I notice the flash of disappointment in his eyes.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ It feels too final to end it there, so I say tentatively, ‘Maybe we could go for dinner one evening?’
His face brightens. ‘Sure. I’d love that. Let me know when you’re free. And, if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.’
I touch his arm in thanks and then head back to the villa, alone.
As I’m letting myself into the house, I receive a call from Rachel. I’m so excited to hear from her that I tell her everything: about Josh and the cameras, about Dennis being Sidney S. Crane, about Dominic Filcher. She’s suitably shocked.
‘Do you want me to come over? I can stay?’
‘That’s kind, honestly, and I’d love you to stay soon, but I feel I need to face up to being here on my own if I want to make my life here, you know?’
‘I get it. I do have some positive news,’ she says. ‘It might be nothing, but I think I’ve managed to track down Robert Falkner. In Australia.’
My heart falls. How can I tell her that she’s been wasting her time? That Bobby is dead and that Dorothea killed him, when I promised Annette I’d keep it to myself?
‘Oh, that’s great,’ I say with false enthusiasm, guilt tugging at me that I can’t tell her the truth.
‘I mean, it’s a long shot,’ she says. ‘But he’s around the same age and is a British national, and he has a sister who doesn’t live very far from you.’
My interest stirs. ‘Oh my God, really? What’s her name? Where does she live?’
My eyes go to the old photograph of Dorothea sitting around the table at the art therapy centre with Maisie, Rosemary and Annette. Could this sister know that they covered for Dorothea and be seeking revenge?
‘Her name is Irene Fuller,’ she says. ‘I’ll text you her address.’
51
Dorothy
Forty-Nine Years Before
Dorothy stood in front of Rene’s house. Her knees were shaking beneath her long skirt and not just from the cold. She pulled the scarf further around her neck, to hide the bruise on her skin. Bobby’s violent outbursts were getting worse, and she didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t started hitting her until six months into their marriage, when, she supposed, the honeymoon period of them living together had worn off. For the two years they had been courting, he’d been the model boyfriend, and she’d loved him with every fibre of her being. She had been so excited when, on their wedding day, she finally moved out of her parents’ house. She thought she’d burst with happiness. She’d thought she’d found her happy ending.
Her wedding day had been the best day of her life.
Bobby adored his big sister, Irene, and vice versa. She was four years older than Bobby and was the only person he ever seemed to respect. It was now obvious he hadno respect for his wife. In the years since Dorothy had met Bobby, she’d become close to his sister as well. Rene was a chain-smoking, outspoken woman who took no nonsense. Married to the cowed Edwin Fuller, who was several inches shorter than her, she definitely ruled the roost. She was childless by choice and, unlike Dorothy, hadn’t given up her post office job after she married.
Annette had advised her she must tell someone close to her what was happening. Annette had become Dorothy’s closest friend since they met a few months ago, the only person who knew what was really going on in Dorothy’s marriage. Annette had been through something similar and was struggling alone with a three-year-old son after her husband was arrested for embezzlement. Luckily Annette’s family money was untouched, but Dorothy knew if she left Bobby she would have nowhere to go. She didn’t have money like Annette. She didn’t have the same choices.
So, here she was. Hoping that Rene could talk some sense into her brother. She was the only person he ever listened to, after all.
The streetlamps had come on and their amber glow illuminated the ice crystals that crunched beneath Dorothy’s boots. She knew Rene’s shift would have ended now, and she blew on her hands, her breath clouding in front of her. It was now or never. She couldn’t lose her nerve.
She took a deep breath. The cold air hurt the back of her throat and she coughed. She swallowed down her nausea. This was her only option. She had no choice.
Slowly, her legs heavy and feeling like she was trudging uphill, she made her way down the front path and knocked on Rene’s door.
‘Give us a minute!’ she heard Rene call. The hall light flashed on. Dorothy blew on her hands again, her resolve seeping out of her like the heat from her body. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do it. What if Rene turned against her?
Bobby’s power lies in the secrecy, Annette had said. She repeated it over and over in her mind, her heart thumping, her hands damp despite the chill.
And then Rene threw open the door, a terrifying figure in rollers and a dressing gown. Standing there she seemed to tower over the petrified Dorothy.
‘Dot, my love, what’re you doing here?’
‘Can I come in?’
