Jess
Even Matt’s Facebook page is embedded with lie after flabbergasting lie, about the fictitious house he’s in the process of buying, a photo of a Caribbean beach on a date I happen to know he was in Brighton. So many lies. How difficult it must be keeping up with them.
As I scroll down over older posts, getting a picture of the kind of friends he has, before I message anyone, I find her. Mandy. I note the heavy jewellery, how skinny and tanned she is, how her face wears the same troubled look I’ve seen on my mother’s, as I bring up her Facebook page. Unlike Matt, Mandy’s actually in her photos of exclusive hotels and exotic beaches. As I keep scrolling down, about two and a half years ago I find a post about them breaking up, followed by dozens of sympathetic messages that make no attempt to hide what they think of Matt. Unlike him, it seems Mandy has real friends, who see him for the rat he really is.
Having already studied her face, I know I’ve met her – just the once, at Sasha’s house. Clicking on her list of friends, I find that she’s still connected to Sasha’s mother. Like I tried to explain to PC Page, Mandy had been Matt’s way in to the party where he met my mother.
Needing to find out what Mandy knows about Matt, I send her a carefully worded message. Then going back to Matt’s page, I scroll back further, looking at posts I’ve already studied, searching for something I’ve missed. For a few weeks there’s another pretty woman, expensively dressed. Then before her, another. As I go through the posts, there’s a clear pattern of eligible women flitting through his life, confirming my suspicions that he’s a serial charmer. A liar. A fake, who targets specific women, lures them in then leaves them, but they have one thing in common. Money. And somehow, he knew.
Needing to find out what Sasha’s mum knows, I call her.
‘Jess, I’m so sorry to hear about your mum. I couldn’t believe it when I found out. Are you OK?’
Hearing the warmth in her voice, tears fill my eyes. ‘Yes. But I need to ask you something.’
‘Go on.’ She sounds puzzled.
‘That party at your house – when Mum met Matt. How long had you known him?’
‘It’s hard to say, exactly. I didn’t know him that well. I don’t know if you know, but he was with Mandy before that. She and I are not particularly close, but I’ve known her for years. I would certainly have invited her, but they’d broken up long before the party. I wouldn’t have invited him on his own.’ There’s a brief silence. ‘I’ll have to ask Michael.’ Michael’s her husband. ‘Maybe they might have bumped into each other in the pub or something. But thinking about it, it really is strange.’
‘I messaged Mandy but I haven’t heard back from her. Do you have her phone number?’
‘I think so.’ Sounding cautious, she breaks off. ‘Don’t you think this is best left to the police, Jess?’
‘Maybe. But it wouldn’t do any harm, would it? If I gave Mandy a call?’
*
With still no response to my Facebook message, when I try Mandy’s mobile number, it goes to voicemail. But even talking to Sasha’s mum seems to confirm my suspicions. If I’m right, going on the pattern I’ve observed, Matt would already have been planning his next move.
If the other woman who reported him missing to the police is to be believed, she was the woman he was going to leave my mother for. But in time, he’d have left the other woman, too. Maybe he’d already found the next woman to follow her. Maybe it’s her who’s set my mother up. Feverishly, I start going through the profiles of every woman he’s friends with, staring at their photos for a giveaway sign, that I’m right. But if he’s the master of deception he appears to be, he’d have made absolutely sure there were no clues.
My only hope is that somewhere along the line, he’s slipped up, leaving damning evidence. I just have to make sure I find it.
Amy
Chapter Thirty-Three
As time inside takes its toll on me, I grow more weary, increasingly dispirited, while my mind tortures me with thoughts of what will happen to Jess if I’m charged with murder. Losing track even of the day of the week, my only reminder is when PC Page starts the tape.
‘I have a question for you, Amy. When you bought your house, were you made aware that in 1996, a teenager died there?’
As I look at her, I feel my pulse start to race. ‘No.’ Shaking my head. Why are they asking about this now, of all times?
Their eyes are glued on me as she goes on. ‘Apparently it was a tragic accident. We received an anonymous letter from someone saying that when it happened, the truth was hushed up. The writer gave us the name of a Ms Fiona Rose and her address. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘No.’ I frown, genuinely mystified. ‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘The only reason I’m asking is that she couldn’t really help. So I wondered if you might be able to.’
Looking from one face to the other, I feel the walls close in. ‘Are you charging me? Because if you’re not, haven’t I been held long enough?’ Deliberately confrontational, but at this moment, I’ve nothing to lose.
When no-one speaks, DI Lacey leans back in his chair, watching me. ‘We’ve been trying to trace the family of the woman who owned the house before you. Her name was Ruth Preston. So far, we haven’t had any luck. Perhaps because of the tragic association, they
