Last of the Magpies Page 5

  ‘Of course. But something must have made you feel a chat was worthwhile.’

  Jamie had been thinking about this on the way here. Why, exactly, had he finally responded to Edmund’s overtures? It had something to do with the conversation with Emma about Lucy’s book and about Paul in particular. Lucy had inverted the truth in her memoir, making out that Jamie and Kirsty were the villains, that they had waged a war of harassment against the poor Newtons. Paul, she’d written, had tried to help them.

  It was infuriating to think that, apart from the court documents from Lucy’s trials, which very few people had read, this was the only version of events out there. Okay, so An Innocent Woman was out of print now, but Jamie imagined people in the future picking it up and reading it, believing that Lucy was a victim and he, Jamie, was the villain.

  There was also the fact that he was taking part in this podcast. If he was going to talk about what had happened, why not write about it too? At least he would get paid for a book.

  ‘I want people to know what really happened,’ he said.

  Edmund nodded. ‘And what about Kirsty? Do you think she would be interested in collaborating with you?’

  ‘No way.’

  Edmund pulled a sad face. ‘That’s a shame. It would be far more appealing to publishers, I think, if you wrote it together. On your own, I’m afraid this might be something of a hard sell. You certainly wouldn’t get anywhere near as much money for it.’

  ‘But I thought you said if I wrote a book it would be a sure-fire bestseller? That’s what you put in your email.’

  Edmund shook his head slowly, as if delivering this news was causing him great pain. ‘That was a year ago, Jamie. Lucy Newton was hot news back then, what with her dramatic escape and everything. Now I’m afraid the public’s interest has moved on to other things.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true. Have you heard of Silent Voices? The podcast?’

  ‘It rings a vague bell.’

  ‘The new series is going to be about Lucy. I’m taking part in it. Helping the woman who’s making it.’

  Edmund sat up a little straighter. ‘Oh, really? So potential readers will already have heard everything you have to say? That devalues any potential book even more.’

  Jamie hadn’t expected to feel so disappointed. In his head, he had already been in receipt of a huge advance that would allow him to ease up on work and concentrate on his quest to find his nemesis.

  ‘But if Kirsty and you wrote something together, it would be a different story,’ Edmund said. ‘Readers would love to know how Kirsty felt when she was tied up, spiders crawling all over her. And they’re interested in the two of you. How you feel about each other.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Perhaps the act of writing a book together would help the two of you rekindle your romance. Wouldn’t that be something.’

  Jamie stared at him.

  ‘Imagine the great publicity,’ Edmund said.

  Jamie wasn’t imagining the publicity. He was thinking about how he and Kirsty would have to spend hours in each other’s company. How writing a book would force them – or rather, her – to look back at their relationship. She would remember the good times they’d had. She’d remember how much she had loved him. He pictured her turning from the keyboard, realising that she still loved him.

  ‘I can tell the idea excites you,’ Edmund said.

  Jamie snapped out of his fantasy. ‘Kirsty will never go for it.’

  ‘Even for a truckload of money? She has a daughter, doesn’t she? She’s a single parent. I’m sure the cash would be extremely handy. You’d just need to persuade her, Jamie.’

  ‘How much money do you think we’d get?’

  ‘Well, if publishers are as keen as I think they’ll be and we get an auction going . . .’ Edmund wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it across the desk. It was a number with six zeroes.

  ‘Fuck,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Fuck indeed,’ said Edmund. ‘Now, before you go and work your charm on the ex-Mrs Knight, tell me more about this podcast. What was it called again?’

  9

  Emma leaned against the train window, gazing out at the grey English Channel in the near distance, dark clouds hanging so low she felt that – were she down there on the pebbled beach – she could reach up and touch them. The train rattled past a deserted campsite and then a strange building caught her eye.

  The elderly man opposite, who had spent the entire journey with his nose in a Lee Child novel, glanced up and saw her puzzled expression.

  ‘That’s a Martello tower,’ he said, as the train passed the squat, round building. ‘They were built to guard England from Napoleon. That one’s been converted into a house, I believe.’

  ‘Wow. Very cool.’ She took a photo and posted it to Instagram.

  They pulled into Normans Bay station and Emma grabbed her bag, nodded at the elderly man and got off. It was cold and the air was damp and salty, wind whipping in from the sea. A pair of seagulls on the platform squabbled over a discarded sandwich. The train pulled away and Emma was left standing on her own.

  Armed with the information she’d wheedled out of Kirsty, it hadn’t taken long for Emma to find out that Paul’s parents, Janet and Matt, had left both Hove Running Club and Hove itself two years previously. The very helpful woman at the club had told her they’d moved here, Normans Bay, a tiny seaside village between Eastbourne and Bexhill. There was very little here besides a caravan park, but apparently this was where Matt had grown up and he had always wanted to retire here. Although the helpful woman hadn’t been able to provide her with a phone number or address, the latter had been easy enough to find. Emma had simply checked the electoral register. Unfortunately, they were ex-directory so she couldn’t find a phone number, which meant she was going to have to visit them in person, hence this trip.

