‘Is that where it happened?’
‘No, but it’s where he was found. The murder weapon, too.’
‘The marble bust of Athena?’ Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Knowing what a womaniser your father was, it should have been Aphrodite.’
I give a small smile in spite of myself. My parents’ spiky relationship is part of the fabric of my childhood. I’d be far more worried if Mum started extolling Dad’s virtues.
We reach the villa and she follows me past the officer stationed outside the front door and onto the terrace.
‘No expense spared, I see,’ she comments, taking in the infinity pool, the fancy rattan furniture and the enormous Ali Baba pots brimming with trailing pink geraniums. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Must be inside. No one’s allowed to leave except me.’ Inspector Demetriou confirmed yesterday that as I’d given my statement and wasn’t a person of interest in his investigation, I was free to go. Mum and I are booked on a flight to Gatwick in the morning.
‘I suppose I should say hello to Simone and offer my commiserations, though frankly she’s probably better off without him.’
‘Mum!’ I cry.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, that was uncalled for. No one deserves to be bludgeoned to death with a bust of Athena, not even your father. I know you probably won’t believe it, but I’ll miss the old bastard.’ Her eyes fill with tears, and I know if I stay, I’ll start blubbing too, so I make her a coffee and go in search of Simone. It’s only as I head through the hallway, averting my gaze fromthe empty plinth where Athena should be, that it strikes me how quiet the villa is. You can always hear something, whether it’s people talking, music playing or Maria clattering pots and pans in the kitchen. But it’s as quiet as a grave.
I swallow. Wrong word choice. Why is it that absolutely everything reminds me of death? I shake my head and pull myself together. Mum’s here, and by this evening I’ll be back in Corfu ready to fly home in the morning.
I can’t wait.
‘Simone!’ I yell up the stairs, sighing loudly when there’s no answer. I head up, one hand on the rail, my feet dragging and my skin crawling the way it always does at the thought of Mum and Simone in the same room together. Perhaps they’ll make a heroic effort to put the barbed comments and backhanded compliments to one side and call a truce, given the circumstances. Pigs might fly.
I knock on Dad and Simone’s bedroom door, and when there’s no answer I let myself in. The curtains are drawn and the room is a mess, clothes strewn over the unmade bed, a wet towel on the floor of the en suite and what seems like the entire contents of Simone’s capacious make-up bag trailed across the dressing table. Resentment rises in me. She has the cheek to sayI’mthe messy one.
I’d take her to task but she’s clearly not here, which is odd, because if she’s not here, where is she? Deciding to ask Dom and Amber if they’ve seen her, I make my way back onto the landing, almost walking slap bang into Victoria.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter.
‘Don’t be.’ Victoria cocks her head, her eyes narrowed. ‘I was coming to find you, actually. There’s something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Er, sure,’ I say, hoping she doesn’t notice the flush that’s creeping up my neck and threatening to stain my cheeks a deep red. ‘What is it?’
Just at that moment, Maria’s voice carries up the stairs. ‘Mrs Wyndham, your mother is on the telephone. She’s been trying your mobile but says it’s switched off.’
Victoria gives me a long, appraising look, one that says she hasn’t finished with me yet, and calls back, reluctantly, ‘I’m coming.’
I bow my head and scurry towards Dom and Amber’s room, feeling like I’ve dodged a bullet. I knock. No answer. I push open the door. The bedroom and en suite are both empty.
I’m turning to leave when I see a note in Simone’s distinctive loopy handwriting, half hidden by a fold in the bedsheets. I grab it and quickly scan it. My stomach drops.
I can help you prove your innocence. Meet me at the lighthouse. Come alone.
70
WILLOW
If I was nervous before, now I’m really spooked. Why on earth would Simone summon Amber to the lighthouse,alone? I picture my stepmother as she’s been since Dad died. Brittle, jumpy, defensive.
Grieving?
Not so much.
I’m about to screw up the note and lob it in the bin, when I hesitate. The paper’s a crumpled mess in my hands but I smooth it out, fold it carefully and slip it into the pocket of my shorts.
It could be evidence.
