What was Charlie supposed to say to that?
The phone rang, sparing her the effort of making a decision. ‘Hello?’ she said in a falsely cheerful voice.
‘Charlie? It’s Stacey Sellers, Colin Sellers’ wife.’
‘Oh.’ Fuck, fuck, fuck. This could only mean one thing: Stacey had found out about Suki, Sellers’ illicit shag, and wanted Charlie to confirm what she already knew. Charlie had dreaded this moment for years. ‘I can’t talk now, Stacey. I’m in the middle of something.’
‘I was wondering if I could come round some time. Soon. I need to show you something.’
‘Now’s a really bad time, and I’m not sure when’ll be better,’ said Charlie. Rude, perhaps, but lying? No. ‘Sorry.’ She put the phone down and forgot about Stacey Sellers instantly. ‘That was Laura Ashley,’ she told Olivia. ‘She wanted to pop round with some more swatches. She says you picked all the wrong ones.’
‘Just wait till you’ve touched the Villandry Duck Egg. It’s from heaven.’
‘I was joking,’ Charlie explained. ‘Sorry if I jumped down your throat.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Olivia, suspicious of her sister’s attempt to appear reasonable when all the evidence suggested otherwise. ‘Look, I understand, honestly I do. You’d like to be able to say yes to Simon, wouldn’t you?’
‘In an ideal world.’ Charlie sighed. ‘If just about every circumstance were different.’
The doorbell rang. Charlie closed her eyes. ‘Stacey,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘How can she have got here so quickly?’ She ran downstairs and threw open the door, preparing to repel all requests for information or advice. But it wasn’t Stacey; it was Robbie Meakin. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on paternity leave?’
‘Had to cut it short,’ said Meakin. ‘It was doing my head in. Not being able to get away from the baby, not sleeping properly…’
‘That’ll teach you.’ Charlie smiled. It was reassuring to know that other people’s lives were as difficult as hers. ‘You can’t come and live here, I’m afraid.’
Meakin laughed. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you this late,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to see this straight away. Someone hand-delivered it to the nick early this evening.’ He passed Charlie a folded sheet of paper. It was small, covered in writing, and looked as if it had been torn out of a notebook.
‘How is the baby, anyway?’ she asked as she opened it up.
‘Fine. Hungry all the time, crying all the time. Wife’s nipples are like two giant scabs, caked in dried blood. Is that normal?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Sorry.’
‘It’s normal,’ Olivia shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Tell her to give it time, it’ll get better.’
‘My sister,’ Charlie mouthed at Meakin. ‘She knows nothing.’
He grinned. ‘Right, well, I’ll be off. I thought I should get that to you as soon as possible. I heard you picked up the last one.’
‘Last one?’
‘Letter. About Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick. Didn’t you?’
Charlie nodded. ‘I’m not CID any more, Robbie.’
‘I know, but… You know you’re the only one who sent a card and present for the baby? Waterhouse didn’t. Sellers and Gibbs didn’t.’
‘They’re men, Robbie. Do you send cards?’
He flushed. ‘I will from now on, Sarge.’
Charlie sighed and began to read. More interesting than she’d expected. A little hysterical, but interesting.
Suddenly she was impatient for Meakin to leave. She wanted to read the rest of the letter. She examined it with Simon’s eyes, unable to respond independently of what she knew his response would be.
‘I bought and sent that present,’ said Olivia crossly, once Meakin had gone. ‘And did I get a word of thanks?’
‘Liv, bring me the phone.’ Charlie held her hand out, still staring at the letter. She ignored the hearty sighs that arrived with the telephone, and rang the CID room. Proust answered after the first ring. ‘Sir, it’s me, Charlie. I’ve got another letter here about the Brethericks. It’s anonymous again, but much more detailed than the first one. You need to see it.’
‘What are you waiting for, Sergeant? Bring it in. And, Sergeant? ’
‘Sir?’
‘Cancel whatever plans you’ve made for tonight.’
‘I was planning to get a good night’s sleep. My shift only finished at seven.’
‘Cancel it. I need you here, helping me. Am I sleeping?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Exactly,’ said Proust. He sounded pleased to have won the argument so decisively.
To whoever is investigating the deaths of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick:
I wrote before, saying Mark Bretherick might not be who he says he is. I have just found a dead ginger cat by the wheel of my car with parcel tape over its mouth. Whoever left it also slashed the tyres. I believe I’m in danger-being warned off. Two days ago someone pushed me in front of a bus in the centre of Rawndesley, and yesterday a car followed me-a red Alfa Romeo, with a registration that began with a Y.
Last year, in a hotel, I met a man who told me he was Mark Bretherick. His real name might be William Markes. He might be the driver of the car that followed me.
I found pictures of a girl in a St Swithun’s uniform and a woman hidden behind photos of Geraldine and Lucy in two wooden frames at Corn Mill House. They were in a bin-bag. Mark Bretherick was going to throw them away. All four pictures were taken at the owl sanctuary at Silsford Castle. Jenny Naismith, the head’s secretary at St Swithun’s, has these two photographs. There was a girl in Lucy Bretherick’s class last year called Amy Oliver-the pictures might be of her and her mother.
Speak to the woman who used to be Amy’s nanny: her number is 07968 563881. You need to make sure Amy and her mother are still alive. And her father. Talk to anyone you can about the relationship between the Bretherick and Oliver families. Cordy O’Hara, the mother of Oonagh, who was best friends with Amy and Lucy, might know something. Talk to Sian Toms, a teaching assistant at St Swithun’s. Look for more bodies in and around Corn Mill House-in the garden. When I went to Corn Mill House, Mark Bretherick was in the garden with a trowel in his hand. Why would he be gardening when his wife and daughter had just died? Search his business premises-anywhere he has access to. Ask him why he hid photographs of Mrs Oliver and Amy behind ones of his wife and daughter.
Jean Ormondroyd, Geraldine Bretherick’s mother, was a small woman with a long neck and tiny shoulders. Her iron-grey hair was bobbed, and hung like curtains around her face, curling up at the edges. From her seat by the wall, Charlie could see only hair and from time to time the tip of a nose. Jean was looking at Proust and Sam Kombothekra, speaking only to them. No one had told her who Charlie was and she hadn’t asked.
‘I’d like you to tell the inspector what you told me, Jean,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t worry about repeating yourself. That’s what I want you to do.’
‘Where’s Mark?’
‘He’s with DC Sellers and DC Gibbs. He won’t leave without you.’
Charlie hadn’t needed to ask Sam how seriously the new information was being taken; Proust never sat in on interviews except in emergencies. If someone who wasn’t Geraldine Bretherick had committed two murders at Corn Mill House on the first or second of August, they’d had six or seven days to cover their tracks, six or seven days of the police believing that the only murderer had made things easy for them by killing herself. Emergencies didn’t come much more dire than that.
Jean addressed Proust. ‘Mark showed me Geri’s diary. I’ve been asking to see it since I first heard about it, and he finally showed it to me, thank goodness. That diary wasn’t written by my daughter.’
‘Tell Inspector Proust why you’re so sure,’ said Sam. Was he wondering why Charlie was there, why Proust had been so adamant about needing her? It can’t be easy for Sam, she thought. He’s trying to do my job, and I turn up to watch him do it.