Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

guessing, was the boy’s bedroom. There are still faded posters of football players on the wall, their edges curled and yellowed. And by the bed, there’s a lamp in the shape of a spaceship.

‘This is the master bedroom,’ Doug announces, opening the door to a room that doesn’t really deserve the title ‘master’. There’s a small, unmade double bed with a fluffy grey cat lying on it. It stares at me with malignant yellow eyes but it doesn’t move. On the bedside table there’s another photo. It’s of an attractive young woman on an ice-skating rink. Her hair is tied back tightly in a bun and she’s wearing a leotard. One leg is lifted in the air, her arms outstretched, spinning on the ice.

‘My wife,’ he says proudly. ‘She was the national champion two years in a row. Nearly made it to the Olympics. That was before the children were born.’

‘Wow, really?’ I pick up the photo and inspect it more closely, brushing off the dust.

‘Those were her trophies.’ He nods at a line of cups and medals arranged on the windowsill. ‘I can’t bring myself to throw them away.’

‘No,’ I say. I don’t know what else to say.

He must be lonely here, all by himself, I think.

‘And your children, do they live nearby?’

‘Quite near –’ he snorts – ‘but you’d never guess from how often they visit their old man.’

‘They’ve got busy lives, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

I want to ask him more about his children, Daisy’s siblings, but I don’t know how without arousing his suspicion.

‘So, how much do you think the house is worth?’ he asks, as I follow him back downstairs.

‘Well, it depends. It needs quite a lot of work,’ I say, vaguely.

‘Give me a ball-park figure.’

‘About four hundred and fifty thousand,’ I hazard.

‘Really?’ He looks pleased. ‘Do you have a business card, so I can contact you if I decide to put it on the market?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I rummage in my handbag, pretending to look for them. ‘Sorry, I think I’m all out of cards,’ I say, at last. But you can always contact us through our website.’

He nods. ‘Oh. Okay.’

‘Well, thank you very much for your time,’ I say, hurrying down the stairs. ‘We’ll be in touch.’ I open the door before he has a chance to twig that there’s something odd going on.

Outside, I turn my face to the sunlight. I gulp in the fresh air and try to shake off the gloom of Doug Foster’s house, wrestling with a mixture of distaste and guilt.

I’m uncomfortably aware that he might be watching me through the window. So I head down the road, hoping that he’ll assume my car is just parked around the corner. I’m sure he would think it was odd if I headed back across the field the way I came.

Taking the longer route back to the car through the village, I try to make sense of what I’ve learned.

Who killed Charlie? I run through possibilities in my head. It seems logical that Charlie’s death was linked to Daisy’s and that therefore Charlie’s killer was someone related to Daisy.

Daisy’s father? Probably not. Doug Foster has every reason to hate Charlie and me. But I find it hard to picture him as a murderer. Plus, it would have taken strength and energy to stab Charlie, and Doug Foster seems to have no strength or energy left. I got the impression of someone who has given up on life almost completely. Besides which, Charlie’s killer knows who I am, and I’m almost sure Doug didn’t recognise me – unless, of course, he’s a brilliant actor.

Her mother? No, her mother is dead.

My thoughts turn to that photograph in the living room. Daisy with her older brother and sister. They must be in their mid-twenties by now. Besides Daisy’s father, they are the people who have most reason to wish me ill. The more I consider it, the more I think it’s entirely plausible that one of Daisy’s siblings is behind both Charlie’s death and the photos. I think about George from Wisconsin. Judging by his profile picture, he’s too old to be Daisy’s brother, and Doug said that his children lived nearby. Wisconsin isn’t exactly nearby. But of course – George might not really live in Wisconsin. He could even have a fake identity. Anyone can create a fake account online, right?

Back in my car, I look at his profile again on my phone and scroll through his posts. There’s almost nothing there; a photo of a house with an American flag outside and a couple of professional-looking shots of autumn scenes that I’m pretty sure have been downloaded from the net. He is almost certainly a catfish. He hasn’t even gone to very much trouble to make his account look real.

‘Who are you really, George?’ I say out loud, peering at his photo. ‘And what do you want from me?’

With a sigh, I start the engine and drive slowly back towards town in the gathering dark. My mind is only half on the road. I’m thinking furiously. Plainly, George – whoever he is – wants the police to be suspicious of me, but he hasn’t made a serious attempt to frame me. Perhaps he has other plans, I think, with a chill. And a question forces its way into my head and lodges there.

If he killed Charlie, who wasn’t even driving the car, what might he want to do to me?

Twenty-six

By the time I arrive home it’s already late. The street lamp on the corner is broken and my house, swathed in darkness, seems unwelcoming and menacing. The ornate white lintel reminds me of bared teeth and the windows are like baleful eyes. I try to ignore the unsettling sense that someone is inside watching me. I’ve got an over-fertile imagination, I know – that’s all it is – but even so, I wish I’d left a light on. All the lights are off in Eileen’s house too. She must have gone to bed already. Right now, I’d be happy to