  Emma pulled her coat around herself and consulted the map on her phone. This season of the podcast was taking her to hamlets all over England. Fresh air, she told herself. It’s good for you. But she couldn’t wait to get this trip over with and get the train back to London.

  Because of delays on both legs of her journey, she was running two hours late and dusk had fallen. She hurried out of the station, keen to find Paul’s parents’ house before it got too dark.

  She walked past the caravan park, which was as deserted-looking as the campsite she’d seen from the train, and walked up the attractively named Sluice Lane. There was no one around. This place was too small to have its own school, and she guessed the miserable weather was keeping everyone indoors. It was raining properly now, and she wished she’d brought an umbrella.

  When she saw the pub, she was tempted to go inside for a warming drink and some Dutch courage. She felt unusually nervous, as she had no idea if Janet and Matt would be friendly or tell her to piss off. She was also carrying the burden of guilt about lying to Kirsty. After realising Jamie wouldn’t help her find Paul, but still keen to talk to this old friend of Lucy’s, she had been forced to tell a couple of little white lies. It was an unfortunate part of being a journalist. Sometimes you had to bend the truth to get people to give you the info you needed. She was already planning to tell a small fib to Janet and Matt. She didn’t want them to know she was a podcaster who wanted to talk to their son about the serial killer he used to hang out with. She was going to tell them she was an old friend who owed Paul some money. She had used that ploy before and it always worked.

  After passing the pub, she found herself on an empty road with no houses and stopped walking. Had she taken a wrong turn? Her phone was no help, and the air around her was growing ever more dusky. Evening was descending quickly and she began to feel a little nervous. Here she was, a woman on her own in a strange place. Nobody knew where she was and as she stood there, wondering which way to go, a couple of figures emerged from the pub. She heard their rumbling voices: two men, drinkers who had probably spent the afternoon at the bar. Clutching her phone by her side, she hurried on, listening
for footsteps behind her.

  Thankfully, the men seemed to be heading in the opposite direction. Breathing more easily, she stopped again and, at that moment, a light came on in a building down towards the beach.

  Crossing the road, she found a narrow lane that led towards what she assumed must be a house. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a dog barking and more voices from up by the pub. She was definitely going to nip in there for a G&T after she was done here.

  It was almost fully dark by the time she reached the house. There were no street lamps here, and the overcast sky prevented any moonlight getting through, but she could read the house name on the post beside the gate. Bay View. This was definitely where Paul’s parents lived. The only light came from a single room inside the house. She squinted through the gloom and wished she’d followed her mum’s advice and eaten more carrots when she was younger. Why would anyone choose to retire here? When she was old she planned to be living in Paris or New York, somewhere busy and lively.

  The house, which was painted white, was surrounded by a picket fence and there was a caravan parked to the side, though there was no car, which was a bit odd. Emma pushed open the gate and it creaked – of course it creaked – then rang the doorbell.

  She waited, but there was no answer.

  Perhaps they had gone out. That would explain the absence of a car, but she was sure the light had come on while she had been standing up on the lane. Or had the darkening sky simply allowed her to see a light that was already on? She rang the doorbell again but there was still no reply and the house was silent.

  Her sense of unease was growing, and a large part of her wanted to head back to the pub, but she was also determined for this not to be a wasted journey. Thinking about it, she was sure she’d seen the light come on.

  What if the lights were on a timer? That was possible. She knew people who did that when they went on holiday, so perhaps Janet and Matt had gone away. Frustrated, she decided to take a look around the back of the house. After all, if they were on holiday, they would never know.

  She squeezed past the caravan and went down the side of the house. Water poured down from a leaking drainpipe above and she trod in a puddle, swearing as it seeped through her trainers.

  She turned the corner and found herself at the rear of the house. Behind her was an expanse of scrubland that ran down to the beach and the sea beyond. Her eyes had grown more accustomed to the dark now, and she could finally see how this place might be beautiful in the summer. She guessed the view would be glorious on a warm, bright day. She still wouldn’t want to live here though.

  There were no lights on at the back of the house. There was a frosted bathroom window, a back door and another, larger window. Not sure exactly what she expected to see, she pressed her face to the glass and peered into a kitchen. She could see a few glowing lights – the displays on the microwave and cooker, presumably – but there was no sign of any life.

  They must have gone away. Annoyed that she’d come all this way and deciding that she would definitely treat herself to a drink at the pub before going back to the station, she stepped away, preparing to head back round to the front. But something made her look up.

  There was a face watching her from an upstairs window.

  The face vanished immediately, so quickly that Emma wondered for a second if she’d imagined it, had perhaps seen something reflected on the glass. But no, she was certain it had been a person. She had felt eyes on her – that was what had made her look up – and she had been able to make out a mouth and nose.

  A mixture of emotions washed over her. She was creeped out but also ashamed that, she assumed, Matt or Janet had caught her snooping around their home. But the overriding feeling was curiosity. Why wouldn’t they answer the door?

  Determined to find out, she went back round to the front and rang the bell for the third time.

  ‘Hey!’ she called. ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m a friend of Paul’s.’

