Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3) Page 8

  I lean back in my chair. “But you seemed so convinced Isabel was guilty?”

  “I know,” she admits. “And, like, eighty-five per cent of the time I am convinced, until I get these flashes of doubt. I don’t know what it is. Maybe instinct. Maybe it’s because I met Isabel a couple of times, I don’t know, but sometimes I don’t think she’d jeopardise her chance of freedom for Jess.”

  “She would,” I say. “She’s done it before. She had the opportunity to go free when she broke out of Crowmont, but she chose to come after me.”

  “Because she knew you,” Cassie says. “She had a personal connection to you. Her feelings for you are so complex. She both loves and hates you. There’s, I dunno, maybe some sort of desire from her.” Cassie flushes red. “I don’t know if it’s sexual or not, but you are definitely someone she fixates on. Whereas she’s never met Jess.” I open my mouth to speak, but Cassie continues. “I know she was supposed to play you in the movie, which means you and her have a connection, but it still seems weak.”

  “You showed Isabel the photograph. Perhaps that was enough to excite her,” I suggest.

  She shrugs. “Maybe, yeah. But why not go for you? You were so close.”

  I don’t want to tell her what I think, that perhaps Isabel didn’t kill Jess at all, that some dark part of my brain has made me a murderer in my sleep. Or that Isabel is saving me for later. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “Sorry, this must be hard.”

  When I open my eyes, Cassie is staring at me, her eyes almost animé large.

  “It’s okay. It’s stuff I need to figure out, too.” I rub my temple, trying to shift a burgeoning headache. “How does all this link to Neal?”

  Her eyes dart around the room as though she’s checking that we aren’t being watched. She leans towards me. “Jess and Neal had a complicated relationship.”

  “They were together?”

  She nods her head. “And it ended badly. Jess rejected him in the end and he threatened her career. It was nasty. But they were both signed on for the film and neither wanted to break contract, so they decided to carry on working with each other.”

  “Are you suggesting Neal is a suspect? Have you told the police?”

  “I did mention it to the police, but they seemed convinced it was Isabel.”

  “Did you speak to DCI Murphy?”

  “No, it was a PC, I think.”

  “Right. Well, perhaps I should mention it to DCI Murphy.”

  She taps the handle of her mug with a blue fingernail. “What if it leaks to the press? If he’s innocent, I don’t want to ruin his career.”

  “Cassie, this is a murder. You could be working with a murderer. If he’s innocent, I’m certain he’ll have an alibi, and everything will be fine.”

  “He doesn’t,” she says. “I already checked. He told me he was working on the script at home alone.” She shrugs. “And he knew Isabel had escaped, and that Jess was meeting you.”

  “How did he know that?” I ask.

  “Neal has a contact at the prison. It’s how he arranged my meetings with Isabel. They told him before the police announced her escape to the general public.”

  I remember hearing about Isabel’s escape from prison. We’d missed the news report while at the pumpkin patch. I’d missed a call from DCI Murphy while reuniting with Tom. And then we’d found Jess’s body. I think of Tom standing there, staring down at her naked body, completely lost in his shock.

  “Wouldn’t it jeopardise his film, murdering the lead actress?”

  “Or generate an amazing amount of publicity, which it has.” Cassie’s eyebrows raise.

  “I have to tell DCI Murphy about this. Will you come with me to the police station?”

  Cassie shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Please don’t give them my name.” Her chair scrapes as she stands and scoops up her bag. “I have to go.”

  “Do you want to swap numbers? You can text me if you learn anything else.”

  “I’ll email you,” she says, hurrying out of the café.

  I lean back in my chair, trying to decide what to make of my meeting with her. Not sure what to think about this new information about the director of the film. Trying to ascertain whether my darkest fears about myself are actually true, and if they are, whether I should turn myself in before anyone else is hurt.

