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“So you got curious,” he says once we’ve introduced ourselves properly. “I’m not surprised.”
“Confused, more like. Everyone I speak to seems to have a different version of how Emma died. Her therapist, for example—she thinks Emma killed herself because she was suffering from depression.” I decide to come right out with it. “And I also heard some story that the police questioned you, because of an allegation Emma had made. What was that all about?”
“I don’t know. That is, I’ve no idea why she said it, or even if she really did. I would never, ever have hit her.” He looks me in the eye, emphasizing every word. “I worshipped the ground Emma walked on.”
I’ve come here today warning myself to be cautious, not to take everything this man says at face value, but even so I believe him. “Tell me about her,” I suggest.
Simon exhales slowly. “What can you say about someone you love? I was lucky to have her, I always knew that. She went to a private girls’ school, then a proper college. And she was beautiful, really beautiful. She was always getting approached by scouts for model agencies.” He glances at me, a little sheepishly. “You look a bit like her, by the way.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But you don’t have her…” He frowns, trying to find the right word, and I sense he’s probably trying to be tactful. “Her vibrancy. It caused her all sorts of problems, actually. She was so friendly, men always felt they could approach her without getting brushed off. I told the police, the only times Emma saw me so much as threaten violence was when some idiot wouldn’t leave her alone. Then she’d give me a look and that was my signal to step in and tell the guy to back off.”
“So why would she say that you hit her?”
“I really don’t know. At the time I thought the police made it up to rattle me, to make me think they had more on me than they really did. To be fair to them, they apologized and let me go quite quickly. I think they were just going through the motions, really. Most murders are committed by someone close to the victim, aren’t they? So they bring in the ex-boyfriend as a matter of course.” He’s silent for a moment. “Except they got the wrong ex. I kept telling them it was Edward Monkford they should be looking at, not me.”
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle at the mention of Edward’s name. “Why’s that?”
“Conveniently enough, Monkford wasn’t around much in the aftermath of Emma’s death—he was away, working on some big commission. But I’ll never accept it wasn’t him who killed her.”
“Why would he do that, though?”
“Because she’d broken up with him.” He leans forward, his gaze intense. “About a week before she died, she told me she’d made a terrible mistake, that she’d realized he was just a manipulative bully, a control freak. She said—and I suppose this is ironic really, given how much he hated her to have any possessions of her own—that he treated her like an accessory, just one more thing to make his house look pretty. He couldn’t stand her having any thoughts or independence of her own.”
“But no one murders someone just for having their own thoughts,” I object.
“Emma said that over time he changed completely. When she called it off, he became almost deranged.”
I try to imagine a deranged Edward. Yes, there have been times I’ve sensed passion underneath that preternatural calm, a maelstrom of emotions reined tightly in. His anger with the fishmonger, for example. But it’s only ever lasted a few moments. I just don’t recognize the picture Simon’s painting.
“And there’s something else,” Simon’s saying. “Something that might be another reason for him to want Emma dead.”
I bring my attention back to him. “Go on.”
“Emma found out that he murdered his wife and their baby son.”
“What!” I say, confused. “How?”
“His wife stood up to him—made him compromise his plans for One Folgate Street. Defiance and independence again. For whatever reason, Edward Monkford is pathologically unable to cope with either.”
“Did you tell the police all this?”
“Of course. They said there was insufficient evidence to reopen the investigation. They also warned me against repeating my accusations at Emma’s inquest—they said it could be libel. In other words, they decided to ignore it.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I’ve been doing a bit of digging myself, ever since—gathering what evidence I can. But even as a journalist, it’s hard to get far without the kind of powers the police have.”
