by B. A. Paris
In the study, I swap my T-shirt, which I managed to spatter with dressing, for a clean one, grab my keys from the table in the hall, throw open the front door—and find myself looking straight at Thomas Grainger.
SIXTEEN
I’ve startled him as much as he’s startled me. His arm, which he’d raised to ring the doorbell, drops quickly to his side. He takes a step back, as if he’s expecting me to verbally attack him.
“Ms. Dawson, I’m sorry.” He raises his hands in a backing-off gesture. “I’ll leave, it’s fine.”
“Wait a minute.” He stops, his body half-twisted toward the drive. “You said you were investigating Nina Maxwell’s murder.”
He turns back to face me. “That’s right.”
“Why now, more than a year after she died?”
“I’ve been investigating it since her husband committed suicide. But I had to put it to one side because I couldn’t get the information I wanted. I’m a private investigator, so persona non grata as far as the police are concerned.”
“What information do you want?”
He finds my eyes, holds my gaze. He had done exactly the same thing last time, I remember. I want to look away but I can’t. There’s something mesmerizing about them.
“I’m afraid I’m not prepared to discuss anything on the doorstep.”
It’s now or never. If I don’t invite him in, he won’t come back. I open the door wider.
“Thank you.” He steps into the hallway. “I really appreciate you agreeing to let me talk to you.” I take him through to the sitting room, wondering what I’m doing letting a stranger into my house. He might be dressed smartly—a casual, lightweight suit and open-necked pale blue shirt—but he could still be a murderer. He could be Nina’s murderer. I take my phone from my pocket, hold it in my hand. I offer him a chair but I stay standing by the door. If I need to make a quick exit, I can.
“I’d like to apologize again for the shock you must have got last week when I told you about the murder,” Thomas Grainger says. “I had no idea you didn’t know.”
“I realize that.”
“I hope it didn’t cause any trouble.”
“None at all.” I’m not about to tell him that Leo kept it from me and that we’re barely speaking. “My husband and I are deciding what to do.” He doesn’t need to know that we’re not married either. “We’re not sure how we feel about living here now.”
“I can understand that.”
“I think you should start at the beginning. How did you know we were having drinks here?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” He looks steadily back at me. “Are you in touch with someone from here?”
“No, absolutely not.” He waits for me to move on and when I don’t, he nods. “Let’s just say that I found out through the invitation you posted.”
It takes me a while. “You’ve hacked the WhatsApp group?” He doesn’t confirm or deny it and I’m not even sure a WhatsApp group can be hacked. I don’t press him any further because he wouldn’t tell me anyway. “So why did you decide to crash it?” I say instead.
“It was unethical of me, I know. But I’ve been trying to gain access to the house for over a year now. I posed as a potential buyer once but the estate agent stayed with me the whole time, so I was unable to do what I’d hoped to do, which was take a look at the room where the murder took place. Without a general idea of the layout of the place where a victim died, it’s hard to offer an alternative version as to what might have happened that night.” He gives a slight smile. “The fact that I was shadowed during my visit only strengthened my belief that my client’s brother wasn’t responsible for Nina Maxwell’s murder. I’m convinced the agency had instructions from the police to keep a close eye on anyone who showed an interest in the house.”
My curiosity aroused, I move to the chair nearest the door and perch on it. “Why would they do that?”
“Perhaps they were hoping the real killer would return to the crime scene and somehow give himself away.”
“But the police believe that the killer is dead, don’t they? That it’s a closed case.”
“Not according to my source.” He sees my frown. “Yes, it’s true, every private investigator has a source somewhere in the police, just as a journalist does. Often the same one. And my source tells me that the investigation is still ongoing.” He pauses. “Can I ask if your experience was the same when you visited the house?”
“My husband visited it without me. I only saw it after he bought it.” He tries to hide his surprise but he’s not quick enough. “So, our drinks evening?”
“I thought I’d be able to pass unnoticed.” He gives a slight smile. “It didn’t occur to me that you had only invited people from here. Once I realized, I left.”
“Well, my next-door neighbor, the lady who let you in, is elderly and she’s been badly affected by all this. She was very upset when she learned that you weren’t a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry. Again, I’d imagined a big party and thought I’d be able to slip in through the gate behind someone.”
“How did you get in? Just now? You didn’t disturb my neighbor again, did you?”
He shakes his head. “I intended to ring your intercom in the hope that you would agree to listen to what I had to say. But there was someone in front of me and he let me in. I wanted to tell him that he should be more careful but I suppose that if he’d been playing by the rules, he would have had to slam the gate in my face, and most people aren’t like that, they’re too polite. Last time I came to see you I walked in through the main gate after a car.” Another pause. “I don’t know if you or your husband are on a residents’ committee or anything but perhaps you should mention it, and maybe change the code. I was able to see the code he typed in over his shoulder.”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
He shifts on his seat. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be troubling you if time wasn’t running out.”
