‘I want you to know this because I’m going to die. I’m going to die and the person who murdered your mother is still out there.’
54
‘You’re not going to like what I’m about to say,’ warns Alison as we walk back to the car park. ‘But I think, deep down, you’ve been wondering it too. And that’s why you came with me to see Dad.’
‘I still hate him, even if he didn’t kill Mum,’ I spit. ‘He still made her life hell.’
‘Immy …’
I stop and spin around to face her. I don’t want to hear it but I know what she’s going to say. ‘You think Dorothea knew what happened to Mum, don’t you? You think that’s what she’s been trying to tell me in her sculpture. You think that’s why she left me the house? Out of guilt?’
‘It makes sense,’ she says gently. ‘It makes sense as to why she left you the sculpture. And the house.’
‘That’s if she did leave the sculpture to me. It could all just be a mistake. Something that was supposed to be part of her collection, but she never finished it in time …’
‘Immy …’
I toe the ground, refusing to look at her, like a petulant child.
‘You need to tell DI Shirley.’
‘Dad was found guilty,’ I mutter. ‘There is no evidence Dorothea knew who killed Mum. Or was the one to kill her. Why would she? She loved her.’
‘Maybe that’s why? I don’t know.’
‘I can’t … I can’t do this right now. I need to go home.’
‘How’re things with Josh?’
I hesitate. ‘We’re finished. He’s moving out. It’s a long story.’ My head is pounding. I just want to go back to the villa and cuddle Solly and bury my head beneath my duvet and not have to think about my father being innocent or Dorothea being guilty.
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘Oh, Immy. I’m sorry, although I think it’s the right thing after what you told me. Do you want me to come home with you?’
‘No. I’ll be fine.’ I want to be on my own.
‘Okay, I’ll ring you later. Go home and get some rest.’
She pulls me in for a quick, awkward hug and then we go our separate ways.
I don’t want to believe that Dorothea had anything to do with my mum’s death, but the only way I’ll find out for sure is from Annette. She covered for Dorothea once before with Bobby. Would she do it again?
I call her but there is no answer and so I look her up on the TV station’s electoral roll and find an address for her in Clifton. I decide to do a detour to Bristol Temple Meads on the way back from the prison. It’s a long journey so I get out the biography, still shocked that Denniswas the one to write it. I flick through the pages but there is nothing earth-shattering in it. Dennis didn’t know about Bobby’s death. I remember Annette telling me about the postcard and how someone had scribbled on the back about finally getting the truth about the past. But what truth? Apart from Dorothea having an abusive husband in the past, there is nothing much here. I turn to a chapter called ‘The Fab Four’.
Who knows what would have become of the young, heartbroken Dorothy after her marriage failed if it hadn’t been for Annette Baker-Hume. Only a few years older than Dorothea, Annette took the broken bird under her wing. Sensing that Dorothea needed a purpose in life, and knowing she would have empathy for the women seeking shelter after what she had witnessed with her parents, Annette asked if Dorothea would like to be part of something.
Annette, whose own husband had gone to prison for fraud, before taking his own life in his cell, had retrained as an art therapist and was looking for a like-minded individual to set up an art therapy institute for women. Dorothea, having not yet made her name in the art world but being talented and experimental, agreed and the art therapy centre was born.
‘Annette Baker-Hume was a woman to be reckoned with,’ explains her one-time neighbour, Lydia Smith. ‘She used her money wisely to help others. Annette and Dorothy bonded over their commitment to the institute.’
One of their first clients, Maisie Hill, whose ex-husband at the time was serving a long prison sentence for attempted murder, joined Annette and Dorothea to become a founding member of the institute. While Maisie wasn’t a gifted sketcher or painter, she was very talented at knitting and crocheting. The other member was Rosemary Farrington. She started out as a classics teacher specializing in Latin at the expensive all-girls school in …
I look up from the book. Latin. I think of the word printed on the piece of paper Dennis found. Could his attack have had something to do with Rosemary? Revenge? But for what? Another thing to ask Annette.
I drop the book into my bag as the train pulls into Temple Meads and then take the bus to Clifton. As I walk down Annette’s street, exhaustion sweeps over me. Was it only yesterday that Harry and I were chased by Dominic Filcher on the motorbike? It feels like weeks ago. But I can’t sit around the villa by myself. If I keep busy then I can stop thinking about Josh and the end of our relationship.
My throat is dry by the time I’ve reached the door of Annette’s mews house, and before I’ve pressed the buzzer I go over and over my rehearsed speech. I’m so psyched up for having it out with Annette that when the door opens revealing a young guy wearing a baggy T-shirt, jeans and clumpy trainers, I just say, ‘Oh.’
‘Can I help you?’