  ***

  While I finish my coffee, I call Murphy and tell him this new information about Neal Ford. As Cassie requested, I refrain from giving him her name, which he’s disappointed about, but I stick to my guns. After hanging up the phone, I take a few minutes to sit and contemplate it all.

  Unlike some of Isabel’s crimes from the past, I don’t know much about Jess’s murder. As far as I know, she was murdered the afternoon we were supposed to meet. I’d waited for Jess, but she hadn’t shown up at the cottage like she was supposed to. Then I’d called her and there’d been no answer. She never replied to my text messages. That’s what I remember. I’d fallen asleep for about an hour on the sofa and woke from that with no dirt or blood on me. But at the same time, there have been occasions in my past when my memories haven’t matched reality. Such as believing that my father had died, when he hadn’t, and all of my conversations with Alfie outside Crowmont Hospital. A person who didn’t exist. Merely a version of my father, haunting my thoughts.

  What else do I know about Jess’s murder? Tom turned up at the house the next morning with his boyfriend Dominic. After a cup of tea and a catch up, we’d gone to the farm to work together. Tom had become upset and walked away. I found him staring at Jess’s body.

  The two of them must have been travelling the day before, which means they might not have been anywhere near the cottage at the time of Jess’s death. But I can’t remember exactly what Tom said to the police when we gave our statements. All I remember is being pulled away from the crime scene, then the SOCO workers arriving in their white suits, the police taking photographs. Walking back down the moors to tell Seb, Donna and Josh what we’d found. Pretending not to be traumatised so as not to scare the children. Then going back to Rose Cottage and giving a statement, drinking tea, letting out the tears when I was alone.

  Fewer children came to the pumpkin patch on the following weekend, but there was a much larger than expected group of adults. They bought souvenirs and kept staring out at the moors. Someone asked me for a photograph, but I refused.

  Can I rule myself out as a suspect or not? I know there’s darkness inside me, but I don’t understand it or know how deep it goes. I want to be a decent person, but I’m in constant fear that my father’s genes are my genes. How violent am I? What am I capable of? Should I be locked away?

  What Cassie told me about Neal’s involvement with Jess is worrying, as is his knowledge of Isabel’s escape. What if he saw this as the perfect opportunity to get rid of an annoying ex-girlfriend, pin the murder on a serial killer, and get extra publicity for his movie at the same time? Cassie was right to tell someone about her fears.

  But at the same time, Isabel is still a strong suspect. She was free, the victim was the person acting as me in a movie, and Jess was mutilated with wings over her shoulders. There are elements of this that don’t quite add up, such as the spontaneity of it, the possible coincidence, and the fact that she didn’t come directly to me. But without knowing what was going through Isabel’s head at the time, it’s impossible to know.

  I take my spoon and stir my coffee. Jess’s life was taken for such a stupid reason. Either she was the means to ensuring future success, or she was a plaything to a murderer. Or she was someone’s psychotic fever dream. I quickly gulp down the last cold dregs and rush back to my car to cry at the steering wheel.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tom

  I hadn’t wanted Leah to see the dead woman, but she’d walked in on me looking at the body. Apparently, Leah was close friends with Jess, and I’ve certainly seen her grieving for her. As usual, my mother connected with som
eone too fast and too intensely, exactly like she did with Isabel, and like she did with that old guy from the nursing home. Come to think of it, Leah has a habit of causing deaths. She’s the sun to a solar system of murder. When will it stop? When will she stop it?

  Two months on, and I’m restless. Sick and tired of living in that cramped house. I’m doing all the things that a normal person should do, and none of it satisfies me. With Leah and Seb’s help, I’ve been working on a qualification that allows me to be a personal trainer, while training on the job at a gym outside the village. Now I help old ladies on the treadmill and run spin classes. I put a smile on my face and say “good job” like a grinning idiot in a movie.

  After spending a couple of hours in the gym, I head back to the cottage for lunch. Dominic is meeting me there. He’s still finding his feet in the countryside. Even though he’s one of the cleverest people I know, Dominic has found it hard to find work. From bar tending, to helping the Braithwaites, to even starting the sports science programme with me, nothing seems to stick for him. Either the work dries up, or he quits.

