‘You’ve been watching too much true crime,’ I say.
My mother looks annoyed. ‘I certainly haven’t. Nasty exploitative programmes. But I’m serious, Catherine. Charlotte inherited that house from her mother. It must be worth quite a lot of money now. And there was her business; that was doing well, as far as I know. They should look at her will. Who benefits?’
‘The police should hire you,’ I say sarcastically.
‘I’m just trying to help.’ My mum sniffs.
And though I hate to admit it, my mother has a point. The police seem to be getting nowhere with this investigation. Why haven’t they been looking at money as a motive for her killing? Why isn’t the husband a serious suspect? Charlie was stabbed four times, according to the news reports, which suggests a crime of passion, which, in turn, suggests that she was killed by someone close to her. Why not the husband?
When I get home, I ignore a message from my editor politely asking when I will be finished with the Embers sequel, and if I need to extend the deadline. Instead of replying, I type the name Adam Holbrooke and Gloucestershire into my search engine. He’s the first person to come up on LinkedIn. In his profile photo, he looks handsome and clean cut with floppy blond hair, dimples, white teeth and a pleasant, friendly smile. I peer closely at his face, trying to decide if he looks like a wife killer. It’s a pointless exercise. Psychopaths and serial killers look just like anyone else. You might as well try to tell if an egg is rotten just by looking at the shell.
Perhaps I could find out more by meeting him in person. But how, without arousing his suspicion? I still have my press card from when I used to work at the Gazette. I could pretend I want to write a piece on Charlie. But I imagine he’s sick of reporters by now and there’s no guarantee he would agree to meet me. I decide it’s probably better to approach him in a professional capacity. According to his profile, he’s a clinical dietician and nutritionist and he has a wealth of experience in treating all kinds of disorders. On the website there’s a quote from a satisfied customer who suffered for a long time from depression and abdominal bloating. ‘Adam has literally transformed my life,’ she says.
I note down his contact number and call straight away before I have the chance to chicken out.
‘Hello, Holbrooke Nutrition, how can I help you?’ Adam has a slight Northern accent. I can’t place it. Maybe he’s from Manchester.
‘Hello, yes,’ I say nervously. ‘I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation. Um, I’ve been suffering from bloating and . . .’ I might as well stick to the truth. ‘I’m trying to lose weight.’
‘Sure, I can help you with that. Can you give me your name?’
‘Er, yes. It’s Catherine Bayntun.’
‘I give consultations in my home. I hope that’s not a problem.’
‘No, that’s okay.’ Even better, I think. It’s an opportunity to see where Charlie died. Perhaps seeing their home will help me get a feel for their relationship and enable me to assess the viability of Adam as a suspect.
‘So how about Friday at eleven o’clock?’
‘That’s perfect,’ I say. ‘See you then.’
‘Wait. Don’t you want the address?’
Damn. I need to be more careful. I give a light, silly-me laugh. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Where are you coming from?’
‘Uh, Swindon,’ I lie.
He gives me some long- winded instructions on how to get to his house from Swindon, which I pretend to write down.
As soon as the call ends, the phone leaps to life in my hand. It’s DI Littlewood.
I answer, my heart in my throat. What does she want now? Have they found Luke?
‘Hi Catherine,’ she says sounding polite and briskly efficient. ‘Sorry to bother you. I hope this is a convenient time?’
‘I was about go and pick up my son, but I’ve got a few minutes.’
‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?’
‘The good news, please.’
‘Well, the good news is we managed to track down the man you met on Friday night.’
‘Great.’ I say, hope surging. ‘That’s fantastic. How did you find him?’
‘We examined the security footage of the Black Bear and when we showed his picture to the bartender, he was able to identify him.’
I exhale with relief. ‘Does that mean I am no longer a suspect? He told you he was with me that night?’
DI Littlewood doesn’t answer straight away.
‘Not exactly,’ she sighs. ‘He confirmed that you met and chatted at the Black Bear and that he gave you a lift home. But the bad news is that your accounts of the evening from that point on differ. He claims that he dropped you off at your house and then drove straight home.’
‘What? But that’s bullshit!’ I exclaim, outraged. ‘I’m sorry about my language, but he’s obviously lying.’ I’m trying to breathe, trying to stay calm, but my mind is spinning. Why would he lie?
‘I’m just repeating what he told us,’ says Littlewood calmly.
‘But if you look at the security footage,’ I say, ‘you’ll see that his car was parked outside my house all night.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any CCTV coverage of your street.’
‘What about his drive home? Did you see his car? Because I’m willing to bet that you didn’t.’
‘We don’t have cameras on the route he took either.’
He must live close by, I think. Otherwise, surely it would be a route with at least some surveillance.
‘What’s his full name?’ I demand. ‘I need to speak to him.’ I need to give him a piece of my mind, I think. I’m furiously angry. How dare he?
‘I’m afraid that information is confidential.’
I sigh with frustration. ‘Where does he live, then? Can you tell me that?’
‘Unfortunately not. I’m sorry, Catherine,’ Littlewood
