The Other People: A Novel(42)

“Why dump it, then?”

“Who knows? Maybe it was stolen.”

He felt the frustration rise, just like before. A feeling of helplessness, like a child trying to tell an adult that fairies really did exist.

“There were things in the car. A hair bobble just like Izzy’s. A Bible with these strange passages underlined. And a notebook. It had something written in it. ‘The Other People.’?”

Her gaze became keener. “The Other People?”

“You’ve heard the name?”

She continued to stare at him, evaluating. “These items,” she said slowly. “I take it they were in the bag that was stolen?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. That’s why I was attacked. They wanted to destroy the evidence.”

A deep sigh, conveying a faint whiff of mints and a stronger whiff of skepticism.

“What?” Gabe challenged. “You think I’m making all of this up? That I attacked myself?”

She didn’t reply and, suddenly, he was sure that that was exactly what she was thinking.

He sank back into the pillows. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me where the car is and I can at least get someone to tow it out of the lake.”

He hesitated. If he told her where the car was, they would find the body and then they would ask why he hadn’t mentioned the small matter of the decomposing corpse before.

“I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“You miraculously find the car you have been searching for, for three years, and you can’t remember where, exactly?”

He didn’t reply. This time the notebook did snap shut. She shook her head. “Get some rest, Mr. Forman. We’ve finished here.”

No. He was close. So close to getting her to believe him. But he had nothing else, except…the photos. They were in his wallet, not his laptop bag. He still had the photos.

“Wait!”

His coat was slung over one of the plastic chairs. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for it, grimacing at the sudden hot burst of pain in his side.

“There’s something else. I have these.”

He fumbled in his wallet, pulled out the photos and thrust them at her. She recoiled slightly.

“Where did you get these?”

He hesitated. Even though he was pretty sure that Harry was a lying son of a bitch, he didn’t want to hand him to the police. Not yet.

“I can’t tell you.”

Her lips thinned. “Seems like there’s a lot of stuff you can’t tell me.”

“Look—someone sent me the photos. I think they were trying to convince me Jenny and Izzy were dead, but they got it wrong. Because of the scratch.”

She squinted at the photos. “I don’t see a scratch.”

“Exactly. That morning, our cat scratched Izzy. But there’s no scratch in this photo.”

“The cat must have scratched her another morning. You’re confused.”

“No. I’m not. I’m just sick of being called a liar.”

“No one is calling you a liar. Despite what you think, I am not your enemy.”

“You thought I was a murderer.”

“Actually, I never really thought that. It didn’t work. To drive home, murder your wife and child, get yourself cleaned up, drive back along the motorway and call from the service station, miraculously avoiding all the traffic cameras? Not feasible. And then there was the anonymous caller.”

Gabe had thought about that, too. The call reporting a break-in at Gabe’s house, just before the murders. It wasn’t a neighbor. The police had decided it must have been a concerned passerby. But why not come forward?

“There was me thinking it was my honest face,” he said now.

“Never trust an honest face.” A pause. “Of course, if you’d just told us where you really were from the start, it would have made our jobs a lot easier.”

“And have you judge me for that, too?”

“You were judged by the court and sentenced.”

“Please,” he said. “Can’t you just ask about the photographs, check with the coroner or something? I mean, only Harry identified the bodies. It’s just his word.”

“And you think he lied?”

“Maybe. Maybe he was…mistaken.”

“You’re suggesting that your father-in-law misidentified your wife and daughter’s bodies.”

“No, just Izzy’s.”

“Do you understand how insane that sounds?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Maddock picked up the photos again. She peered more closely at the one of Izzy. He waited, heart thumping. Finally, she turned to him.

“Okay. I’ll get someone to look at the photos. But first—where’s the car?”

“I—”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

He debated. He could lie. Claim he just stumbled over it. Say he never looked in the trunk.

“Barton Marsh, off Junction 14. There’s a lay-by just past a farm. Follow the footpath till you get there.”

She jotted it down.