Читать книгу Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist - Sam Hepburn, Sam Hepburn - Страница 13

Gracie stares down at the torn envelope as Tom pokes it with his socked toe. It’s half the size of the stalker’s usual brown jiffy bags. The typeface on the note and the address is different too. ‘It’s been nearly six months,’ she says, her voice small and bitter. ‘I was actually beginning to convince myself he’d stopped.’

‘When did you last see those earrings?’ He’s gone into calm mode, taking control.

She lifts her head. ‘The day before I went to the States. I wore them for The Times photo shoot.’ She runs to the wardrobe and digs wildly through her jewellery box. ‘The other one’s gone too.’

‘You probably left them at the studio.’

‘They’re the ones you got me in Florence.’ She pulls at her earlobe, frowning, uncertainly. ‘I’m sure I’d have noticed if I’d left without them.’

‘Anything else missing?’

‘I … I don’t think so.’

‘Do you want me to call Reeves?’

‘I’ll do it.’

They both know the drill. He runs downstairs to fetch a freezer bag from the kitchen and Gracie uses her eyebrow tweezers to drop the envelope, the note and the earring inside. She’s closing the zip seal – a trembling pinch and slide of her fingers – when her head begins to shake. ‘I don’t understand … why the change of packaging? It’s like … like it’s not him.’

His gaze sharpens though his words come slowly. ‘Maybe it’s a copycat. Someone playing a sick joke.’

‘Oh, great! So now there’s two crazies out there who hate me. And why now?’ Gracie’s eyes slide away, her hand rising to her mouth. ‘Oh, God … that girl!’

‘No. No way.’ He’s shaking his head, but the movement seems strained, mechanical.

‘She had a motive.’ Gracie grimaces. ‘And an opportunity.’

‘She wouldn’t. Not something like this, it’s … it’s not her style. It’ll be someone at that shoot. Or one of the nannies Heather’s had round.’

‘If there’s even a chance it was her we have to tell the police.’ Her face crumples. ‘And we’ll just have to pray they don’t leak it to the papers.’

‘But they will. They always do.’ His hands chop air. ‘We can’t risk it, not when I’m certain she didn’t do it and when there’s still a chance she’ll keep quiet. It’ll just mean having our private lives dragged through the press for nothing.’

‘So what do we do, Tom?’

‘I’ll talk to her. Geoff sent her off on a course but I’ll do it as soon as she’s back in the office.’

He’s taking care not to look at her. She’s taking equal care not to raise her voice.

‘What do I say to Reeves?’

He moves to the window. Outside a seagull hovers on the wind, beak parted, wings outspread before it dives for a scrap of flotsam bobbing on the tide. ‘Just tell him she came round to look at the house. At least until I’ve spoken to her.’ He swings round. ‘If I think there’s the slightest possibility she was involved I swear I’ll tell him everything.’

She sees the face she once trusted through a blur of tears, unsure if he’s trying to protect her, himself or that scheming little intern.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy!’

Elsie scampers across the room in a ladybird onesie and catapults herself onto their bed. Gracie hurries to dab her eyes with the corner of the towel. Elsie wriggles between them and inspects their faces with disapproval. Pursing her lips she taps each of them with a finger and says in her small husky voice, ‘Mummy, Daddy, one two,’ ticking off the immutable constants in her life, the load-bearing struts that can never be allowed to weaken or give way. Gracie squeezes her eyes tight shut but the tears keep coming. Tom tries to enfold them in his arms, his wife and his child. Gracie flinches away, his attempt at a moment of healing marred for her by the fleecy touch of Elsie’s onesie, bought for the bug-themed sleepover that left their home clear for his betrayal.

Gracie doesn’t want to look at the bulging Ziploc bag on the duvet. She stares instead at her mobile and inhales the smell of coffee. Music from the radio drifts up the stairs. Tom opening a door, calling to Elsie, Do you want a boiled egg? Knowing she has to do this, she makes the call.

‘Inspector Reeves, please.’

‘Inspector Reeves is on secondment.’

She bites her lip, overwhelmed by a shiver of abandonment. ‘How … how long for?’

‘Eighteen months. What is the nature of your call?’

‘It’s about … an existing case.’

‘Name?’

Gracie hesitates. ‘Dwyer. Grace.’

The familiar pause. Just a fraction of a second as the operator registers who she is. ‘Putting you through to Inspector Jamieson. One moment, please.’