Not Dark Yet

19

The following morning, Charlotte Westlake didn’t seem well rested at all. Her eyes were sunken and had bags beneath them. Her cheeks were sallow and even her hair seemed lacklustre.

Annie, on the other hand, was awake and raring to go after a restful night’s sleep. Gerry seemed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, too.

‘Good breakfast?’ Annie asked Charlotte. She knew that the cells were comfortable enough and the food passable.

She got no answer.

‘Service OK?’

‘All right, all right,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘Enough with the inappropriate humour. Just get on with the interview, if you don’t mind. The clock’s ticking.’

Annie picked up the threads again. ‘Remember, yesterday evening we were talking about your relationship with Connor Blaydon?’ she said to Charlotte. ‘Would you care to tell us exactly when and how it began?’

‘I don’t know where you’ve dug up all this rubbish from, but I don’t intend to dignify it with an explanation.’

‘How well do you get along with your mother?’ Annie asked.

‘My mother? What’s she got to do with all this?’

‘Quite a bit, as it turns out,’ said Annie. ‘Were you always close?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, she is my mother.’

‘And I understand that your husband’s and father’s deaths occurred rather close together.’

‘What is this? Are you trying to say I had something to do with my father’s death now? My husband’s? What is it with you?’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Annie. ‘A night’s rest doesn’t seem to have made you any more helpful or better tempered, does it?’

‘Rest? That’s a joke.’

‘Where are you going with this, DI Cabbot?’ asked Jessica Bowen. ‘I’m afraid you’re losing me, too.’

‘Just this,’ Annie went on. ‘In DC Masterson’s conversations with Mrs. Lynne Pollard we discovered—’

‘You’ve been talking to my mother!’ Charlotte sat bolt upright and glared at Gerry. ‘You went to see my mother! How dare—’

‘Mrs. Westlake, calm down,’ said Gerry. ‘I talked to your mother. We had a nice chat. She made us a pot of tea. And a number of interesting points came up.’ She opened a file folder on the table and took out two picture postcards. ‘Most interesting of all were these postcards she received from you in June 1999. Your mother has kept all the correspondence she ever had with you. Surely it can’t surprise you that she kept the postcards you sent her from your world travels? After all, you were doing what she never dared, never really had the chance to do. Travel. She was envious. She saw the world vicariously through your eyes.’

Charlotte regarded her incredulously. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s what she said. Your mother. Lynne.’

‘I... well, no, I didn’t know that... but I can’t believe you just went there and talked to her behind my back. Surely you can’t do that. There must be a law.’

She looked at Jessica Bowen. ‘No law, I’m afraid, Charlotte,’ Jessica said.

‘Is nobody on my side here?’

‘As your solicitor says,’ said Gerry. ‘I didn’t need your permission. I was doing my job.’

Charlotte just shook her head slowly.

‘These are postcards from you,’ Gerry went on. ‘I’m sure we could verify the handwriting if we needed to. They’re both posted from the island of Corfu, two days apart in mid-June. In the first, you refer to meeting up with a wealthy landowner from Yorkshire called Connor Clive Blaydon, and in the second, you refer to a big farewell party he threw for you and your friends on his yacht, the Nerea. Is this true?’

‘I did a lot of things I don’t remember clearly back then,’ said Charlotte. ‘At risk of getting arrested for past behaviour, I was either drunk or stoned most of the time.’

‘Like Marnie Sedgwick at Blaydon’s party,’ said Annie. ‘Only that wasn’t her choice.’

Charlotte ignored Annie, but Jessica Bowen gave her a warning glance.

‘But is it true, Charlotte?’ Gerry repeated. ‘Your mother thought it all sounded quite glamorous. Like so much of your life. She’s very proud of you and your achievements, you know.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me that. And if I wrote it on a postcard I suppose it must be true.’

‘So you don’t deny it?’

Charlotte folded her arms. ‘What would be the point?’

‘May I see these postcards?’ Jessica Bowen asked.

