I suppose it’s possible there was only that one day that Gemma jotted personal stuff instead of writing her essay. I’ve no idea. The dates are all over the place and there are quite a lot of module headings as well as essay headings. But it’s like a haunting, wondering if there’s something in that laptop that might help us.
I reach over and put it on the end of the bed again, waiting for it to load. I suppose I should talk to Ed about that one piece I found. Maybe the police too? But DI Sanders said they’d checked for anything important. And I don’t want them to take the laptop away again, not unless it’s genuinely helpful. It makes me feel closer to Gemma. It makes me feel useful, and hand on heart I still want to know if she wrote anything else about me . . .
I click on a few files in turn. More creative writing. The beginnings of a short story. Unfinished. An essay about Virginia Woolf’s work. Pages and pages on that one. I should have been more methodical. Made a note of which files I’ve checked already.
But hang on. What’s this?
Discuss the theme of isolation as portrayed in Jane Eyre.
I open the document and can see immediately that it’s not an essay at all. It’s Gemma’s voice again. Right in my head. It’s like the other diary entry but she’s sounding very different here. More positive . . .
I honestly can’t believe how much has changed since I last wrote in this file. Seriously. A whole new avenue has opened up for me. Something completely unexpected.
I’m desperate to know how long this was after the panic of the last entry I found. I read as fast as I can, devouring the words. And then it is like the air is being sucked from my lungs . . .
It’s the most unexpected thing. It’s like having a weight lifted – to actually sit and calmly talk to someone about things that are so difficult and so serious. I keep thinking about my mum and how I couldn’t in a million years have this kind of conversation or this kind of relationship with her. I had no idea this sort of calm support was even possible.
I sit back from the laptop and am stilled. I look across at Gemma and burn with the shame of what I’m feeling. I should be pleased that she found a friend – and I am. Sort of. But I am also feeling jealous; that we were so very far apart, she couldn’t talk to me. That I’m not the kind of mother my lovely daughter could turn to.
I need to read on but first I move across to the bed.
‘I’m so very sorry, Gemma.’ I smooth her hair and kiss her forehead, leaving my lips touching her flesh for a few seconds. But there’s something not quite right. I pull back.
Her skin feels especially warm which is unusual. She looks so still and so distant, I have come to associate her form in the bed with coolness. Apartness.
I could never in a million years talk to my mother . . .
I reach for her hand. It feels quite warm too. I wonder about calling a nurse and am trying to remember the temperature of her hand the last time I held it. Am I imagining this? Am I just upset from reading the laptop?
I feel Gemma’s forehead with the back of my hand but it’s not hot per se. Not like a fever or anything. It occurs to me that I find the hospital too hot most of the time so perhaps it’s my own body thermometer that’s struggling.
I feel my own forehead for comparison.
And then it happens. Gemma suddenly opens her eyes.
It’s such a shock that at first I simply gape – frozen and silent, just staring at those beautiful blue eyes.
Then both joy and panic kick in. ‘Gemma. Gemma. It’s Mum. Can you see me? Can you hear me? I’m right here, darling. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’
I stretch out with my free hand to ring the buzzer for a nurse – all the while talking, talking, talking. Babbling about how wonderful it is to see her. That I’ve been here all the time. How sorry – so very sorry – I am about everything.
For a short while, Gemma’s eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling. But then they close again.
‘Gemma. Open your eyes again, darling. You can do this. I’m right here by the bed. You can wake up now. You’re perfectly safe.’
On and on I babble as a nurse appears.
‘She opened her eyes. Not for long but wide open.’
The nurse looks at all the numbers on the machine and gently lifts Gemma’s left eyelid to check the pupil.
‘Hello, Gemma. It’s your nurse here. Do you want to open your eyes for me now? You’re in hospital. But you’re perfectly safe. Can you hear me? Do you want to open your eyes again for me?’
We watch. We wait. Nothing happens. The nurse repeats her encouragement. Nothing. She looks at me.
‘She definitely opened her eyes. I didn’t imagine it.’
