He couldn’t resist a smug grin. “What can I say. I’m an expert,” he whispered.
For a moment, I wondered where Aaron had got his experience in picking locks. But my train of thought soon changed when I looked into Peter’s dark hallway. Through the ajar living room door, I saw a tall dresser, pushed against the far wall. I swallowed.
“After you,” Aaron said, gesturing before him. Hesitantly, I stepped in, leaving the protection of the grey daylight.
Aaron closed the door behind us. A film of sweat had formed on the back of my neck. I reminded myself that this was for Samantha, for Bella. That I wasn’t breaking into somebody’s home without good reason.
Aaron overtook me, and stepped into the living room first. He looked strange without his cowboy hat on, dressed in normal, everyday clothes. He looked like an average man, no longer the Aaron that I knew. Like I could be investigating this house with anybody.
Peter’s living room wasn’t how I’d imagined it. It was more modern, classier than his kitchen. Brown leather sofas and a glass coffee table and solid oak units.
We walked up to the dresser together. It too was solid oak, blending in with the other furniture, making it inconspicuous. The perfect hiding place for dark secrets.
Aaron began to search the drawers, which growled and clicked as they opened and closed, as if they were guard dogs barking at unwelcome intruders.
The first drawer merely held a collection of paperwork. A passport, car records, old bills, that sort of thing. The second drawer held some old ornaments, probably ones left by his parents that Peter no longer wanted to show. The third drawer held some articles, yellowed with age. I saw the word Tudor, and witch once again. I nearly asked if we should look through them, but Aaron was already closing the drawer. Time was of the essence. And besides, we wanted to find the notebook.
The notebook that was in the fourth drawer.
I held my breath as I studied it, absorbed its details. It was a solid, cream notebook that, like the articles, had yellowed with age. My heart hammered as I read ‘Josh Hunter’, scrawled in the bottom corner in blue ink.
I dived to take the book, to steal it away from Peter. But Aaron raised a hand. “Wait. We’ll read it together, one page at a time.”
Reluctantly, I nodded. I was eager to devour it, to try to read every word at once. But Aaron was right. We needed to be patient. If Peter came home, we’d have to take it with us.
Aaron lifted it from the drawer. Held it in his palms, like a hidden treasure. I peered past his shoulder as the book yawned open. He turned to the first page.
I looked. A date at the top, January 1998, and then a mess of writing. I read through the first paragraph, but from reading the first couple of sentences, scribbled in the same ink as Josh’s name, I could tell that this was his diary. It explained why Peter wouldn’t have wanted Alicia to see it. I was certain now that this book contained some of Peter’s deepest, darkest secrets. Not that they were to be secrets for much longer.
“How old was Peter when this was written?” I asked.
“1998,” Aaron murmured. “So it starts about twenty-two years ago. Two years before Samantha was murdered.”
“So he’d have been what, fifteen?”
“About that, yeah.” Aaron continued to scan the first page. It wasn’t long before something jarred, and his eyes stopped moving. His face became still. “Oh my god. Look.”
He put his finger to the page, underneath a word. It was taking a bit of effort to decipher his hand-writing, but there was no mistaking this particular word. It was a name. Capitalised.
Samantha.
“No way,” I said. Of course, Samantha being on the first page of Josh’s diary didn’t mean that he’d killed her, but it most certainly did mean that he knew her far better than he’d claimed.
Aaron cleared his throat. “Have you read this yet?”
“I’m still on the first paragraph. I’m finding his handwriting kind of difficult to read.”
“I’m finding it a little easier. Listen to this.” Aaron cleared his throat again. I braced myself for his words. “Just know this, my darling Samantha, that one day we’ll be happy together. Okay, I might be a goth, and you are the most beautiful girl on Earth, but I know that we’re destined for each other. Even if you’re freaked out by me right now, I know that, with time, I can show you the real me. If only you’ll be patient with me.”
It took me a moment to recollect myself. My stomach was bouncing, my heart hammering. “What the hell . . .” All I could manage for a moment. And then, “Is there anything else in the entry that’s not about Samantha?”
