For the past two weeks I had spent countless hours with him. We had worked side by side, become so close. Never once had I picked up anything sinister from him.
The doodles probably looked nothing like Tiffany’s, I told myself once again. But there was only one way to be sure. I’d have to get a look at that notebook. Then I’d know for certain. My foot pressed down on the accelerator and I urged the miles to disappear.
As much as I tried to think of Glenn, you were smashing through the wall of questions I hid behind, Beth. A fever flash of grief made me tremble, blurring the cars in front of me dangerously. I shook with it, forcing my hands to grip the wheel tighter, to try to blink the tears away so that I could see. They fell faster than I could clear them. I put my trust in you that you would either keep me safe or let me crash and burn so that we could be together.
Was I losing my mind? Had your death pushed me over the edge, Beth?
‘Just let me solve this last mystery,’ I begged you. ‘Just let me get justice for this girl, like I got it for you. Then I don’t care what happens.’
Ninety-Three
The kid was as fast as a striking snake, I had to hand it to her. From the edge of the pothole I picked up a lump of loose tarmac the size of a grapefruit. Raced after her, exhilarated.
Adrenaline flowed as I gave chase. These were the bits I loved to replay in my mind over and over.
Feet running. Screaming for her mother. Begging for mercy. The sound of a watermelon smashing. A huff of breath. Legs giving way.
I straddled her and got to work. And watched her skin slowly, slowly changing colour.
When it was done, I threw my head back, elated. Above me the huge moon hung red in the sky. Even the heavens had arranged themselves to acknowledge my greatness. The blood moon was mine for the world to see.
All those years of longing and planning, patience and cunning had been worth it. I was a god.
I laughed and wiped the sweat off my face. Grabbed the kid’s phone and tossed it into some bushes. In her hand she clutched a bright pink notebook. I took it from her and, on a whim, pocketed it. My treasure. Each time I wrote in it, I felt again the rush I had experienced at that moment.
Ninety-Four
By the time I got home, it was 3 p.m. Outside the primary school, children streamed out towards their parents, who were eager and harried in equal measure. I wanted to scream at them to cherish every second, tell them how lucky they were to have their children.
Instead I parked the car and ran inside. Jacob snoozed on the sofa, still clutching Jesus and now also Wiggins. Only the dog stirred, tail wagging in greeting, then slowly settled again as I backed out of the house.
Perfect. I pulled my phone out and sent a text to Glenn.
Where are you? Fancy a drink?
Always, came the reply. Already in pub. Join me.
My heart thumped in time with my steps as I crossed the short distance over the road and into The Poacher. It was virtually empty, but the conversation stuttered when the handful of people saw me. Many moved towards me, murmuring their condolences, saying what a terrible business it was with the Clarkes. Hypocrites. But I nodded, unable to respond, scared one of the waves of grief would sweep me away again.
Not now. Not when I had to do this first.
Eventually I broke free and made my way over to Glenn, who sat at his favourite table, tucked in a corner.
So he could watch people coming and going, like a hunter. See, without being seen himself.
The thought flashed through me like lightning. I shuddered, told myself I had been in this paranoid place before, with James Harvey. I had felt a burning conviction that he was responsible for killing you, when all along he had been innocent.
‘How you doing?’ Glenn asked me, not bothering to stand up to greet me. Instead he kicked out a chair towards me, smiling that cherubic smile of his. ‘You okay? Bloody stupid question. I got you a drink.’
I forced a smile, which felt more like a rictus. That was okay, though; I could get away with acting strangely, given the circumstances. You were my cloak, Beth. I hid behind you.
Glenn leaned towards me, eyes earnest. ‘So, how are you doing? How are you feeling?’
This was ridiculous. Glenn was always so concerned with how I felt. He allowed me to share with him my deepest, darkest, most hurtful thoughts. Without him letting me offload, I’d have gone mad the last few weeks. He knew just when to stay quiet and let me speak, and when to probe, asking me incredible questions that got right down to the horrifying pain in me.
I was suddenly so weary.
‘Oh, I don’t want to talk about me. Not right now,’ I deflected. ‘Tell me about your day instead. I need to take my mind off things. I want to hear something stupid and mundane. Please.’
‘All right,’ he smiled. That boyish grin. ‘Well, I’ve mostly been helping Dale out with his bloody crossword. Not very exciting! Silly sod didn’t know that baby eels were called elvers.’
The minutes slipped by, and Glenn talked nonsense. I took the tiniest sip of my wine, encouraged by him.
‘It’ll help you forget about things,’ he said.
That wasn’t possible. Besides, he hadn’t got me my usual brand, and this had a strange taste to it. Everything did now. I blinked back tears. Now was not the time to lose it.
‘You be all right if I leave you for a minute? Need the loo,’ Glenn announced, setting down his half-empty pint glass.
I watched him walk away. And knew what had to be done to halt the confusion tearing at me.
Feverish, I ran my hands over his jacket, which was slung over the back of his chair. The notebook was in his inside pocket, as always. I flicked it open.
The handwriting looked similar to Tiffany’s. Rounded. Neat. A high bar above the lower case ‘t’, which almost missed the top sometimes. But it wasn’t enough to make me certain.
The doodle did that. A stack of books, a flower sprouting from it. The same lines; the same confidence; the same way of going over the petals again and again.
The wine came rushing into my mouth. I had to swallow down the acrid taste of it mixed with bile.
Oh my God, Glenn had Tiffany’s notebook.
Perhaps he knew who had killed her.
Perhaps he had done it himself.
Or perhaps he had simply found the notebook, and this was all a coincidence.
I needed more than just this notebook. I looked around. No one so much as glanced in my direction. For once I was glad people couldn’t bring themselves to look at me, thanks to my grief-induced invisibility. Still, I only had seconds more to find out all I could. I’d check Glenn’s phone, see if there were any incriminating texts to the killer, or something.