There is something familiar about him. ‘Who are you?’ I blurt out rudely. ‘I was looking for Annette.’
He looks taken aback but then laughs. ‘I’m Warren. Annette’s my grandmother and she’s not here at the moment.’
‘Oh, okay.’ I’d been so eager to speak to her, so intent on coming all the way to Bristol, that it never occurred to me she might not be in. ‘Would you mind giving her a message?’
‘Sure.’ He opens the door wider to reveal a long, elegant hallway: an extravagant orchid sits on a black console table and a large chandelier glistens above Warren’s head. He’s very tall. And rangy. Something tugs at my memory. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ He smiles at me again in a slightly flirty way.
‘Um. Imogen. Imogen Cooke.’
His smile slips. ‘Okay. I’ll pass it on. Thanks.’ He steps back and closes the door abruptly in my face.
It’s not until I’m back in the car that I realize who that man is.
He’d been wearing a hoody, but that rangy figure, the way he holds himself with his left shoulder lowered, his awkward gait …
Warren was the guy who broke into Dorothea’s office, I realize with a sickening thud. What the hell is going on?
As I walk back along the lane I’m still reeling about recognizing Warren. Questions loop around and aroundmy head. Has it been Warren who was looking for the sculpture all this time? And if so, was he doing it for Annette?
I trusted her. I even showed her the sculpture and asked for her help.
It doesn’t mean that she killed Dorothea, I tell myself.
And then I stop walking abruptly.
A man stands at my gate, not caring that he’s getting soaked by the rain. He’s around Dennis’s age and he waves when he sees me.
My stomach tightens. ‘Can I help you?’ I call.
‘Imogen?’ The man steps forward. I don’t recognize him. He has a thick moustache that contrasts with his greying hair, but he has kind eyes.
‘Yes?’
He takes a step towards me. ‘I’m Aiden. Maisie’s husband. I was wondering if I could have a word with you?’
Aiden. The man the police suspect of killing his wife.
‘Um. Now isn’t a good time,’ I say, moving around him to open the gate, conscious he’s hovering at my shoulder and hoping he doesn’t notice the keypad is broken.
His face is desperate. ‘I didn’t kill Maisie. She was poisoned, Imogen. We had a visitor that day.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure they believe me though.’
The wind picks up and I feel a surge of fear. I just want to get inside the villa. I don’t know who to trust any more.
‘Who was the visitor?’ I ask, dreading the answer. Because somewhere, deep down, I think I know who he’s going to say.
‘Annette.’
Of course. Has Annette played me this whole time? I think of her grandson going through Dorothea’s office. I think of her standing next to me in the bunker, calmly telling me how she buried Bobby for her best friend. ‘But why would she want to kill Maisie?’
‘Annette couldn’t trust her any more. Not with the dementia. Maisie was a loose cannon. Who knows what she was going to say about what happened all those years ago?’
I can barely hear him above the rain. I waver, wondering if I should invite him in. But he could be lying. I don’t want to be on my own with him.
‘What did Maisie know?’ I ask, thinking of Bobby. Would Annette really kill Maisie to keep that a secret? And if Maisie did tell someone, then surely they would assume it was the dementia talking?
