phone pinged as a picture message came through. It was a selfie of Paul, tanned and healthy, seated at some poolside bar with what looked like a strawberry daiquiri, ornately garnished with a pineapple slice and a Jamaican flag.
Not jealous, she replied, pocketing her phone and pulling on her gloves.
And really, she wasn’t. Much. Though the thought of the sun on her face was appealing. It was quite some time since she’d had a proper break. In fact, the last prolonged period of annual leave had been Padua with Ben, about fifteen months ago. A top-floor apartment overlooking some piazza or other, a warm Mediterranean breeze tickling the blinds, the muffled chatter of the restaurant customers below. Afterwards, they’d calculated it was during the holiday that she’d conceived. Ben had even suggested that Padua would be an acceptable name if it turned out to be a girl.
‘Enough, Josephine,’ she muttered to herself.
She drove back out of Oxford towards Horton, the village where she’d grown up and where Paul, until recently, had occupied the family home with his wife and two children. Maybe she needed to talk to Lucas about going away. They’d been together almost six months, so a holiday wasn’t moving too fast. Somewhere hot preferably. Sandy. Cocktails (virgin for teetotal Lucas, obviously). Somewhere free from the bloody footprints of the dead. Lucas preferred winter sports, but surely he could be coaxed onto a windsurfing board. The estate agents selling her brother’s house – The Rookery – were under strict instructions to drive potential viewers in from the other end of the crescent. It seemed a rather pointless subterfuge to Jo – they’d find out soon enough what had happened nearby at Sally Carruthers’ ‘House of Horrors’, as the papers had called it.
Jo pulled up outside to find the estate agent and a couple already waiting. She climbed out of her car and apologised, then scrambled for the key to let them in.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ said the young woman.
‘Oh – it’s not mine,’ said Jo quickly, as they walked inside. ‘My brother’s on holiday.’ She let the estate agent past as well, then turned to go. ‘I’ll leave you to it?’
‘Do you have to rush off?’ he said. ‘I’m sure Mr and Mrs Daley might have some questions.’
‘Oh … sure,’ said Jo, with little enthusiasm. She followed them in. The house was immaculate inside – Amelia had hired professional cleaners to keep on top of things while they rented in central Oxford. Most of the furniture had been moved out already. There’d never really been any question of them staying here, not after what had happened just a stone’s throw from the end of the back garden. The heating was on, but Jo resisted taking off her coat. The sooner she could be on her way again, the better.
‘I’ll take you upstairs first,’ said the estate agent. ‘Save the best parts until the end!’
Jo waited in the entrance hall while the estate agent led the Daleys to the first floor. She heard various exclamations of surprise and delight as they inspected the bedrooms, the family bathroom, and as they came downstairs, both were smiling. They checked the living room, the study, and the under-stairs cupboard before going to the kitchen.
‘Oh wow!’ said the woman.
Jo drifted in behind them. From the slight tension in the estate agent’s face, Jo guessed he’d been fully briefed on the background to the marketing of The Rookery. The brutal murder of Detective Ben Coombs, not ten feet from where they all stood. The kidnapping of William Masters, her six-year-old nephew, from the upstairs bedroom by a psychopath. With a vague smile pasted across her features, Jo found her eyes drifting to the island, wondering if the cleaners had missed even the tiniest spot of blood. Dylan had plunged the broken bottle right through Ben’s carotid. The coroner said he’d probably lost consciousness in a matter of seconds. He’d have known that was it, thought Jo, and it brought the sudden threat of tears to her eyes, which she surreptitiously blinked away.
The Daleys, though, were oblivious. ‘The light in here is amazing!’ said the man, gazing up at the glass panes of the orangerie-style extension.
‘And those bi-folds open right onto the garden,’ said the woman. She touched her stomach as she said it, and Jo wondered if she was pregnant, imagining her children gambolling in and out of the kitchen in a scene of domestic bliss. Or maybe they already had kids. A house this size didn’t make sense for a couple.
Jo looked briefly out of the back herself. The branches of the trees at the bottom of the garden were bare, giving a view out towards the fields. Sally Carruthers’ barn, where she and her husband had kept Dylan Jones for three decades, had been levelled, leaving a bare patch of earth. She looked at her watch. An hour until her shift started.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really must be going.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Mrs Daley. ‘I think we might do another circuit.’ She looked to her husband, who nodded happily.
‘Shall I draw up the paperwork now then?’ asked the agent, with a cocky smile. ‘Only kidding … take some time to think about it.’
‘Have you had many other viewings?’ asked the young man.
The briefest pause. ‘A few, yes. But I happen to know the vendors would entertain any offers, even if under the guide price.’
You bet they would, thought Jo. She wondered about the logic of not being completely honest with the potential buyers. These days, even though the survey wouldn’t explicitly say ‘Someone was murdered in the kitchen six months ago’, a perfunctory search of the address online would bring up a host of news stories laying out the gory details. She even considered telling them herself. Imagine if they moved in, then found out …
The estate agent was giving her a wary look as if he could read her discomfort. Offloading The Rookery would probably garner some serious kudos in the sales office. Three per cent well earned.
‘Nice to meet you both,’ she said.
The woman frowned. ‘Sorry, do I know you from somewhere?’ she asked.
Maybe the front pages of the Oxford Times and most of the national press? She’d been variously described as a ‘Hero Detective’, ‘Brave Policewoman’, and in one of the tabloids, ‘The Clown Killer’. Thames Valley Police had insisted on a photo shoot, much to Jo’s dismay. Another attempt to polish her up for public consumption. To ‘control the message’, as the media officer had said repeatedly.
Jo shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ She bid the Daleys goodbye, and breathed a sigh of relief to be back at the front door. She decided then and there that she’d never visit the house again.
‘You can keep my key,’ she called to the estate agent.
She drove away, taking the longer route to avoid Sally’s bungalow.
She wondered about dropping in to see her mother at the nursing home. It had been only a couple of days since her last visit, and that hadn’t gone brilliantly. Mrs Masters had made accusations that staff had helped themselves to some money she had squirrelled away at the back of a drawer. She had insisted that Jo find the culprit, which left her with the unenviable task of mediating between the staff and her mother. In the end a compromise had been reached. From then on, all of Jo’s mum’s petty cash would be documented, and stored in the home’s safe.
Jo
