Cruel Acts

‘She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ He rubbed his head with his left hand and winced. ‘I keep forgetting I’ve got a ring on this hand and end up battering myself.’

‘Recent addition?’ Derwent asked.

‘I got married a couple of months ago.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I felt weird about it. The Greys said they understood, but—’ he broke off. ‘Oh, you know. It shouldn’t have been this way. It should have been Sara.’

‘Is that how you felt?’

‘A bit.’ He looked miserable. ‘A lot. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.’

‘What does your missus make of that?’ Derwent asked, and I was glad he had, because I was wondering the same thing.

‘She understands of course.’ He held himself stiffly, guarded now. ‘She was one of Sara’s best friends. It helps that she knew her so well. We talk about Sara a lot. She misses her too.’

‘I’m sure she does,’ I said.

‘Vanessa was supposed to be our bridesmaid.’ Tom sighed. ‘I’m lucky to have her.’

We got back into the car after a long and thoroughly unhelpful search through Sara Grey’s possessions – the clothes, the photographs, the school reports and letters, and books she had loved. The Greys had sent us on our way without warmth, just as angry as they had been when we arrived, despite my best efforts.

Derwent drove out through the gate with a sigh of relief.

‘They really don’t want Leo to be guilty, do they?’

‘Nope.’

‘They must see something in him that I don’t.’

‘The son has obviously worked hard on them. Plus the original investigation burned through any goodwill there might have been towards us by focusing on Tom.’ I shook my head. ‘Maybe it’s just that they don’t feel any better for having Leo locked up. It hasn’t brought their daughter back. If he’s the wrong man, they can keep looking for justice.’

Derwent nodded. ‘So how long would you give Tom Mitchell’s new marriage?’

‘Months.’

‘Weeks, I’d say.’

‘Days.’

‘It’s over already.’

‘It never started,’ I said soberly. ‘He’s not over Sara yet. Maybe he’ll never get over her.’

‘Poor bloke,’ Derwent said, as if he meant it.

12 (#ulink_4b526057-3ce2-5b87-966d-30250baef216)

On a fine day, St Leonards-on-Sea would have been a nice place to visit. The shingle beach was long and empty, the rain sweeping across it like a curtain as the tide came in. The waves were noisier than the cars that swished along the promenade that ran between the beach and the tall Regency terraces that defined the area. They had been built for a wealthy town that had never quite materialised, though the houses had been grand enough, with elegant columns and graceful porticoes. Most of them were now divided into flats, including the Howards’ home. They occupied the bottom two floors of a white-painted house that looked out to sea.

‘It’s an upside-down house. We use the downstairs rooms as bedrooms and upstairs is our sitting room.’ Mrs Howard hauled herself up the stairs ahead of us, wheezing. ‘It’s the views, you see. I like to look out to sea. Always interesting. Always inspiring.’

The sitting room ran across the front of the house, with three tall windows framing the view. The walls were lined with landscape paintings that had an abstract quality: saffron yellow sand, teal-coloured sea, squared-off purple hills, white cliffs, scarlet sunsets. An easel stood in front of one window with a half-finished painting leaning on it. Mrs Howard cast it a longing look before she sat down.

‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to us,’ I said.

‘No, no. It’s a pleasure. Anyone who can help us is welcome.’ She was a round woman with a sweet face that was made for smiling. There was something dead in her eyes, though, a dullness that I’d seen many times before. ‘My husband isn’t here. He didn’t want to be.’

‘I can understand it must be upsetting to talk about Willa.’ It was that sympathy for the bereaved that always redeemed Derwent in my eyes: he really meant it.

Mrs Howard raised her hands and let them fall into her lap, a helpless gesture. ‘It’s upsetting whether we talk about her or not.’

‘Do you understand what’s happened with the appeal and why it was successful?’ I asked. ‘It doesn’t mean that the courts are convinced Mr Stone is innocent. Nor does our investigation.’

‘No, I understand that. DCI Whitlock rang me himself to explain it to me. Such a nice man.’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘He worked so hard on the investigation. They all did.’

‘We may not be able to do much more than they did, but we’re going to do our best,’ I promised. ‘We’re determined to put together the strongest case we can for the retrial.’

‘You can’t find evidence that isn’t there.’ Mrs Howard sounded wistful, not angry. ‘He did such a clever job.’

I thought for a moment that she was still talking about DCI Whitlock, until she went on. ‘I truly think he’s an evil person, you know. Evil. That’s the only word. The way he took those women. The way he kept them. That awful metal box where he hid them.’ She gave a tiny sigh. ‘We knew from the moment she disappeared that she was gone. At least, I did. I never had any hope that we’d see her again.’

‘Why was that?’

‘She would never have gone off without contacting me. She wasn’t that sort of person. We were very close. She told me everything – all about Jeremy, her boyfriend. She told me about everyone in her life. We spoke every day, often more than once. I would have known if she needed me. I would have sensed it. All I could feel was an absence.’

I was trying to imagine a situation where I would willingly tell my mother even half of the things that went on in my life. Derwent took over.

‘I know you’ll have answered these questions before, but was Willa worried about anything? Was anyone bothering her?’

‘She was very angry with Jeremy.’ Mrs Howard shook her head. ‘She spent far too long with him. He was never going to grow up. We could see that, even if she couldn’t. He was a weak person. Immature.’

‘Was there anyone else of significance in Willa’s life?’

‘No. No one. She couldn’t seem to get over Jeremy. I mean, the waste of it. She was a gorgeous girl – talented, creative, kind … she deserved so much more. She would have been a wonderful mother. And I know Jeremy wasn’t directly responsible for her death but it was his idea to meet in that horrible pub. Have you been in it?’

We nodded.

‘I wanted to be in the last place where Willa was. Stupid, really, to think she might be hanging around there. She was happiest here, by the sea, so if her spirit is anywhere, it’s here.’ Mrs Howard sniffed, her eyes brimming. ‘It smelled horrible. Stale beer. Cheap air freshener. I sat on the stool where she’d sat, looking at the last things she saw. Maybe someone was watching her while she was in the pub. She had such glorious hair – like a cloak. I always thought she was pure pre-Raphaelite.’