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‘You’re just going to leave her out in the open like this?’
‘We don’t touch a hair.’
‘OK,’ Max says.
A minute later, he’s gone.
Joseph returns to the living room. He stands in the doorway for a while, looking at Drew. Two nights ago, staring at the dead man folded into the Honda’s boot, he’d felt a bone-deep duty to treat him not just with respect but with reverence.
But what Joseph feels now is on a scale incomparable. This is someone he knew in life. He can close his eyes and see Drew’s smile and hear her laugh.
He goes to the kitchen and roots around under the sink, finding matches, a saucer, a stub of candle. Back in the living room, he kneels on the floor and lights the candle, securing it to the saucer with a drip of wax. Then he turns off his mother’s lamp.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s never believed in a God, in a guiding spirit, in a heaven or a hell or an afterlife. But nor did he ever believe that his son could kill another human being. Certainly not two.
If a shred of Drew’s spirit remains in this room, he’ll wait here a while until it departs. He owes her that – and a lot more besides.
He doesn’t speak, because no words exist for what he wants to say. When the candle dies an hour later, plunging the room into darkness, Joseph senses he’s required here no longer. Climbing to his feet, he walks through his mother’s house, feeling his way by touch. Beneath him, all around him, the earth turns towards dawn.
NINETEEN
When the doorbell goes, Monday morning, Teri Platini is in the orangery, FaceTiming with Brittany Moore. Teri has turned off her camera, but at least she can see her friend.
‘You think that’s him, babe?’ Brittany asks.
‘I don’t know. It could be the brother again.’
‘This is messed up. Don’t you dare open that door.’
‘It’s not my house.’
‘Of course it’s your house. You’ve been living there long enough.’
‘Cohabiting,’ Teri says. She climbs off the sofa, wincing, and limps from the orangery to the hall.
‘Cohabiting?’ Brittany asks, screwing up her face. ‘What the hell isthatshit?’
‘It means it’s Angus’s house, not mine. Legally, I have no right to stay.’
From the entrance hall, Teri steps into Thornecroft’s formal dining room and peeks through the mullioned windows. On the driveway, parked next to Angus’s tarp-covered Morgan, she sees a police car. ‘It’s not him,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘So who the f—’
Teri cuts the call dead. Then she steps out of the diningroom and into the downstairs cloakroom. In front of the mirror she examines her face. Her make-up conceals some of the damage, but there’s no escaping the swollen eye or split lip.
The doorbell rings a second time. Quickly, Teri zips her hoodie, hiding the bruising around her throat. From her pocket she removes sunglasses and slips them on. Then she goes to the front door and opens it.
Two police officers, male and female, are standing on the driveway below the covered porch.
‘Morning,’ the female officer says. Her eyes sweep over Teri, then past her into the house. ‘PC Hopkins – and this is PC Kenner. Hope we didn’t disturb you. Looking for Angus Roth. Is he home?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Teri says, standing a little straighter. ‘Sorry, can I help? I’m his girl … his partner.’
‘Mr Roth owns a blue Lexus RC F?’
She nods.
The woman checks her notebook and reads out the registration.