‘It was a lighter, Fran. An expensive-looking one. With an engraving.’
‘Oh,’ Fran said quietly, standing up. ‘In that case, I’d better replenish supplies.’ She went to the kitchen to fetch the other bottle of wine.
A moment later, Libby got the faint smell of cigarette smoke winding its way inside. She knew Fran would be standing at her back door, puffing out into the night. She’d tried to give up many times before but had always failed. She didn’t nag her like she had in the past – the last year had been tough, after all. Tough on them all, but mainly Fran. Losing Chris had been a curveball no one was expecting. Once diagnosed, the cancer had torn through him.
‘He didn’t want me to see him suffer, any more than he wanted to suffer. He was the bravest person I’ve ever known.’ Fran was with him when he passed away, and Sean only an hour before that. Sean had known Chris since school; he was one of the gang. One of the good guys, he’d said when Libby had first been introduced years before. While Sean had played matchmaker, it was Libby who’d actually engineered Fran and Chris meeting up. She knew they’d be perfect for each other and, when a work opportunity brought Fran to the area, it all seemed perfect. Too perfect, as Fran had once admitted, concerned it would end up the same as her previous relationships.
‘All I want is for you to stop overanalysing everything,’ Fran said when she came back in with more wine. I know things are rubbish right now – double shit – but none of it is your fault and you can’t control any of it. You’re a beautiful woman with a heart of gold and you’ve helped me through the darkest time of my life. I don’t want you falling down some rabbit hole of self-indulgent misunder—’
‘Did you hear that?’ Libby said, straining her ears.
‘No. And stop changing the subject. Just stay real, Lib. Stop worrying about that note and let the police do their job. It’s a tragic situation and I hope to God they find the poor girl. I’ve been following it on the news. They found a shoe or something and—’
‘Did they confirm it was Sasha’s?’ Libby said, still listening out. ‘One of the guys on the search Sean organised discovered it.’
‘Yes, they said it was hers,’ Fran said, nodding. ‘And as for all this suspicion with Sean, give the guy a break. He’s a good man and you’re lucky to have him. Trust me on that one. Life’s too short and… and…’ She sipped more wine, making no attempt to hide the tears as she broke down. ‘I’m sorry, I just get so lonely and—’
‘Oh, Fran,’ Libby said, going over to hug her. She listened again. ‘Did you lock the back door?’ Libby said, turning towards the kitchen. ‘I swear I heard something.’
‘I definitely shut it. But the boiler makes odd noises,’ Fran said, sniffing. ‘It’s been on its last legs for ages. Chris used to tweak it but I don’t know what he did. I’ve been meaning to call an engineer though—’
‘Hear that?’ Libby said, holding up her hand. ‘I’m going to check.’ She stood up but halted halfway across the room. ‘I’m sorry, Fran… I don’t mean to be insensitive. I know you’re still grieving. And I know how lonely you must feel, but it’s a process and it takes time.’ She paused for a moment, making a sympathetic face, before heading out to the kitchen, gasping when she saw the back door was wide open.
Thirty-Four
Libby went back to tell Fran what she’d seen, but stopped dead in her tracks.
‘Sean…’ she said, her mouth dropping open. He was the last person she expected to be standing there, with Fran, clearly having just answered the front door, showing him inside.
Fran dabbed at her eyes with a scrunched-up tissue, trying to look normal. ‘Please, come in, Sean,’ she said quietly. ‘And don’t be silly, you’re not interrupting anything. Sit down. Do you want a drink?’ She looked nervous.
‘What are you… what are you doing here?’ Libby asked, hating the way she sounded – accusing, suspicious – but there was no reason for Sean to have called round at Fran’s house, let alone unannounced. She didn’t understand.
‘I was driving past and saw your car outside,’ he said without faltering. ‘I thought you were home cooking, you see, and wanted to check everything was OK.’
‘No, I don’t see,’ Libby said, keeping her eyes firmly on him. She watched as his jaw twitched, his eyes taking everything in. ‘And I was at home but couldn’t concentrate so I came to see Fran.’ She’d wanted to add to talk in private but decided against it. ‘Anyway, where did you see my car?’