  I lay out a few sandwiches and make myself a protein shake. Dom breezes in, his trousers still muddy from farm work, his face flushed.

  “Seb’s got me collecting eggs and feeding the pigs,” he says. “They’re amazing animals. Well, chickens are quite stupid but funny. Pigs are great.”

  “You stink, hon,” I say.

  “I know, it’s brilliant!” He plants a kiss on my cheek and heads over to the sink to wash his hands. “I’ve only got thirty minutes, Donna’s a stickler. I don’t want to get on her wrong side.”

  “I know this is temporary,” I say. “But you clearly love it. Why don’t you stay on at the farm?”

  “Oh, I would. But they can’t afford someone full time.” He bites into his tuna sandwich. “You okay, Tommy?”

  I sit down with my shake. “Fine, why?”

  He watches me thumbing the chipped edge of a plate.

  “That’s why,” he says. “You’re on edge. You’re craving a hit, aren’t you?”

  It annoys me that he knows me so well. And it annoys me that he’s always so kind. Yes, I love it about him, but sometimes I wish he’d make a mistake or… I don’t know, something. Anything to make me feel less like a piece of shit.

  “No.”

  “Tom, come on.”

  “I’m not,” I lie. The truth is, every part of my body feels like a taut violin string, vibrating, waiting to be bowed. Waiting to make music. I long for that powerful, invincible feeling that I once knew and loved.

  “Okay, I am.”

  “When was your last meeting?”

  “Last week.”

  “Honest?”

  I nod my head and take a gulp of the shake.

  “Good,” Dom says with a long sigh. “As long as you’re still going. You can do this, babe. I know you can. I’m here.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you, though? Because…” He places his sandwich down.

  “What?”

  “You’re pulling away,” he says. “Ever since we came back here. These last couple of months, you’ve been so distant.”

  “Sorry,” I say, hearing the monotone in my voice. “I guess I’ve had a lot going on, what with finding that woman like that.”

  “I know, hon. I wish you’d talk to me. You know, about your thoughts and feelings, like most couples do.”

  A flash of anger washes over me. “No. No more sitting around and talking, I’m done with it all. Stop going on about it, Dom. Seriously.”

  His eyes cast down to the tablecloth. “Sure.”

  I tut at myself. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. You’re right. I pushed too hard.” He offers me a thin smile.

  I reach over and pat his hand. “You’re such a good person. It’s just… I don’t know, sometimes I don’t feel like I’m worthy of your goodness.”

  “Hey, that’s the addiction talking, not you,” he says. “You are worthy.”

  No, I’m not, I think. Dominic has no idea who I am inside. How dark my thoughts are. He has no idea what I’ve done and what I plan to do.

  “I know,” I say.

  “I want you to know. I want you to be happy.”

  “I am, hon.”

  He seems sceptical, but he takes another bite of his sandwich and smiles.

  Sometimes I wonder what Dominic’s life would have been like to live. Those smiling parents, that perfect home. The middle-class haze of it all. No violence, no murder, no lies, no secrets. If I’d had Dominic’s upbringing, could I have turned out to be a decent man? Or would I have turned dark inside myself?

  Every now and then I think about her. Alison Finlay. The blood on my hands. Lying to Leah, making her believe she was the one who killed Alison that night. Watching Isabel’s expression in the cave when she fathomed that it was me all along. Feeling pride deep down that I’d impressed a serial killer. The protein shake sits sourly in the pit of my stomach. There are days when I want to be good, but I don’t know whether there’s any left within me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Isabel

  Here I am, stuck sweating under the maddening sun, my body dressed in the finest clothes. Red lipstick on my mouth. Hair pulled up into a bun. Mascara on my eyelashes. I feel like a clown, but it helps transform me into someone else. Though we’re thousands of miles away from the CCTV in England, I still need to be careful. But luckily, I have some help in that area…

  Firstly, there’s the curfew, imposed by Uncle Lloyd, a man who likes to impose. Someone who likes to lay down rules and watch his followers follow. He says that it’s the only way to live when you’re part of our family, especially when you have the desires we desire. Because we’re all alike – me, Owen, Daddy, and Uncle. Even Mummy to a point, though she would never actually act on it. In fact, neither does Owen, but he likes to play games every now and then.

