Matthew is trying to work out if this was someone who knew about the bookends. Or would they catch a stranger’s eye easily?
He looks again at the body. There’s a huge patch of blood soaking the pale-blue shirt at the chest and the rug beneath. The gunshot wound. Sam Blake looks at least six foot. Fit. The position of the body suggests he was facing the door, so facing his attacker. Seems unlikely anyone would risk striking him first. No. Shot first, then hit.
Matthew spends a few more minutes appraising the bedroom and then steps through the hallway to the room opposite. A chill runs instantly through him. It’s a nursery in the making. The cot assembled, complete with mobile. A chair is set up in the corner as if ready for nursing, but the rest of the room is a work in progress. In the corner there are two large boxes – the labels confirming flat-pack furniture. One’s clearly a changing station with drawers. A mat covered in brightly coloured animals is leaning alongside, still in its plastic wrapping.
An image flashes into his mind of Amelie on her changing mat when she was tiny. Skinny legs kicking in frustration. Puce face furious at his fumbling. Sally, help me. I can’t get the new nappy on.
He pushes the image away as Mel walks past him. ‘Meet you outside when you’re ready, Matt?’
‘Sure. What do we know about the wife?’
‘Lily Blake. Fifteen years younger. Missing,’ she says. ‘I’ve put the call out.’
‘Pregnant?’
‘Yes.’ Mel pauses, staring right into Matthew’s eyes. ‘Six or seven months according to the neighbour. She’s not been seen for a while. I’ve sent Dave round to the parents. They live nearby.’
Outside later, as he waits for the full update from Melanie, Matthew stands across the street, taking in the red-brick suburban semi with its hydrangea and cluster of rose bushes. There’s a hanging basket – well kept. Watered regularly. He’s trying to imagine it. What exactly went on inside here today? Mel is still liaising with the uniformed officers who arrived on the scene first. House-to-house inquiries have started and neighbours say the couple had been volatile in recent months. Loud arguments. But no one heard a gunshot. The cleaner found him. She’s still in shock, having cups of tea in a neighbour’s house, giving her preliminary statement.
Social media means news travels fast these days and Matthew’s not surprised to see a car pull up behind the cordon with the logo of a local news group. He’s never understood why the media do that. Label themselves. Wouldn’t they want to be discreet? It occurs to him that maybe they use different cars for different jobs. Maybe this is from the advertising department? Who knows?
Whatever the case, he’s remembering the car-park drama with Alex and suspects a local TV crew will be along very soon too. It’s going to be a nightmare once journalists realise the victim’s from the university. Today of all days.
Matthew feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and takes it out to see another text from Amanda. Can you tell me anything yet? What about the graduation?
Damn.
Sorry. Not yet. He presses send; he’ll ask Mel to call the chancellor. They’ll probably need to make a joint statement but it will depend if the wife’s found quickly; whether she can immediately be ruled in or out as a suspect. In effect, whether they need to put out an appeal to find her.
Matthew’s thinking again of that nursery inside the house. He remembers so well Sally’s clucking and fussing and worrying in the final days of her pregnancy. She wouldn’t put the mobile up above the cot; was worried it would be bad luck. Tempting fate. He presses the speed dial and puts the phone to his ear.
‘Is everything OK?’ Sally sounds alarmed but it’s so good to hear her voice.
‘Yeah. I’m safe. But things have changed. You mustn’t share this yet, honey, but there’s been another shooting. Someone from the university.’
‘Oh no. Are you wearing your jacket? Your bulletproof jacket?’
‘Yes, I am.’ This is a lie and he feels a pang of guilt. It’s in his rucksack in the boot. He finds it uncomfortable and had no idea today would take this turn. ‘I’m at the scene. I’m safe but it will probably be on the news soon. But listen; they’re bound to up security even more now. At the hospital, the cathedral. I’m wondering if we should rethink security for you at the cottage. Just as a precaution.’ He tries to keep his voice steady but his heart rate is increasing, thinking of Amelie on that changing mat a few years back. Of the doll delivered to their house. The woman – Laura probably – at the school. Of the horrible way his family has been sucked into this.