Gerry passed over the cards. The solicitor picked them up, glanced briefly at the photograph of Kavos on one and a view of the Albanian coastline on the other, then turned them over one at a time and read. She passed them to Charlotte, who glanced at them in passing and dropped them on the table. Her body seemed to have tensed up now, Annie noticed. The skin stretched taut over her forehead and cheeks, lips a straight narrow line. She was playing with her ring again.

‘Do you admit to writing and sending these?’ Gerry asked.

‘Yes,’ Charlotte hissed. ‘So what?’

‘These postcards are evidence of your presence on Connor Blaydon’s yacht, the Nerea, at Kavos, Corfu, on the week of 15 June 1999. What happened during that week, Charlotte?’

‘What do you think happened? We partied. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.’

Gerry checked her files. ‘You gave birth to Marjorie — or Marnie — on 13 March 2000. If you do the calculations, you’ll see that’s very close to nine months after 15 June.’

‘So?’

‘So,’ said Gerry. ‘Was Connor Blaydon Marnie Sedgwick’s father?’

Even Jessica Bowen’s jaw dropped at that question.

‘How could you even think—?’

‘Do the math,’ said Annie, ‘as the Americans say.’

‘It’s just a coincidence.’

‘There seem to be an awful lot of coincidences in your life,’ Annie said. ‘But maybe this is stretching it a bit too far. Is it a coincidence if a woman sleeps with a man and nine months later has a baby?’

‘You’re reading too much into it.’

‘Tell me how. Or let me tell you what I think happened. What if you met Connor Blaydon aboard the Nerea that June and slept with him? Why not? You’ve already said you were running wild and fancy-free, sleeping around, and Blaydon already owned the yacht before he bought his first villa on Corfu in 2002. You were twenty-one and he was around forty. Attractive older man, rich and handsome. So you slept with him and you became pregnant. Happens all the time. As you’ve already explained, an abortion wasn’t an option for you, so you returned to England, hid away in the countryside during your pregnancy, gave birth, and arranged to have the baby adopted. Marnie Sedgwick. You remained there for a brief period of recovery, then you returned to the normal flow of life with new energy, throwing yourself into building a career. Am I on the right track?’

‘Apart from the business about Connor, yes. More or less.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘So who was the baby’s father?’

‘I... I don’t know.’

‘Are you suggesting it could have been one of many?’

‘I wasn’t exactly celibate, if that’s what you mean.’

‘But it could have been Blaydon’s.’

‘You’re putting words into my mouth.’

‘Yes,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘Do stop that, DI Cabbot.’

‘A DNA test could prove it one way or the other. Are you willing to risk that, Charlotte?’

Charlotte shook her head.

‘What does that mean?’ Annie asked. ‘Did you sleep with Connor Blaydon on his yacht in June 1999, and did you have a baby in March 2000?’

‘Maybe. Yes. Maybe. No. I don’t know.’ Charlotte put her hands over her ears. ‘Can we stop again now, please?’ She looked towards Jessica Bowen with a desperate expression.

‘Because if you did,’ Annie went on, ‘and if Blaydon was the father of your child, then it means he raped his own daughter, doesn’t it? She didn’t know who her father was, and he didn’t know she was his daughter, but you did. And that, Charlotte, I think, gives you a pretty good motive for murder. Is that what you meant when you said things had come full circle?’

‘Murder? What do you mean, murder?’

‘Let’s call a halt to this right now,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘My client is clearly distraught, and things are taking a turn none of us could have reasonably expected. We’ll need some preparation time before we continue.’

Annie sat back in her chair. ‘Fine,’ she said, dropping her pencil. ‘Take as long as you need. I could do with a cuppa myself.’

That morning, Ray woke up from a vivid dream convinced that Zelda would be coming home before dark. He couldn’t remember the details, but the feeling of hope and anticipation remained strong in him even through breakfast and a quick perusal of the bills the postman had delivered. Money wasn’t a problem. His paintings were selling well and his reputation was gaining in stature day by day. He might not be at Hockney’s level, but then few living artists were. Those kinds of millions were beyond him and always would be. Still, he was doing all right; he could pay the bills, and he could support Zelda.

