Gemma drove up to the main gates of the estate for the second time that day and switched off the car engine. It was a perfect English summer’s evening, everything an even more vibrant green than usual after the earlier thunderstorm, sheep grazing placidly in the field outside the estate, all the previous humidity replaced by a cool, brisk breeze.
She had been home to pack an overnight bag, then back to the station to finish writing up her daily report, and to inform Mavis and Lincoln that she was relocating to Minstead for a few days.
It was 6.00 p.m. precisely, the time she’d asked Meredith to get the security guard to let her in. She craned her neck to look through the tall wrought-iron gates to the house, thinking back to Mavis’s earlier words: ‘Let’s hope you can get some significant intel off of her, or there’d be no need for you to be there. I mean, it’s pretty secure, isn’t it? Security twenty-four/seven, a locked gate, fence around the perimeter…’
‘I’m going in as her FLO, not her bodyguard,’ Gemma had said, trying not to shudder at the words ‘off of’. She had once, during a dull stake-out, compiled a mental top ten of irritating things Mavis said, and ‘off of’ was definitely in the top three. ‘She’s just lost two people close to her.’
‘Why don’t you just go in tomorrow? You’ll only have a few hours with her tonight.’
‘I wish I could. But she doesn’t want to be on her own, and her brother’s busy tonight. She specifically asked if I could come now, and she doesn’t strike me as the needy type.’
‘How did she seem, in herself, when you were talking to her? Doesn’t sound like she’s coping.’
‘No, I don’t think she is. She sounded scared. She admitted that she thinks the same person who killed both of them only did it to get at her, after what happened to her in the nineties. It’s just a case of trying to figure out if she’s got reason to believe it, or if she’s just being paranoid. Lots of people who’ve been in the public eye – people who’ve never been through anything like what she went through – are paranoid too.’
‘Or lying,’ Mavis said, darkly. ‘We can’t rule that out yet, either. But, assuming she didn’t do it, somebody killed Ralph Allerton and Andrea Horvath. It’s pretty unlikely that it was two separate random murderers.’
‘I know,’ Gemma said, taking the keys of a pool car off a peg and signing them out. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll report in to the guv later.’
‘Give me a bell too, let me know. And … look after yourself, Gemma,’ said Mavis, much to her astonishment.
An elderly uniformed man on a golf buggy finally drove up on the other side of the gates, heaved himself off it, came towards her, and fumbled with the large padlock.
‘Hello. DC Gemma McMeekin,’ she said after he’d hauled open the gates, holding her hand out through the window. ‘Thanks for coming to meet me.’
The guard shook it. His hand was fat, with a calloused palm, and he smiled at her with a mouthful of teeth so yellow and crooked that it made her happy she had braces.
‘George. Good of you to be ’ere to keep an eye on our Meredith. I’d do it meself, like, but I’ve got to do me rounds. Can’t be everywhere at once, can I? But, I tell you, this is a bloody terrible business. The thought of it. Nothing like that’s never happened ’ere in all thirty years I bin ’ere. Shall I show you to the cottage?’
Gemma explained that she’d already been there once today, so George locked the gates again and drove off with a sombre nod, his buggy making a loud whining noise. It reminded Gemma of her mum’s sewing machine, when you tried to press the treadle but the needle was jammed in the material and wouldn’t move.
There was a team of gardeners turning over the soil in an empty border on the far side of a lawn, white marble statues flanking them like the weeping angels in an old episode of Doctor Who, but Gemma’s attention was mostly on the stunning view, layers of violet hills in the distance. No wonder Lady Whatshername had wanted to build her home here.
She parked in the staff car park and retraced her steps down to the cottage. A flowerbed by the downstairs window was bursting with hollyhocks in various pastel shades. Gemma hadn’t noticed it earlier in the pouring rain.
‘Hi again. Nice not to arrive drenched this time,’ Gemma said, dumping her bag on a chair and inspecting Meredith’s face. She looked a bit more composed than she had earlier, but her already-pale skin still bore the greenish tint of stress and shock.
‘Come on through, I’ll put the kettle on. I’m just making dinner – stew. It’s almost ready. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’
‘Great,’ said Gemma. ‘And no. I’ll eat anything.’ She gazed at two framed prints on the wall – cats wearing glasses superimposed against a background of dictionary entries. Like many of the objects and much of the decor in the cottage and, Gemma reflected, on Pete’s boat, they could easily look naff in a different context, but here they actually weren’t at all. That purple velvet chaise-longue had seen better days, and the Chinese rug looked faded and threadbare.
‘It’s a gorgeous cottage. I wish I lived somewhere like this.’ Gemma followed her into the kitchen, admiring the potted orchids on every surface and ledge. It was instantly about ten degrees hotter in there, a warm fug of cooking meat that made Gemma’s stomach rumble. ‘My flat’s in a block of identical ones, built twenty years ago. It’s like they were intended to have no character whatsoever. But it was all I could afford.’
Meredith made a noncommittal noise and clicked open the latch on the door next to the sink, revealing a small utility room, where she opened a drawer and removed a clean dishcloth.
A cat had been lying curled up on a pile of clean laundry on top of a dryer, but when it saw Meredith, it jumped up and ran into the kitchen, leaving a circle of black fur on the top white towel.
‘That’s actually not even my cat,’ Meredith said, crossly. ‘He comes in through the cat flap and waits till he can get onto a bed. He’s called Gavin. He’s actually the house cat, but he seems to prefer it here.’
Gemma laughed. ‘Gavin! Excellent name.’
Meredith dried two mugs and threw in tea bags. ‘Ralph named him.’ Her voice sound strangled. ‘Just got to mash these spuds then we’re done. Would you like a glass of wine as well as the tea?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ said Gemma, although she’d have loved one. She was feeling strangely unsettled. She’d had numerous previous FLO postings, but never one to a solo woman, and never overnight. She couldn’t shake the faint feeling that rather than being assigned to Meredith, she, Gemma, was more like a foster child – or an exchange student – than the one who was meant to be taking charge of the situation; it was as if she needed Meredith, rather than the other way around. Although of course, she did need Meredith. The investigation needed Meredith.
Meredith needed to be kept safe.