‘But we were so careful. The hire car. Surely no one knows where we are.’
Matthew pauses. Sally’s right. They were incredibly careful and it should be fine.
Should be.
‘My gut says it’s fine but have a think and let me know how you feel about it. I’ll talk to Mel after we’ve processed the scene. It’s a bit hectic right now. I’ll have to go. How’s our princess?’
‘I’ll send you a picture. You promise you’ll be careful? And keep that jacket on.’
‘I promise. Love you.’
He hangs up and is about to put the phone back in his pocket when a ping signals a text. He opens it. A picture of Amelie, beaming on the beach – the bright red bucket in one hand, the yellow spade in the other.
From Sally: Be careful! We love you. x
He’ll book the security. Sod it. He’ll just book the bloody security and tell Sally that Mel insisted. Sorry, love. Procedure.
Matthew clenches the phone in his hand to feel the connection, all the while watching Mel on the drive of the house, talking to two of the uniformed officers. A huddle of neighbours just beyond the cordon is being approached by a reporter from the media car. Here we go, Matthew thinks – his brain sucked back from Cornwall. From the beach. From Amelie and Sally. He scans the scene, still gripping the phone as he looks up and down the road, checking for CCTV cameras, trying to process the surprising turn in this case before he gets a chance to properly talk to Mel. See what she thinks. So have they got it all wrong? Is this not about Alex or Laura?
Alex is still in custody and how the hell would Laura even know about Gemma and this professor?
So is this actually more straightforward? The jealous rage of a betrayed wife. Did Sam’s wife find out about Gemma? Was it simply all too much with the pregnancy?
But would a jealous wife take a gun to a cathedral and shoot someone in broad daylight? Would she? Could she?
Matthew thinks again of the body in the bedroom. That smashed-in eye socket. The evidence of white-hot rage. Then he calls up the image of the holiday photograph beside the bed. The smiling face of the petite Lily. Tanned and holding up her glass of wine glinting in the sunlight.
He’s not wondering if she could be capable of this. The heavy bookend in her hand. Smashing. Obliterating. He’s seen enough of the darker underbelly of life to park any surprise quickly; to stop questioning what ordinary people are capable of.
What he’s wondering about is the gun. If this really is down to a tortured wife, he’d expect something more domestic. A kitchen knife. A spur-of-the-moment lashing out.
But a gun? It’s always been a puzzle to everyone on this case, Matthew especially, that Gemma was shot. Firearms are the territory of drugs crime and gangs, not domestics. And how the hell would nice, middle-class Lily even get a gun?
CHAPTER 52
THE DAUGHTER – BEFORE
Discuss the theme of parental responsibility and neglect in relation to the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
Don’t know why I’m bothering with the fake essay headings. It’s official. No . . . more . . . essays. And for a blink at least, I hardly care if ‘A’ is hacking me. Guess what?
I got my first!!! Results came through about ten minutes ago and for a blissful moment it really did make me forget everything. I’ve phoned home and Mum and Dad are over the moon. Neighbours must have heard Mum shriek for miles.
It was lovely, actual
ly. For those few brief minutes on the phone, to hear Mum so happy. I’ve only ever wanted Mum and Dad to be proud of me. But when I finished the call, I just looked at the phone and the tears came again. And it’s horrible, realising that the good feeling can’t last. I’ve had to lie to them about why I’m hanging around until the graduation ceremony. I’ve told them it’s to do with the flat lease and helping out to cover a mate’s job in a coffee shop. Felt terrible, but I just can’t face going home yet. Look at me; a complete hormonal mess already. I’m afraid I’ll just break down.
Can’t even bear to mention what’s happened with that adoption idea. Talk about a wrong steer. Not even legal, I’ve discovered since. And the advice I was being given? Very, very dodgy . . .
