Miss Justine Evans, now cleared of any involvement in the Garden Shed Murder, has told police and reporters though that she feels culpable by default. By not coming forward at the time and telling what she knew and what she had seen, she deserved whatever punishment came her way. Children suffered because she didn’t speak out. Yet it must be remembered that, at the time, she was only a child herself.
Bloody saint. Although I do agree with her that she does deserve whatever comes her way. She’s still to blame in my book for not stopping Uncle Chuck but she certainly deserves credit for not putting me in any deeper shit. I suspect it is her way of atoning but I do wonder if she realises how close I came to finishing her off. I still feel the scythe twitching in my hand.
Following a near-fatal fall down a steep flight of stairs leading from the attic of Miss Beverley Digby’s home, Ms Evans declined to comment other than to say she had lost her footing. When told by police that the very same thing had happened to a girlfriend of Miss Digby’s ex-boyfriend, she didn’t react and replied, ‘It’s most likely a coincidence.’
When asked if she might have been tripped up deliberately, or blinded by a low eye-level security beam directed into her line of vision, she shrugged and repeated, ‘I have no further comments.’
The cool heavenly nectar trickles down my throat. I have all the time in the world; no need to hurry. Colgate won’t get this side of the Channel for months. By then I might have moved on but perhaps not. He’ll maybe take a leaf out of Scott’s and even Justine’s book and take early retirement, except he’s not a quitter, I’ll give him that. He’s the proverbial dog with a bone.
I cut neatly round the printed articles, labelling and dating each entry before sticking them down.
DCI Colgate of the North London crime squad is in charge of the investigation, and is working tirelessly to extradite Miss Digby from Italy for Mr Chuck Curry’s murder. As yet the police are unable to pinpoint her exact location but are working tirelessly with the Italian carabinieri to find her.
It’s amazing that they can’t find me. They’re not looking hard in this part of the world, if at all. The Italian police have much better things to be getting on with. Long lazy lunches with family and catching maniacal speeding drivers take up most of their time and I’m nowhere near the top of their agenda.
When Colgate was asked what charges are to be brought against Miss Digby, he replied she would be charged with first-degree murder. When asked whether she deserved to be punished as she was such a young child at the time, he replied that ‘all murderers must be held to account.’
Yet the public support for Miss Digby is overwhelmingly in her favour. As a child of the most horrific abuse at the hands of Mr Curry, it appeared to be her only way out. She was just ten years of age when the abuse started. Local residents are saying she should be congratulated, lauded and not punished for getting rid of the monster the way she did.
I’m quite the heroine. The worst I’ll get, no doubt, is some more lengthy therapy sessions but I’m a dab hand now where those are concerned. There’s no proof that I came to Italy to evade capture and Colgate’s useless at getting proof of anything. I’ll play the victim to the end, whenever that might be, but for now I’ll let the sunshine seep into my bones and help break down the cold layers around my heart.
It’s only 1.30pm. I have a good half hour before they arrive and I’ve a little job to do first. I flip open my laptop, amazed at how little time I’m now spending on it. Sleeping through the night has meant I’m no longer drawn to the screen in the small hours and although the nightmares still break through the flimsy cracks, I’m working hard on sealing the gaps.
I read through, once more, the email from Cosette.
Dear Beverley
I just had to get in touch. I can’t believe what I’m reading in the papers. They’re saying that you killed a man, a paedophile (a new word for my vocabulary!) who tortured young children. I’m so sorry for all you went through and all the pain you must be in.
I know you’ve gone away and I won’t dare ask where. After I told you Scott had moved to Umbria in Italy, I had my suspicions but I never said anything to the police. It’s not up to me.
I wanted to say sorry about Scott’s pathetic little games to get his own back. I knew he was sending you threatening notes and emails, and I even laughed at the pizza boxes. He didn’t sleep too well and his midnight trips round to your house to frighten you seemed to pass the time. But I didn’t realise how venomous (another new word!) he had become. I should have told you sooner but maybe it wouldn’t have made things better between you. I know how bitter you were about the way he treated you and we’ve both had lucky escapes.
BTW Claudio is turning out to have more than a flash forehand. He’s serving up a real treat tonight by taking me out for dinner. I hope you’re impressed that I can even joke in English.
Anyway, I wanted to say ‘no hard feelings’ and hope it all gets sorted in the end. I don’t believe everything I read in the papers and no longer bother to look. Take care and hope to hear you’re okay. Don’t worry, all top secret and confidential. I’ll not tell anyone what I know about your whereabouts or even that we are in contact.
Love,
Cosette x
Hi Cosette
Great to hear things are hotting up with Claudio. I find Italian men quite irresistible myself. They put English men, with their pale skins and mealy-mouthed manners, well in the shade. It’s their style and panache (look it up! Ha ha) and they certainly know how to treat a woman. It all stems from their mothers!
