One by One(49)

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 5

Snoopscribers: 10

“Bollocks.” I’m standing in the kitchen, watching Danny put the finishing touches to big bowls of salad. He’s done an amazing job with tins and jars, but there is no way of masking the fact that the bread is stale and the lettuce has seen better days. Twenty-four hours without electricity is starting to take its toll on the freshness of the chilled food.

“What do you mean, bollocks?” Danny doesn’t look up. He’s crumbling crushed walnuts over a big plate of ripe, sliced pears and slightly overripe Bleu d’Auvergne cheese.

“I just… I feel like that didn’t go so well?”

Danny tastes the dressing and then shrugs.

“I dunno. You were telling them something they didn’t want to hear. What did you expect them to do—applaud?”

I shrug. I am not sure what to say.

At last Danny is ready, and we each pick up a couple of bowls and carry them out. As I limp after Danny, through the empty lobby, I see croissant crumbs from earlier today scattered across the thick sheepskin rug. There’s not much I can do without any electricity for the Hoover, but in my current mood it feels like a sign of the way things are fraying at the edges, falling apart while Danny and I desperately try to keep the wheels on.

In the living room, the silence is deafening. There’s no longer any friendly backdrop of music to mask the tensions in the group, only the soft roar of the log burner, and the patter of snow against the window. Rik and Miranda are sitting together, their arms touching. They seem to have abandoned all pretense of not being a couple, and as I draw closer I see that their hands are entwined in Miranda’s lap.

Tiger is still talking to Carl in a low voice, as if she can calm him down.

Liz is sitting awkwardly on the edge of her seat. Her fingers are in her mouth, chewing at her nails, but as I enter the room she takes them out and flexes her hands nervously, cracking her knuckles. The little volley of clicks is very loud in the quiet room, and Ani, sitting between Liz and Topher, makes an involuntary grimace at the sound.

Only Inigo is by himself, and when I offer him the last bowl of salad, he waves it away with one hand.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve got to eat, Inigo,” I say, but the look on his face worries me more than his appetite. The last thing we need is someone sinking into a depression.

“I’m not hungry.” He says it with more force, and I put my hands up.

“Okay, okay. Not trying to strong-arm anyone. I’ll leave it here, okay? If you don’t want it, no pressure.”

I am turning to go back to the kitchen when I hear his voice, very low.

“I feel like everyone is blaming me.”

“Blaming you?” I say, in surprise. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“Because of what you said before—about not being able to get through to the police. I heard them.” His voice drops to a whisper, and I have to bend closer to find out what’s being said. “I heard Rik and Miranda, they were saying—” He stops, swallowing heroically, and I see there are tears in his eyes. “I think they think I was making it up. That I didn’t talk to the police, or if I did that I didn’t stress the urgency of the situation enough. But why?” He looks up, his extraordinary blue eyes swimming with tears. “Why would I do that? Unless I’d—unless I’d k-k—”

But he can’t say it. Unless I’d killed her.

“I loved her,” he says, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “That’s what none of them understand. I loved her.”

Oh shit. I remember the rumors of the first morning, Inigo coming to bed late, Topher’s drawling, Not that again. Eva should know better.

“I loved her!” Inigo repeats, and I very, very much want to tell him to shut up. Because he seems to believe that this confession will exonerate him. But if anything, it’s the reverse. Because you need a pretty powerful motive to kill someone—and one of those motives is money—that’s the one we’ve all been assuming was at the bottom of this. And Inigo has no financial motive to kill Eva. Only Topher and Elliot fall into that camp, as far as we know. But the other thing that provokes people to kill is love. And Inigo’s just put himself forward as the only candidate for that category.

“I’m sure you did,” I say quietly, and then I watch as he stands and walks out of the room, unable to hold it together in front of his colleagues anymore.

In the kitchen I sink into my chair, prop my aching foot on Danny’s makeshift footrest, and wait for him to come in through the service door.

“What was all that about with Inigo?” he asks, and I explain.

“Bloody hell.” He runs his hand through his hair. “What a stupid little prick. What, with Eva shagging Inigo, and Topher getting his end away with Ani—haven’t they heard of Me Too? You can’t go around bonking your employees anymore. It’s not right.”

“It gives him a motive though, doesn’t it?” I say reluctantly, and Danny shrugs.

“I dunno. I mean we could probably give them all motives if we needed to. Miranda could be madly in love with Inigo herself. Rik might be a raging incel who hates having a female boss. Who the fuck knows. I could come up with some old bollocks against all of them if I had to. If you ask me it’s alibis we should be looking at. There must be some of them we can rule out.”