I’m distancing myself now but it’s all going horribly pear-shaped.
And the worst thing of all is I think I may have been wrong about who’s been targeting me. My social media and everything.
I’ve got this truly horrible feeling it might actually be someone connected with the snake’s wife. There’s been this woman watching me around the campus. Not his wife herself but someone a little bit older – and I’m starting to wonder if she’s a friend of hers or something.
I had this sort of weird feeling of being watched a few times. I put it down to yet more paranoia at first, and then this one day I caught the woman’s reflection in the glass door of the coffee shop on campus so I was able to watch her without her realising. I pretended to wave at someone inside the shop at the counter and she was definitely eyeballing me. And it’s happened again since. She carries a magazine or a paper and sits on benches and stuff. But every time I move, she moves.
I’m sure I’m not imagining it.
So if it is someone, put up to it, I mean, by ‘S’’s wife, I really don’t know what to do. Maybe I should just confront her. Walk up to her and have it out – what the hell do you think you’re doing? Why are you watching me?
Problem is the messages are so weird. He’s not who he says he is.
Is that really something his wife would write? If she’s found out about us, I mean. I suppose she might mean he’s not genuine. Maybe she thinks I believe he’s single or properly separated. But I can’t help wondering – surely she’d just write something angry. Bitchy. More direct.
I’m trying really hard to just ignore it all, to concentrate on getting through graduation and how the hell I’m going to tell Mum and Dad afterwards. About the baby. But every time I pull myself together, I get more DMs.
More and more, I keep thinking about karma; that I’ve brought all of this on myself. I mean – a fling with a married man. What was I thinking?
Maybe the bottom line here is actually very simple.
I deserve all of this.
CHAPTER 53
THE MOTHER
My eyes hurt nearly all the time now. Ed says I’m not blinking enough; that I’ve developed the habit of staring at Gemma, afraid to close my own eyes even for a nanosecond, in case I miss her waking up.
The hospital atmosphere is dry enough, to be frank, so it’s small wonder this is making it worse. I’ve tried putting drops in my eyes to soothe the itching, and I pointedly look away from Gemma as often as I dare to try to prove to Ed that I’m not obsessing.
It’s wasted effort. I am obsessing and he knows it but we’re trying to be kinder to each other. To get past the lies, the half-truths and the strain and to put all our effort into Gemma now. It’s more than twenty-four hours since she opened her eyes and there’s been no change since. The doctor came to talk to us last night. He confirms it’s a good sign but there’s no way of knowing if she’s about to wake up for sure. They’re monitoring her even more closely, but we just need to carry on waiting.
I didn’t sleep much. Never do. So I’ve already read her two more chapters of The Mill on the Floss but my voice is croaky – the tiredness, I guess, so I’ve popped the headphones back on with some gentle music. I do hope she can hear it.
I reach out to sip my coffee, badly needing the caffeine, but it’s still scorching. Ed’s standing at the window of our cubicle, looking out on to the main ward. He has asbestos fingers and an asbestos tongue and is drinking his own coffee without even wincing.
‘That’s odd,’ he says suddenly. ‘Have you noticed they seem to be moving the other patients out?’
At first, I wonder what he means. We’re used to patients being moved in and out. This has always seemed to be some kind of transitionary unit between theatre and the main wards. Maybe overflow? The number of other patients varies from day to day. I’ve even heard some visitors mumble complaints about being in the same space as Gemma, once they spot the guard. Is it safe? Do we have to be here?
The nurses always reassure them and no one seems to stay here long. But there tend to be two or three other patients overnight.
Ed looks really puzzled and so I stand up to get a better view over Gemma’s head. He’s right. The two beds opposite are already empty but the remaining beds – with patients in situ – are being wheeled out by porters with staff juggling the drips and paraphernalia. This much bustle hasn’t happened before. So many moved out on the same day.