  Secondly, there’s the way we look when we leave the house. My hair is red now, and cut into a blunt shoulder-length bob. My clothes are laid out for me each morning. Uncle Lloyd likes to check that I’m wearing the appropriate outfit, and if I’m not, he threatens to throw us to the wolves. We follow his rules or he turns us in. It’s like being in prison all over again.

  Owen has his arm slipped through mine as we make our way back to Uncle’s house. It stands out amongst the small Thai fishing village, as the biggest and boldest. The temperature is strange for me, having been in a cold cell for two years. My skin sweats where it touches my brother. I feel it trickling down the back of my neck. I long for the moors around Leah’s cottage, for the cold-water streams, the spongy grass, the grey clouds overhead. Even in summer it rains that drizzly rain that lingers in the air. Here, when it rains it’s sudden, and it pours down from the sky in sheets. There’s nothing to be done but hide indoors until it’s over.

  We take a left down a narrow street and I happen to turn back for a moment. There, behind us, is a man in tatty clothes, following not too discreetly. He’s an older man, though I couldn’t pinpoint his age, not here, where poverty and physical labour can add decades onto a person’s appearance. The skin around his mouth seems slack, indicating missing teeth, and the rest of his face is cracked by wrinkles. I stop, and Owen turns to watch.

  The man holds out his hands in a begging gesture and I take a few steps towards him. He bows to me, begging again, silently, lifting his fingers to his mouth to indicate food. I slap him and he stumbles back, shocked. There’s a hard glint in his eyes when he lifts his hand to hit me back. I start to grin, waiting for the pain, but Owen catches the man’s hand.

  “I’ll tell you what, old fella,” Owen says. “Dance for us and I’ll give you this.” He produces a coin from his pocket.

  The man stares at the coin, looks at me, and then shakes his head. Owen produces three more coins and now the man is more interested. I can tell that he understood enough English to know what Owen wants him to do.

  The man begins
to dance. It’s a strange dance, one that lurches from side to side. All the time he stares at me, his dark eyes burning with hatred. But he wants those three coins.

  After a few minutes, the man stops, and holds out his hand, waiting for the coins. Owen turns to me with a smirk playing on his lips. “What do you reckon, sis?”

  “Not deserving,” I respond.

  Owen turns to the man. “Sorry, matey.” He shrugs, grinning from ear to ear.

  Now the man is very angry, he lurches towards Owen, his fingers grasping the hand holding the money. I watch for a while, before stepping in to shove him away. He finally slaps me around the face, but in one quick motion, I grasp his arm and bite it as hard as I can until I taste blood. The man cries out, but it’s Owen who wrenches me away.

  “Are you mad? He could have any sort of disease.”

  I wipe my mouth and lift my shoulders in disinterest. It was worth the risk to watch the man scurry away, clutching his arm.

  “Come on. Uncle will be waiting for us.”

  ***

  Owen was right, Uncle Lloyd stands with his back straight, watching us walk in the door. His eyes travel immediately to my mouth, as though he already knows what I’ve done. My heart pounds as I see his eyes examine me. His arms are tucked behind his back. A military man, rarely around when I was a child because he worked and lived in other countries. But when he did visit, he left an impression.

  “We bought pla tabtim at the market,” Owen says, lifting the bag. “And prawns, too. I thought Apinya could prepare them for supper.”

  “You’re slovenly, Isabel,” he says, his moustache moving up and down when he speaks. “There is lipstick all over your mouth. Do you want to attract attention? Do you want us to be investigated?”