Oulton, outside the Crown and Feathers, just down the road from the hotel where he was found. I went, but he didn’t turn up, and so I came home. When I heard that Billy had died, I wondered whether it was a set-up again, and so I lied. So go on, lock me up, if you think it will help. But that’s all I did, tell a lie.’
Sheldon closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. Glimpses of Billy Privett came into his head. Grinning, taunting, brash and arrogant. Then he thought of the corpse on the hotel bed, his face ripped off. It was nasty, vengeful, so it hinted at Ted, but he knew it was too obvious.
Sheldon spoke the words before he thought to stop them. ‘I think of Alice all the time,’ he said. He opened his eyes. ‘I found her, but you know that. It’s more than that though. I see her body when I’m asleep, and when I’m on my own. I feel like I can’t rest until I know, because all we found was Alice, with no one else there. Even Billy had gone, and no one knew who else was there.’
Sheldon felt a hand on his arm. It was Tracey Peters, raising her eyebrows, a hint that they should leave. He pulled his arm away.
‘If you are lying to me again,’ Sheldon said to Ted, ‘I will make sure that everyone knows that you lied, so that even if we can’t prove it, people will think you as much a murderer as an adulterer.’
‘You don’t need to threaten me,’ Ted said. ‘Take my car. If the reports in the paper are true, there will be traces of Billy everywhere. Just to eliminate me, take it and check it out. Then you can leave me alone.’
Sheldon looked at Tracey. She had moved further down the hall and was speaking into her phone, her voice just whispers.
Sheldon turned to Tracey. ‘What is it?’
She looked at Ted, and then back to Sheldon, before saying, ‘I need to talk to you, in private.’
Sheldon moved down the hall, away from Ted and Emily. ‘What is it?’
She leaned in and whispered, ‘Jim Kelly has called in. There’s been another package delivered to the paper.’
Sheldon clenched his jaw. ‘Another one?’
Tracey nodded. ‘He didn’t open it this time, but on the box this time are the words The Face of Lies.’
Sheldon had to reach out for the wall, just to stay on his feet.
Charlie was outside Amelia’s house, sitting in his car and staring through his windscreen. He had persuaded Donia to return to the office, because Amelia wouldn’t welcome visitors if she was ill. If Donia wanted work experience, she could read some files.
Amelia’s house was as he remembered it, although he had only been there a couple of times before. It was a grey stone cottage, with black timbers set into the ceiling and roses that curled around a slate-covered porch. At the back, it looked out onto a reservoir by an abandoned paper mill, so that it was dark at night, except for when a bright moon turned the water silver.
The setting had surprised him when he first saw it. Amelia was business-like and unemotional, but the street was a chocolate box image of country living, the sort of place where tea came in china cups and people rode bikes with baskets under the handlebars. Her house was detached, although only just, with space for a small path around each side.
He climbed out of his car, a five-year-old black Seat Leon, and strode confidently towards Amelia’s front door, his determined gait bearing little resemblance to how he felt. He had to confront the nagging doubts about Amelia’s absence. He knocked on the door. It came back as a dull thud, but there was no answer.
Charlie stepped away from her door and looked at her window. The curtains were closed. Amelia didn’t strike him as the type for a duvet day.
He stroked his stubble as he looked to the other side of her house, towards the gate and the path round the side. As he went towards it, Charlie fought the urge to look around and check who could see him, because it would arouse suspicion. The gate opened with a clink, and as he went through and walked to the back of the house, he expected someone to shout out. No one did or tried to stop him.
He walked slowly, so that he could retreat quietly if Amelia was there. The path opened onto a long stretch of lawn, with a small patio next to the house. Her view was towards the paper mill, the tall stone chimney and corrugated roof spoiling the outlook.
The kitchen window was next to him and so he peered in, gazing over the black granite and oak cupboards, looking for some sign that she had been up that morning, like an opened cereal packet or aspirin packet, maybe wisps of steam from the kettle. It all looked clean.
Then he saw something that made his knees go weak and the colours in front of him fade, so that the world seemed to bleach out for a few seconds.
Charlie closed his eyes and put his forehead against the sill. This could not be happening. He was sure that he was going to wake up and discover that it was all a dream, or that he was still drunk and not seeing things correctly.
Except that he knew it was neither of those things.
Charlie straightened and took some deep breaths before he looked through the window again. He cupped his hands around his face to block out the light from behind him, leaving his finger marks on the glass. He needed to satisfy himself that he had seen it right, although he knew that the image had burned itself into his memory.
In the corner of the granite worktop, next to a microwave and a steel utensil stand, was a knife block. Six knives. Or at least that was how it was supposed to be, because one of the slots was empty. The other five slots were full though, and they each held knives of the same design. Shiny steel, with a twist at the end, a small metal ring hanging down. Just like the one he had woken up to.
He clenched his jaw as he tried hard to think of how the night before had ended, his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t have come to Amelia’s house, he was sure of that. It was near enough to walk, but there was no way he could pass it accidentally, more than a mile from his house and even further from The Old Star. And why would he have done?
What if he had though? It would have been by taxi, and so someone would remember taking him, the drunken lawyer who tipped too much, because he liked to be everyone’s friend when he was drunk.
He looked along the wall, towards the back door. It was a sliding patio door, sheltered by a wooden pergola covered in Russian ivy that was starting to swallow up the back of the house. The handle was broken, the white plastic hanging down and held on by just one screw.
He reached out for it, shocked, but then he stopped himself. He didn’t want to touch anything, and so he put his hand into his jacket sleeve and pulled at the door. It opened smoothly and then he stepped into the kitchen.
It was a small house, with the kitchen at the back having just enough room to squeeze a table in, the living room occupying the front part of the house. As he looked through the kitchen door he could see the stairs going out of the front room. The house was warm, as if the heating was on, despite the sunny day outside. He swatted at a fly that buzzed him.
He listened out for the noise of someone else in the house. A radio or television. The trickle of the shower. It was silent. ‘Amelia?’ he shouted, but there was no answer.
As he turned towards the living room, he gave another shout of ‘Amelia’ before stepping through the doorway.
That was when his
