In addition, it meant that Sophie could mingle with others her age that offered her the support and friendship her position in society demanded. Both he and Diane agreed it balanced out the fact she had to attend school with the likes of Eva Shepparton. Neither of them wanted to admit that private school fees were beyond their means.
Not even to each other.
No, the private group was much better, and Diane had been pleased when the Hamiltons had suggested it to them after a particularly rowdy Sunday morning service. It meant she and Matthew were seen as important members of their community, which of course they were.
Diane’s family had lived in the area for hundreds of years – this house had been in their possession since the eighteenth century, and prior to that her family name had resurfaced time and time again in historical records for the county.
A few weeks after first meeting Diane, he’d been introduced to her parents at a Chamber of Commerce function, the Earl peeling off from the rest of the crowd to take Matthew to one side and interrogate him about his intentions for his daughter. Matthew had explained that he owned a software business that was sky-rocketing in value, and the old man had warmed to him instantly.
The wedding had taken place twelve months later.
Twelve months after that, the dot-com bubble burst.
He’d managed to find work – eventually. He might have lost his business, but his computer skills were still in demand in the aftermath of the stock market crash. He had little choice – Sophie had been born two months prior to him finally admitting his business was no more, and Diane was beginning to worry about the state of the house.
The Earl and his wife had died a week after seeing their first grandchild – the Earl from a severe stroke, and his wife from what their doctor could only describe as “a broken heart”. Matthew hadn’t thought it possible, but when the will had been read out – in this very room – it transpired that the Earl’s gambling debts ensured that Diane received a pittance of an inheritance, and a family home that could, at best, be described as dilapidated.
The surveyor who attended the property in Diane’s absence from the house one morning when she had been at a hospital check-up for her and Sophie, had turned to Matthew and shaken his head.
‘This is the problem with these old properties,’ he’d said. ‘Once you let them fall into disrepair, you have to spend a fortune to restore them.’
Somehow, Matthew had managed to find a role a couple of miles out of London, an easy commute that meant he could scrimp and save the money they needed over the years to fix the major issues – a new roof; rising damp in the back bedrooms; a refitted kitchen – but it wasn’t enough, even when he’d set out on his own with a new consultancy business.
He’d been delighted when Sophie had struck up a friendship with Josh Hamilton at their church group several months ago.
The Hamiltons were influential within certain circles of the community, and Blake Hamilton carried a formidable reputation as a businessman.
Matthew couldn’t remember when the business of Sophie and Josh’s engagement was first mentioned, but he did recall the relief that his daughter’s future would be secure.
But now—
He still felt the shock that had coursed through his body upon hearing the news that Peter Evans had been arrested on suspicion of Sophie’s murder.
He’d had to threaten the boy to get him to leave Sophie alone, to stop turning up at the house, to stop phoning her.
When he’d questioned his daughter, she’d admitted that she’d met Peter through school friends – he was the same age as Josh, but from an entirely different background.
‘Working class,’ Diane had said, her nose wrinkling.
And Sophie – pregnant?
He raised his head as the door to the office opened, and Diane appeared, a tray in her hands.
‘I asked Grace to make tea,’ she said. ‘I thought you might like some.’
She placed the tray on the desk in front of him and began to pour the brown steaming liquid into two ornate cups, then added milk and held out one of the cups to him.
She frowned when he slopped tea over the side and into the saucer, his hand unsteady. Her gaze found his, her eyes questioning.
He gestured to the screen.
‘We’re going to have to let George go,’ he said.
Diane’s face fell. ‘But he’s been here since Mother and Father were alive! How am I going to manage the garden on my own?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll organise someone to come around once a month to take care of the big jobs for you, but we’ve got to start saving money where we can.’ He held up his hand to stop her interrupting. ‘It’s either that, or—’
Diane sank into the velvet upholstery of the two-seater sofa in the middle of the room, her face pale.
‘We’re going to lose the house, aren’t we? After all this, we’re going to lose the house.’
Twenty-Six
Duncan Saddleworth tipped the dregs of his lukewarm tea into the kitchen sink the following morning before leaning against the draining board and peering outside.
Beyond the kitchen window, a narrow patio gave way to a neat lawn bordered by flowerbeds, a small wooden shed against the back fence.
Tall shrubs and trees lent privacy to the back garden and, not for the first time, he wondered if a neighbour who could see his face peering out would think him as sick as he felt.
Four chubby house sparrows hopped and fluttered around the cheap patio furniture he’d bought from the local garden centre two years ago, their chirping and bickering filtering through the glass as they fought over the seeds he’d put out an hour ago.
When he’d arrived in the parish two years ago, he thought the house was perfect. Rather than the grand old vicarages favoured by the Church of England, his superiors believed in a more frugal housing arrangement – one that better reflected the homes of parishioners.
