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Chapter 3
Sunday 31st January
‘It mentions Lisa Turner’s murder, in Oxford, but it was writtenbeforethat murder happened,’ I say, as I wave the diary at the jaded-looking woman at the front counter of the police station, trying to convince her that I need to speak to an officer, urgently. ‘And it contains threats against other people too, one of them dated tomorrow. Please, I need to talk to somebody. It’sreallyimportant.’
There’d been no further entries after the one with my name in it. I’d flicked feverishly through the rest of the diary but it was blank, so I’d gone back to the beginning and found the four marked pages again, staring at the words until my vision blurred. I’d gone upstairs to find Pete then, trying to explain what I’d just found, thrusting the diary towards him then grabbing it back just in time, realising that the police would need to check it for fingerprints and DNA, and that I’d already touched it more than enough. I took some photos though – of the cover, and of the notes inside it, just for future reference, my crime-writer brain beginning to whirr – and then I dropped the diary into a freezer bag and sealed the top, ruing the fact that the wrapping it had come in was long gone, discarded in the recycling box which was emptied weeks ago, its contents now lost forever in the mountains of waste generated by Christmas celebrations. Then, telling Pete – who still looked confused and slightly shocked – that I’d be back in a couple of hours, I jumped into my car and headed for the police station.
By the time I’m finally escorted from reception into a small windowless room to speak to a man who introduces himself as Sergeant Gareth Little, I’m feeling rather frantic, tripping over my words as he asks me some basic questions about myself and the purpose of my visit and notes my answers down on the pad in front of him. I’ve never met him before; I know a few of the Gloucestershire police officers a little from stories I’ve worked on, but not him, and I’m starting to wonder if it might have been better to have waited to speak to one of my previous contacts. This guy has a rather sceptical expression on his face.
‘I’ve bagged it for you,’ I say, when he’s finished making his preliminary notes and finally agrees to take a look at what I’m clutching in my hands. ‘I’m the only one who’s touched it since it arrived. But look – these are the four entries in it.’
I hold out my phone, swiping through the photos, and his brow crinkles in a frown.
‘And you received this when?’ he asks. His surname belies his appearance – he’s far from little – a tall, broad, muscular-looking man with a shaven head and pale-blue eyes.
‘Just before Christmas. I opened it and threw away the packaging unfortunately. But I only looked inside it for the first time this morning, and look, this is the entry that’s concerning me the most right now. It’s a threat against a woman in Birmingham, tomorrow. I mean, it’s just a first name, and there must be, I don’t know, hundreds if not thousands of women called Jane in a city of that size, so I don’t know what on earth you’re going to do with this, but …’
He’s definitely looking at me suspiciously now.
‘Right. And do you happen to know anyone with any of these names, in any of these cities? A friend, a relative, maybe?’
He asks the question abruptly, and I shake my head.
‘No. I don’t think so. Nobody springs to mind.’
He nods and stares at the photos for another minute, then looks at me curiously, as people often do, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair.
‘Can you wait here, please?’ he says. ‘I won’t be long.’
He stares at me for a few moments longer, then stands up and leaves the room, taking the bagged diary with him. He’s gone for twenty minutes, and I wait, my stomach churning, fingers tapping on the battered wooden tabletop, mind still racing, so distracted that I jump violently when the door opens suddenly and he reappears.
‘Sorry, just needed to make a few calls,’ he says. ‘And I’ve arranged for the diary to be sent off to forensics. It’s probably some sort of strange hoax, but I agree it is concerning that the first entry mentions a Lisa in Oxford, if itwaswritten ahead of time. And yes, worrying that there’s a mention of a possible crime happening tomorrow … and a possible threat to you, if you’re the Mary referred to’—he runs a meaty hand over his smooth scalp—‘but we can take over now, so thank you for bringing it in. Can I just check – where were you on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Me?’ I frown.Why is he asking me that? Surely he doesn’t think …?
Then I shrug.
Of course he has to ask. I could easily have written those things in the diary myself, couldn’t I? He’s only doing his job.
‘I was here in Cheltenham all night,’ I say. ‘My housemate was away – he went to Dublin to see his mum, that’s where she lives – so I went out with a few of the guys from The Hub. The shared office space I mentioned?’
I point at his notebook, and he nods.
‘Names? And where did you go?’
‘At first it was just me and my friend Ellie – Eleanor Lloyd. She runs Sparkle Specialists; it’s a make-up artist agency. We were together from about eight until, gosh, probably about 2am. We had dinner at Brasserie Blanc and then went on to Gin & Juice for the rest of the night; they had a band playing. Two of the others met us there, Guy Hamilton and Stu Porter – they both work in website design. They arrived about eleven. Guy and I walked home together around two – he lives down on Bath Road, so not far from here. That should all be easy enough for you to verify.’
‘OK. Thanks for that.’
He hesitates for a moment, scanning the notes on his pad, then looks up.
‘You said you’re a crime writer? Thiscouldjust be a prank. Or it could be someone looking for your attention, or trying to cause trouble of some sort. These may not be real threats at all. The entries are so vague … but rest assured we will give it our full attention and keep in close contact with you, OK? And please, can I ask you to keep the arrival of this diary to yourself for now, while we make some enquiries? Have you told anyone else about it?’
‘Just my housemate, Pete. Peter Chong. But I can tell him not to breathe a word to anyone. I’d trust him with my life, quite literally. He won’t say anything.’
He nods and makes another note.
‘OK. Oh, and one more thing – are you happy to let us take a sample of your DNA and fingerprints now, before you leave, for elimination purposes? As you’ve touched the diary. Your friend Pete didn’t touch it at all?’