‘Did she look at you? Respond to your voice?’
‘No. I don’t know. She was just looking at the ceiling. But this is a good sign, isn’t it? She could be waking up?’
‘Possibly. It’s a good sign – yes. I’ll let the doctor know. You should keep talking to her. Stay with her. Call us if anything else happens.’
‘I will. I will.’ I stroke the hair back from Gemma’s face. ‘I’m still here, Gemma. Right here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise you.’
CHAPTER 50
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
‘It’s nice, don’t you think?’ Matthew is standing in the conservatory off the kitchen with its view of the sea. Waves roll in the distance and a seagull watches them from the roof of the stone garage at the end of the garden.
‘It’s lovely. A good choice.’ Sally’s tone is flat, her eyes worried. Matthew puts his arm around her waist. The seagull tilts its head.
It’s been a rush. Fixing this. The packing. The journey.
‘I’m so sorry about this.’ He tucks the hair behind her ear and takes in her profile.
‘It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.’ Sally’s still looking out to sea and Matthew wants to press rewind; to tell Mel – No. I’m really sorry but I can’t help with the case.
The cottage in Porthleven has been booked for a week – to take them well past the final graduation ceremony tomorrow. It was a lucky find – a cancellation – and Mel’s said he can charge it to the force. Not an official safe house but as expenses for his work on the case. Just a precaution, he told Sally. Until we wrap this whole thing up.
‘When are we going to the beach? Mummy says we can make sandcastles.’
They both turn to see Amelie in the doorway, carrying a bright red bucket and yellow spade. They’ve told her it’s an extra holiday. A treat for being such a good, brave girl.
‘Soon, honey.’ Sally brightens her tone for their daughter. ‘Daddy has to go back to work but we can do a quick trip to the beach before supper. Go and find your flip-flops. They’re in the pink bag.’
Amelie beams and then disappears into the hall.
‘I don’t deserve you.’ Matthew kisses Sally’s cheek but she still doesn’t turn to look at him properly.
‘This is true.’ She lets out a long sigh. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come round. It’s just – I’m so tired. I honestly thought I knew what I was getting into.’ At last she turns. ‘But I realise now that I didn’t at all.’
She looks right into his eyes and there’s something in her expression that he can’t quite read. ‘It’s hard to explain properly,’ she continues, ‘because I’m still working it out in my head. I just get scared. I do really love you—’
He can hear the ‘but’ coming and wonders if he should just interrupt. Make his case? That he’ll step back from the case. The job. Everything . . .
‘—but I don’t love what you do.’ She pauses, looking at the floor, and anxiety is coursing through him.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it, Sally.
He reaches out to touch her cheek, as if touching her will stop her saying it.
‘I do get that you’re not who you are unless you do this. And I fell in love with you because of who you are.’ She takes in another deep breath and he finds that he’s holding his
own. ‘So – here’s what I think. You need to get back to Devon and do what you do best. I badly want this one to be over. I want you to find whoever’s doing all this.’ She kisses him and relief sweeps through him so fast that he feels almost light-headed. ‘Fast as you can. Promise me, Matt?’
‘I promise you.’ He holds her close.
‘You’re crushing me.’
‘Sorry.’ He eases the grip but they stay locked. Ten seconds. Twenty. And then Sally steps back first, her eyes glistening as she tilts up her chin to regroup. She’s still very afraid; he can see that. And Matthew cannot remember loving her more than he does in this moment.
Finally, she signals with her head that they should move. They’ve agreed he’ll drive straight back to Devon, spend a night at home so he can get some rest before liaising with Mel first thing tomorrow. Friday. The day of the final graduation ceremony.
Matthew walks back into the kitchen and Sally follows, calling to Amelie to come and say goodbye to Daddy. He picks up his keys from the kitchen table, trying not to focus on the worry jar which Amelie packed in her bright pink case and which already has pride of place on the windowsill.
He kisses them both again, promising ice-cream sundaes on the seafront when he returns and hurries away to his car, fighting the hard knot in his stomach and tuning into the local radio for traffic updates.
