Page 122 of The House Swap

The days that followed passed in a blur and Poppy wasn’t entirely sure how everything had unfolded once the police had arrived.

There had been questions, of course – so many questions – but already it felt a distant memory, as though it had happened to someone else. What she did know for certain was that Martin Roe hadn’t disappeared quietly into the night as he had done so before.

This time, there had been no escape for him.

After the police had arrested him, information had begun to surface. Slowly at first, but then in chunks that started to form a clearer and more disturbing picture.

Poppy had been his focus. But she hadn’t been his only one.

There had been others. Women he regularly spoke to online, building connections under different names. Creating fake lives with other men’s images, all that had been carefully constructed. But he hadn’t invented those men from scratch. Many of the lives he had been borrowing belonged to real villa owners whose properties he maintained.

He had access to their homes when they were away and knew their habits, their tastes, every detail of their lives. He had lifted details – photographs from social media, references to hobbies, adopted their music taste, family, friendship circles and routines – then built new personas out of them.

There was enough truth in each identity to make the lies feel solid, but he had added his own unique twist to the names he used.

Tom Rainer.

Mat Norrie.

Ian Morter.

Remi Toran.

Ant Morier.

Names that had once meant nothing now carried an uncomfortable weight.

They were all anagrams of Martin Roe.

The reveal had made Poppy’s stomach turn. This hadn’t just been a deception, it had been deliberate, and she had stared at the list for a long time, realising she hadn’t been the only one Martin had duped. There were five women at least. Probably more. Each one of them had spent weeks or months, or maybe longer, talking to someone who wasn’t who they thought he was.

Like Poppy, they would have felt they were building something that felt real and significant, while Martin sat behind his screen and used them for his own amusement.

What unsettled her the most was the thought of the real villa owner, Jasper Stevens. It had been his face she had looked at in photographs, believing he was Tom. He had been out there, living his life, entirely unaware that his image had been used in this way. He would have had no idea that the man he trusted to look after his villa had studied his social media, borrowed his home, his history, his family, and worn them like a costume.

Even the wedding photograph Martin had sent her had been lifted from Jasper’s social media. It was one of dozens he had saved for that identity.

She had never really seen Tom at all. Although there had been the odd video call, she understood now that those had been carefully controlled. She had never seen Tom’s face on screen. He had shown her things – the villa, the pool, the terrace, the view towards the sea – but always with the camera turned away from himself. At the time, it had felt natural, part of the easy intimacy they had built. Now she understood it had been another part of the performance.

She had trusted Tom, even developed feelings for him, and there had never been any reason to doubt him because they had been introduced by a friend she had trusted. Rebecca Kennedy.

That was when Poppy realised just how deeply Martin had carved his lies.

His friendship with Rebecca had always had an endgame. To lure Poppy in.

Rebecca had never met him. She thought she had because Martin had convinced her they had spoken at one of her book signings. He had charmed her the way he went on to charm Poppy, and he had done it so very easily.

He had been living these double lives for some time, and he had become good at it. His online personas weren’t new. They had been his way of interacting with the world following his accident, and he had shaped them into something that suited him. A life where he wasn’t judged and where he could be whoever he wanted.

Poppy hadn’t been a coincidence. She wasn’t someone he had randomly seen online.

That part unsettled her the most.

He had already known who she was, having done maintenance work at her flat in England.

She had no memory of him. But why would she? He had been part of a crew of two, and he had kept his head down while his colleague had done the talking.

All the while, though, he had noticed her. Her things. The details of her life. Enough to find her again later. And from there it hadn’t taken much. He had seen her work, her social media, and then carefully constructed a version of himself that he knew she would respond to.