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Even with everything she knows, this case still seems surreal. But the reality can’t be denied. The facts are there, on the board, in black and white.
And blood red.
CHAPTER
26
JESS HEARD THE alarm sound that morning. She’d feigned sleep, watching Griffin get up and go into the bathroom from under half-opened eyes.
She hadn’t wanted a conversation after what she’d done last night; in the cold light of day, she’d felt the shame, the prickle of her foolishness. She’d shifted under the duvet and put her hand down to her thigh, feeling the bandages, the scabs, the sticky blood where the cuts hadn’t healed.
She’d heard the shower stop and the bathroom door open. Griffin had come out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He’d seen her watching, a flash of self-consciousness passing his face before he’d continued getting dressed: boxers, jeans, sitting on the bed to do socks, then his heavy black boots. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, then a hoodie over his head. He hadn’t looked much like a police officer. She liked that about him.
“You going to be here when I get back?”
He’d been standing facing the mirror, trying to smooth his hair down, and had said it without turning her way.
“If that’s okay?” she’d said.
He’d smiled very briefly, and Jess had noticed him trying to suppress it.
“No problem,” he’d replied.
* * *
But now the apartment is silent, and Jess feels unsure. The worry is back, the uncertainty about what her future might hold. When Griffin’s there, his presence is reassuring. His quiet confidence, the solid mass of him has been grounding her. But now he’s gone, she feels the jitters return.
She should be at home with Alice right now, watching cartoons, eating breakfast. Patrick would have been telling them off for getting crumbs on the sofa. A lump builds in her throat, and she swallows it down. She has to think about something else. Focus on working out who started the fire, who did these other murders.
She gets up, puts clothes on, and makes a mug of coffee. She cradles it in her hands, sitting down at the table. Photographs are still scattered across: notes, newspapers, Griffin’s laptop.
She picks up a newspaper in front of her, buried under a pile of crime scene photos. It’s from Wednesday, yesterday, pages turned inward, an article clear on the top page. “ARSON MURDER SUSPECT RUNS,” she reads, fingers trembling.
Jessica Ambrose, 29, under suspicion for the murder of her husband, Patrick Ambrose, who died as their house caught alight on Monday night, has fled the General Hospital, against doctor’s orders. Patrick’s parents, Cynthia and David Ambrose, plead to the public to be on the lookout for their son’s alleged killer, saying that their daughter-in-law was “a little strange. There was always something not quite right about her.”
Jessica is not believed to be dangerous, but members of the public are asked to call 999 if they know of her whereabouts.
She swears under her breath. She wants to tear it into tiny pieces but settles for throwing it on the floor instead. It flutters down, pages falling in a satisfying mess.
Her eyes shift to one of the photos on the table. She picks it up, staring at the face of the dark-haired woman: Griffin’s wife. This photo shows her smiling, in happier times, and Jess recognizes the green and silver crescent earrings dangling from her ears.
The one found on her doormat.
Jess pulls the laptop closer and logs on, opening up Google. It’s basic research. The cops must have done at least this already, she thinks as she types in woman rape serial killer, but she does it anyway. An insane number of results appear on the screen, each as brutal and graphic as the last.
She frowns and tries again, this time: arson serial killer, and a name pops up at the top of the search engine.
Bruce George Peter Lee. She clicks on the Wikipedia link, reading the page. Then, with one line, her breath catches in her throat.
… pouring paraffin through the mail slot …
She needs to tell Griffin. This is it—the connection between the other murders and Patrick. She frantically looks around for a phone, a landline, and eventually finds one, buried under a pile of clothes.
Jess pulls the scrap of paper from her pocket and dials.
He answers, his voice gruff, and she gets straight to the point.
“It’s Lee,” she says. “Look it up. This proves it. This proves it wasn’t me. They have to let me see Alice.”
