Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(43)

Moira thinks of McCord. How she’d trusted him. No matter how long you’ve known someone and what you’ve been through together, you never really know them. He’d taught her that the hard way. Trusting him had made her lose everything. Even so, when she replies even she’s surprised at the amount of bitterness she hears in her voice. ‘True – you can’t ever tell what people are like.’

Rick raises an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like there’s a story there.’

‘Yeah, a long one.’

Rick glances through the patio doors into the kitchen. Lizzie and Philip are working side by side on the far countertop, preparing a salad and some kind of meat. ‘Looks like we’ve got some time if you fancy telling it?’

She doesn’t know how she’d even begin. Would she start by telling him how she and McCord first met, how they’d become friends and what great partners they were? Or should she begin at the end, with the betrayal and the death? The guilt. The shame. And the end of everything?

Rick is looking at her with a kindly expression on his face. He’s no doubt a good listener, and maybe telling someone the whole truth would help. She opens her mouth to answer, then closes it again. Who is she kidding? To tell him the story, she’d first have to tell him she’d been police, where she’d worked, what her job was, and she can’t do that. She bites her lip. What happened, happened, and it was her fault. Them dying was her fault. Telling someone about it, explaining the signs she failed to see, won’t change that and never can. It’s impossible to scrub the blood from her hands. They’re stained with it now, forever.

She meets Rick’s gaze. Gives a shake of her head. ‘Not really.’

He holds her eye contact for a beat longer than usual. ‘Got it. Another time perhaps.’

Moira tries to keep her tone light, but it breaks as she says, ‘Maybe.’

‘Nearly ready.’ Lizzie bustles back on to the patio carrying a large bowl of salad and a stack of plates with cutlery balanced on the top, and sets them down on the table.

‘Great,’ says Moira. She feels weary. It could be the events of the day, the fall up on the trail and her busted ankle, the codeine or the feelings stirred up by the conversation with Rick – whatever it is, suddenly she feels knackered.

Lizzie doesn’t seem to notice. She’s in full hostess mode now. Fussing over plate placement and cutlery, folded napkins and condiments in fancy wooden grinders. Moira doesn’t even have napkins, and the salt and pepper she uses come from the plastic mills you buy at the supermarket.

Emerging from the kitchen, Philip fires up his top-of-the-range outdoor grill and starts loading thick-cut steaks on to it. ‘Medium rare good for everyone?’

Rick and Lizzie agree. Moira does the same even though she doesn’t really feel hungry. If she’s honest, she feels quite weird – discombobulated, detached.

Lizzie looks at Rick and Moira. ‘Wine, beer?’

‘I’ll gladly take a beer,’ says Rick.

Moira doesn’t like to drink. Avoids anything that dulls the senses and makes her less alert. She glances back out across the lawn where the sprinklers are doing their work in the darkness. She needs to be on the ball, especially at the moment. ‘I’ll stick with water, thanks.’

As Lizzie goes back into the kitchen for the drinks and Philip cooks, Moira picks up the marker pen on the table and steps over to the patio doors. She adds a column with the heading ‘Person of interest’ and lists out the description of the guy she’d caught watching her three times earlier that day: Male. Approx five foot 8 inches. Slim. Blond, short hair. Black-framed glasses. Navy hoodie. Maroon and gold scarf. Silver VW Beetle.

Then, from the column headed ‘Killer’, she makes a sub-column branching off below headed ‘Suspect 1’ and lists out the things she remembers: Male. Six foot? Medium build. Hoodie. Binoculars. Wild Ridge Trail (Moira). ?Manatee Park (Lizzie). Buried mobile?

‘What about the colour of the hoodie?’ says Rick.

It’s a good point. As Moira turns to answer, she notices Philip looking at her and what she’s writing from where he’s standing at the grill. There’s a frown on his face. ‘You okay, Philip?’

‘Yes, yes, all good.’ He looks flustered for a moment. Like he’s been caught out doing something he shouldn’t. ‘I just . . .’

Lizzie laughs. ‘It’s because you’re writing on the glass – the board.’

‘I usually hold the pen in my investigations,’ says Philip.

Moira gives a tight smile. She knows she’s a guest in this man’s house, and agreed to help the group with their investigation, but Philip’s bossy, listen-to-me tone is really grating on her. She won’t defer to him. Stays put beside the patio doors. Grips the marker pen a little harder. Meets his gaze. ‘So do I in mine.’

Rick raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that right?’

Moira realises her mistake too late. She curses silently inside her mind. Knows that she’s blown it.

Philip frowns, looking half-irritated, half-confused. ‘And what investigations do you usually do?’

She looks from Philip to Rick to Lizzie, trying to think of a way to persuade them they misheard, or she meant something different; anything to put them off the scent. Fails. She’ll have to brazen it out. ‘I was an investigator, of sorts.’