“Nope. Literally all her.” He flicked over a page. He read a little, then shook his head. “English Literature is my favourite subject. The funny thing is, Mrs Sheppard thinks I can quote passages from Othello because I love Shakespeare, but really, I’m just trying to impress you. I love English because you’re there, sat across from me. All I want to do is watch you. Be near you. Breathe you in. Okay, I can’t. Not yet, anyway. But soon, I will. Soon, I will.”
“Oh my god,” was all I could say this time, as I pictured Josh staring at Samantha across a classroom. Hungering for her.
Aaron flicked a few pages further. Then, he read, “How much longer are you going to be with that loser, Jacob Tanner? Can’t you see that he treats you like shit? Can’t you see that I’d treat you like a princess? A gothic princess, I’ll give you that. But a princess, nonetheless. Seeing him yelling at you today, calling you stupid in front of your friends. Well, it riled me. I wanted to come over and feel his face against my knuckles; scream at him; tell him that he can’t speak to you like that. I hope you’ll learn soon that you don’t need people like Jacob in your life. I hope you’ll realise that I’m the one you need, so we can be happy together.”
Aaron kept flicking through the pages, kept flicking through more stories. All the time, trying to find an entry that wasn’t about Samantha.
We couldn’t find one.
When we were halfway through the diary, had been looking at it for some time, I actually felt my heart ache. Josh had been a social outcast, of that there was no doubt. And he’d wanted this popular girl; this popular, beautiful girl, who’d wanted nothing to do with him. How must that have felt?
“I kind of feel sorry for him,” I said after a time.
Aaron looked at me as if I’d sworn. “Really? Can’t you see this guy had a problem?”
I shrugged. “It seems to me like he was in love.”
Aaron shook his head. “No. This isn’t love, Jonny. This is an obsession. To keep a diary solely focused on one girl isn’t right. Love is meant to be healthy. It should be shared between two people, at the very least.”
“Not necessarily,” I said, thinking of how I felt about Cassy, and how she’d ignored me for the past two months.
Aaron sighed. “Can we at least agree that something wasn’t right about Josh? That Peter is clearly a bit of a creep? I mean, think of that Facebook review. And the fact that he’s hung on to this diary, after all these years, isn’t right.”
“Alright, we can agree on that.” Then, I had a thought. A hollow chasm of a thought. “We should find the date of Samantha’s murder.”
Aaron gave a solemn nod. We both knew what that entry might contain. If, of course, he had murdered Samantha, and had been stupid enough to record it.
Aaron rifled through the pages, the paper rustling between his gloved fingertips. He called out the dates as he went. Slowly edging closer to the 12th November, 2000. When he reached the date, he halted. Then, he looked to me, his eyes grave. The whole room groaned with silence, an aching vacuum.
Aaron punctured the silence. Slowly, he began to read.
“12th November, 2000. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about life, it’s that there’s no room for regrets. Most of my childhood has been a struggle: trying to fit in; trying to make friends and keep them. The first eleven years of my life were pretty misera
ble, I’ll be honest. Kids used to take the piss out of me. They’d hit me and call me names. I always ate my lunch alone, because I never had any friends. That was, until I met you. Until I thought that everything would change.”
Aaron’s voice filled the living room, but it felt as if I were listening to Josh. I imagined him stood before me, like a younger version of Aaron, telling me his story. I felt his sadness, his isolation, as his words reverberated in my mind.
“When I was put next to you during registration on our first day of secondary school, when I looked into your beautiful eyes, I thought that we were meant to be together. I thought that I’d suffered until then for a reason. It had been a trial. After all, who needs friends if they’ve found you?”
Aaron glanced over the next few lines, then took a deep breath. “For years, I thought this. We spent time together, and though we were never boyfriend and girlfriend, I was sure that you cared about me. That deep down, you felt the same way as I did.”
“But then, you met him. You spited me by going out with him – that fucking delinquent.”
“Jesus,” I said. My stomach churned.
