When You Are Mine(37)

‘How much was the insurance policy worth?’

‘Half a million pounds. And there were trust payments that were due on her twenty-first birthday.’

‘But she and Goodall weren’t married.’

‘He produced a will, claiming that she left everything to him, but I talked to Imogen two days before she died. She wanted to break off their engagement, but she was frightened of telling him.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I think he killed her.’

‘Based on what evidence?’

‘His own words.’

‘Are you saying he confessed?’

‘No. He lied.’

Lydia opens a photo album and shows me a picture of her daughter and Darren Goodall, side by side at a restaurant table. Each has a glass of champagne and they’re resting their heads together as Goodall takes the selfie, holding the camera above their heads.

She points to Imogen’s right hand, which sports a sapphire ring.

‘It belonged to my great grandmother,’ says Lydia. ‘She passed it on to her eldest daughter when she came of age and my mother gave it to me and I gave it to Imogen on her eighteenth birthday. She wore it everywhere.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘She was wearing the ring on the day she died. But when they found her body at the base of the cliffs, it was gone.’

‘Could it have fallen off?’

Lydia rocks her head from side to side. ‘Imogen was so stressed that she’d started binge-eating and purging. Her fingers were swollen. She was planning to give back Darren’s engagement ring but couldn’t get it off her finger.’

‘Are you suggesting that Darren Goodall pushed her off Beachy Head and stole the sapphire ring?’

She nods. ‘Everything that followed was pure theatre – him sobbing over her body, playing the grieving fiancé.’

‘He suffered hypothermia.’

‘My daughter died!’

‘Was Goodall asked about the ring?’

‘He said she lost it days earlier, but she was wearing it that morning when she left the house.’

‘Is it valuable?’

Lydia opens a folder. Inside is an insurance valuation with a photograph attached. The ring is described as a Ceylon sapphire – swimming pool blue – surrounded by fourteen rose-cut diamonds on a silver band. It was valued at eighteen thousand pounds.

When Goodall followed me onto the Northern Line train, he said that Tempe had taken something from him. Could this be what he meant? It wouldn’t prove that Goodall murdered Imogen, but it would expose him as a liar and undermine his story about how she died.

‘Did Goodall get any money from Imogen’s Trust?’ I ask.

‘Richard negotiated a settlement rather than lose it all in legal fees.’

‘How much?’

Lydia hesitates, uncomfortable talking about money. ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

The front door opens. Keys are dropped on a table. A young man walks past us into the kitchen. Mid-twenties with a shock of black hair, his eyes are the same blue as Imogen’s. He doesn’t acknowledge me. He takes a jug of orange juice from the fridge and drinks from the spout, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Lydia Croker doesn’t admonish him. He’s in the doorway staring at me.

‘Who are you?’

‘Be polite, Jared,’ says Lydia.

‘I’m a police officer,’ I explain.

He rolls his eyes at his mother. ‘Don’t you get tired of talking about her?’

She doesn’t answer. He grunts and shakes his head, before walking past us, along the hallway and out the front door again.

‘Where are you going?’ she shouts.

‘Out.’

‘Will you be home for dinner?’

‘I don’t know.’

The door closes.

Lydia gazes at me sadly. ‘My son.’





19


An hour later, I pull up at the large electric gates and press the intercom at my father’s house. There are no queues today, no security guards or waiting paparazzi.

‘Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying,’ brays Constance, irritated at the interruption.

‘It’s me. Philomena.’

‘Oh!’ she squeaks. ‘I didn’t recognise your car.’

She is on the phone to someone else, but quickly ends the call.

‘Is he home?’ I ask.

‘No, he’s on site today.’

There is a long pause. I can picture Constance weighing up her options, unsure if I’m family or police. There’s a metallic click and the gates begin to slide open. I follow the single-lane driveway to the main house, which looks very different today without the crowds and the fairground rides. The marquees have been taken down, but I can see the discoloured turf and muddy pathways left behind. Two gardeners are pruning the hedges and replanting a damaged flower bed.

Constance opens the door as my finger hovers over the bell. She looks immaculate, as always, her clothes casual yet expensive. Breathless with enthusiasm, she brushes her cheeks against mine and trails her hand down my arm, loosely holding my wrist like we’re girlfriends.

‘If I tell him you’re here, he might come home early,’ she says, taking a mobile from the pocket of her jeans.