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‘Des,’ I said. ‘Has to be. No one else could have got upstairs. What the hell’s he playing at?’
My mother went all lemon-lipped. Told me to mind my language.
‘Does it ring any bells?’ I asked after a quick back and forth as to whether ‘hell’ seriously counted as a cuss word.
‘The sketch isn’t exactly detailed.’
I reread the article. Bereavement counsellor. Irish. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Mini. . .
‘He’s implying it’s Matty, isn’t he? What a shit!’
‘Sophie!’
I held my hands up.
‘Come on, even you have to admit it’s a cheap shot.’
‘Why would Des want us to think Matty’s the Shadow?’
‘You saw how he was in the park. He hates him, wants you all to himself.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. I mean—’
But Des had snared my interest, even if he was a miserable gobshite as Matty was so fond of saying.
‘There are similarities though. The Irish accent, the Mini. . .’
‘The guy probably put on an accent, I know I would in his shoes. And anyway, Matty’s Mini isn’t blue.’
‘He has a blue cashmere V-neck though. It’s practically his trademark.’
‘Along with how many other people?’
I didn’t think for a minute the man in the sketch was really Matty, but there was a perverse pleasure in teasing myself with the possibility that it might be. Rollercoaster Syndrome, Janice calls it.
‘The woman could have remembered the car colour wrong. She said it was dark, like Matty’s. And the make is the same.’
My mother started chopping peppers with far more force than necessary.
‘Minis are about the most popular car in London, Sophie.’
‘He said he was a bereavement counsellor.’
‘Do you seriously think the killer would give away real details about himself?’
Twenty years later, people are still asking the same question.