  No answer came. Just silence. The sound of the wind and that dog, still barking in the distance.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘I know you’re in there. I saw you at the window.’

  This was intensely frustrating. One of Paul’s parents was in there. Perhaps they never answered the door. Perhaps they were scared. But why, and what could she do? There only seemed to be one answer. She would leave them a note, asking them to call her. At least then it might not have been a completely wasted journey.

  She found her notepad in her bag, then rooted around for a pen. Finally finding one, she began to write out a message.

  . . . please call me on . . .

  She heard a bolt being drawn back inside the house and stopped writing. At last! Pulling herself up to her full height and pushing her wet hair out of her eyes, she watched as the door opened to reveal a man.

  He had long greasy hair and a scruffy beard. In the poor light, she wasn’t immediately able to see how old he was. But, stepping closer, she realised he was quite young, possibly in his mid-thirties. Around Jamie’s age.

  Was this Paul?

  He sounded very weary when he spoke. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Emma hesitated. This didn’t feel right. If this was Paul, she had just been yelling about how she was a friend of his. Why wasn’t he asking her about that? She took a step back towards the gate.

  He came out through the door, suddenly moving quickly. She turned, instinct telling her to get the hell out, but it was too late. He grabbed her upper arm. It hurt.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted at him, but before she could do or say anything else, he pulled her inside the house, shoving her away from him so she stumbled and fell to the floor by the bottom of the stairs. He slammed and locked the door.

  She sat there, frozen with shock, and looked up at him.

  He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head like a parent who’d caught their child being naughty. A look of great disappointment.

  ‘You saw her, didn’t you?’ he said.

  ‘What? Who?’ She tried to get to her feet but he stepped so close to her that she didn’t have enough space to do so. She scrambled backwards so the base of her spine was pressed against the bottom step.

  ‘Don’t act the innocent,’ Paul said. She was now certain it was him. ‘I know you saw her at the window. You said so yourself.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ And that was when it clicked into place.

  Paul smiled at her as her mouth dropped open.

  ‘Lucy?’ she said. ‘She’s here?’

  He let out a deep sigh. ‘Now what am I going to do with you?’

  10

  Jamie knew that Kirsty wouldn’t agree to meet up with him, or she would say yes but not turn up, so he did something he wasn’t proud of. He hung around outside the hospital where she was a nurse, waiting for her to come out. He knew that when she worked the day shift, she usually finished at six o’clock – and, sure enough, at quarter past she emerged from the staff entrance.

  He watched her from a distance. She had changed into her civvies, with a long black coat over the top. Her hair was tied back and she didn’t appear to be wearing any make-up. She looked tired, her head dipped a little, a frown on her face, but she was beautiful. Perfect. Every time he saw her he ached for what he’d lost and burned with shame and regret. His stubbornness, his pride, all the stupid things he’d done. He still loved her. No other woman could ever match up to her. Nothing could plug the gap she’d left in his heart.

  Which was why, even though he knew she might be angry with him, despite the awkwardness and embarrassment, this was worth a shot.

  He hurried across the road towards her. Because she had been searching in her bag for something – her headphones, which came out in a white tangle – she didn’t see him until he was just a couple of metres in front of her. She looked startled.

  ‘Jamie. What are you doing here?’

  He smiled sheepishly. ‘Do you have time to grab a coffee?’

&n
bsp; He knew she would probably need to pick Sasha up from the childminder, and that the chances of her being able or willing to go to a coffee shop with him were slim, but she surprised him by saying, after a beat, ‘Okay.’

  There was an independent café across the road. As they went in, and Kirsty went off to grab a table, he noticed her glance at the cakes behind the counter. Kirsty loved carrot cake, so he bought her a huge slice and took it over, along with two coffees.

  ‘I can’t . . .’ she began, eyeing the cake. Then she picked up the fork. ‘Oh, sod it. But you’ll have to share it with me.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m not hungry.’

  She seemed to study him. Did he look as dishevelled and jittery as he felt?

  ‘What time do you have to pick Sasha up?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘I don’t. She’s staying with my mum and dad tonight. I have a rare night of freedom. I’m planning to have a long bath, watch a few episodes of Friends and go to bed early.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  He hoped that she couldn’t see he was picturing her in the bath. In bed.

  Picturing the things they used to do together.

  Suddenly, he was wondering if he should forget mentioning the whole book thing. Just make this a casual, friendly encounter. No pressure; nothing that would upset Kirsty or make her angry.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ she asked, putting down her fork. ‘Why did you want to talk?’

  He had rehearsed what he was going to say, about the possibility of them working on a book together, but now the words didn’t feel right.

  ‘Is it about Paul?’ Kirsty asked. ‘Did your friend find his parents?’

  ‘What?’ He forgot all about the book. ‘Which friend?’

  She furrowed her brow. ‘Your podcaster friend. Emma. She’s very attractive, isn’t she? Pushy and patronising, but gorgeous.’

  ‘Wait, you met Emma? When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday. But hang on, she told me you asked her to come and see me.’

  She explained that Emma had turned up on her doorstep the day before, asking her if she knew how to find Paul’s mum and dad.