‘Right,’ she says briskly to Elona. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’
‘But who?’ says Elona, her voice tinged with desperation. ‘If it happened? If it did, and she’s too scared to say? Who might it have been?’
‘I have no idea, Elona. I’m so sorry.’
‘Should I go back to the police, do you think?’
‘Gosh, I really don’t know. It doesn’t sound like Tilly’s ready to talk about it …’
‘But if they’re investigating this guy, the one who attacked the woman behind the estate agent, this could be … it might be the same guy, yes? And they should know?’
‘I really don’t know, I really …’
‘I’m scared, Cate. What if this guy, what if he’s still out there and he’s following Tilly? If she knows the attacker then he might know where she lives, where we live? What shall I do, Cate? What shall I do?’
Cate’s stomach roils. She pulls the phone away from her ear and catches her breath. She puts it back a second later and says, ‘I’m sorry, Elona. I really am, but I have to go now. I’m really sorry.’
And then she ends the call.
50
Lunch is a thin ham sandwich, raw carrots, orange squash, a blueberry muffin. Such a shame about the blueberries. Owen picks them out and leaves them on the side of the tray.
The atmosphere has changed since this morning, since he recalled the missing section of the night of the fourteenth. He’s pretty sure he’s being seen less as a twisted child killer and more as someone who might not actually have done it after all. But then his thoughts go back to the morning’s papers, to the fake story planted by Bryn. Whatever happens here, inside these walls, however soon he is allowed to go home, charges dropped, maybe with a pair of apologetic handshakes from DIs Currie and Henry,regardless of anything that happens here before he gets to go home, he will still be the man on the front page of the papers, with the bloody forehead and the incel associations and the underwear drawer full of date-rape drugs. He will always be the guy who called a strange woman a bitch and who had a girl’s blood on the wall outside his bedroom, who was sacked for sweating on a girl at a disco. He will always be Owen Pick, the weird, creepy guy who maybe hadn’t killed Saffyre Maddox but sure as dammit had donesomething.
The door opens and the detectives return. They sit neatly and look at Owen. DI Currie says, ‘Well, we sent someone up on to the garage roof. Just got their early findings back. Footprints that match Saffyre’s trainers. Her fingerprints on the guttering. No evidence of you being up there. But, Owen, we can’t take your word for what you say you remember happening that night. We are not ready to drop you from the investigation. Nowhere near. So. Anything you suddenly remember, please share it with us.’
They straighten their files, and leave.
Owen looks at Barry and exhales.
‘We’re getting there,’ says Barry. ‘We’re getting there.’
And then he says, ‘Oh, by the way, Tessie just forwarded something to me. An email. Would you like to see it?’
‘Erm, yes. Sure.’
Barry switches on his smartphone and slides it across the table to Owen.
It’s from Deanna.
Dear Tessie
Thank you so much for your email regarding your nephew, Owen. While I had a very pleasant evening with Owen on Valentine’s night, I think I have enough baggage in my life right now without taking on any more. I have no idea what to make of his arrest or of the newspaper reports about his history and background. They do not square with the man I had dinner with, who was gentle, civilised and thoughtful. But then people can hide a lot of darkness behind carefully constructed masks, can’t they? I feel sad that you are going through this and I hope, for your sake, and for Owen’s, that this all blows over and that it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. Please do tell him that I’m thinking of him, but that I cannot possibly consider taking things any further with him in the light of the current situation.
Wishing you all the best,
Yours
Deanna Wurth
Owen reads it twice. His eye settles on the words of hope. He notes that nowhere in the message does she say she believes he is capable of murder. Nowhere does she say she never wants to see him again. Nowhere does she say she hates him or is appalled by him. This, he thinks, is a chink of light. Something to hold on to.
51
Josh gets back from school late that evening. He comes, as ever, directly into the kitchen and hugs Cate, his skin still cold from outdoors. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’ The words feel stilted as they leave her lips.
