Simon was about to leave when he realised what the Snowman had said: ‘they’, not ‘she’. ‘You agree with me,’ he said, feeling light-headed. ‘You also don’t think she did it, but you don’t want to say so in case you turn out to be wrong. You don’t want things to get sticky between you and your shiny new sergeant. And you don’t need to take that risk’-he leaned on the desk-‘because you’ve got me. I’m a convenient mouthpiece.’

‘Convenient? You?’ Proust laughed, flicking through the papers on his desk. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong man, Waterhouse. ’

Simon thought back over the previous hour: his own sullenness. His swearing, which had gone unremarked upon. He thought about the amount of time he’d been allowed in which to air his allegedly foolish theories, and about Colin Sellers traipsing round every dry-cleaner’s within a thirty-mile radius of Corn Mill House…

‘You agree with me,’ he said again with more certainty. ‘And you know me: the more you heap on the mockery, the more you let them all talk shit out there, the harder I’ll try to prove you all wrong. Or rather, to prove you right. How’ve I been doing so far?’

‘Waterhouse, you know I never swear, don’t you?’

Simon nodded.

‘Waterhouse, get the fuck out of my office.’

Tuesday, 7 August 2007

Corn Mill House has all the grandeur, character and atmosphere that my flat lacks. I can’t decide if it’s beautiful or forbidding. It looks a little like the home of a witch, made of pale grey ginger-bread, the kind one might stumble across in a forest clearing in the early morning mist or evening twilight.

Some of the small panes of glass in the leaded windows have cracks in them. The building is large, arts and crafts style, and looks from the outside as if it hasn’t been touched since the early 1900s. It makes me think of an old jewel that needs dusting. Whoever built it cared enough to position it perfectly, at the top of one steep side of Blantyre Moor. From where I’m standing I can see right across the Culver Valley. The house must once have been opulent. Now it looks as if it’s hiding its face in the greenery that grows all around it and up its walls, remembering better days.

My mind fills with images of winding staircases, secret passages that lead to hidden rooms. What a perfect house for a child to grow up in… The thought twists to a halt in my head as I remember that Lucy Bretherick won’t grow up. I can’t think about Lucy being dead without shivering with dread at the thought of something terrible happening to Zoe or Jake, so I push my thoughts back to Geraldine. Did she love this house or hate it?

Just walk up the drive and ring the bell.

It sounds like a bad idea. I went over and over it in my mind as I drove here, and I couldn’t think of one reason why it was the right thing to do, but that made no difference. I knew I had to do it. That’s still the way I feel, standing here at the bottom of the uneven lane, staring at Corn Mill House. I have to speak to Mark Bretherick, or the man I saw on the news. I have to do it because it’s the next thing; I don’t care that it isn’t sensible. Esther’s always accusing me of being prim, but I think deep down I’m more of a risk-taker than she is. Sensible is just a costume I wear most of the time because it suits the life I’ve ended up with.

I walk towards the house, crunching pebbles beneath my feet. It rained last night, and there are snail-shells all over the pink and white stones. I keep telling myself that after I’ve done this, after I’ve followed my mad impulse and come out on the other side of whatever’s about to happen to me, things will be clearer-I’ll have less to fear.

I left my car on the top road, safely far away and out of sight. I can lie about my name, but not my number plate. As I press the doorbell, I try to think about what I’m going to say, but my mind keeps switching off. Part of me doesn’t believe this is real. The grimy tiles of Corn Mill House’s porch floor swim in front of my eyes like the bottom of a kaleidoscope, a shifting mosaic of blue, maroon, mustard, black and white.

He might not be in. He might be at work. No, not so soon afterwards.

But he isn’t at home. I press the bell again, harder. If nobody opens the door, I have no idea what I’ll do. Wait for him to come back? He’s bound to be staying with relatives…

No. He will be in. He’s there. He’s coming to the door now. Maybe the man I met at Seddon Hall was right: maybe I am selfish, because at this moment I firmly believe Mark Bretherick is about to open the door purely because I want and need him to.

Nothing happens. I take a few steps back, away from the porch, and look around me at the garden that slopes down and out of sight on all three sides of the house apart from the one that has the road above it. The word ‘garden’ is inadequate as a description; these are grounds.

He’s not here because he isn’t Mark Bretherick, he’s lying, and this is not his home.

Something touches my shoulder. I lose my footing as I turn, see a blurred face, hear a horrible crunch beneath my feet. It’s him, the man I saw on television last night. And I’ve trodden on a snail, cracked its shell.

‘Sorry, I’ve… I’ve crushed one of your snails,’ I say. ‘Well, not yours, but you know what I mean.’ I assumed the right words would come to me when I needed them; more fool me.

I look up at him. He’s wearing gardening gloves that are covered in mud and holding a red-handled trowel in one hand. It looks odd with his blue shirt, which is the stiff-collared sort most men would save for work. There are sweat stains under the arms, and his jeans are brown at the knees, probably from kneeling in earth. He is standing close to me and it’s an effort not to wrinkle my nose; he smells stale, as if he hasn’t washed for days. His hair looks almost wet with grease.

I am about to start to explain why I’m here when I notice the way he’s staring at me. As if there’s no way he’s going to take his eyes off me in case I disappear. He can’t believe I’m standing in front of him… A dizzy, nauseous feeling spreads through me as I realise the harm I might be doing to this man. How could I not have anticipated his reaction? I didn’t even think about it. What’s wrong with my brain?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘This must be a shock for you. I know I look a lot like your wife. I was shocked too, when I saw on the news… when I heard what had happened. That’s why I’m here, kind of. I hope… oh, God, I feel awful now.’

‘Did you know Geraldine?’ His voice shakes. He moves closer, his eyes taking me apart. I know one thing straight away: I am not at all afraid of him. If anyone’s frightened, it’s him. ‘Why… why do you look so much like her? Are you…?’

‘I’m nothing to do with her. I didn’t know her at all. I happen to look like her, that’s all. And actually, that’s not why I’m here. I don’t know why I said that.’

‘You look so like her. So like her.’

I am certain that this man is looking at my face for the first time. He hasn’t a clue who I am. Which means he hasn’t been following me in a red Alfa Romeo; he didn’t push me in front of a bus yesterday.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks eventually. He has dropped the trowel on the drive and taken off his gloves. I didn’t even notice.

I realise I’ve been standing like a statue, saying nothing. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask him. ‘It said on the news your name was Mark Bretherick.’

‘What do you mean, “it said on the news”?’

‘So you are Mark Bretherick?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes are glued to me. This is what a person in a trance would look like.

What am I supposed to say next? That I don’t believe him? I want him to prove it? ‘Can I come in? I need to talk to you about something and it’s complicated.’

‘You look so like Geraldine,’ he says again. ‘It’s unbelievable.’ He makes no move towards the house.