But it had been just a dream. In reality, Alan was coming over tonight when he got back from Paris, Ray hoped with more news about Zelda. He would go out later and buy food, maybe the ingredients for a chickpea curry, along with some beer and wine, and he had already put aside a few LPs for their listening pleasure: Soft Machine’s Third, Kevin Ayers’s Shooting at the Moon, and Gong’s Camembert Electrique. They should keep the blues at bay for a while. Anything to chase the demons out, even if only for an hour or two. Perhaps some Edgar Broughton Band? No. The three choices would be enough, then they would move on to something a bit more mellow. Pity Banks didn’t enjoy the occasional spliff, though. Ray always felt like a naughty boy smoking dope in front of him. Maybe he would smoke up before Banks arrived this evening, avoid any awkwardness.

After the second coffee, still not inspired to start work, he decided he needed to tidy the place up. First, he dealt with the sink full of dirty dishes, putting as many as he could in the dishwasher and washing the rest by hand. After that, he swept the hardwood floors and vacuumed the carpeted areas. He stripped the bed and put on clean sheets and pillowcases, stuffing the others in the washing machine. He had lived alone down in St. Ives long enough to know how to do all these things, as well as cook for himself and anywhere up to ten guests. Hungry at lunchtime, he whipped up a cheese omelette and toast, then drove to the Tesco on the edge of Eastvale and bought what he needed for dinner.

By early afternoon he felt ready for the studio. He was working on a new painting. It started as a portrait of Zelda, but had soon become a sort of composite of all the elements he saw in her. Faces within a face, a collage of possibilities. In some lights, she was a classic Eastern European beauty, from another angle perhaps half Thai or Vietnamese, and from yet another Middle Eastern. Ray was trying to capture all these facets in one small portrait and together, viewed from a distance, they should ideally resolve themselves into a realistic head and shoulders portrait of Zelda against a slightly psychedelic background. He would be the first to admit that there was more than a hint of Love’s Forever Changes album cover in the work. In fact, he had it propped up on another easel while he worked and had played it many times over the past few days.

After an hour or so, Ray felt tired, so he took a break and rolled a cigarette. His neck and chest ached from the stooped position in which he painted. A quick shot of Macallan and a few stretches soon had him back at the easel again, but now he needed music. He searched through his collection of old vinyl looking for something he hadn’t played in a long time and came across The Thoughts of Emerlist Davjack, by The Nice. That had some pretty good Keith Emerson organ work on it, he remembered, so he put it on. He remembered seeing The Nice at the Marquee in their brief heyday, Emerson sticking knives between the organ keys to hold the notes down, shaking the thing and all but jumping up and down on it like Jerry Lee Lewis. He smiled at the memory.

There was still a lot of work to do, Ray thought, as he stood back and viewed the painting critically. It lacked a certain clarity in places, and several minor touches stood out just a little too much when viewed from afar, unbalancing the whole effect. He began to wonder whether he could even carry it off. It wouldn’t be the first attempt to immortalise Zelda to be abandoned. He moved in closer, chewed on his lower lip, and got to work.

Time passed. As usual, Ray paid no attention to it. But he noticed the light dimming, clouds obscuring the sun, and as he hated working in artificial light, knew it was almost time to stop. He also had to get the curry started. Alan wasn’t sure exactly when he’d be back, but that was OK; dinner could simmer on low for a long while if necessary, and he could leave out the chickpeas until the last twenty minutes or so.

This time the discomfort in his chest was greater, and when he turned to put down his brush, he suddenly felt as if someone hit him with a piledriver. He sat down. His brow felt clammy with sweat and his stomach was churning. What was wrong with him? Something he’d eaten? The omelette had been fine. He knew the eggs were fresh because he had bought them from the farm down the road just two days ago.

Another blow from the piledriver struck him, this time hard enough to send a pain all down his left arm. He tried to get up, knowing somewhere deep inside that it was time to call an ambulance, but his legs felt too wobbly. His phone was downstairs, where he usually left it when he was painting. He thrust himself to his feet, gripping the chair arm, and stumbled forward. He was having trouble breathing now, and the slightest move made him out of breath. His chest felt as if it were being crushed.

