Tall shrubs and trees lent privacy to the back garden and, not for the first time, he wondered if a neighbour who could see his face peering out would think him as sick as he felt.
Four chubby house sparrows hopped and fluttered around the cheap patio furniture he’d bought from the local garden centre two years ago, their chirping and bickering filtering through the glass as they fought over the seeds he’d put out an hour ago.
When he’d arrived in the parish two years ago, he thought the house was perfect. Rather than the grand old vicarages favoured by the Church of England, his superiors believed in a more frugal housing arrangement – one that better reflected the homes of parishioners.
He’d spent several weekends in between his church duties dashing between the hardware store and the garden nursery, gradually coaxing life back into the end-of-terrace house. His love of interior decorating paid off – the house was now bright and welcoming, and he liked nothing more than to come home of an evening and curl up with a book in the front living room, his long legs dangling off the end of the sofa as he sipped red wine and listened to his collection of vinyl records.
He’d adored the location – it was quiet and peaceful, and he got on well with the neighbours. In between invitations for evening meals or afternoon tea, he’d also found himself the go-to person for the occasional cat-sitting requirement and secretly enjoyed the responsibility.
Only four months ago, he and his neighbours had met late one Saturday afternoon at the Smiths’ four doors up to discuss whether they should club together and obtain some chickens so they’d all have fresh eggs.
He wiped angrily at his eyes.
He’d been happy here, once.
He blinked, and his focus changed from the garden to his reflection.
He gasped, and leaned a little closer.
He’d been struggling to sleep for weeks, and had managed to avoid a mirror except when shaving, keeping his eyes trained on the track of the razor and not the haunted look he knew would stare back at him.
Now, even in the pockmarked reflection, he could see how old he looked.
Was this the face that had greeted the police detective three days ago?
Would she simply think his appearance was caused by grief?
Or would she suspect something else?
He leaned back, and wondered whether he would have to leave.
The church wouldn’t suspect anything, he felt sure – in fact, he struggled to recall the last time he’d heard from anyone at the diocese’s headquarters.
With the teenager out of the way, could he relax? Pretend nothing had happened?
He exhaled and ignored a skip in his heart rate.
It would be cruel of him to revel in another’s death, and it certainly went against everything he believed in. Yet there was a perverse sense of hope. Deep down. Buried and clawing its way to the surface bit by bit.
A clatter from the hallway shook him from his thoughts, and a shiver clutched at his spine as the letterbox fell back into place.
He checked his watch. The post was usually delivered mid-morning, not at seven o’clock.
He dragged himself away from the window and hurried through to the hallway.
He froze as the front door came into view.
A single white envelope lay on the mat.
He launched himself at the door, flipped back the brass lock, and wrenched it open before running out onto the path in his bare feet.
The sound of a car accelerating away down the lane reached his ears and he barrelled through the garden gate and onto the grass verge.
He was too late.
The lane was deserted, with only a faint whiff of exhaust fumes hanging in the air.
Duncan sloped back to the house, picked up the envelope from the mat, and pushed the door shut.
He moved to the stairs and sat on the second step, his legs shaking. Running a trembling hand over his mouth, he exhaled and tried to control his racing heart rate.
He turned the envelope in his hands and ran his thumb under the seal, tearing the paper apart.
A single sheet had been tucked inside, six by four inches of white lined paper that had been torn from a notebook and trimmed to fit, the tiny perforations from a wire spine still attached to the left-hand side.
‘Please, no,’ he murmured.
He swallowed, and then pulled the page from its flimsy housing and read the words that had been cut from a computer print-out and then glued to the notepaper.
Five words.
‘No!’
He leapt to his feet, the page fluttering to the carpet as he paced the hallway and ran his hand through his hair.
Sweat dripped from his armpits, pooling into the soft cotton of his shirt, and he groaned as his gut clenched.
In the split second before he dashed upstairs to the toilet, his eyes caught the words spread across the page once more.
I know what you did.
Twenty-Seven
‘How old do you think she is?’ Barnes manhandled another fistful of peanuts into his mouth and stared through the windscreen.
‘Hard to tell with all the plastic.’
There was a loud splutter from the seat beside her, and Kay grinned as Barnes coughed and fought to keep the food in his mouth before he beat his chest with his hand.
‘Not fair,’ he gasped, his eyes watering.
‘You asked for it.’
They settled into a companionable silence once more, the engine emitting a steady tick as it cooled.
‘You realise Larch will have us demoted in a heartbeat if we get this wrong?’ Barnes said, voicing the thought that had been going around in Kay’s mind for the past twenty minutes.
‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘Want out?’
‘No.’
‘You can, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I wouldn’t take it personally.’
‘Yes, you would.’
‘I wouldn’t. I’ve been thinking about what you’d look like back in a uniform for a while.’
‘That’s what all the girls say.’
Kay snorted.
They’d left the incident room separately an hour ago after Kay had