He makes good time back to Devon and attempts an early night. But it’s impossible. He sleeps badly and wakes early. He’s never known a week like it and is not looking forward to returning to Maidstead Cathedral today. A crack-of-dawn text from Mel suggests an early catch up at their regular café. Already showered, he leaves straight away, expecting to arrive before her, but she’s already on her second coffee as he slumps into the seat in their regular alcove.
‘So you didn’t sleep either?’ She shakes her head. It’s D-Day, after all; the day they’ve both been dreading. Another ceremony.
‘Why here?’ he asks. ‘I thought that now I’m officially on the case, we didn’t need to sneak around.’ Matthew raises his hand to catch the eye of the waitress and orders a cappuccino. He glances around the room. He and Mel have met here for years, discreetly liaising on cases beneath the radar of Mel’s colleagues.
‘Dave’s nose is a bit out of joint. I didn’t want to rub salt in. Especially today. I need him on side today.’ Mel finishes her drink and stacks it with the stained cup and saucer from her first round, pushing all the crockery to the edge of the table, ready for the waitress.
Dave is Mel’s sergeant who would normally lead on interviews. He’s a good operator and is still irked that his boss took over to interview Alex, with Matthew watching.
‘I can handle Dave.’ Matthew smiles as the waitress sets down his drink, waiting for her to cross the room before continuing. ‘So where are we at, then?’
‘We’re pretty sure from the enhanced CCTV that it was Laura at Amelie’s nursery.’
‘Grief.’ Matthew had expected this but still feels a ripple of unease.
‘I’m so sorry about the way this has hit your family. I would never have asked if I’d had any idea—’
‘I know.’ Matthew lifts his hand to signal she’s not to fret. She looks away for a moment, then back at his coffee cup.
‘I’ve got two of the team checking CCTV in Somerset after the Wells Cathedral postcard to Ed and we may have picked her up there too.’
‘Wells?’
‘Yeah. A few days ago. The footage should be ready for review when we get back to the office.’
‘So – what are you thinking? Laura back in the frame as a real suspect here?’
‘I don’t know really. I’ll be happier when we get her in custody. Get a proper evaluation of her mental health. But I’m struggling to understand why she’d suddenly target Ed and his family after all these years. It feels a bit extreme to me. To fly to England out of the blue. Shoot his daughter at her graduation. Why? And she wouldn’t be able to get a gun through airport security.’
‘True. But we can’t let that rule her out. She could have a contact here we don’t know about.’ Matthew scratches the back of his head. ‘And she may be too unwell for the motive to be rational. Do we have anything more on her medical condition?’
‘Not much. There seems to be a suggestion that her Capgras Syndrome could be linked to schizophrenia but it’s a theory rather than a fact in Laura’s case. Her files say she may occasionally have hallucinations. They’ve tried a variety of treatments. Long spells at home. Then back in the clinic. But they’ve never managed to stabilise her completely. The notes say she’s been fixated recently on never having a family; she blames the fake Ed. I’m hoping to speak to her mother about that if she’ll agree. The parents are divorced now. The father’s remarried with a new family.’
‘That could be a trigger?’
‘Possibly. I’ll check the timeline.’
Matthew lets out a long, slow breath. He’s thinking of Laura standing at the perimeter of Amelie’s playground. Knowing she’s ill should make it easier for him to be tolerant but he’s struggling. He looks at Mel. Her son is still very small. Still not sleeping, apparently.
‘If it had been George. If he were older and it had been him?’ He holds Mel’s gaze.
‘I’d want blood.’ She tilts her head. ‘You don’t need to feel guilty for being mad, Matt, but I need you to harness that anger. Control it. I need to know you’re OK. To go forward, I mean? Wanting blood in theory is one thing . . .’
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve promised Sally I’m going to see this through. Fairly. Properly. Get the person behind all of this.’
‘Good. Then we’re on the same page.’
‘And what’s the latest on Alex?’
