Helen Groves left the house and got into her car. Jenny followed, at a distance. She had only wanted to talk to someone who knew Luke well, to ask what sort of person he was. She would say it was for an article, a quote about the man suspected of killing his father, but really Jenny wanted to know how she’d got it so wrong. How she’d willingly got into a boat with a killer.
It turned out nobody really knew Luke, at least nobody who would talk about it. His wife had slammed down the phone. No doubt Jenny had been one of many journalists who had tried to speak to her. His friends were vague—he was quiet; he kept himself to himself—the sort of thing everyone said about murderers after their crimes had been discovered. But then one of them had mentioned a woman Luke had boarded with as a kid. How they kept in touch. It hadn’t taken much to track down Helen Groves. She would know him, Jenny thought. She would tell Jenny what a lovely man he was, how she never would have thought him capable of such things, how he was sweet and kind, and Jenny would feel better. Less duped. Less stupid.
But Helen Groves had not answered the phone. She had not answered the door. She had hidden in the front room. Jenny had seen her rush behind the door. She wanted to know what she was hiding from.
She followed her through the winding lanes of rural St Pierre du Bois and St Saviour’s and into St Andrew’s, where the roads widened and the traffic increased as they joined the steady flow of cars into town. At the roundabout, Helen Groves took the exit to North Beach, parking her car in a ten-hour zone. Jenny came to a stop a few spaces away. Reached for her phone.
‘Jenny?’ Michael sounded out of breath.
‘Are you OK? Are you out?’
‘Marquis took me for a drive. What’s up?’ He was still unsure of himself with her, despite the fact that she’d told him over and over again that she’d forgiven him, that there was nothing, really, to forgive.
‘I’m fine. Maybe nothing but I went to see someone, to talk to them about Luke—’
‘For God’s sake, Jenny. I’ve told you—you made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.’
‘Michael, I know. But she wouldn’t talk to me anyway—didn’t answer the door. I waited, watched the house, just felt like something was off. When she came out, I followed her to North Beach. And now she’s buying a ticket to Sark.’ She waited for Michael to berate her for harassing members of the public, but he was quiet. She could hear his laboured breathing. ‘Michael?’
‘Who is it?’
‘A woman Luke boarded with when he was at school here. Name’s Helen Groves.’
‘Shit!’ She held the phone away from her ear at Michael’s exclamation. ‘When does the ferry leave?’
She checked her watch. ‘Half an hour.’
‘Keep an eye on her. Text me when she’s on the boat. I’m on my way.’
‘Here?’
‘To Sark.’
‘Michael, you’re supposed to be in bed—’
The line was already dead.