He made it as far as the top of the stairs, where he dropped to his knees. The world was closing down, the pain gripping him tighter. He was aware of The Nice singing ‘The Cry of Eugene’ as he fell forward on to his face. He grasped at the banister to lift himself up, but he had no strength left. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, God, please don’t let it end like this.

After the short break, both Charlotte Westlake and Jessica Bowen looked as if they had been put through the ringer.

‘Are you going to charge my client?’ the solicitor asked.

‘We’re still in the process of gathering evidence,’ said Annie. ‘She’s still under caution. You’ve been here throughout the interview so far, surely you must realise we have a fair distance to go yet? If necessary, we’ll apply for an extension of detention from the Chief Superintendent.’ Annie knew that AC Gervaise would authorise such a request.

‘I’m not so much interested in the journey as the destination,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘My job’s a little different from yours, and right now I’m here to safeguard my client’s rights and well-being.’

‘Well, let’s get on with it, then.’ Annie opened her file folder. Gerry set the recorders going again.

Charlotte Westlake seemed puzzled and frightened, Annie thought, as well she might, now all her lies were being held up to the light. Annie still wasn’t convinced that Charlotte was a murderer, but she was intending to pick and pull at the scab of her tissue of lies until the truth was revealed one way or another.

Annie couldn’t see Charlotte Westlake creeping into Blaydon’s pool area, shooting him and Roberts, then gutting the naked Blaydon and dumping him in the pool. But she could have done it. The CSIs and pathologist told her that the killer hadn’t needed to be especially strong. There was the matter of acquiring the gun, of course, but Baikals are easy enough to pick up, and there were plenty of guests at Blaydon’s parties who might have had access and procured one for her — Gashi and Tadić, for starters. But Annie still couldn’t quite see Charlotte as a murderer. Surely, she must soon come to understand that if she hadn’t killed Blaydon but she knew who did, then she had better give it up before she was charged with murder herself.

There was, however, another ace left in the deck: Leka Gashi.

‘OK, Charlotte,’ Annie began. ‘Do you remember where we’d got to? You had Blaydon’s baby — Marnie — he raped her, she told you and you killed him for it. Is any of that wrong?’

‘It’s all wrong,’ said Charlotte. ‘You’ve twisted it all up.’

‘Put me right then. Untwist it. Are you saying that Blaydon wasn’t Marnie’s father?’

‘Yes. All right, I slept with him. Once. And I slept with most of his friends. Sometimes more than one in the same day. I was a slut. OK? Let’s get that out of the way. But I’m not a killer.’

‘Why should I believe you now after all the lies you’ve told?’

Charlotte banged so hard on the table that it rattled. ‘Because it’s true. All right, I lied. I tried to keep things from you. Do you blame me, the way it’s turning out, the way you’ve been treating me?’

‘That’s entirely your own fault, Charlotte. Lying to the police isn’t an advisable route to take.’

They let the silence stretch for a few moments, then Gerry said, ‘Did those men you slept with on Blaydon’s yacht in Corfu include Leka Gashi? Someone you described as “a crude pig of a man” the first time we talked. Is that accurate?’

‘Probably.’

‘That you said it, or that you slept with him?’

‘Probably both. Back then Leka was a kind of fashionable sexy gangster. Like someone from a Guy Ritchie film. He was exciting to be around. And like Connor, he was young, sexy, devil-may-care. Liked to flash his money around. I was young and impressionable.’

‘So you slept with him?’ Gerry repeated.

‘Yes. Probably.’

‘Could he have been Marnie’s father?’

‘Leka?’ Charlotte looked away. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Why not?’

‘We took precautions.’

‘Doesn’t always work. Surely you must know that.’

Charlotte pouted.

‘There’s no need to sulk,’ said Annie. ‘Come on, get it off your chest. Tell us what you know.’

Charlotte glanced at Jessica Bowen, who gave her a brief nod. Charlotte seemed to pull herself together, this time taking several deep breaths and relaxing as best she could in her hard chair. To Annie, she seemed like someone who was finally relieved to be unburdening herself. It happened often in interviews, just before the confession.