“What do you mean?”
A shadow clouds his face. “My client isn’t in good health. She’s determined to clear her brother’s name while she can.” He stops and I can see that he’s having some kind of internal struggle. “I was at university with Helen,” he says, giving up the struggle. “I never really knew Oliver because he was five years younger than us, but even back then I knew how much he meant to her. When she said she didn’t believe Oliver was responsible for Nina’s murder, and asked me to help her, I felt I couldn’t refuse.”
I nod sympathetically, desperately sorry for Oliver’s sister.
“Why is Oliver’s sister persuaded that it wasn’t him who killed Nina?” I ask. “Nobody wants to think the worst of someone they love. Maybe she just doesn’t want to believe that her brother was capable of murder.”
“That’s what I thought at first. I hate to say it but I was—and this sounds awful—humoring Helen by agreeing to look into the murder, because in my experience, it bore all the hallmarks of a typical crime of passion. But many people have testified that Oliver Maxwell was the gentlest, kindest of men and that he adored Nina. The cynics point to his suicide and say that he killed himself because he couldn’t cope with what he’d done. Those that knew him take it as a testimony of his broken heart. Not only couldn’t he bear to live without her, he also couldn’t bear to live with the violence of her death.”
So which camp did that put Eve, Tamsin, and Maria in, I wonder? They had known Oliver, they had told me he was the loveliest of men. Yet they believed that he killed Nina. Why was that?
“Wait a minute—did you say ‘crime of passion’?” I say, realizing.
“Yes.” He pauses. “Apparently, Nina had been having an affair.”
I stare at him. “An affair?”
He leans forward in his seat. His skin is pale, almost translucent, providing a marked contrast with his dark hair.
“Yes.”
“B
ut—who with?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he might be responsible for her murder.”
My mind reels. “Did the police know she was having an affair?”
“Yes.”
“Then they must have found out who he was and eliminated him from their inquiries.”
“That’s what you would have thought,” he agrees.
“I suppose if Oliver knew Nina was having an affair, he had a motive to kill her.”
“Except that, according to the people who knew him best, he would never have harmed Nina.”
“I’m not sure why you think I can help you. I’ve only just moved here—as you know,” I add pointedly.
“It’s exactly for that reason that I’m asking for your help,” he says earnestly. “When Helen first asked me to look into the murder, I tried to speak to people here myself. But I came up against a lot of—not hostility, exactly, but tight lips. It’s why I didn’t hang around at your drinks evening. When I looked through the kitchen window and saw that the people you’d invited were the people I had tried to talk to, I thought it wiser to leave before someone recognized me.” He pauses. “You didn’t know Nina, you don’t really know anyone here yet, which makes you impartial. I know this is a lot to ask but—if you happen to hear anything—you know, in conversations with the neighbors—perhaps you could let me know?”
I stand up. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t do that.”
He gives a small smile. “Of course.” He gets to his feet, holds out his hand. “Thank you for your time. Goodbye, Ms. Dawson.”
His handshake is strong, dependable. It makes me feel that I can trust him but, at the same time, I’m disappointed that he wanted me to betray the confidences of the people I’m hoping will be my friends. Given the circumstances, I suppose it’s understandable that he wants to get closure for Oliver’s sister before it’s too late. He strikes me as the sort of man who would do a lot for a friend—but not someone who would give that friend false hope, or take on a lost cause. He admitted that at the beginning, he was only humoring Oliver’s sister.
What made him change his mind?
SEVENTEEN
I’ve barely begun working when the highlighter I’m using dries up on me. I know Leo has some in his study so I force myself upstairs. Living with Nina’s ghost isn’t easy. I pause, one foot on the next step. Living with Nina’s ghost.
After my sister died, there were times when I felt she was with me, times when I could feel her presence, especially in the quiet of the night or when I was feeling particularly low. It was as if she was letting me know that I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t been particularly spiritual before but, intrigued, I began to read about life after death and, because of what I had experienced in relation to my sister, I came to accept that sometimes, our spirit lives on, particularly when a person dies unexpectedly before their time. One of the things I read was the belief that if a death was violent, the spirit of that person might wait around until their murderer was brought to justice. It had particularly marked me because I hadn’t sensed my sister’s presence since the day her case was brought to court, and although I hadn’t been satisfied with the outcome, maybe my sister had been, which was why she had left. What if Nina Maxwell’s spirit is living on, here in the house, waiting for justice to be done?
The study on the first floor is Leo’s space and I’m always surprised at how tidy it is. There’s nothing on the desk apart from a wooden ruler and a couple of pens. I pull open the drawers that run down each side of the desk. The bottom one on the left-hand side is jammed full of pens, pencils and highlighters. I choose a yellow one and, as I take it out, the back of my hand brushes against something taped to the underside of the drawer above. Curious, I push the jumble of pens and pencils to one side and unpick the tape with my fingers. There’s something metal underneath. I let it fall into my hand and see a tiny key, which I recognize as coming from one of those metal cash boxes that I used to save money in as a teenager. I turn it over, inspecting it. If Leo has gone to the trouble of hiding it, there must be something he doesn’t want anyone, including me, to find. Was that why he was so jittery when I told him I’d taken people upstairs to see the work we’d had done?
