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

‘You’ll be pleased to know that Luke Martin has changed his statement,’ she informs me, sitting on my sofa, sipping the sugary tea I have made her. ‘He didn’t admit before to staying the night with you because he was worried that his wife would find out. We did assure him that everything he said would be confidential, but I suppose he didn’t trust us.’

‘So, what brought on this change of heart?’ I ask disingenuously.

‘He just said he’d thought about it and didn’t want an innocent person to get in trouble for something they didn’t do.’

‘I see. So, I’m no longer a suspect?’

She sips the tea again and gives me a smile that’s almost warm. ‘I never believed that you killed Charlotte, but we have to follow up all leads, you understand. It was nothing personal.’

My relief is mixed with anger. For weeks now, I’ve been living under this cloud of suspicion, all because the police have mishandled this case so badly.

‘What about the person who gave you the photofit? Don’t you think there’s something dodgy about that?’

She frowns. ‘We’re looking into that. Along with some other leads. We’ve got the DNA results back from the crime scene too.’

‘Did you find any matches?’

Again, there’s that smile. Would you believe DI Littlewood has dimples when she smiles? ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she says. ‘But I can tell you that we didn’t find a match to the sample we took from you.’ She stands up and heads for the door.

As she’s leaving, she pauses in the doorway and frowns.

‘If there’s anything else you know, Catherine – anything you’re not telling us – then please let us know. Whoever killed Charlie is dangerous. The sooner we catch them the better.’

‘Of course, but like I said before, I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen Charlie for more than seventeen years.’

Thirty

The rain has stopped but the pavement is still slick and damp. The air, rinsed clean, feels cold but fresh and the sun is just nudging out from behind ragged clouds. I feel a surge of optimism as I skirt the high wall and yew hedge surrounding the Bathurst estate and turn up the river pathway towards Dylan’s school.

It’s been a couple of weeks since Delilah died, and I am in the clear. I decided not to go and talk to Adam in the end. There’s no need now I’m no longer a suspect in Charlie’s murder. There have been no more blue envelopes in Dylan’s book bag and I’m beginning to think this all might blow over. I’m trying to look to the future and forget about the past.

Last night Theo phoned me and told me he’s bought tickets to an open-air performance of As You Like It in the park.

Theo hates Shakespeare, so I know that he bought them especially for me and I can’t help feeling touched. I said no, of course. But I’m considering saying yes next time. I know, I know. Trust me, I don’t want to be that woman – the one who stands by her man, no matter what. The Hillary Clinton to her Bill. But Theo and I have so much history – eight years of living in each other’s pockets. We share private jokes, we finish each other’s sentences and, most importantly, we share a love of Dylan. It seems a shame to throw all that away without at least an attempt at reconciliation. I don’t know whether it will lead anywhere but I’m looking forward to making him sweat.

For the first time in a while, it seems as though everything might actually turn out okay. The river by the path is full, water flowing rapidly after the recent rain. A heron flaps away as I get closer and I stop to pet a white horse. It’s all very Disney princess and I’m surprised that I don’t burst into song.

I’ve arrived deliberately late to avoid meeting Georgia or any of the other parents and there are only a couple of children left in the classroom, sitting on the carpet waiting, their bags on their backs, fingers on lips. Mrs Bailey is off sick and the elderly supply teacher that has replaced her seems confused when I ask for Dylan.

‘Dylan?’ she looks at her register, running a hand through her tousled grey hair. ‘Erm. I think he’s in the toilet. Ah, here he is,’ she says, as a little ginger-haired boy comes running over, his trousers bunched up around his waist.

I grit my teeth in annoyance. ‘That’s Dylan Ward. I’m looking for Dylan Bayntun,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ she looks more flustered. ‘Um—’

‘Where’s Ms Hamlyn?’ I interrupt. Lizzie Hamlyn will know.

‘She’s taken the afternoon-club kids to the hall. She’ll be back in a minute.’

I’m not overly worried. It’s not like the time Dylan went missing in the park when he was two and I instantly panicked. The school is a safe environment; everything is fenced off, so no one can get out or in. He’s probably in another classroom, or he may be out in the small, wooded area at the back of the classrooms. It’s happened before. According to Georgia, a boy fell asleep in the playhouse once.

‘Do you mind if I check out the back?’ I say, pushing past her, not waiting for a reply.

The wooded space at the back is empty. A couple of pigeons are pecking at an empty packet of crisps and fly away as I approach. There are a few buckets and spades strewn around and the sandpit is uncovered. But no sign of any children. The door to the playhouse is closed. I open it and peer in. Nothing. The play area is surrounded by a high fence, and beyond that is the field with the horses. No five-year-old could get over that fence. And I can’t imagine Dylan even trying. Why would he? He’s a good boy. A rule follower. He gets a bellyache if there’s a hint that he’s in trouble. So, where is he? I think. Anxiety