One Small Mistake(102)

‘If Jack has her and she’s still alive, where do you think he’s keeping her? We were in his house and I’m sure she wasn’t locked up in a room somewhere.’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘We used to go to this cottage every summer with his family, but Kathryn sold it last year. He’s an architect though – maybe she’s in one of the buildings he’s working on?’

‘Let me know what you find out. In the meantime, I’ll call a locksmith.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ I told him because I needed to get used to doing things by myself, though it was good to know that although I may be single, I wasn’t really alone.

I got to Kathryn’s around ten in the morning under the pretence of needing photographs for a collage I was making for Jack’s upcoming birthday party. She welcomed me inside and told me all the photographs and other memorabilia were in Jeffrey’s study.

‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ called Kathryn, padding down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Jeffrey’s study hasn’t changed: floor-to-ceiling cherry wood panelling, large desk and leather chair, grand fireplace and high, arching windows. The floorboards beside his desk were lighter, the varnish having been scrubbed away. I remembered Kathryn knocking on Mum’s door gone midnight just days after the discovery of Jeffrey’s body, her hands red and blistered from bleach and hours spent cleaning her husband’s blood.

In preparation for my visit, Kathryn had pulled some boxes of photographs from the large cupboard behind his desk, but I walked past them and started dragging out more boxes, ones filled with paper and journals and photo albums. It didn’t take long to realise the journals were Jeffrey’s, penned in his cursive script. I flipped through, only stopping when I saw Jack’s name.

I look into Jack’s eyes and all I see is rot. He’s violent and selfish. A sociopath. He’s going to take that poor girl and burn her inside out, leaving her charred and writhing. Jack isn’t my son. He isn’t, but Kathryn thinks I’m—



I slapped the book shut as Kathryn glided into the room.

‘Tea,’ she announced.

I quickly shoved the journal back in the box and made sure my smile was pleasant before turning and taking the cup she held out to me.

‘Found what you were looking for?’ she asked.

‘No, not yet. I’ll be a while longer if you don’t mind?’

‘Not at all, Ada. I’m expecting a call any minute though – you don’t mind if I leave you to it?’

I tried not to look too pleased. ‘That’s fine.’ I laid my hand on the cardboard box which sat on the desk. ‘Is this for me too?’

‘Oh, no, that’s Jack’s. His shredder broke so he asked me to run some bits through mine.’

I felt colour creep into my cheeks as I recalled kicking his shredder the day Christopher and I snuck into his house.

‘These days, you can’t just toss client information into the bin, can you?’ she remarked.

Heart racing with anticipation, I nodded and sipped my too-hot tea. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Jeffrey had written. ‘I found some journals. Were they Jeffrey’s?’

‘Yes. I could never bring myself to read them. He loved to write. Loved his luxury stationery. Pens, expensive paper. I bought him a new journal every year.’

Jeffrey’s suicide note was typed. Why would a man who loved to write type out his suicide note when he was surrounded by opulent, leather-bound books and reams of thick paper? It seemed odd, but delving into the nuances of Jeffrey’s suicide with his wife wasn’t appropriate.

Absently, I plucked a photograph from one of the boxes. It was of Jack and Charlie when they were kids, standing outside Wisteria Cottage in wetsuits, each holding a huge ice cream. ‘Mum mentioned you sold Wisteria. Do you regret it?’ I asked, remembering how Kathryn had agonised over the decision for years.

‘No, darling, I found the right buyer in the end.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, he wanted to keep it quiet. You see, I think he’s planning to have us all come and spend a summer there when he’s put his own stamp on it.’

‘Who?’

‘Jack.’

I almost choked on my tea. ‘Jack bought Wisteria?’

‘Charlie didn’t want it and Jack was so passionate. I thought—’

Just then, Kathryn’s phone rang, and she excused herself.

If Jack bought Wisteria and wanted to keep it a secret, he could have you there. I was desperate to tell Christopher, but I knew there was more to discover. I got to work quickly, riffling through the box of paperwork Jack had left with his mother to shred. It was mostly old records and junk mail, then I found the jackpot: bank statements. I ran my eyes down the list of transactions a couple of times before I noticed large sums of cash being withdrawn sporadically but always the same amount: ￡250. I’d put my life on it that the sum of money David was paid in exchange for following you was that exact amount. I stuffed the statements into my bag.

Determined to find a photograph of Jack and David together, I continued searching, sorting through grainy pictures of Jack and Charlie during their childhood in America; I flipped through the photographs, watching them grow. Just as I was about to give up, I came across a collection of photographs from Jack’s rugby-playing days.