I turn to the gray metal filing cabinet that stands in the corner, where Leo keeps his client files. I tug at the top drawer but it doesn’t open. Neither do the other three; all the drawers are centrally locked. Puzzled, I go back to the desk, looking for another key, running my hand along the underside of each drawer in case Leo has hidden that one too. When I don’t find anything, I search the rest of the study.
I empty the pen holder on the desk, run my fingers over the little ridge above the doorway and come away with nothing but dust. I get down on my hands and knees and look under the desk, hoping to find the key to the filing cabinet taped somewhere on its underside. I turn Leo’s chair upside down, check behind his computer, under the keyboard and then repeat the whole process. But I can’t find the key. Frustrated, I stick the tiny key back where I found it and go back to work.
* * *
While I’m on my lunch break, I remember that before Thomas Grainger turned up yesterday, I’d been on my way to see Lorna. It’s early afternoon, so I’m not worried about her and Edward being in the middle of lunch. But no one answers my knock and I don’t like to insist, because they might be having a nap. I turn to go home and see Will standing at the bottom of the drive, on his way out.
“Hi, Alice!” he calls. “How are things?”
“Oh—you know. I was hoping to see Lorna but she doesn’t seem to be in.”
“I’d suggest going to see Eve but she’s at her mum’s. She’ll be back around five, if you’re looking for company.”
“Thanks, Will.”
He gives me a wave and I turn back to the door, because I can hear a lock being turned. The door opens, the chain still in place.
Lorna peeps at me timidly through the gap.
“It’s only me,” I say cautiously. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“I wasn’t going to answer but I heard your voice.” She stares for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to let me in. She doesn’t seem to want to and I’m about to apologize and tell her I’ll call back another day when she begins removing the chain, slowly, as if she’s hoping I’ll get fed up waiting and go away.
“Are you sure?” I ask doubtfully, when she finally opens the door.
“Yes, come in. It’s just that Edward isn’t here and I’m always more careful when I’m on my own.”
“That’s very wise. How is he?”
“Much better, thank you.” She opens a door to the right and I follow her in to a cozy sitting room.
“This is lovely,” I say, admiring the delicate pastel tones. There’s the beautiful scent of lavender and I trace it to a crystal vase, sitting on a low table. Like ours, her sitting room looks onto the square and from the window, I can see our driveway perfectly.
We sit down.
Lorna gives me a nervous smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“It’s not about letting that man into your party, is it? I don’t know what came over me. I’m usually so careful.”
“No, it’s not about that,” I reassure her, sad at how much it has knocked her confidence, because she doesn’t seem quite as sharp as when I first met her, nor quite as smartly dressed. Although she’s wearing her pearls, her clothes—a camel skirt and blue patterned shirt—seem hastily put together, and her hair isn’t the same neat bob.
“Have you managed to find out who it was?” she asks.
I hesitate, because I know that if I tell her the truth, that the man is a private detective, she’ll feel better about having let him in. On the other hand, I’d have to tell her that he’s investigating Nina’s murder. She would ask why, and I’d have to admit that Thomas Grainger believes Oliv
er was innocent. I don’t want to open old wounds.
“Not yet,” I say, making a quick decision. “But I’m not worried about him and I hope you aren’t either. I know how upsetting it must be after what happened to Nina,” I add, pleased to have found the perfect lead into the conversation I want to have with her.
Lorna raises her hand to her pearls.
“It was terrible,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “Truly terrible.”
“I didn’t know about it, I only found out a few days ago.”
Lorna looks shocked. “Oh Alice, that’s awful. But—I don’t understand. Why didn’t you know?”
“Because Leo chose to keep it from me. He was going to tell me, but he hoped that by the time he did, I’d have grown to love the house as much as he does and wouldn’t want to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“It’s so difficult. I’m not sure how I feel about the house, but I love The Circle, everyone has been so welcoming and I know I’d make friends here. I wanted to leave, but then Leo said something that I can’t get out of my mind. He said that the house deserved to have new memories, happy memories.” I pause, working my way through my feelings. “It’s not that simple, though. Leo and I aren’t really speaking at the moment because I can’t forgive him for not being upfront with me before we moved in. It’s all a bit of a mess, to be honest.”
“I can see that,” Lorna says, and I smile gratefully at her. It’s a relief to be able to pour out my heart to someone with life experience who, like me, has lost someone she loved.
“I don’t have any family apart from Leo,” I say, on impulse. “My parents and sister were killed in a car crash when I was nineteen years old.”