‘You’re right. There’s something going on.’ My voice is low and I can feel anxiety creeping back into my stomach. ‘Ask the police guard. Or one of the nurses.’
We can both see that our guard’s on his radio. Ed moves to the door, opens it and calls out to one of the nurses. ‘Excuse me. Can you tell us what’s happening?’
She looks flustered, glancing at the police officer. ‘Probably best you speak to the police. Just a precaution. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
The guard hears this and lifts his hand to signal for us to wait a moment before turning away to continue talking on his radio. Infuriatingly we can’t hear what he’s saying.
I’m remembering the horrible scene that Alex caused. The shouting and the smashed glass. But Alex is in custody. Surely they won’t give him bail again?
‘Do you think this is about Laura? They said she’s in the country. You don’t think they suspect she’s coming here, do you?’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’ Ed’s still in the doorway, one arm now craned over the top of his head as he waits.
At last the police officer turns to us, gesturing for us to move back into the cubicle together. He shuts the door.
‘Can I ask if you’ve let anyone know about Gemma’s condition? About the fact she opened her eyes yesterday?’
‘I texted a friend.’ I don’t tell him who. Wonder why he wants to know. ‘Well not texted. I told her on WhatsApp. Why?’
‘Can you please message her now to keep that confidential? Did you tell anyone else?’
‘No. No.’ I feel flustered and confused as I take my phone from my pocket and fumble a quick message, trying not to sound too desperate. Just an issue of confidentiality. Not wanting the media to know.
When I’ve finished, the officer signals for us to sit but I shake my head. ‘Please just tell us what’s happening. Is it Laura? Ed’s ex-wife?’
‘I can’t say who’s involved but there’s been a shooting that may be connected to the attack on Gemma.’ His expression is grave. ‘It’s procedure to up the security. They may be sending an armed guard. Just until they assess where we are.’
‘They think someone might come here? With a gun?’
‘No one’s saying that. But it’s a live situation. I’m just telling you what I know. You mustn’t share this. Or any news on the possibility of Gemma waking up. You understand?’
I nod, my mouth gaping as my head moves involuntarily. ‘Can we speak to DI Sanders?’
‘She’s overseeing things at the moment. But I’m sure she’ll want to update you personally when we know more.’
‘That’s why they’re moving the other patients. They think someone might come here. With a gun?’
‘No, I didn’t say that. But we want to lock this unit down as a precaution.
Once the other patients are out, the unit will, in effect, be out of bounds. Staff passes only. DI Sanders’ orders.’
‘OK. Thank you.’ Ed’s tone is steadier than mine as he turns but I notice that both his hands are in tight fists.
I look at him and have never been so afraid. It occurs to me that someone mad enough to shoot Gemma in broad daylight might take someone hostage, like a human shield, to get in here. A nurse? A porter?
Suddenly no amount of security feels enough. Suddenly I have this horrible picture in my brain of a member of the hospital staff, gun to their head, being marched right down the centre of this ward.
CHAPTER 54
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Everything’s moving so fast that Matthew feels the familiar rush of blood and energy as he drives. He’s praying this isn’t another wrong steer. His gut’s telling him that it’s just too strong a coincidence and he has to drill down to the bottom of this as fast as he can, for Mel’s sake.
She’s still at the crime scene and they’re up against the clock. He checks the time on his dashboard. Nearly 10 a.m. Please be in. Please be in.
The village near Exeter’s an odd choice for a PI’s office – a bit quiet – but Wendy March is an odd kind of PI. He’s never much liked her – a maverick at best – and the thought of her being wound up in all this and failing to come forward is both infuriating and soul-destroying. No wonder PIs get bad press.
Wendy’s card has just been found at Sam Blake’s home, among the wife Lily’s clothes. It was tucked in the pocket of a raincoat that looked as if it had been worn recently. Further inspection suggests the wife recently packed some of her clothes. This fits with neighbours’ suggestions that she’s not been around for a little while.
Her Perfect Family Page 22