Friend Request(65)

He must have read something in my face, because he blushed. ‘Oh God, sorry. Look, I’m not a totally heartless bastard, you know. I do understand that someone’s died here, and I know she was your friend.’ Was she, though? Certainly not now, and maybe not even when we were at school.

‘The thing is,’ he goes on, ‘I barely knew her. I wasn’t expecting to ever see or hear from her again after I walked out of that hall. To pretend I feel grief would be hypocritical. To be honest I’m struggling to feel anything apart from this… terrible fear. What if they can somehow pin it on me? I could be going to jail for the rest of my life.’

‘Surely that couldn’t happen, though? There wouldn’t be any evidence.’ It’s not lost on me that you could say the same about my role in Maria’s death. But the difference is that unlike Pete, I did do something wrong. And there are other people who know about it.

‘Not physical evidence, no. But we did… you know… in the B&B before we went out.’ He has the grace to look shamefaced. ‘They’ll be able to tell, won’t they? That doesn’t look great. And then we were seen arguing at the reunion. It all starts to stack up, and if they then find out that I spent the night with you…’

‘Are you sure nobody saw us in the car park?’ I say. ‘No one saw us leaving together?’

‘As sure as I can be. I didn’t see anyone, did you?’

‘No.’ I trace my spoon around the bottom of my empty cup, circling the dregs of my coffee, my pulse racing from a mixture of caffeine and fear. ‘Are you sure you’re OK with this? I don’t want to… pressure you into this, just because I’ve already lied.’

‘No. This is what I want. We’ll just keep it to ourselves, and everything will be OK. Why don’t we swap contact details, in case we need to talk again?’ He scribbles his mobile number on the back of a napkin and passes me another so I can do the same. ‘Yes, I’m sure this is the best thing to do.’ I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince here, me or him, but I don’t need any convincing. Since that first conversation with the police, my every instinct has been screaming not to tell, to keep my head down and my mouth shut. After all, I’ve already got someone after me. The last thing I want is to add DI Reynolds to the list.

Pete leaves the café and I watch as he crosses the road. He’s standing by the entry doors, starting to tap in the code, when a car pulls up behind him, stopping on the double yellow lines. I watch, my heart in my throat, as DI Reynolds and a tall man in a dark suit get out of the car. Reynolds says something and I see Pete turn, his face inscrutable. They have a short conversation, and then Pete gets into the car and is driven away.

Chapter 26

2016
It’s been a couple of days since my encounter with Pete, but I’ve heard nothing from him, or the police. I have to go and see Rosemary Wright-Collins this morning. I’ve been putting her off for a while but I’ve run out of excuses. It’s going to be hard putting my professional hat on. Every time I try to get some work done, my mind grinds along in slow motion, imagination and creativity stifled by the constant whirring of my thoughts. My latest job for Rosemary is a flat in a Georgian townhouse in Islington (God only knows how much it cost) that needs redecorating throughout, having had the same owner for the last forty years.

I ring the bell. Rosemary takes a while to come to the door, and when she does, whilst she’s impeccably dressed as ever, the epitome of sophisticated older womanhood, she’s not her usual effusive self.

‘Hello, Louise.’ She stands there in the doorway for a moment with an odd, guarded expression on her face, before pulling the door back. ‘Come in.’ Inside, the flat is stunning, high-ceilinged and airy, but crumbling and in desperate need of care and attention.

‘Wow, this is amazing, Rosemary. You must be so excited.’

‘Yes, yes I am.’ She doesn’t seem excited as she leads me through the hall into the front reception room, her heels clacking on the original tiled floor. She’s unwilling to meet my eye, standing by the enormous fireplace, rubbing at an imaginary speck of dirt on the mantelpiece with a manicured finger.

‘So, where do you want to start?’ I ask, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the proceedings.

‘Before we do, Louise, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

Oh God. I’ve always thought she was loaded, but maybe there’s a cash flow problem. I really need her. Without her, my business would be in serious jeopardy.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, everything’s fine. Sort of.’ I’ve never seen her like this: hesitant, unsure. It’s got to be a money problem. She turns to face me, clearly screwing up her courage.

‘I had a rather strange email this morning.’

My stomach rises and flips, settling somewhere near the floor. Please God, no.

‘From someone called Maria Weston.’

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

‘I know it’s not true,’ she goes on quickly. ‘I’m only telling you because I thought you ought to know.’

‘What did it say?’ I will myself to stay calm.

‘She said you’d done a job for her, and that you’d messed up and left her in the lurch, that you were unprofessional and unreliable. She strongly recommended that I look elsewhere.’