I run up the back stairs to the first floor, my mind racing, thinking of the photographs in my bag. And for the first time in ages I yearn for Rory, for how it used to be between us in the early days, when we’d tell each other everything, me curled up in his arms before talk of babies and marriage began to divide us.
The flat is dark and empty, and I go about switching on all the lights and closing the curtains. When I get to our bedroom I pause at the window. There it is again. A beam of light from the derelict building opposite. Isit squatters? The beam is moving, as though the person holding the torch is pacing, and then it swings around so that the light almost blinds me. I step back in shock, snatching the curtains closed.
I jump when my mobile buzzes where I’d left it on the bed. It’s Jack and I’m filled with relief.
‘Jack!’ I gasp, about to tell him everything. It’s been ages since he rang me in the evening and usually only when Finn is working nights.
‘I’ve found out something I think you’ll be interested in,’ he says, his voice serious and very un-Jack-like. We usually have a bit of banter on the phone first.
‘O-kaaay…’
‘I did a bit of digging after you found that card with the flowers.’
‘Flowers?’ I’m still thinking about a possible stalker in the building opposite and have to concentrate on what he’s saying. ‘What flowers?’
‘The ones that were left in Clive Wilson’s garden with the threatening note attached.’
I slump onto my bed. Suddenly I feel exhausted. ‘Right.’
‘I phoned the flower shop – they’re in Bristol – because the name and address was on the card. I remembered it after you let me see it. And –’ he coughs, sounding embarrassed ‘– I pretended to be Finn. Don’t ever tell him – he’d kill me.’
I laugh, mostly with relief that Jack sounds like his old self again. ‘Bloody hell, you’re getting as bad as me. What happened?’
‘I scared them into telling me who purchased theflowers. You’re never going to believe this but … it was Adam.’
‘Adam.’ I sit upright, in shock. ‘Adam Underwood?’
‘Yep.’ He sounds very pleased with himself. ‘Adam asked the woman in the shop to write the note. She didn’t think anything of it – he said it was a joke for a friend’s birthday.’
I’m going to have to tell Margot. ‘Good detective work, DS Jack Renton.’ I laugh.
‘I’m wasted in this job. No need to thank me.’ He’s chuckling when he hangs up.
I try to ring Margot but it goes straight to voicemail so I leave a message. Even though we don’t really text each other – Margot’s always preferred to talk – I tap out a quick text anyway. If she’s speaking to Adam tonight she’ll want to ask him about the note as well. Why did he send it? What’s going on between him and Clive?
I go into the kitchen, my head reeling, and make myself a cup of tea to take to bed (Rory always thinks it’s weird that the caffeine doesn’t keep me awake like it does him). I’m returning to my bedroom when I hear the letterbox rattle. I slam my mug down, spilling tea, and dart into the hallway, thinking it’s Rory, just in time to see something fluttering to the floor. It looks like a leaflet. I bend over to pick it up. It’s a bus ticket – I recognize the local company’s logo. I turn it over, expecting a note on the back but there is nothing. When I read it again I see ‘BRISTOL TO TILBY’ printed on the front. And a date: 9 March 2012. The date of the Wilson murders. I wrench open the front door, hoping to catch the person who posted it, but the corridor is empty.
33
Margot
The back door slams and Margot’s heart leaps in her chest.
He’s back. Adam’s back at last. Where has he been all this time? Ethan must be exhausted.
She jumps up from the sofa. She probably shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine. She feels light-headed and has to hold onto the door jamb for support. She’s just read Jess’s text. She’d thought she recognized the words – she’d seen them before. It’s only now she remembers where: in the office when she was searching through the bookings to see if Clive or Deirdre had ever stayed here. They had been scribbled on a piece of paper and she’d moved it aside without really thinking about it.
She doesn’t know her son-in-law as well as she thought.
Adam strides in and her heart sinks when she sees he doesn’t have her grandson with him. ‘Is he at Gloria’s again?’ she says, trying to push away the jealousy. She’s hardly spent any time alone with Ethan lately, and when she offers, Adam tells her, in a slightly patronizing way, ‘You’ve got too much on your plate at the moment.’ Inher lowest moments she can’t help but worry that he’s purposely keeping him away from her.
He runs a hand across his stubble, an aura of distraction surrounding him. ‘Ah, yes, but Mum lives on the way to the hospital. It was getting late. I’ll pick him up on the way to see Heather tomorrow.’
He slumps onto the sofa, still in his waxed jacket, eyeing the almost empty wine bottle on the coffee table. ‘Would you mind getting me a glass, Marg, as you’re up?’ he asks, as he reaches for the bottle. ‘Although it doesn’t look like there’s much left.’ His face is pale and drawn with tiredness, the bags under his eyes making him look older than his thirty-four years.
‘I’ll open another,’ she says, going to the kitchen to fetch a bottle and a glass. To her surprise, he follows her. He leans against the worktop and watches as she pours the wine. There is something brooding about his presence tonight.
Then his eyes flicker towards the two dirty plates still on the kitchen table and he frowns. ‘Who’s been here?’