“I did everything for you. I cut out my bleeding heart for you, put it on a plate, but you turned it away like it was garbage. And, with time, I realised that you weren’t a beautiful person at all. You were something from hell.”
“And that’s why, in the end, he deserved what he had coming to him. And, what’s more, you deserved what you had coming to you, for choosing a guy like that over me. At least now ‒ I guess I can move on and be happy.”
Aaron stopped reading, looked to the ground. “End of entry.”
For what felt like an era, Aaron and I stood, staring at nothing, considering the gravity of what we’d read. That Samantha had been incorrect. It hadn’t been someone that had loved her that killed her. It had been somebody who had been obsessed with her. Somebody malicious enough to be driven to burn someone alive because of one feeling alone. The antithesis of love. Jealousy.
I broke the silence. “I can’t believe he did it. I can’t believe he could ‒ do that to someone . . .”
Aaron kept his empty gaze on the floor. “We need to read on. Josh clearly liked to share his thoughts. Maybe his guilt strengthened afterwards.”
“Alright,” I said, weakly.
Aaron flicked through the pages, devoured a little more of the diary. Though he soon stopped, and mouthed a swear word.
“What’s up?” I asked him, my heart tensing even more.
Aaron read, “Do you know, sometimes I dream about your screams? I dream about you ‒ you begging me to stop. But every time I dream it, I never help you. Do you know what I do instead? I laugh. I laugh because of the way you treated me. You deserved it, you selfish bitch.”
My mouth opened, but I had no words. My tongue became dry.
“Is there anything else?” I said. “Anything after this entry?”
Aaron showed the book to me. There was a large wad of the notebook left. “Pages and pages of writing, by the looks of it.”
And that was when I realised that this wasn’t a diary at all. That it was a bible. A memento of Peter’s deepest, darkest fantasies. A sick record of his obsession with Samantha Lowry. I really didn’t want to hear any more of it. But I knew that it might hold more significant evidence that we could use to nail this guy. And if there was one thing that I definitely wanted, it was to see him brought to justice.
“Keep going.”
Aaron eyed me, then nodded. He turned a few pages, then read, “This one is from 21st February 2001, so some months after the murder ‒ I still think about you, you know. Sometimes, I doodle you. Though don’t think it’s a romantic doodle. Think of a vampire, with long, dripping fangs that suck the blood from someone. Suck all their life force away from them. A bit like you did to me ‒ you whore.”
The final word was a dagger. Aaron breathed out through pursed lips. He flicked on a few more pages.
“13th March, 2001. I’ve put a lot of thought into this ‒ I’m going to change my name. I’ve always liked the name Peter. It has a ring to it. A fresh start for a new me, devoid of you. If only you were here to tell me what you think.”
I rubbed my hand across my face. Aaron continued, turned more pages.
“Here’s another one from 25th April 2001. Every day I wake up, I’m glad that you’re no longer here, no longer here to torment me or torture me. You know, often I sit and stare at the part of you I do still have. It’s weird, and a bit ironic, because it’s almost like I have you now. Or at least, like I said, a very small part of you.”
Aaron’s brow creased. I said, “What the hell is he talking about? A part of her that he looks at?” It took a few seconds for the idea to register. But, when it did, I felt the blood drain from my face. “No. No ‒ he can’t have.”
Aaron’s eyes darted to the open drawer. He walked towards it with purpose, before rummaging inside of it. “Nothing else in here but some old papers. Unless . . .”
I heard a loud bang. Aaron was punching the back of the drawer. His mouth formed a twisted smile. “Knew it,” he said. He punched the back of the drawer twice more, before a loud clunking noise emitted from it. “A false back, perfect for hiding things. I have one at home. I keep my cash savings behind it.”
He groped around the drawer a little more, before grasping something. “Bingo.” A moment later, he pulled out a small, black, leather box. It looked like the sort of thing in which you’d keep a necklace, or a bracelet.
“What do you think he’s done?” I asked Aaron. “Do you think he took something from her?”
“Maybe. Like jewellery, or something. Let’s have a look.”
