DI Shirley tactfully suggests that I can show Josh out while she mops up the petrol in the kitchen.
Josh is quiet as we walk down the hallway, and I can see him gazing around wistfully. ‘Will you be okay on your own, here?’ he asks as I open the front door.
‘I’ll be fine, Josh,’ I say, hoping it’s true.
‘I heard what Annette said. I heard all of it. I’m so sorry, Imogen. I’m so sorry for what happened with your mum … and your dad. And Dorothea. What will become of your dad now?’
‘I don’t know.’ I haven’t had the chance to wrap my head around the repercussions of all this.
‘I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling.’ He touches my arm gently.
A tear slides down my face. ‘My mum trusted Annette and so did Dorothea. How could she have been so cold? How could she have just left Dorothea to die like that? After everything they’d been through together?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Josh.
‘I feel like I’ve let her down, somehow.’
‘Of course you haven’t.’ He shuffles awkwardly. ‘I know I’ve done so many wrong things in this relationship, Ims. And I’m not asking for another chance. But … you’ve been in my life for twelve years. I can’t bear the thought of us not staying friends.’
I almost want to laugh. There is no way Josh could just be friends.
‘Anyway.’ He flushes. ‘What I’m trying to say is … I’m here if you ever need me.’
I smile a thank you and then I watch as he gets in the car and reverses out of the driveway. And I feel a mixture of sadness and relief that he’s gone.
As DI Shirley is leaving I ask about the sculpture. ‘Did you find anything else? All this time I thought the little miniature items on the magpies meant something, and they did, in part. But I also think Dorothea hid some evidence somewhere on the sculpture. Maybe the boots or …’
DI Shirley holds up her hand. ‘We’re already on it, Imogen. We’ve found a blouse underneath that wool jacket.’
The lace sleeves. I’d assumed the jacket was just fabric pasted onto the papier-mâché and that the buttons were false.
‘The blouse is part of a banshee costume,’ she continues, ‘and pinned to it was a Polaroid of Annette wearing the same blouse at the Halloween party backin 2008. The blouse has a large bloodstain on the front, which …’ her expression softens in sympathy, ‘… I think will belong to your mother. I’m hoping Annette’s DNA will also be on the blouse. That, along with her confession, should be enough to charge her.’
Dorothea must have kept it all this time. Insurance. She didn’t trust Annette.
After DI Shirley has gone, promising to be in touch about my dad, I ring Alison. She’s at the salon but I tell her as much as I can.
‘I’m coming straight over after work. I finish today at five p.m. Lila has a playdate after school so Gareth can pick her up.’
‘You can stay the night if you like?’
She must sense the hope in my voice because she tells me she’ll bring an overnight bag and that Gareth’s mum can help out with Lila.
When she’s ended the call I stroll across the fields with Solly, grateful for the fresh air. The scent of petrol lingers in my nostrils. There are so many questions going around in my mind. I’m still puzzled by who left the postcard for Dorothea in the woods, and why. It doesn’t sound like it was Warren. Why would he? And who was the man Lila saw in the woods? Gabe apparently (according to DI Shirley) had an alibi for that day. It doesn’t sound like he fits Dennis’s description either. Another thing that niggles is why would Dorothea decide she needed to make the magpie collection now? It’s been sixteen years since Annette killed my mum. Had something happened in themonths before Dorothea’s death that gave her a reason to rat out Annette?
I still feel I’m missing something.
I decide to call Rachel. In the distance I spot Dennis with Cady but I deliberately turn and walk in the opposite direction. I’m not ready to talk to him yet.
Rachel picks up but I can tell she’s distracted.
‘Sorry, Immy, I’m on a deadline.’ The newsroom is a blur of noise behind her.
‘Just a quick one. Did you ring that number you had for a Robert Falkner in Australia?’
‘I did, yes. I’m so sorry, I meant to call you about it. I think it must be the right man. I spoke to a woman who said Robert Falkner was her husband and that he was in the UK on business. The ages definitely line up, and this woman said Bobby has a sister called Irene who lives in Corsham. Sorry, Immy, I’ve got to go. Can we talk about this later? OKAY, I’M COMING …’ she screams at someone. ‘Sorry,’ she says to me. ‘Chris is being a prick …’
Before I can reply or ask for the number, she’s ended the call.
