldn’t. He’d had no visible injuries recently. Had he? Nerves knotted her stomach as, taking another breath, she peered back under the bed, sure she would find something terrifying there. There was nothing apart from an old laptop gathering dust, and a box. A shoebox-size box. The sort in which he kept the medication she’d helped him to steal.
Hesitating, she went over to the door to listen, then, hearing him shaving, eased the door to and went back to the box. She couldn’t just take it. He’d know it was her. But she could maybe take a photo of what was in there, one of the shirt too. She might need to. He’d worn gloves at the surgery. She hadn’t. She was sure she hadn’t touched anything near the safe, and her fingerprints would be around the place anyway since she’d been there many times with her dad. But what if she’d left some piece of DNA that would alert the police to her involvement? He would deny everything, probably that he even knew her, and where would that leave her?
Dropping to her knees, she held her breath and prised the lid off the box, a deep furrow forming in her brow as she studied the contents. It was full of old photographs. She recognised him in some of them, unmistakable with his twinkly eyes and sex-loaded smile, cultivated to reel women in. He was wearing a biker jacket and motorbike helmet in some, his hair, dark and long, like Ben’s, escaping from beneath it. Looking like a poser astride his bike in others. But it was the girl straddling the bike in another photo that really caught her attention.
She squinted at it, her heart almost stopping inside her. It wasn’t.Wasit? It couldn’t be. Her heartbeat a sluggish thud in her chest, she picked up another photo, of the same girl. Wearing jeans and a strappy vest, she was sitting cross-legged against a graffiti-covered brick wall, sticking her tongue out, cheeky, confident. Confused, Millie picked up another photo. The girl looked nervous in this one. She was standing, her shoulders slightly slumped, her hands tucked behind her back. She was the same, but not. Wearing the same strappy top, but not. It was a different colour.
Hands shaking, Millie compared the two photos side by side. The girl was wearing a locket, a distinctive gold-embossed locket. They both were. Her mum still had hers, a tiny photograph of a blonde-haired girl in it. She’d told Millie her twin sister had been buried in hers.
Her mouth dry, she pushed the photographs into her jacket pocket and delved further into the box, extracting an envelope; a white self-seal envelope, the sort she’d heard had been stuffed through people’s doors. With trembling fingers, she extracted the letter from inside it.
Does your husband know about your son?she read.You belong to me,Emily. You can run. You can hide. I will find you. YOU’RE MINE.
Her head snapped up as she heard the door creak open.
‘Find anything interesting?’ Louis said behind her.
Forty-One
Jake
‘Natasha Jameson?’ Jake shook his head, his heart still pumping with shock. ‘But who …?’ He brought his gaze cautiously back to DS Regan’s. ‘How?’
‘We’re treating it as a hit-and-run,’ she said, ‘for the moment.’
Jake noted her dubious expression. ‘I take it you’re not convinced that it was.’
‘We’re keeping an open mind. It was dark. She was wearing black, not easy to see on a secluded country lane. From the location, we’re surmising she may have climbed out of a car. It may have been an unfortunate accident, the driver running scared, thinking he or she had hit an animal, possibly, but …’
‘You think she may have argued with someone.’ Jake read between the lines.
Regan shrugged non-committally. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Michael?’ Jake eyed her warily.
‘It seems her husband has an alibi, which can be corroborated,’ Regan answered. ‘We’ll know more when Natasha regains consciousness, which we’re hoping she soon will. We’ve been doing some digging around meanwhile, and it appears the general consensus is that she might have been cheating on him.’
Jake’s eyes slid to Emily. She looked deathly pale, clearly as shocked as he was. Before Regan had told them who the young woman was, it would have been Millie she’d seen lying in that lane. Jake had felt the fear emanating from her in palpable waves. This wouldn’t help her state of mind.
‘So rumour would have it,’ he said, his gaze gliding after Ben, who, also visibly shocked, was heading for the kitchen.
‘They split up for a while after her husband received one of the letters that have been circulating,’ Regan pressed, ‘which suggests that there might be some truth in it.’
Jake could sense Emily watching him steadily and prayed this wasn’t going to cause more friction between them. ‘I really couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘They got back together. I hoped, for her sake, she’d made the right decision.’
‘I gather from your frown that you don’t approve?’ Regan commented.
Jake hadn’t realised he was frowning. ‘It’s not my place to approve or disapprove,’ he said, with a short smile. ‘I have to remain impartial. Michael Jameson is one of my patients too.’
DS Regan arched an eyebrow curiously.
