He has never actually given her his address, but she knows where he lives. She has imagined his life with Enid so very often: a perfect whitewashed house with a couple of seats on the porch, where he’d drink a cool beer on a hot evening; a well-stocked kitchen, Enid making pies from scratch. If Beverley dwells on it too much, it makes her feel as if she has filth under her fingernails.
Enid doesn’t deserve it. Beverley knows that. She doesn’t deserve all the sneaking around and the lies, so very many lies.
And now Beverley is going to have to meet her.
Will Enid be able to tell? Will she take one look at Beverley and see her husband’s kisses on her?
It’s not a long drive to Roger’s leafy suburb, and when she pulls up, the house is more modest than she expected. There are no lounge seats out front, but there is a large oak tree in the yard, its branches gnarled with age. A few leaves are starting to burnish to amber. Fall is on the way. Things are changing.
She steps out of the car but finds she cannot make her way in just yet. She leans briefly against the driver’s door and considers the house, imagining Enid and Roger treading their way through the hallways, clasping fingers briefly as they pass each other.
She considers the large living room windows, imagining what happens behind them when the curtains are drawn. Does Roger kiss Enid when he returns at the end of the day? Does Enid even know about the killer they’ve been seeking? Does she know she is being so awfully betrayed?
Beverley wishes she could stay this way, on the periphery of a marriage she is about to ruin, but the police need this information right now. She takes a deep breath and pushes herself off of the car.
She can feel the neighbors’ curious eyes on her back as she makes her way toward the door, raises her hand to knock. She pauses, puts an ear to the wood. Nothing. She grasps the knocker and beats the door loudly.
“Hello?” she calls reluctantly, knocks again, waits for footsteps.
Has Roger mentioned that he and Enid were going away? She doesn’t think so.
She looks around her, assessing her options, then steps into the flower bed, eases her way past a rosebush until she reaches a window. She cups her hands together and peers through the glass. Everything appears normal inside. There is a large television, switched off, and a coffee table with a few magazines piled up on it and a pair of slippers by its side. Bookshelves line the walls, neatly ordered. There are no abandoned cups or plates to suggest that someone was disturbed and had to leave, no signs to suggest anything untoward. Roger and Enid must both be fine.
Unless…
Beverley’s stomach twists. What if Roger already knew that Peter Farrer was the killer? What if he confronted him, went behind Cornwell’s back to show him who was really the expert in this case, and things ended badly for him? Could Peter have been here, at the house? Could he have taken Roger and Enid?
She swallows. She knows she should wait, check that Roger and Enid are okay. But she has no more time to waste. The women will have to confront Sharon themselves and hope she believes them.
As she turns the key in her car’s ignition, her brain buzzes with something undefinable, something tinny and nagging and persistent. She cannot afford to stop. She cannot afford to be pulled off track. She is so close to the final act; she cannot be distracted now. Peter Farrer is the killer. He has slaughtered five women, and if she doesn’t get to Sharon’s soon, he will be free to kill more.
Forty-Two
She’s forced tomake a quick stop at home to gather her bag and call her mother, check that she’s okay to keep the children. Elsie has gone to Margot’s to cajole her out of her mood. They started this together, and they should end it together, too.
But they don’t have much time. They need to get to Sharon’s as soon as they can if they are to stop Peter.
It makes so much sense now. This is why the police were never able to match the prints they found to anyone in their system—because the killer is little more than a kid.
Beverley quickly pulls her bag onto her shoulder. She takes a knife from the block in the kitchen and wraps it in a scarf, tucks it inside. They don’t know how Sharon is going to react when they tell her that her son is a killer. They don’t know how Peter will react if they confront him.
As Beverley reaches for the door handle, the bell rings.
She freezes.
She is not expecting anyone. Her mother is at home—she just spoke to her. She’s meeting Elsie and Margot across town. Beverley pulls the door open.
“Ah.” Christopher Appleton is standing on her doorstep. He looks sheepish, his shoulders hunched. Behind him, the sky curls with wisps of white-gray clouds.
At first, she is baffled. He is the last person she would expect to see on her doorstep.
Then she sees it—a hard shell, a small black eye. In his arms is Meatball the tortoise.
“He was in my front yard,” the man explains shyly. “It’s a miracle no one ran him over when he crossed the road.”
“I’m so sorry!” Beverley reaches across and takes the tortoise from him. Her cheeks ache with the false smile. Her palms are growing slick. She needs to get out the door.
“Hey, he’s just a tortoise.” Mr. Appleton shrugs with half a smile.