‘It’s true I knew them both back then,’ Charlotte said. ‘Connor and Leka. The summer of 1999. I’d just turned twenty-one and the world was my oyster. Or so I thought. I had friends, money saved — not a fortune, but enough — and there were good times to be had. We spent most of May and the first part of June sailing the Greek islands — Samos, Santorini, Mykonos, Patmos, Rhodes, Kos — all this before the migrants, before they were the way they are now. And yes, there were lots of parties, sex parties, if you like. And drugs. Mostly cocaine. That’s why I was coming to hate working for Connor so much lately. I could see it starting all over again. It was all starting to remind me too much of my misspent youth, the bowls of white powder, the casual sex. I thought I’d put all that behind me.’

‘Yes, but you weren’t participating this time, were you?’

Charlotte managed a brief smile. ‘No. But I was exposed to it. Somehow that seemed enough. And then Marnie came along.’

‘Another reminder?’

‘If you like. But a breath of fresh air, too. There was such an innocence about Marnie that’s hard to describe. She was no ingénue. I don’t mean that. She wasn’t naive. In many ways she seemed old beyond her years, but she had a special sort of aura. Connor picked up on it immediately.’

‘The first time she worked at one of his parties?’

‘Yes. Back in March. Nothing happened then, or I would have known, but I could see him when I dropped by, the way he looked at her. And he mentioned her later. I should have known what it meant, done something about it right away, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was selfish. Maybe because I didn’t read the signs properly. It’s easier in hindsight. But I did warn her about Leka and Tadić. To stay away from them. Even before she started working for me. She said she wanted money, and the parties paid good money, but I warned her to just do her job and keep her distance and she’d be fine. The idea of rape never entered my mind. As far as I was concerned, they might be criminals, but none of them was a rapist. And when Connor sent me to Costa Rica, I was just so thrilled to be going somewhere I’d never been before that I never gave a moment’s thought as to what might happen while I was away. Or why I was being sent so far away. How could I know? But I didn’t kill anyone, honest I didn’t. You have to believe me.’

‘Go on. What happened next?’

‘I’d only been back a couple of days and Marnie came to my house. She was in a terrible state. Like I said, not so much physically — she’d cleaned herself up — but that innocence, that special aura was gone. She was empty, dead inside. She told me what had happened. That Connor had come to see her in the kitchen when most people had left or gone off to their rooms and it was quiet. He persuaded her to have a drink. She soon started to feel dizzy and sleepy and he helped her to a room where he said she could lie down and have a rest. But then he raped her. It was all a blur to her at the time, but she said she remembered the shock afterwards, the inability to move, just lying there as he did it to her. And when he’d finished, he drove her home, dropped her off outside her house.’

‘What about her own car?’

‘One of his minions must have picked it up the following day and dropped it off. She said Blaydon phoned and told her she got drunk, or she’d taken something, and he was worried, so that was why he drove her home.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I tried to bring her out of it, but you were right earlier, she needed the kind of help that only an expert could give her. And I failed. I failed her.’ Charlotte started crying silently and Jessica Bowen passed her a tissue. ‘Sorry,’ Charlotte went on. ‘This is all very upsetting. I still can’t quite take in the news of Marnie’s death.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘She stayed with me in Adel. We spent some days together, talking, walking in the woods. She seemed to improve a bit. Then she went back to work, back in York, and after that I didn’t hear from her again. I’d suggested she go home to her parents and tell them what happened, and she said she would think about it. I suppose I was trying to pass the problem on.’

‘Did you know where her parents lived?’

‘No. Why would I?’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘I think she was protective of them. All I knew is it was somewhere down south. I kept thinking she might phone, but she didn’t.’

‘And you didn’t phone her?’

‘No. I had her mobile number, but no, I didn’t.’

‘Did she ever mention suicide?’

‘Good Lord, no.’

‘Or pregnancy?’

‘No. But how could she, really, if it had only just happened?’