‘No more from forensics. We’ve re-checked the footage placing him at the other end of the cathedral when Gemma was shot and it seems genuine. No obvious sign of doctoring but that’s always a possibility. Also – Alex could have paid someone.’
‘That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?’
‘I agree. It would be unusual. But let’s face it, this is a very unusual case.’ She pauses and closes her eyes. ‘I should have cancelled the final graduation, shouldn’t I?’
Matthew doesn’t answer. It’s an afternoon ceremony and they’re right up against it now. With hindsight, cancelling was probably safer, but he knows what the political pressure’s been like. The suits upstairs and the tourism chiefs all wanting signals that people are safe. That life must go on.
And then Mel’s phone goes and she lifts it from the table, mouthing, ‘Dave.’
Mel’s eyes widen immediately as she puts the phone to her ear. ‘Right. Area sealed off?’ She stands, pausing to take in the reply. ‘And SOCO there?’ Another pause. ‘Good. Take charge until I get there. Text me the address. Reckon I’ll be half an hour. I’ll get Matthew Hill to meet us there.’ She listens some more, frowning. ‘Get a photo of the wife. And her car registration on the system. Check family and friends. I want her found. Soon as.’
She ends the call and puts the phone in her pocket. Matthew’s standing, pulling a note from his wallet to leave for the drinks.
‘So?’
All the colour has drained from Mel’s face. ‘Looks like we may have found the father of Gemma’s child.’
Matthew waits, stomach tightening.
‘Professor Sam Blake. One of Gemma’s English tutors – been found dead at his home.’ She fishes her car keys from her bag as Matthew widens his eyes for more details.
‘Shot.’
CHAPTER 51
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
The pattern of the adrenaline is always the same. A surge on the journey to a crime scene and then another spike when you actually see the body. Matthew is both used to it and paradoxically surprised by it every time.
A professional gear has always seen him through – in the years he was in the force and in his n
ew business since. But always, deep down, there’s that other less predictable response; the human response. Face to face with what one person can do to another.
By the time he’s suited and booted in the white crime-scene paraphernalia, Matthew is perhaps ten minutes behind Mel. From the hallway, he can hear her liaising with the crime-scene manager. She’s requesting backup from the same people who worked at the cathedral nine days back.
Mel glances down at the body on the floor as he takes it in for the first time.
‘Told you it was a nasty one,’ she says.
Nasty is not the word in Matthew’s head. Rage is the word. He takes in the blood and the Halloween horror of the eye socket. The person who did this was, in the moment at least, full of anger beyond anything most people could imagine.
Sam Blake has not only been shot, his head has been bludgeoned so that one side of his face is completely disfigured – the left eye socket smashed in. A truly grotesque mess.
‘Sorry. Could you step left, please?’ A SOCO holding a camera is trying not to sound impatient. Matthew moves. It’s a large bedroom, thankfully, which makes this first assessment just a little easier. From the corner of the room, Matthew glances from the body and the blood-soaked rug beneath it to the bedside cabinet which has a photograph of Sam beaming alongside a woman – presumably his wife.
Matthew leans forward, narrowing his eyes. It’s a holiday snap. Looks like Greece – olive groves in the background. Hummus and tzatziki on the table in front of the couple. The professor is, was, a good-looking man. Strong jaw line. Sandy hair. Grey eyes. His wife’s attractive too. Blonde. Petite. And quite a bit younger.
‘Shot first or hit first?’ Matthew asks.
‘Not sure yet. With so much blood, hard to be sure. Will have to wait for the postmortem.’ Mel is looking at the far wall, the smart, expensive-looking wallpaper splattered with red.
Matthew’s eyes move to the blood-stained statue that lies alongside the body – presumably used to strike him. It’s chunky. Dark green. He looks around the room to see its partner still in place on a shelf just inside the door. Not a statue at all but a heavy bookend in the shape of someone sitting and reading. The books, minus one of their supports, are now sloping at an angle, two very close to falling from the shelf. So the attacker grabbed one bookend on the way in? But why do that if you had a gun?
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