‘I’d like to look around,’ Marilyn said. ‘I don’t have a search warrant, but if you give me your permission, I don’t need one.’
Reynolds nodded. His mouth twisted. ‘I give you permission to go fuck yourself, DI Simmons.’
Slapping Marilyn’s arm away, he shoved the door closed, bouncing it hard against Marilyn’s toe until he withdrew his foot. The force of the slam rattled the door in its frame.
39
Anxiety was knotted in Carolynn’s muscles, had hitched her shoulders up around her ears, though the tension was beginning to drain with the miles she put between herself and East Wittering. Between herself and Detective Inspector Simmons. Herself and Roger.
It had taken her an age to escape from the house early this morning, sliding the suitcase silently from under the bed as Roger slept, holding her breath as she inched her cupboard doors open, as if her own silence would mute the creak of their hinges, snatching just the basics, a couple of bras and a handful of knickers – they wouldn’t match but she didn’t care about that now, she could buy new when she was settled – a few T-shirts, a jumper and a pair of jeans, reaching up from where she was squatting on the floor, below Roger’s eyeline if he happened, half-asleep, to open his eyes, to pull a couple of practical day-dresses from their hangers. As she had reached the bedroom door, the suitcase in one hand, the tent wedged uncomfortably under her arm, he had muttered and stirred. She’d frozen, every one of her muscles screaming with the agony of maintaining such stillness, her chest caving in from denied breath. If he opened his eyes now, he would see her framed in the doorway, a glowing statue lit by the moonlight cutting in through the landing window. But his eyes had remained closed and after a few more mumbles, he’d settled, still and silent again. Downstairs, she had grabbed her handbag from the hall table and unhooked her car keys from the key rack. She didn’t need her house keys any more, had no intention of ever coming back to this ghastly little prison.
Outside, the front garden and drive had been pitch-black, the walls of the house seeming to suck every lumen of light from the moon. A strong breeze had been cutting in from the sea, raising goosebumps on her bare arms and legs. She moved silently down the garden to the drive, to her car, but as she was lifting the tailgate to stow the suitcase and tent, a sudden movement had caught her eye. She had stopped, her hand hovering, her breath caught in her throat.
Roger? No – it couldn’t be. He was asleep upstairs; she would have heard the front door opening.
That detective inspector, hiding out, waiting for her? No, she was being silly, fanciful, her nerves playing tricks.
Relaxing on an out breath, she stowed the suitcase and tent, shut the tailgate and moved around to the driver’s door. But as she’d slid the key into the lock, something had brushed against her bare leg. Gasping, she spun around, her pulse rate rocketing.
Oh God. The cat. Zoe’s fucking cat.
She breathed out, furious at herself for how terrified she had been in that split second. Furious at herself. But more furious at him.
God, how she hated that fucking cat.
Opening the driver’s door, she stood back, giving him space, knowing that he wouldn’t come close if she was standing right there. But he was curious, always had been, and she knew that he couldn’t resist an open door. It was only a matter of waiting and she was patient. Patience had served her well in the past and it would serve her well now. A moment later, a splodgy streak had shot past her legs, into the car. The cat had started to miaow and paw at the window as she backed out of the drive, but she had swiped at him hard with the flat of her hand, knocking him into the footwell, where he’d crouched trembling, wide-eyed and frightened. Good. Because she hated him, even more than he hated her.
But he had been Zoe’s pet, her best friend, and so she would take care of him. Just as she had taken care of the seagulls that had landed on her bedroom windowsill when she was a girl.
40
Jessie and Marilyn walked back to his car in silence.
‘Passengers get in the other side,’ he said, pulling the driver’s door open.
‘You handled that badly, Marilyn.’
He turned to face her. ‘I don’t need your advice.’
‘You told me an hour ago, at breakfast, that you did need my advice.’
‘On the case. I need your advice on the case.’
‘I’m giving you my advice on the case. There was no need to go in all guns blazing like that. It was counterproductive.’
Marilyn sighed heavily. ‘I had them both up to here.’ He laid his right hand on top of his head. ‘Actually, no … to here,’ he corrected, stretching his arm straight above his head, ‘when I was trying to find their daughter’s murderer.’
‘They were grieving.’
Marilyn shook his head. ‘I found her.’
‘Who?’
‘Their daughter’s murderer.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Marilyn.’
Ignoring her admonishment, he reached into his glove compartment, pulled out a map and unfurled it on the soft-top roof.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ Jessie asked, stepping forward, her arms still folded across her chest, sending Marilyn a body language message as negative as her feelings.
‘Here.’ He placed his finger on a stretch of road that ran parallel to the beach. ‘We’re here, right.’
She traced her gaze from the centre of East Wittering, along Stocks Lane, right into Bracklesham Lane and right again into West Bracklesham Drive. She ignored the sound of Marilyn drumming his fingers impatiently on the roof next to the map.
‘Can’t you just take my word for it?’
‘No.’ A moment later. ‘Yes, we’re here … there … where you said.’
‘Right, so Roger and Carolynn are hiding out here, where we are
