Page 93 of The Unforgiven

“Well, I never.” He shook his head, polished his glasses again. “Fancy that. What a coincidence.”

“You knew.” I said the words quietly, softly. “You knew who she was from the moment she started here. You knew what she’d been through - ”

“How would I know who she was, Mia? Kelly-Anne Marsh was five stone when I knew her, she’d lost her hair and she was a selective mute. Justine Bellamy is nothing like her.” He shook his head. “What’s all this about?” His tone was fatherly, concerned, a distraction technique.

Turn the spotlight on the other person. Highlight them. Then no one’s looking at you.

I was a master at using that technique and a deity at stopping it from working on me.

Daniel’s gaze was hard, defiant.

“What’s Justine’s address?”

“You know I can’t give you that information without a warrant.” He stretched his arms out over the back of the sofa, completely relaxed, or pretending to be.

“What have you done, Daniel?” I remembered his lecture, drumming up discussion on women who kill and what motivates them, the paper on his desk. “There are ethics around research and - ”

“If she’s Kelly-Anne Marsh that is a coincidence and nothing more.”

“She’s Kelly-Anne and I think she’s killed Charlie Mason, Dolly Armitage, Chelsea Bainbridge, Brooke O’Hara, Morgan Skelton and Evelyn Smith. And if she hasn’t killed them, she’s in danger of being killed herself, so tell me, Professor Fletcher, where can I find Justine Bellamy?”

“What evidence have you got that she was once sectioned at a hospital in Leeds, Mia? This is just like one of the fake theories you used to make up around your gymnastics coach and why he’d picked you, because you didn’t want to believe it was because he could manipulate you, that you were an easy target, that you were the weak link in your group. You didn’t want to see yourself as a victim, Mia. You still don’t, which is why you won’t ever believe you can be wrong – then you’d have to questioneverything else you think you’ve been right on.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, viewing the room, the cupboard where his files were.

My phone started to vibrate in the pocket of my running jacket. I fumbled trying to get it out before it stopped, seeing a mobile number I didn’t recognise.

I answered it, half expecting it to be too late.

A choked voice responded. “It’s Sophie. Sophie Linwood. We can’t find her.” Mike, the tall, broad decorator. “I went to meet her at the hospital, looked for her everywhere and I can’t find her – no one can find her.” His words were almost broken, frantically spewed.

“When did her colleagues last see her?”

“Half an hour before I got there. She’d left a bit early to go to the shop, which she told me she was doing, and that she’d wait there, but she isn’t there – security are looking at the cameras but two of them are out and – we can’t find her. She’s gone.” He’d started to sob, panic overwhelming him, fear that he’d lost her.

Fear that crept through my body from my feet up, its tendrils wrapping around from the inside, squashing the air out of me. “Are you still at the hospital?”

“Yes. Yes. I keep looking for her. Her car’s still here.”

“Okay, Mike. I’m going to call my colleagues and one of them is going to meet you there. Another is going to go to your house. I’m going to pass on their number.”

“Aren’t you coming? Why aren’t you coming?” More panic; more fear. Confusion about what to do. An acute stress response, the autonomic nervous system kicking into gear.

“I’m not as close right now, but Vinny will go to the hospital. Hang tight.” I ended the call and dialled Vinny. Looking at Daniel, I spoke clearly, calmy, belying how I was actually feeling. “Vin, it’s Sophie Linwood. She’s gone missing.” I passed on thedetails, continuing to watch Daniel’s responses. Non-plussed, disinterested, his too quick hand movements giving him away. “I’m going to get Justine Bellamy’s address and head there.”

“Not on your own.” He tried his bossy tone. “Text Lachy and Verity where to meet you. You don’t know what you’re going to find.”

“Okay.” I ended the call, observing Daniel. “I need Justine’s address. I know you’ll have it.”

He looked at me, blinking slowly. “She was you, Mia. A lost soul without an identity. She’d found her voice but she had no one to listen to her.”

“Except you. What did she tell you about?”

“You wanted her address. Urgently, I believe.” He stood up, went to the locked glass cabinet behind which he kept his files. He fished a key from his pocket, the keyring still the same, a piece of metal with the words ‘tabula rasa’ engraved on it.

A blank slate.

He picked out a file, clicking open the metal rings and taking out a piece of paper. A page of addresses, Justine’s name at the top.

“Sixty-two Cavendish Gardens – that’s where she is now?”