AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘No. Just me. And yes, that’s fine, of course. And thank you,’ I say.
But as I head home half an hour later, I feel even more anxious than before, and at the same time oddly deflated. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but Sergeant Little’s reaction felt so … low key. And yet, he was right about how vague the threats were. Jane in Birmingham? David in Cardiff? For goodness’ sake.
Isn’t David one of the UK’s most popular first names for men? How do the police even begin to investigate a threat like that? It’s impossible,I think.
It’s just after six when I get in, to find Pete waiting anxiously. He tells me to go upstairs and sit down while he opens some wine, and I head up to the big first-floor lounge, where he’s thoughtfully turned the central heating up, put some music on and lit the lamps. Tonight, though, the soft pools of light and quiet jazz which I normally find so calming after a long day aren’t doing it for me, my brain still feverishly trying to process the events of the past few hours.
Could that diary be some sort of joke?
But …Lisa, Oxford. The words writtenbeforeLisa Turner’s body was found. The diary already sitting on my desk, waiting to be opened.
If I’d looked at it sooner, could I have stopped it? Could I have saved her?And … ‘Murder Mary, Cheltenham’?Is that me? Or another Mary?The diary was sent to me. But why? Why would anyone want to kill me? And the date – the 1st of April. April Fool’s Day. Is that significant?
‘Are you OK? What did the police say? This isinsane.’
Pete’s back, holding out a glass, and I take a large mouthful of chilled white wine and swallow.
‘Thanks, I needed that. And yes, I’m OK. It just took ages. I had to wait for nearly two hours while they found someone for me to talk to, and then I’m not even sure how seriously he took it. I think he thought I might have written those notes in the diary myself. I mean, I know it’s a strange one. I don’t really know what to make of it myself now I’ve calmed down a bit, but you can’t take the chance, can you? Especially with that freaky entry about Lisa in Oxford. That can’t just be a coincidence, can it? Now I’m just worried about Jane in Birmingham, whoever she is. If it’s not a prank, it’stomorrow, Pete. Murder Jane, Birmingham, 1st of February.’
He’s shaking his head, eyebrows raised.
‘And murder Mary, Cheltenham, on the 1st of April. Bloody hell, Mary. I’d be on a plane to Australia by mid-March if it was me.’
‘Well, it might not be me. Could be anyone called Mary. And anyway, hopefully they’ll have caught him by then,’ I say.
He rolls his eyes.
‘How are you so relaxed about this? Stay there. I don’t fancy wine – I’m going to grab a beer.’
He stands up and walks out of the room, heading downstairs to the kitchen, and I pick up my glass again, then with my other hand reach for the soft grey blanket that’s draped over the back of the sofa and pull it over my knees. I’m not relaxed, not really. I feel shivery and a little sick, and I take a couple of long, deep breaths, trying to steady myself.
‘They might get lucky with forensics,’ I say to Pete, as he walks back into the room. He sits down on the other end of the sofa, beer bottle in hand.
‘If they find DNA on that diary, and get a match on the police database …’
‘If,’ he says darkly. ‘I’m worried about you, Mary, even if you’re not.’
I force a smile.
‘Shush, it’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Oh, and they’ve asked us to keep it to ourselves for now. Please don’t mention it toanyone, OK?’
‘I haven’t, and of course I won’t,’ he says.
‘Not even Megan?’
‘Not even Megan.’
He smiles, and I smile back.
‘Go on, stick the telly on. Let’s find something funny to watch. I could do with some light relief.’
He obliges, and I stretch out my legs and rest my feet on his lap. He promptly uses them as somewhere to lodge his beer bottle, and we both laugh and settle down to watch an old episode ofFather Tedin companionable silence. I’m glad he’s here tonight and not staying at Megan’s, I think, and steal a glance at his handsome profile, his white teeth flashing as he roars with laughter at Father Dougal’s latest mishap. As I said before, I don’tfancyPete, but I do love him, I suppose. He’s an accountant, and we met at a house party in London about eight years ago. I’d recently returned from America; I’d spent the previous few years living in New York with my grandmother, while I studied journalism at Columbia University, and Pete and I bonded immediately over our shared passion for the Big Apple.
‘I spent my gap year travelling across Europe and America, but New York – well, so far it’s my favourite city in theworld,’ he said, with such glittery-eyed, boyish enthusiasm that I laughed out loud.
‘Mine too,’ I said, and we clinked glasses and spent the rest of the evening deep in conversation.
I’m not really sure why our relationship never developed into a romantic one; friends have commented on it for years, telling us we’re perfect for each other, and we’ve even said it ourselves, once or twice – we are remarkably compatible in pretty much every way. But I suppose that chemistry, thatspark, just isn’t there; we’ll happily snuggle up together on the sofa, like this evening, but with no desire whatsoever to rip each other’s clothes off, and there’s never been any jealousy when one of us is dating. We’re the very best of friends, but it’s always been a purely platonic relationship, and we’re both really happy with that. So when I decided to move out of London three years ago and use some of my inheritance money to get myself on the property ladder, Pete came too, and moved in as my lodger.