‘Just outside,’ he replied vaguely, waving his arm towards the window.
‘Where outside?’ Libby pressed on, barely aware that Fran had slid another glass of wine into her hands.
‘Here, have one too, Sean,’ Fran said, far too brightly for the situation. ‘You can have one drink surely?’
Sean ignored her.
‘I can’t remember exactly, love, but close by. What is this, the third degree?’ He laughed. ‘I only came to check that you were OK.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is the third degree, actually. Tell me why you’re here.’
‘Why don’t you talk about this another time, eh, Libby?’ Fran said, ushering her to sit down again. ‘You and Sean are both tired.’
Libby glared at her friend, turning to Sean again. ‘You came to see Fran, didn’t you? You had no idea I was here.’ She knew her car was parked down a cul-de-sac several streets away.
Sean ran a hand down his face, giving Fran a quick look – a look that, to Libby, said a thousand words. She just didn’t know what they were.
‘Love, you’re stressed. You need to calm down a bit, OK? I—’
‘I’m not stressed, Sean. I’m perfectly calm.’ Libby surprised herself by sounding just that – detached, composed, aloof, as though she were talking about someone else entirely. ‘Tell me, where did you see my car?’
‘I can’t remember exactly but—’
‘That’s because you didn’t see it at all, did you? You have no idea where my car is. You’re lying. Why are you here, Sean? Tell me.’ Libby put down her drink too heavily, sloshing some onto the coffee table, before folding her arms and squaring up to him. ‘If you don’t answer me, I won’t be coming home.’ She winced at the sound of the threat, knowing that not only did she not mean it, but it was impractical too. She couldn’t just leave Alice, her business, all her things. Besides, she had nowhere else to go. And, if what she thought was true, staying with Fran hardly seemed appropriate now.
‘Thanks for the drink offer, Fran, but I’d better be going,’ Sean said, sighing heavily, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening and cause an upset. I didn’t realise Libby would…’ He trailed off, looking sad.
‘No problem,’ Fran replied quietly, taking his untouched wine from him. ‘I’ll see you out.’
Libby’s heart sank as Sean left the room. She sat down, listening intently as Fran and Sean stood in the hall for a few moments. But all she could hear were a few subdued words and then the front door opening and closing.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Fran said, coming back in again. ‘Nice display of married life there, Lib.’
Libby stared at her, mulling things over as fast as her addled mind would allow. Was she wrong about this? Did she want to risk her longest friendship, her marriage, over what could still be a misunderstanding? But God… Sean’s initials coming up on Fran’s phone, him turning up just now… The more she thought about it, the more two and two looked less like five and a lot like four. Or, she thought, three. As in the number of people in her relationship.
‘Nothing,’ she said, closing her eyes for a beat. ‘It wasn’t about anything. Look, it’s best I go. I’ve only had a glass or so. I’m tired and—’
‘Oh. OK, fine,’ Fran said, an uncomfortable look on her face. ‘God, I hope you don’t think…’ She trailed off, standing up when Libby did, watching as she slipped on her coat.
‘No, no of course not,’ Libby said quietly. ‘I don’t think anything any mor
e really.’ She pulled her keys from her pocket, checking she’d got her phone. Then she laughed – just a pathetic little laugh that sounded, to her, a lot like giving up. ‘It’s weird, you know, but for the first time in ages, I just really want to go home.’
* * *
Later, Libby sat at the desk in the study at Chestnut Cottage, staring at her computer screen. Sean was in the living room, his laptop balanced on his knee, and Alice was still with Marion. She’d caught sight of the news report he was reading about Sasha as she’d walked past, neither of them saying a word to each other as she’d shut herself away.
‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ he’d said when she arrived home not long after him. He’d taken her by the shoulders as they crossed paths in the kitchen, looking her in the eye. ‘I’m worried about you, Lib. You’re not at all yourself.’ He’d sighed then, as if he were about to make a confession. ‘Look, Fran’s your best friend. I thought she might be able to give me some advice about how to help you. That’s why I stopped by her place, OK?’
