‘And then, what? You pushed her?’
‘I didn’t realize she was in the house. She told Rosemary, who told me, that she was going away for a few days. It was an instinctive thing, an involuntary reaction at finding her there. She … she didn’t even know it was me …’ To my surprise, her eyes tear up. ‘I was only supposed to destroy her sculptures and the letter …’
‘What letter?’
‘She’d been writing a letter to you, Imogen. It had sat unfinished in her studio. But it read very much like a confession. I think she was planning to give it to her solicitor to give to you in the event of her death. The sculpture was added insurance, apparently.’
So that’s how she knew there was a sculpture.
‘I caught your grandson going through her box files. I’m assuming you put him up to it? Why would you drag your grandson into all this?’
She looks visibly annoyed at this. ‘I’ve not dragged Warren into anything. He’s very protective. It was his idea …’ She stops herself. ‘This isn’t about Warren. It’s about Dorothea and her not being able to keep to her word. She didn’t say in the letter to you where the sculpture was. Since her death Warren has kindly been helping me find something, anything, that might say where she’d hidden it. She never once told me about the bunker.’ She smiles enigmatically. ‘It seems Dorothea liked to keep secrets of her own.’
‘But Warren found out about the bunker, didn’t he? He was the one who locked me and Dennis in that day.’
‘He didn’t realize the sculpture was in there at first. He’s not the brightest spark, unfortunately. It was only when he told me about it that I guessed. But that bunker is impossible to access without a key.’
‘How did Dorothea end up with Bobby’s lighter?’
She fidgets. ‘She said she found it in the woods but I think she was lying about that. I think she must have kept it after his death.’
‘Why did Warren take it out of the box?’
‘He liked the look of it.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘When I realized what he’d done I told him to put it back. But he must have dropped it when he was looking for the bunker. He should never have taken it in the first place. Warren had been watching the house for me after you and your boyfriend moved in.’
‘You got Warren to do your dirty work for you? Your own grandson?’
‘Oh, he didn’t do anything illegal. It wasn’t like he was the one to push Dorothea.’
‘No, that was all you.’
She crosses her arms. ‘I loved Dorothea. And hurting her was a last resort.’
‘Who attacked Dennis? Was that Warren too?’
She doesn’t say anything.
I remember Dennis’s grey face, the slip of paper bearing the word VINDICTA. ‘Or was it Rosemary? Afterwards, Dennis found a note with the Latin word for revenge written on it, and Rosemary once taught Latin.’ I picture the man with the tawny ponytail who answered the door when I visited Rosemary’s house. ‘Or was it that man who lives with her, Peter Bryce? I know he’s got a previous conviction for assault when he was a teenager.’
When she remains quiet, I add, ‘Let’s say I’m right about Rosemary’s lodger … did she hurt Dennis because you’d asked her to?’
‘I think we should keep Rosemary out of all this. Dennis deserved what he got. He was a user. He used Dorothea and then wrote a book about her.’
‘So you knew he was the one writing the biography?’
‘I worked it out. Yes.’
‘I bet that terrified you, didn’t it? Were you worried Dorothea would let slip something to him about what you did to my mum?’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I don’t think I am. Rosemary isn’t really away, is she, Annette? I think you’ve silenced her too.’
She scoffs. ‘What an imagination you have. As if I’d hurt Rosemary.’
‘Why? You thought nothing of hurting Dorothea and Maisie. They were your friends and you killed them to keep your nasty little secrets.’ I shift from foot to foot. ‘I don’t think it was an accident at all, what you did to my mum. You wanted to control her, and you didn’t like it that she didn’t listen to you. You didn’t give a shit about my mum. You didn’t even bother coming to her funeral.’ My heart pounds in anger. I scrape my chair back and get up. ‘I’m calling the police.’
Her laugh reverberates around the kitchen. ‘Oh, Imogen. It will be your word against mine and who do you think the police will believe? A grubby journalist and the daughter of a convicted killer, or a fine, upstanding member of the community renowned for her charity work?’ She stands up and dusts down her skirt. ‘I felt like I owed you the truth about your mother. And about Dorothea. But leave it now. You can’t prove any of it, and Rosemary will back me up and give me an alibi if I need it.’