He’d spent several weekends in between his church duties dashing between the hardware store and the garden nursery, gradually coaxing life back into the end-of-terrace house. His love of interior decorating paid off – the house was now bright and welcoming, and he liked nothing more than to come home of an evening and curl up with a book in the front living room, his long legs dangling off the end of the sofa as he sipped red wine and listened to his collection of vinyl records.
He’d adored the location – it was quiet and peaceful, and he got on well with the neighbours. In between invitations for evening meals or afternoon tea, he’d also found himself the go-to person for the occasional cat-sitting requirement and secretly enjoyed the responsibility.
Only four months ago, he and his neighbours had met late one Saturday afternoon at the Smiths’ four doors up to discuss whether they should club together and obtain some chickens so they’d all have fresh eggs.
He wiped angrily at his eyes.
He’d been happy here, once.
He blinked, and his focus changed from the garden to his reflection.
He gasped, and leaned a little closer.
He’d been struggling to sleep for weeks, and had managed to avoid a mirror except when shaving, keeping his eyes trained on the track of the razor and not the haunted look he knew would stare back at him.
Now, even in the pockmarked reflection, he could see how old he looked.
Was this the face that had greeted the police detective three days ago?
Would she simply think his appearance was caused by grief?
Or would she suspect something else?
He leaned back, and wondered whether he would have to leave.
The church wouldn’t suspect anything, he felt sure – in fact, he struggled to recall the last time he’d heard from anyone at the diocese’s headquarters.
With the teenager out of the way, could he relax? Pretend nothing had happened?
He exhaled and ignored a skip in his heart rate.
It would be cruel of him to revel in another’s
death, and it certainly went against everything he believed in. Yet there was a perverse sense of hope. Deep down. Buried and clawing its way to the surface bit by bit.
A clatter from the hallway shook him from his thoughts, and a shiver clutched at his spine as the letterbox fell back into place.
He checked his watch. The post was usually delivered mid-morning, not at seven o’clock.
He dragged himself away from the window and hurried through to the hallway.
He froze as the front door came into view.
A single white envelope lay on the mat.
He launched himself at the door, flipped back the brass lock, and wrenched it open before running out onto the path in his bare feet.
The sound of a car accelerating away down the lane reached his ears and he barrelled through the garden gate and onto the grass verge.
He was too late.
The lane was deserted, with only a faint whiff of exhaust fumes hanging in the air.
Duncan sloped back to the house, picked up the envelope from the mat, and pushed the door shut.
He moved to the stairs and sat on the second step, his legs shaking. Running a trembling hand over his mouth, he exhaled and tried to control his racing heart rate.
He turned the envelope in his hands and ran his thumb under the seal, tearing the paper apart.
A single sheet had been tucked inside, six by four inches of white lined paper that had been torn from a notebook and trimmed to fit, the tiny perforations from a wire spine still attached to the left-hand side.
‘Please, no,’ he murmured.
He swallowed, and then pulled the page from its flimsy housing and read the words that had been cut from a computer print-out and then glued to the notepaper.
Five words.
‘No!’
He leapt to his feet, the page fluttering to the carpet as he paced the hallway and ran his hand through his hair.
Sweat dripped from his armpits, pooling into the soft cotton of his shirt, and he groaned as his gut clenched.
In the split second before he dashed upstairs to the toilet, his eyes caught the words spread across the page once more.
I know what you did.
Twenty-Seven
‘How old do you think she is?’ Barnes manhandled another fistful of peanuts into his mouth and stared through the windscreen.
‘Hard to tell with all the plastic.’
There was a loud splutter from the seat beside her, and Kay grinned as Barnes coughed and fought to keep the food in his mouth before he beat his chest with his hand.
‘Not fair,’ he gasped, his eyes watering.
‘You asked for it.’
They settled into a companionable silence once more, the engine emitting a steady tick as it cooled.
‘You realise Larch will have us demoted in a heartbeat if we get this wrong?’ Barnes said, voicing the thought that had been going around in Kay’s mind for the past twenty minutes.
‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘Want out?’
‘No.’
‘You can, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I wouldn’t take it personally.’
‘Yes, you would.’
‘I wouldn’t. I’ve been thinking about what you’d look like back in a uniform for a while.’
‘That’s what all the girls say.’
Kay snorted.
They’d left the incident room separately an hour ago after Kay had sent Barnes a text message to meet her in the car park.
He’d risen from his desk, ignored her as he walked past hers, and five minutes later she’d joined him, dangling the keys to her own small car from her forefinger.
Barnes had raised an eyebrow. ‘Like that, is it?’
She’d nodded, and he’d remained silent until they were on the move, pushing their way through the afternoon school traffic.
‘Are we going where I think we’re going?’
‘Yeah.’
She’d pulled up into a lay-by overlooking the fence line to the Hamiltons’ property away from the main road forty minutes later, and killed the engine before pushing Barnes’s knees to one side and extracting a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment.