‘I don’t believe you,’ was all Libby had said, staring at him before sliding from his grip. Since then, they’d not spoken.
In the study, Libby scrolled through the pictures of symbols that had come up on her screen – everything from Arabic characters to pagan markings and Egyptian hieroglyphs. But nothing matched up with the engraving she’d seen on the lighter. Perhaps she’d entered the wrong search words. It was somehow familiar and she could have sworn she’d seen it before – she just couldn’t recall where or when or in what context. She tried again, typing ‘M with arrow on it’ – a more succinct description, thinking it could actually just be nothing more than a stylised initial Sean had had engraved.
She thought of all the people she knew whose names began with M – Marion being the most obvious, but she had no need for an expensive lighter. She knew a Michelle in the area pretty well, another mum at Alice’s playgroup, but she didn’t think Sean had ever met her. But then if they were having an affair, she’d hardly be party to that information. There was Mary a couple of doors down, but surely, in her early sixties, she was too old for Sean. Then she remembered Molly Farrow, the head teacher of the local primary school, who was about their age and very attractive. Libby hadn’t forgotten how she’d done a double-take at Sean when they’d first met her at an open day with Alice, in preparation for her starting school in the new year. But it was all so random, all so stabbing-in-the-dark and obsessive that she knew she’d drive herself mad if she dwelt on it any longer. She’d already driven herself mad, she concluded, cupping her head in her hands.
She racked her brains, biting her lip as she logged into Facebook to check Sean’s friends list. But his privacy settings were tight and, despite being his friend, she wasn’t able to see who was on the list. He rarely used Facebook anyway.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she whispered, flopping back in her chair. She thought she heard Sean moving about and listened out… but all was silent, apart from the faint sound of the TV quietly on in the other room.
‘Think, think, think,’ she said, wondering why the name Maggie suddenly meant something to her. She didn’t think she knew any Maggies. Did she? ‘Mags,’ she said quietly several times. ‘Mags, Mag, Maggie, Margaret…’ It was on the tip of her tongue. ‘Magpie,’ she whispered finally, feeling goosebumps. ‘My little Magpie…’ she said, digging her nails into her palms.
She’d not been prying but, soon after she and Sean had moved in together, it was natural for her to want to find places for her things alongside his. And the dresser drawer had needed a clear-out anyway – it was stuffed with old bills, greetings cards and general stuff that wasn’t needed. For some reason, Sean had kept a birthday card from someone calling themselves ‘Your little Magpie’. Naturally she asked him about it, wondering who it was, and Sean explained, slightly embarrassed, that it was in fact Natalie. Magpie was his nickname for her because she loved shiny things and always wore lots of jewellery.
‘She saw something pretty and just had to have it,’ he’d said, laughing maybe just a little too fondly for Libby’s liking.
Libby shook her head, trying to dispel her fears. She was being stupid. As she thought about it more, she felt her shoulders relax and her stomach unknot. Sean had probably bought the lighter for Natalie years ago and just never given it to her, likely when their relationship broke down.
She breathed out a sigh of relief, thinking she should probably go into the other room and talk to him. They had things to discuss, things to work out between them. And that didn’t involve her petty jealousy about some stupid gift. They needed to be a team more than ever. But, as she was about to shut down her laptop, she noticed the other window with images that had come up as a result of searching for ‘M with arrow on it’.
‘Oh,’ she said, her fingers hovering over the mouse pad. ‘Wait… that’s… that’s it…’ she whispered, clicking on the first link. Suddenly, M for Magpie didn’t seem quite so likely after all, and when she read the description of what the symbol meant, Libby was racking her brains for dates. For birthday dates. Because the M with a downwards arrow on its tail, it seemed, was the symbol for Scorpio.
Thirty-Five
Now
‘Can you tell me any reason why we might have found Sasha’s blood in your living room, Mrs Randell?’ DI Jones asks.
‘Blood?’ I say, horrified. I hear Claire shifting beside me. ‘No… no comment,’ I add.
‘So you have no idea how Sasha’s blood could have got there, in your living room?’
‘No comment.’
