The next morning, I leave Jamie in bed to recover and knock on Evelyn’s front door. It occurred to me during the night, when I woke up in a cold sweat, that she would have met Philip and Tara when they came to collect – and give back – our spare key.
Evelyn’s weathered face breaks into a huge grin when she sees me standing on her doorstep. She seems to have aged in the week since I last saw her. Evelyn is tiny, not even five feet tall, and walks with a stoop. Her silver hair is always tied back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. ‘Libby, my love, come in,’ she says, beckoning me over the threshold. I step into the hallway. I love Evelyn’s flat; it’s the two floors above ours, with original Victorian cornicing, high ceilings and patterned floor tiles in the hallway, creams and browns with a blue flower at the centre of each square. Not to mention the huge garden which would be perfect for Ziggy. Jamie confided in me once that he hoped by the time Evelyn was ready to ‘move on’ we would have enough money to buy her place. I know his ‘move on’ was really a euphemism, but the thought of Evelyn dying is too upsetting to think about.
I follow her into her elegant front room – she calls it the drawing room – and sit down on one of her Louis XVI-style chairs. ‘I thought I heard you come home last night,’ she says after offering me a cup of tea, which I decline. I’ve completely gone off tea.
‘I hope we didn’t disturb you …’
Her eyes twinkle. ‘Not at all. You know me, never sleep. Did you have a lovely holiday?’ She leans forward in her chair and studies my face. She has this way of looking at you so intently it feels like she can read your every thought.
I find myself telling her everything then, the words spilling out of my mouth in my desperation to unburden myself. She flinches when I describe finding the torn, bloodied clothing. When I’m finished she looks at me steadily. ‘My goodness,’ she says eventually. ‘That’s quite some holiday.’
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. It feels like a release.
She laughs too and then her face grows serious again. ‘It all sounds very strange, Libby, particularly the clothing. Do they think it’s Mrs Heywood’s blood?’
I fidget. ‘They haven’t said yet. But it looks like the kind of thing she’d wear. I …’ I try not to squirm under her unwavering gaze. ‘I noticed some similar items in her drawer.’ I haven’t been explicit about what clothing we found. I feel uncomfortable talking about basques to my eighty-year-old neighbour.
‘The thing is, Libby my love, you knew nothing about them before you let them stay in your flat, did you?’
I grimace. She notices.
‘Oh, I know it’s what you young people do nowadays. With all this Air Nub nonsense …’
I assume she’s talking about Airbnb. I don’t correct her.
‘But I don’t know,’ she continues. ‘You’re letting strangers into your life, aren’t you? With all their funny ways. All their baggage – and I’m not just talking about their suitcases.’
‘I’m worried, though, Evelyn. About Tara. Obviously I’m going to assume something violent has happened. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Well yes, of course …’
‘Did you see them, both of them, I mean? Did they both come to pick up the key on Saturday?’
‘Yes, a man came. Youngish. Older than you. Maybe mid-thirties. I couldn’t say exactly. When you get to my age everybody looks young.’ She chuckles and sits back in her chair, folding her pale hands in her lap. The veins criss-crossing her skin are a lumpy blue-green. My heart goes out to her, imagining her sitting in this room day after day with only her memories and the many photographs that line the mantelpiece for company. I make a vow to myself to come and visit her more often. As far as I’m aware she never has any visitors. She’d mentioned a nephew once. I remember because she described him as her only living relative, who was ‘unlikely to procreate because he’s a homosexual’. She’d whispered the word ‘homosexual’ as though it wasn’t supposed to be spoken aloud, reminding me that we were from different eras despite the fact that she’s one of my closest friends.
‘Was a woman with him? His wife?’ It isn’t until I ask that I realise how desperately I want her to say yes. The thought that Philip has killed Tara at the Hideaway and buried her in the garden for my dog to find is too horrific to contemplate.
She shakes her head, silver tendrils of hair bouncing around her jawline. ‘No, he turned up for the key alone, although a few days later, the Wednesday I think …’ she squints as she tries to recall it. ‘Yes, it was definitely a Wednesday because the recycling men came. Anyway, I saw a woman outside. By the bins. It was quite dark.’
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I say, exhaling with relief. So Tara was with him, which means she’s still alive. But if it isn’t Tara’s underwear that we found in the garden, then whose is it?
Her expression darkens. ‘You know, he never returned with the key. In fact, I got the sense that he was hardly at your place. No lights were ever on, apart from that first night.’
‘Maybe they were at the hospital. They might have been able to stay the odd night with their daughter?’
‘I suppose. I did hear a bit of a noise. I’m sure it was yesterday but it might have been Wednesday …’ She frowns. ‘One day merges into another for me.’
‘What sort of noise?’
‘A bit of shouting. A sort of scuffle. Banging. I think they might have been having an argument. I heard a woman’s voice.’
‘It could have been about their daughter. Stressful time, I’d imagine.’
‘Perhaps …’ she says, but I can tell by her expression that there is something she’s not telling me.
I crane forward in my seat. ‘What is it, Evelyn?’
She shakes her head again as if to dispel any unpleasant or uncharitable thoughts about Philip Heywood. ‘Nothing, really. He just seemed a bit odd, that’s all. A bit agitated. But of course, he was probably worried about his daughter.’
I fill her in on his phone call and how he’d left earlier than planned. ‘Maybe he forgot to leave the key in his hurry,’ I say, trying to swallow down my alarm that he still has access to our flat. Maybe I should have drawn up a contract. I’d been too trusting, assuming there would be no issues if it was a swap.
She nods in agreement but her kind eyes are troubled – or maybe puzzled, I can’t quite work it out. It’s as though she’s trying to access a thought or concern that is just out of reach. But I don’t want to probe too much, just in case it has nothing to do with Philip Heywood at all.
As I go to leave, kissing her papery cheek, she places her crinkly hand on my arm and says, her voice serious, ‘I would get those locks changed, Libby, love. Just to be on the safe side.’
The locksmith is here within hours and I relax a bit, knowing Philip Heywood can’t get in. I try to ring his mobile a few more times but each time it just rings out. I can’t resist searching the Cornish newspapers to see if there have been any developments, any arrests made, or any bodies discovered, but each time there’s nothing about Philip Heywood, Tara or the Hideaway. I consider googling him for his office number but I’m worried that it will look as though I’m stalking him, and he has his daughter to think about. He’s bound to be tied up looking after her. After all, as far as I know, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Anyway, it’s up to the police now.