Page 92 of The Unforgiven

“I think I might know who Kelly-Anne is.”

Wrigley’s expression morphed from casual to inquisitive, like I’d just offered a dog the scent of a tasty steak. “Who?”

“Look at this name. She left a criminology degree at the end of the first year, the same as Kelly-Anne Marsh. The reason given was that she’d been offered a place at the University of Maryland, and her parents had relocated over there.” I watched Wrigley read the name.

“She could’ve moved back.”

“I don’t think she has. This woman graduated four years later. I tracked down her wedding to a Magnus Driver – no joke, that is his name – and found him on Linked In. He mentions his wife and it looks like they’re still living in Maryland. She didn’t move back here.”

Wrigley gave a sharp nod. “We need an address for her.”

“I think I know where to find it.”

My head pounded because my heart was raving, impatience setting in as I hotfooted it down Oxford Road towards Ashcombe House. I was wearing my gym kit for the sole reason Vinny had knocked an entire large cup of his newfound obsession bubble tea over me, and the gym kit was the only spares I had with me.

But now it was coming in useful. My pace was long, pushing off the ground with the ball of my foot, heels only momentarily touching the pavement. It’d been too long since I’d ran, felt the air whistling past me in a rush, ripping my thoughts away, only that wasn’t happening today. Instead, I was consumed by them, pieces of a jigsaw slotting into places, some not quite right, some damaged form having been forced, but I was starting to see a bigger picture.

It wasn’t raining anymore. Manchester was illuminated with sunlight cracking through cloud, the pavements dry and puddle-free. I turned off Oxford Road, quickening my pace. As I approached, Ashcombe House loomed from behind trees, branches starting to leaf. In another few weeks, the buildingwould be almost hidden from the road, watching secretly like a disgruntled stalker.

I slowed, catching my breath, glad it was cool enough to not be sweating. The door was open, a light on, but the building was quiet. I headed straight up the stairs, taking them two at a time, seeking the office where I’d found so many answers before.

Daniel’s door was closed, the second floor deathly silent. I twisted the handle, the brass cold and smooth in my hand, and entered, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

A desk lamp was still on, a half empty coffee mug next to it, so Daniel hadn’t left for the day yet.

I searched his desk, wondering whether he’d changed his password for the system since I’d left working for him. It was easier if I logged on as him, even if it broke at least three policies. That way I could enter grades and check assignments so he didn’t need to, so I could do more than what he paid me for.

The Great Daniel Fletcher.

It was out on his desk, the thing I wasn’t looking for. His notebook, the most recent Moleskin. He used one religiously, jotting down his notes, always adding the date he started that volume and the date it was completed. Then they were kept under lock and key, confidential, things he wouldn’t trust to a computer. Some notes were written in shorthand, symbols and squiggles capturing secrets that were told. Some were in grammatically perfect English, underlined, sometimes more than once.

Part of my life was told in those books. My secrets, spilt like milk and then cried over because saying them meant they’d happened. Someone other than me knew what happened.

I opened the notebook, surprised at Daniel’s carelessness at leaving it out. There were pages of to do lists, notes made during a lecture he’d attended, a reminder to speak with one of his students about a project that he wasn’t satisfied with.

A list for Justine. Her name written there in full.

Justine Bellamy.

Then there were the notes, most in shorthand, but I still remembered how to read it, having to learn to do Daniel’s admin work, wanting to impress him.

Re-occurring nightmares. Trapped under a building. Investigate what has previously stopped her before. SM in fdr.

See more in folder. The binder where he kept his research.

I jumped as the door opened, a naughty child stealing sweets. Daniel entered, wearing a pristinely pressed navy-blue suit, complete with a pocket handkerchief, dapper in red.

“Mia?”

I was sitting on his desk chair, hands still on the notebook. “Who’s Justine Bellamy really, Daniel?”

He sat down on the sofa and took off his glasses, using the pocket handkerchief to clean them. “My assistant and a PhD student, just like you were.”

“But you knew her before she was Justine Bellamy, didn’t you?” I stood up, walked away from the corner, nearer to the door. “You knew her when she was Kelly-Anne Marsh.”

“Justine Bellamy started here when she was twenty-one. She was meant to move to Maryland where her parents were, but she decided to stay here because of a boyfriend - ”

“No, Daniel. Justine Bellamy who did her first year at Leeds University did move to Maryland. She’s still there, with a husband. We confirmed it already. Kelly-Anne Marsh stole her identity, which you and I both know isn’t difficult to do.” I still held the notebook.