39

The thought of Will and Anna together may have unhinged me for a while, I know that. I wanted revenge that even her death couldn’t satisfy. I wanted revenge on her corpse, her head on a spike, the way they did things in the Middle Ages. Now, that was a great tradition. They should bring it back. I could have stuck her head on the archway leading to Weycombe Court.

Her betrayal and Will’s infected me like a virus in the blood. I staggered through the days and weeks before her murder, blind with rage and confusion. Afterward I wanted her back, just so I could punish her. It was a wildly frustrating time.

The suspect most likely to have killed her, my own dear husband, deserved to die, too. If only the UK had a death penalty.

I knew what it was to see red. I read somewhere that if your blood pressure skyrockets high enough, the eyes will extend from their sockets. That’s what happened to those airmen they used as guinea pigs in those rocket sleds in the desert. They tested them for what the human body can endure in outer space.

Will and Anna put me over the limit of what the human body, and the human spirit, can endure. It’s as simple as that.

The police sent me out to meet Anna’s killer: chin up, brave, biting my lips to keep from trembling or showing any fear. I used Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark as my model. I really was scared, so it wasn’t all acting; I was afraid if I let my nerves show too much, the police would cancel the whole escapade. There was a lot to go wrong—the definition of wrong including my getting caught in the crossfire. Any failure of resolve on my part would be calamitous. If ever I were to be cool and calm, this was the time.

Milo’s final instructions were still running through my head. I’d heard them two dozen times by then and anyway, I already knew what I had to do.

In the end, over much conversation with him and Attwater and an assorted cast of characters specializing in stings, we agreed upon a remote location, chosen for its isolation, darkness, and privacy. A place where Will and I wouldn’t be overheard, or so Will would think.

Before the appointed time on Saturday evening, October 29, I drove past the village shops and turned off just before the High dwindled to a few cottages. I headed south until I reached the turnoff for Riverside Park, about a mile from Weycombe proper. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t followed. These guys were good.

I parked and sat watching as a heron chased away first one, then two egrets from his territory. They put up no resistance; egrets pick their fights carefully. A mother egret will attack her young, and egret chicks will peck a sibling to death. The world of nature is always before us, setting an example.

The park officially closed at sundown so as to thwart lovers and drug dealers, but the rule is unenforceable since there are no gates, only signs with polite suggestions that people obey the posted hours. I mean, it’s a forest and if anyone wants in, there’s no stopping them. I suppose the police patrol here and there, and I would think it a plum assignment for any outdoors type such as Milo. He could get out of the car and stretch his legs, lift fallen trees for exercise, stand with hands on hips breathing in the fresh air. Yodel if he felt like it. He told me at some point as we discussed the sting operation that he’d been raised on a farm and how he couldn’t wait to leave it. He had always wanted to be a cop. He had been happy; he and his wife had been happy, until his son fell ill.

That evening the park was crawling with law enforcement, and any teenage lovers or dealers would have been well advised to obey the closing signs. By the time I arrived the cops had already swept the area, and a patrol car sat by the entrance to bar any newcomers. That car would be hidden at a signal that my special date was arriving.

I’d dressed for the occasion in a heavy jacket over a bulky sweater. Despite the cold weather, I was rethinking this ensemble. I was nervous but I wanted to look pulled together and unflappable, at least up to a point. After that, it didn’t matter if I looked bedraggled and disheveled, because surely I would be. I might be in for the fight of my life.

Tucked into my bra was a microphone. Not a pushup, following instructions from Attwater, who looked as if she could hide a marmot in hers, but a plain sports bra. The mic was attached to a wireless device that could transmit to the backup van the police had tucked deep in the forest. As Milo had explained to me, a system whereby I’d have to remember to punch the record button was too complicated. He didn’t say it, but I gathered that an amateur, undone by nerves, could not be trusted not to fumble for the record button or forget entirely that they had to use one to make the thing work. Good thinking, there. Even though I was used to working with recording equipment, I was anxious: rehearsing what I’d say, and how I’d say it, and praying I could arrange words in the right order and in the right places before they had to charge in, guns blazing, and rescue me.

It was all being done in accordance with the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act—RIPA—as Milo had also explained to me. There was no way, he added, that they’d send a civilian out without some way to signal that something had gone wrong with the interview.

I pointed to a button on the device.

“What’s this for?” I asked, although it was clearly labeled.

“That’s the mute button. And if you don’t know what anything is, for God’s sake don’t play around with it.”

“Okay, okay. But listen, what if I can’t get him to talk?”

“I think it’s a given that he will. Why else is he agreeing to a meeting like this? The whole point with these guys is that they want to talk; they want to explain themselves. Especially someone like Will, who was hardly raised to a life of crime.”

“Right. Of course, you’re right.”

“Just get him talking. Open him up and … ”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Once they heard Will’s confession, he was done.

The wait for Will to return my call had been one of the longest I can remember. If he didn’t call, if he refused to meet with me, I was stuffed. I’d literally paced the house, front to back and up and down the stairs. Finally, my mobile rang.

“Is this Jill?”

“Yes, it’s me. I lost my phone and had to get a new one. Where are you?”

I sounded pissed off, which allayed his suspicions. I sounded like myself. I wandered into the bedroom as we talked. On my return to the kitchen I nodded to Milo and managed a strained smile.

Game on.

I should tell you right now that the murders of Anna Monroe and Frannie Pope were never solved to everyone’s satisfaction.

As so often happens, the person blamed for the crimes was all that mattered. I’m not sure anyone would believe an alternate version, even now. Especially now that it’s all settled in everyone’s mind.

In life, there is no rewind button.

The relief when it was all over was like a thunderstorm on a humid summer day. The tension, the plotting, the nerves, the trying to remember if I’d forgotten anything, the making sure I’d left nothing undone. No loophole left open, and no way for him to wriggle loose. In the end the clouds burst open, the rain fell, and everyone could breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone but Will, of course.