Jack dismissed outright Molly’s notion that she was a suspect in the murder. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ His eyes raked her from head to toe. ‘You might be an unfaithful cow, but you’re a placid one, guilty of playing around with him, yes, but not murdering him.’ With a final look of disgust, Jack stormed off, slamming the front door so hard the empty coffee mugs on the desks rattled.
Molly collapsed back on the chair, her hand over her eyes. There was no point in arguing that she hadn’t been unfaithful, that she hadn’t had the opportunity. Eventually, she’d make him understand. Jack was right about one thing; she wasn’t a violent woman, but the police wouldn’t know that. And that inspector had, after all, advised her to hire a solicitor. How did you go about doing such a thing? The internet, she supposed, like everything else these days.
Her head was throbbing. She struggled to her feet and went to the kitchen in search of paracetamol, finding a packet in one of the drawers and popping two tablets, swallowing them dry.
Murder.
Her eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. It was almost eight, she’d watch the news, see if it was mentioned. She sat on the sofa, switched on the TV and waited, her eyes glued to the screen, widening when she realised that indeed the murder of Oliver Vine had made the news. She watched as the reporter, her voice suitably solemn, told of the murder of a young man in Green Park. There were few details, but a witness described the man staggering onto the pathway clutching his belly, the handle of a knife clearly visible.
‘Stabbed,’ Molly muttered, then closed her eyes. Green Park! So that was why the inspector’s expression had changed when she’d told them where the shop was. She had been within a few minutes’ walk of where Oliver Vine was murdered.
It was a coincidence. Only a coincidence. But she guessed it explained their advice. They may or may not believe she was involved in the murder, but either way she was sure to be dragged through a lot of mud before the real murderer was found.
Desperate for coffee to try to sort the scrambled thoughts in her head, she made a pot, but the first two cups brought no clarity. How had the man found out where she lived?
Perhaps, after all, he had followed her. She hadn’t seen him when she’d looked back, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there lurking behind the hedgerow. He might have seen her cross the bridge. You could see the canal from the garden of the hotel, so the reverse also had to be true. Maybe, he’d seen her go across the garden. Her pink Lycra T-shirt would have made her very visible.
She frowned. It was possible. Semington House Hotel was also the only hotel within a few miles; he might have assumed she came from there. If he’d called around, would staff have told him who she was, and more importantly where she lived? If he’d spun a good enough tale, it was possible. She rubbed her forehead, smoothing the creases away. Anything was bloody possible.
Restless, her head spinning as she tried to figure it out, she paced the floor, stopping to stare out the window. She couldn’t sit around doing nothing; finding out how Oliver got her address would be a start.
The invoice from the hotel was in her handbag. So were scraps of paper and receipts from what seemed like hundreds of things. In frustration, she upended the bag on the table to search among the detritus, finding the invoice and smoothing it out to read the phone number.
She picked up the house phone and rang, tapping the table nervously as she waited. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘My name is Molly Chatwell, I’d like to speak to a manager, please.’ Go straight to the top, it often worked.
She was holding on for a few minutes before a softly spoken voice said, ‘This is Sylvia Reekie. I’m the duty manager, how may I help?’
A blend of truth and lies was the best approach. ‘I was staying in your hotel over the weekend and I met someone… someone new… just briefly. There was no exchange of names or addresses and yet this person subsequently turned up on my doorstep here in London. I was wondering if there was any possibility he might have obtained my address from one of your staff.’
The softly spoken voice held an air of righteousness when it replied. ‘We would never give that information out, Ms Chatwell, it is against our policy. We take an extremely serious approach to customer safety and that includes personal details.’
‘But if he’d asked one of the junior staff, a waiter or gardener, say?’
There was the sound of an indrawn breath before the manager replied. This time there was steel behind the softness. ‘Every one of our staff receives the same training regarding client privacy. Is this a legal matter, Ms Chatwell? Something we here at Semington House should be concerned about?’
How far were the police going to follow up what Molly had told them? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t really know the answer to that. Not yet anyway.’ She hung up without another word and sat staring at the phone. She needed someone to talk to. Rebecca would have been her first choice, the way she often had been over the years. Molly had spoken to her a couple of times since she’d left but it wasn’t quite the same. She still felt like a traitor for letting her go.
She checked the time. Almost nine. Petra would be on her way to work. Work! Molly dialled her office, put on a throaty voice and said she wouldn’t be in, hanging up on the words of sympathy.
Amelia was her next choice for someone to talk to and Molly was in luck, her friend answered at the first ring. To forestall recriminations for having left the hotel without warning, she jumped straight in. ‘Amelia, I’m in trouble. Something happened at the weekend. I need to talk to you.’
A long sigh came down the line accompanied by the sound of well-manicured nails impatiently tapping. ‘You didn’t mention anything while you were there.’
Molly gripped the phone, preparing for disappointment, relieved instead to hear a quiet okay.
‘Do you want to come here?’ Amelia asked.
‘Yes, I’ll be there in an hour.’
Having something to focus on made her mind more settled, clearer. Looking down at her jeans and shirt, she decided it was a perfect uniform for the day. She ran upstairs and slipped on some loafers, grabbed a jacket, then went back to the study. Freya and Remi were always mislaying their mobiles and had acquired a few pay-as-you go phones over the years. A quick search found one, its charger wound around it. Plugging it in, she checked that it worked and was pleased to see there was ten pounds credit on it. She quickly sent Jack a text telling him she’d be using it for a while without saying why. There was no point in adding a sorry, she guessed she’d be saying that a lot over the next few days and weeks.
Unplugging it again, she put the charger and phone into her pocket and headed off.