Don’t worry about not telling on Scott’s childish stalking pranks. He thought he was being clever, turning the tables. I need to apologise myself for the bloodied badger. It was definitely not meant for you. It was meant for someone else entirely (you can guess who now!!) but they lived in a cul-de-sac and when I went to drop it off, I spotted new CCTV cameras outside their front door. I avoid these spy devices like the plague. So on the way home I decided to drop by Scott’s and leave it there. It was never meant for you to open but I couldn’t let it go to waste. I managed to convince the police someone had left it on my doorstep, Scott most likely, before I returned it to where it had come. I’d love to have seen his face!
I won’t let on where I’m living because I seem to be on the police’s most wanted list. I’m like Ted Bundy who kept alluding capture or perhaps more Hannibal Lecter, who phoned home from the tropics as he prepared to eat his next victim. No, but seriously, I’m having lots of fun and I’ve got plenty to occupy my time.
Good luck with Claudio
Bev x
I reread what I’ve typed. It’s enough. It feels good to have told Cosette about the badger incident. All that blood must have curdled her young brain and the telling proves that I must have a semblance of a conscience. I don’t say who the badger was meant for, just in case. I’ll avoid putting too much on digital record.
Ms Evans might have started taking the stalking threats more seriously if she’d received the butchered animal, because she kept palming off my online and phone stalking campaign as the actions of another random ‘pyscho’ patient. In the end it didn’t matter. I’d have gone for her anyway and she got her punishment.
As I click ‘send’ I wonder how Ms Evans’ recovery is progressing. But as I glance at the clock, I realise now is not the time to worry about her. The minutes are ticking on towards the hour. One minute to go. I close down the laptop and turn back to look out over the top of my balcony.
It’s two on the dot. Jeez, he’s still that regular. Here they come. His left arm is round her ever ballooning waist and his right hand is cradling the bump. Danielle’s ankles are even more swollen than first time round and I can’t help but wonder if Scott is okay with the unsightliness. I’ll make sure my slim ankles are pertly displayed when I suddenly make my appearance.
They amble up towards the piazza, past the church whose bells have started their lunchtime clanking peels of praise and th
under through the region. A pigeon shoots out from the roof, catapulted upwards by the blast, like a bullet from a smoking gun.
I’m not in any hurry. I’ve been watching them for days now. They’re not likely to change their routine, not until the baby is born at least. Today I’m going to sit back, watch the show and relish the anticipation.
I pull on my sun hat, with its wide brim, replace the large Chanel sunglasses behind my ears and reel back in my painted wiggling toes. Scott is unlikely to spot them but just in case. I lift up my phone and start taking pictures for my scrapbook. Today’s shots will be the ‘before’ snaps. I’m not sure the ‘after’ shots will be so relaxed or easily taken.
All I know for certain is that when I finally do walk down the stairs and join them in the square, it will all be just a matter of coincidence.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Writing is frequently a solitary, lonely task but it is the people along the way who keep you going with their unwavering encouragement and belief.
I would like to thank my friends, my family and all those who read my books and ask me every day how work is progressing. A special thanks to my enthusiastic reviewers who take time out to give honest opinions.
I am so grateful to the team at Bloodhound Books, especially Betsy and Fred who run such a tight ship. Betsy’s astute insight into my manuscripts has been brilliant, both in terms of content and marketing. An ability to capture the essence of a novel in a few sentences is no mean feat. Thank you, Betsy.
As my editor, there can be no one better than Morgen Bailey. Her attention to detail is amazing and when my books go to print, they have been polished to perfection.
Also, a special thanks to Tara Lyons, whose prompt response to so many queries marks her out as a true professional, and to Heather Fitt for her vital work in organising early readers for all our books.
And once again, thanks to Neil and James. Neil for his constant support and James who is no closer to reading my books but occasionally posts on Instagram a snapshot of his mother’s Amazon chart ranking. What more could a writer wish for?
About the Author
Diana Wilkinson (née Kennett) graduated from Durham University with a degree in geography then after a short spell in teaching, spent most of her working life in the business of tennis development.
A former Irish international player, Diana finally stepped off the court to become a full-time writer. The inspiration for much of her work has come from the ladies she coached over the years and from confidences shared over coffee.
Diana’s debut novel and her first psychological thriller, 4 Riverside Close, quickly became an international best seller. Her second and third books, You Are Mine and The Girl Who Turned A Blind Eye, are also set in North London, in areas where Diana lived and worked for many years.
Born and bred in Belfast, Northern Ireland, during the height of the civil unrest, she now lives in Hertfordshire, England, with her husband Neil and son James.
A note from the publisher
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