‘Covert ops!’ Barnes had said, feigning a look of excitement on his face.
‘Grow up.’ She’d rolled her eyes, then stepped from the car and walked towards the fence. Keeping low, she’d trained the binoculars on the front of the house.
‘His car’s still there. We wait.’
Now, she sat forward in her seat as a flash of silver appeared in front of them.
‘Down!’
She knew the chances of Hamilton turning to look up the narrow lane as he passed by were remote, but she wasn’t prepared to take the risk.
The rush of tyres on asphalt passed by, and she peered out the windscreen.
‘Give it a minute.’
‘I will.’
The next sixty seconds passed too slowly for comfort, and the moment the second hand on her watch passed the zenith, she started the engine and steered the vehicle out of the lay-by.
She slammed the brakes on as a second car passed the junction at the end of the lane, travelling in the same direction as Blake Hamilton’s.
‘Wasn’t that Diane Whittaker?’
‘Yeah,’ said Kay.
‘Follow her, or speak with Courtney Hamilton?’
Kay bit her lip. After a moment, she shoved the car into gear and turned right. ‘Stick with the plan. Speak to Courtney.’
Within ninety seconds, she was braking to a halt outside the Hamiltons’ front door.
Courtney opened it the moment Kay rang the bell. ‘I saw a car coming up the driveway,’ she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘I wondered who it was.’
‘Can we come in?’
Courtney’s eyes moved from Kay to Barnes, then back. She bit her lip. ‘He’ll be back in a couple of hours. He said he had to drop something off to the church and have a chat to Duncan.’
‘That’s okay. I wanted to speak to you alone. We’ll be gone before he gets back.’
‘You’d better be.’
She stood to one side and let them pass, and Kay noticed how she peered through the gap in the door as she closed it, as if checking that her husband’s car hadn’t returned while they were talking.
‘Come through to the kitchen.’
Kay followed, Barnes at her heels, and moved towards the central worktop.
A magazine lay open on the surface, an empty mug next to it alongside a mobile phone and a laptop computer.
Courtney leaned over and closed the laptop, a fleeting look of apology crossing her features. ‘Shopping. I thought I’d redecorate Josh’s room.’
‘Courtney, I won’t waste your time or ours. After all, you said yourself that Blake would be back soon. What isn’t Josh telling us about him and Sophie Whittaker?’
The other woman’s mouth dropped open. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I don’t believe you. Both you and Josh were holding back something when we spoke yesterday. Blake doesn’t know, does he?’
Courtney sat down on the stool, and rested her elbows on the worktop, her face in her hands. ‘He’d kill him if he found out.’ She jerked upright. ‘I mean – of course, he won’t. I mean, he didn’t.’
Kay held her breath and waited.
‘Josh came to me about three months ago. He – he asked me to buy him some condoms.’
‘He couldn’t buy them himself?’
Courtney shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. Blake watches him constantly. If Blake can’t do it himself, he bribes others. He thinks money sorts out everything.’
‘What happened?’
‘I bought the condoms.’
‘So, he was sleeping with Sophie?’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘And Blake doesn’t suspect anything?’
‘No. And he mustn’t.’
‘What was Diane W
hittaker doing here?’
‘She wanted to know if they could hold Sophie’s wake here after the memorial service. I don’t think she could face having it at home, not after…’
‘Did Josh know Peter Evans?’
‘No – we already told you that.’
‘Yes, but you also withheld the information that Josh was sleeping with Sophie. So, did Josh know Peter Evans?’
‘I don’t think so, no. I kind of feel sorry for Peter, to be honest.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, you know. I think he did love Sophie. Must’ve been one hell of a shock to find out she was pregnant, though.’ Courtney folded her arms across her chest and sighed. ‘Mind you, if she was inclined to sleep around like that, I’m glad Josh didn’t marry her, that’s for sure.’
Barnes cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Mrs Hamilton. Would you mind if I used the bathroom?’
‘Sure. Through there, down the hallway. Second door on the right.’
‘Thanks.’
Kay waited until she had Courtney’s attention once more. ‘I understand from our conversation when we first spoke with you that Josh would have been able to use Sophie’s aristocratic connections to further his father’s business interests. How would that have worked?’
‘Oh, I have no idea. Blake’s always doing deals for different people. It’s not like he manufactures anything. He networks, puts people in touch with each other that have a common interest or goal, and takes a commission.’
‘He seems to be doing very well from it.’
‘He’s got good contacts.’ Courtney stretched, and checked her watch.
‘It’s okay. We’ll be leaving in a minute—’
‘Boss?’
Kay spun round. ‘What’s wrong?’
Barnes’s eyes flickered to Courtney, and then back to her, his excitement palpable.
‘I think you better call Harriet. And DI Sharp.’
Twenty-Eight
Diane reversed her car into the last remaining space outside the restaurant, turned off the engine and sat for a moment to gather her thoughts.
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