‘The blood was found beneath the corner of your wooden coffee table and on the tassels of your rug.’
‘No comment.’
‘In your statement, you say that Sasha was not at home when you returned from your meal. Is this correct?’
I feel sick – a deep, unstoppable nausea welling up from my stomach as I imagine Sasha bleeding in my living room. ‘Yes. I… I mean, no comment.’ My shoulders pull inwards as I pin my elbows to my sides, my fingers clasped as I try to still myself. ‘I’m so sorry…’ I add, trailing off.
‘Sorry…?’ DC McCaulay says. ‘For what, exactly?’
‘That… that there was blood. Something bad must have happened to Sasha. Oh God, and Alice was upstairs.’ I’m waiting for them to tell me they’ve found a body, to show me pictures of Sasha – bleeding and lifeless, perhaps bruised and battered. God knows how or where they found her, but I know I can’t stand to look.
‘You say that you went out to your kitchen barn to look for Sasha,’ DI Jones continues.
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘No… comment.’ I think back, the taste of wine and seafood still in my mouth, the tang of fear in my nose as Sean barked and shouted at me from the moment we got home from the pub. I wasn’t thinking straight – from the alcohol, the way Sean was suddenly acting with me, to the ever-present note and my suspicion, right down to the shock of what else happened that night. It was as much as I could do to keep upright, let alone think rationally.
No one saw you, OK? Sean had said later, his spit landing on my cheeks.
‘No, no one saw me. I’ve told you this before,’ I tell the detective, almost seeing Arn’s face pop up over the wall, concerned he’ll see him reflected in my eyes.
‘Thing is,’ DI Jones continues, ‘we spoke to your neighbour, Arnold Ratcliffe, and he says he distinctly remembers seeing you outside that night and that you’d had a quick chat.’
‘I must have forgotten,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘He said he’d heard shouting earlier, around a quarter to ten. And then on and off until about 11 p.m. Who was shouting, Libby?’
‘I don’t know… no comment.’
‘Arnold also told us that when he saw you outside, you seemed very agitated. Were you agitated?’
‘We couldn’t find Sasha. Of course I was agitated.’ My head couldn’t hang any lower.
&n
bsp; ‘Or were you agitated because you’d just killed Sasha?’
For a second, I can’t speak. Every organ in my body turns cold, as if I’m shutting down to protect myself. Whatever he’s accusing me of, I don’t want to hear it. It’s not true.
‘Christ,’ I’d said to Sean when I’d come back inside. ‘Arn saw me. He’d heard noises and popped up over the wall.’
Sean had stared up at me then, with something I didn’t recognise in his eyes. ‘Too bloody nosy for his own good,’ he’d said. His hands were wet and he was on his knees. ‘Did he say anything?’
‘Not much,’ I replied, hugging myself. I couldn’t stop shaking, wondering what else he’d seen or heard going on out there. ‘This is all so wrong, Sean,’ I said, going up to him. All I wanted was to be held, to have him say everything would be OK again.
‘Help me,’ he said, standing up. He was holding out his dripping hands, eyeing the bucket of soapy water. I picked it up and followed him, carrying it into the kitchen. ‘There was food spilt everywhere,’ he said, pointing at the cleared plate by the sink. ‘I didn’t want the rug to stain. No harm done.’
‘Yes,’ I’d replied. ‘No harm done.’
‘Good girl,’ he’d said.
‘No harm done,’ I whisper now, my watery eyes blurring the detectives’ faces.
‘Please repeat what you said so the recorder can pick you up,’ DI Jones says.
‘I said… I said “Are we done”?’
‘Far from done,’ DC McCaulay says, tapping her pen.
‘Your husband went to check upstairs in the cottage, to see if Sasha was there?’ DI Jones goes on.
‘I think so, yes. I mean, we both did. Several times. We hunted everywhere for her.’
‘And made quite a mess.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe. We were frantic looking for her. Thought perhaps she was playing some game. Maybe hide and seek with Alice.’
‘But Alice was asleep.’
Date Night: An Absolutely Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Jaw-Dropping Twist Page 21