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I shake my head.
‘No idea, sorry,’ I say, and instantly feel guilty for lying to him. ‘Did she, though? Your mother, I mean. Did she know this guy?’
He shrugs.
‘I don’t know. I’ve referred them to her former chambers. Somebody there may know. She never really talked about her work at home, or indeed with us even as grown-ups. Anyway – I’m sure I’ll find out what it’s all about eventually.’
‘Probably,’ I say.
Clearly, the police didn’t also ask him if his mother knew my father, I think with relief.They know I’m here with him today, and that might make him suspicious. Hopefully they can discover if there’s a link there from one of her former colleagues, maybe …
‘OK, so shall we make a start? Do you mind if I record our chat?’
I point at the voice recorder lying on the table, and he nods.
‘That’s fine,’ he says.
‘Great.’ I switch the machine on, then pick up my notepad and pan, glancing down at my list of questions.
‘Right, well, can we just start with a quick look at Lisa’s younger years? Where she went to school, university, her hobbies and so on? A little potted history? I know some of it from her online biography, and from various news articles I’ve read, but it would be good to hear it from you, as her brother.’
‘Sure. OK, well, I was actually ten when she was born, so I remember it well. I’m not sure why my parents waited so long to have a second child – my mother’s career maybe – but I do remember how happy they both were, to have this gorgeous new baby daughter. I was pretty thrilled too, to have a little sister, after so many years as an only child …’
He spends the next few minutes telling me all about Lisa’s early years, and while it’s nice to build up a more detailed picture of her life, I’m soon listening with a growing feeling of despondency. Lisa had been a lively, outgoing child, star of her school plays from about the age of six, and later an active member of her secondary school debating society. She loved horse-riding and camping and had a judo black belt by the age of sixteen. It’s all fascinating stuff, but the more I hear, the more I realise that if I’m looking for a connection between us, it’s certainly nothing to do with her early life or interests. We couldn’t be more different. I’d been a quiet kid, spending most of my spare time escaping into books. By the time Alastair has, in his story, reached his sister’s university years, where she was a star of the Drama Society and the Debating Union, I’ve pretty much made my mind up.
If there’s any link between me and Lisa, I can’t see it.
When he’s finished, I ask a few more questions, making a note of places she liked to visit on holiday, her favourite restaurants – again, nothing there that I can relate to at all – and writing down some basic details about some of the most high-profile legal cases she’d worked on in the year or so before her murder.
‘Unlike my mother, my sister loved to chat about her work. It was all pretty dry – insolvency cases and such like – but I found it quite interesting for some reason,’ Alastair says. ‘Maybe because it was so different from what I do. And we were close, so we met up often, and we talked a lot. That’s what I miss the most, you know? Just … just sitting around with a coffee or a glass of wine, catching up with my little sister. I was so proud of her, and everything she achieved. I miss her, every day.’
He swallows, and turns his head abruptly, staring out of the window into the garden. I can see from the set of his jaw that he’s struggling to keep back tears, and my heart twists in sympathy.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘To have her ripped away from you like that must have been just horrendous.’
Alastair is silent for another few moments, then he takes a deep breath and turns back to face me.
‘I suppose you went through a similar thing, with your father. I’m aware of the grim circumstances of his death,’ he says, and I nod.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘I’m actually a big fan. I’ve read most of his books,’ he says. ‘I recognised your name, as I said on the phone, and then I realised who your father was. He was a huge talent.’
He smiles, his rather lovely eyes crinkling at the corners again, and I smile back.
‘Well, that’s nice of you,’ I say. ‘And thank you for being so open with me. I don’t know yet when this article will be published – as I said, my chat with you is part of a series of interviews with relatives of victims of unsolved crimes. But I’ll keep you posted, OK? And who knows, there may even be some detail in here’—I tap the voice recorder—‘that might be of some help in the investigation. You never know, eh?’
He nods and smiles again, and I thank him once more and start putting my things back into my bag, asking him about his plans for the weekend and commenting on how lovely his garden is as I stand up to leave. As I drive away, I try to quell the feeling of disappointment now sitting like a weight in my stomach, replaying my conversation with Alastair in my head just in case I’ve missed something, although I’m pretty sure I haven’t.
I was really hoping I might spot a connection, but maybe there just isn’t one. Is it a waste of time to keep looking? Should I start looking at the parents now too, instead?
‘Oh, bugger.’
I sigh as I see a long line of stationary traffic up ahead, and hit the brakes. I’d forgotten how early the afternoon traffic can build up on a Friday, and the A40 is a busy road at the best of times. I turn the radio on, scrolling for a minute before settling for a 90s music station. Christina Aguilera’s ‘Genie in a Bottle’ is playing, and suddenly I’m ten years old again, singing into my hairbrush. The age of innocence, an age when I had no idea what lay ahead in my teenage years, and how my life would turn out.
I inch forwards, and then hit the brakes again, groaning. As I wait for the car in front to start moving, Jess’s words from earlier run through my head, and I realise that the idea that had begun as a shadowy outline as I arrived at Alastair’s house has suddenly become more solid in my mind. If the police are right, if this killerhasselected his victims because of something to do with our parents …
I feel a rush of adrenalin, and I know it’s part terror, part exhilaration. I know I need to think about this some more – really, really think about it. But if it’s true, if they’ve got this right … well, this could change everything. This killer thinks he’s smart. And heissmart, clearly – he’s killed twice already and got away with it, after all.
But the thing is, I might, quite unexpectedly, be one step ahead of him now. I look in the rear-view mirror, into my own eyes, and I can see the spark of excitement in them.
He may not be as smart as he thinks he is. Because I know something he doesn’t.