The box had stiffened with age. With a bit of effort, it clattered open with a pop, revealing Josh’s prize within.
I expected to be met with the glint of silver, or the shimmer of gold. But when I saw what was really in the box, I wanted to yack my morning fry up all over the floor. Three little, yellowing objects, gnarly and chalky, rounded at both ends, but thin in the middle. I had to do a double-take, because there was no way they were—
“Is that a—” I couldn’t complete my sentence.
“Yes.” Aaron grimaced. “It’s a finger. It’s Samantha Lowry’s finger.”
19
Alicia turned the key in the ignition. Then, she sat back, and closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. In, and then out.
It was a good technique for calming yourself, she knew. And she really needed calming. When Aaron had called her, she hadn’t been able to turn him down. He was the sort of guy that, when he was in a bind, you couldn’t not help him. He’d helped her in the past, after all. When she’d lost her mum to months of gruelling chemo, Aaron had helped to reconnect them. He’d helped her mum to cross over to the after-life; had helped her to find happiness and peace.
Helping him the night before had been a chip off her massive debt. But, with work calls stacking up, her inbox full, and lots of clients desperate to get hold of her, she knew she had a crammed day ahead. Not to mention that her best friend, Abbie, was meant to be coming over for wine that evening.
As she closed the door to her little, red Mini Cooper, she felt a headache coming on. A dull ache on the left side of her forehead. Sleeping in a hotel bed normally did that to her, and the mix of stress made a terrible cocktail. Still, it could have been worse. She could still have been working for the Metropolitan police, working for slave-driving superiors. She could still have been living in her old flat in Croydon, surrounded by never-ending traffic, the grinding of engines and the blasts of horns. The thick smog of London, invading her lungs.
But now, she lived in a house with a view. A little house, right out in the sticks, overlooking a river. It was so quiet, and she knew that most people would hate the quiet, that they would find it even more invasive than the car fumes and the onslaught of pedestrians. But she loved it, even if she did live on her own.
Peeling back her front door, sh
e breathed in the fresh scent of the lilies, sat in the vase on the hallway dresser. A little present to herself. She smiled. Home-sweet-home.
She dumped her suitcase in the hallway, and walked straight through to the kitchen. Another coffee was needed, despite the triple-strength brew that she’d treated herself to at Aaron’s hotel. She normally had about ten coffees a day, and it was already nearly midday, so she was lagging.
After filling up the kettle, she put it on the stand, and flicked the switch.
Flicked it off again. Stopped.
She could have sworn she’d heard something, like a car driving across gravel, or the crunch of tyres. She listened intently. Who would be visiting her at this hour? Did she have an appointment with a client that she’d forgotten about?
After a time, when she’d heard nothing else, she shrugged her shoulders. Maybe it had been one of her few neighbours, wheeling a bin across their garden. She flicked the kettle back on.
Meanwhile, she busied herself by opening the downstairs windows. It was a warm day, and the house was desperate for some ventilation. Thankfully, there was a gentle breeze flowing through the hills, strong enough to make the net curtains spill out of the windows.
Making her coffee, she felt a breath of wind across her face. She smiled.
A smile soon wiped away as the teaspoon dripped black coffee on to the kitchen work surface. Mess always riled her. She worked hard to keep her home spotless. Her friends often laughed at her for it; she lived on her own, so who was she trying to impress? But in truth, a clean home gave her a clean soul. She could only relax in a tidy place.
After cleaning the coffee, she groaned, knowing it was time to get to work. Her desk was upstairs, and on the way she carried her suitcase. Clean home, clean soul, and all that.
Her study was a tidy mess of books and ornaments. The only place in her house where she expressed her hobbies. She’d travelled a lot when she’d been younger, and behind her desk was a photo of her and her two best friends, partying in Vietnam. The background was a concoction of pinks and yellows, and in the foreground, the three of them, Alicia in a blue cocktail dress. She’d been so slim back then. She envied her younger self.
The Witch Hunt (Jonny Roberts Series Book 3) Page 15