The Wife Before Me(81)
‘What do you mean?’ Elena asks.
‘Don’t take me for a fool.’ Rosemary wraps a fresh ice pack in a towel and applies it to Elena’s arm. ‘I don’t believe you fell on those steps. If you are in danger, I need to know.’
‘I told you―’
‘Nicholas attacked you, that’s what I believe. What I don’t understand is why you feel the need to protect him. You must tell me what’s going on.’
The strain of setting up her own law firm and combatting insistent rumours about her sudden departure from KHM is etched deeply on Rosemary’s face. The whispering campaign she endured took place shortly after she’d held a meeting with Nicholas and questioned him about his dealings with an Asian bank. The same bank that left Elena penniless and dependent on Rosemary’s generosity.
‘You know what happened.’ The lie lodges in her throat. The longing to confide in her friend is a constant struggle but blurting out the truth will bring no relief. Rosemary, her reputation as a law-abiding solicitor at stake, will insist on going directly to the police. Elena is under no illusions as to how they will react, especially if she accuses Nicholas of murder.
Rosemary, clearly unconvinced, rises stiffly from the chair and returns to her bedroom. Elena follows her up the stairs and lies sleepless until morning.
Forty-Five
On Mag’s Head, the knock on the cottage door startles her. As always when an unexpected caller arrives, she tenses and, in doing so, her features tauten into a chilling rigidity. She checks the front window. Beyond the gate, an orange Citro?n is parked close by the side of the road. She doesn’t know anyone with such a distinctive car but tourists sometimes call looking for directions. When the caller knocks a second time, a prolonged rat-a-tat that sets her teeth on edge, she checks through the peephole. Elena Langdon. How long will it take before she gives up and drives away? After the fourth knock, she pulls the door open, furious yet frightened by the woman’s determination.
‘I had to come back.’ Elena stands square in front of her, her face bruised, stitches in her forehead. ‘You must tell me the truth about Amelia Madison.’
‘I told you I don’t―’
‘You lied.’ Elena’s eyes are fixed on the butterfly pendant at her neck. ‘Amelia made that for you. I recognise her design. I’ve seen them often enough in her back garden.’
‘No, she did not.’ Such a tiny clue. The one mistake that could change everything. ‘How many times do you need to be convinced I’m not the person you’re searching for?’
‘Annie, please listen to me. You must have been close to Amelia. She would have confided in you. You knew something about Nicholas’s cruelty to her but it went further than that. Much further. Please let me in. You have to hear me out.’
She pulls the front door closed behind her and confronts Elena. ‘Before you say anything further, I want to show you something that will end your suspicion once and for all.’ She leads Elena along a flagstone path at the side of the cottage. The windbreak trees provide shelter, yet the wind is still strong enough to stream her hair like a pennant behind her.
The studio fronts onto the ocean and has two wide picture windows on either side of the door. Annie Ross Glass Design Studio is written on a sign that clearly once hung from a pole but now lies on the ground. Below the studio, a cliff stretches down to the ocean. The flaking paint on the windowsills, and the residue of spume on the glass, give the small studio an air of neglect. She unlocks the door and stands aside for Elena to enter.
Some half-finished stained-glass pieces rest on a table, glass-cutting and soldering tools beside them. A stack of business cards with Annie Ross Stained Glass Artist embossed on them sit on a table by the door. A kaleidoscope of colours glitter in a showcase filled with butterflies, owls, birds in flight, roosters and peacocks, fish and dolphins.
‘This is my studio,’ she says. ‘I made that medallion for myself. It’s part of a collection I designed and sold some years ago. Now, please, leave me in peace. I hope you find this person you’re searching for. But I can’t help you. I never knew anyone called Amelia Madison.’
Elena picks up a piece of glass, uncompleted but clearly intended to take the form of a dolphin. Her mouth stretches in a rictus of disappointment. A crack on her lip opens and begins to bleed. The sight of it is unsettling, as are the bruises and scabs on her face.
‘Why did you close down your studio?’ she asks.
‘Logistics.’ Each time she is asked this question, she gives the same excuse. ‘My location made it too difficult to receive materials and deliver the finished product.’ She taps her index finger against a carousel of horses and sets them dancing.
‘I see.’ Elena raises her right arm to rub dust from the dolphin, and winces. ‘I’ve evidence that Nicholas Madison killed Amelia’s father.’ She makes this announcement flatly, without emotion. ‘The only person to know the truth was Billy Tobin. Now, he’s also dead. Battered to death by a thug, as yet unnamed.’
Elena Langdon has the tortured expression of a fanatic. The Ice Pick Stabber. It’s not surprising the tabloids had a field day with that one. Obsessed with his dead wife, they said. Jealous and vindictive – and here she is, trying to pull apart the serenity that pervades this studio. What is she talking about? Nothing she says makes sense. A biker called Red, who owns a Harley and has a ponytail. What biker doesn’t? Why on earth did she allow this crazy woman into the studio to spout gibberish that has nothing to do with her, nothing at all? Elena hands her a cheque stub. The name and date blur into a meaningless blob. Her head begins to spin. She holds onto the table for support, aware that Elena’s expression has changed to one of concern.