Annie paused. Charlotte had taken a hell of a bruising, from hearing about the suicide of her daughter to the dredging up of her own painful memories, but it wasn’t over yet. Never again would she have Charlotte in such a raw, vulnerable state, readier than ever, perhaps, to tell the whole truth, if only just to get out of there. ‘Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Tell me the truth now. Did you kill Connor Clive Blaydon?’

Charlotte looked her straight in the eye and said, ‘No. I didn’t.’ Then she paused. ‘I wanted to, but I didn’t have the guts. Maybe I...’

‘So who did?’ Annie asked. ‘Can you help us? Will you tell us?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Maybe I am responsible for what happened. I don’t know. But I invited Leka over to the house one evening after Marnie had left. I told him I wanted to talk to him about something important.’ She paused, as if for some brief internal dialogue, shaking her head from side to side as if in judgement on herself, then hurried on. ‘I told him that Marnie was his daughter, from all those years ago, that time on Blaydon’s yacht. That I’d put her up for adoption but she had tracked me down and come to work for me. Now she wanted to know who her father was, maybe even meet him. I said I wanted to get his permission first, before I arranged anything. I thought he’d be angry and just say no, but he wasn’t. He didn’t. He knew who I meant. He’d seen her at Connor’s. Leka and I had had a bit of a fling back then, more than just a one-off, unlike Connor, at any rate. Never since. And he has become a bit of a pig. I meant what I said. But back then he was handsome, gallant, vicious. But never violent towards me. There’s not much point even saying this, but he could be gentle. He could be kind.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘I think so. He knew I had no reason to lie to him. I made it clear that neither I nor Marnie wanted anything from him, not money, not commitment or anything, and he could just walk away if he wanted. He didn’t even need to acknowledge her as his daughter.’

‘Didn’t he ask for proof or anything?’

‘No. As I said, I wasn’t asking him for anything. I made it clear she’d had a good family. I told him I just wanted him to know, that’s all. He said he did want to see her. He quite surprised me. He said I should have told him a long time ago, but it wasn’t too late. That he had a wonderful large mansion in the countryside outside of Tirana and all his daughters and granddaughters lived there. Marnie could come with him and join them, be part of his family. She would never want for anything again.’

‘What did you say?’

‘After I got over the shock, I said I didn’t think she’d be interested, that she would be happy where she was again once she... Anyway, he wouldn’t give up. He wanted to talk to her so he could try to persuade her to go to Albania.’

‘What did you tell him?’

Charlotte turned away.

‘Charlotte?’

Slowly, she looked up, tears in her eyes. ‘I made a mistake,’ she said. ‘I gave him her mobile number.’

Annie looked at Gerry. ‘The man she met on the cliffs,’ she said. ‘The reason she was running.’

‘What?’ Charlotte said.

‘Nothing. What else did you say?’

Charlotte paused and glanced at Jessica Bowen, who whispered in her ear. Charlotte nodded and went on. ‘I told him that she was very upset. I told him what happened at the party. I told him that Blaydon had raped Marnie. Raped his daughter. Leka was already paranoid enough about Connor’s loyalty. It didn’t take much to push him over the edge. His men had also seen Connor talking to a policeman — Banks — who wasn’t on his payroll.’

‘And then?’

‘A few days later, Connor was dead. I honestly never imagined all this would happen. I thought they might beat him up or something, put him in hospital. He deserved that. And I was angry. I couldn’t think of any other way to get back at him. All right, so maybe I was a little bit crazy, too. Marnie absolutely refused to bring the police in. She said she knew what it was like for rape victims. I wasn’t strong or brave enough to do anything myself. I thought maybe this would work, if I stirred things up, that maybe Leka or his friends would beat Connor up or something. I never imagined that they’d murder him.’

‘And Marnie? Did Gashi tell you that he found her?’

‘No. I’ve no idea whether he ever met her. I never saw Marnie again, and I haven’t seen Leka since.’

Annie wondered if what she was hearing was mere naiveté or whether she had been outflanked and outwitted. ‘That’s what Gashi is, Charlotte,’ she said. ‘A killer. And we think he might have been to see Marnie in Dorset on the day she died. Maybe he told her he was her father and tried to persuade her to go to Albania with him. We don’t know, but she appeared to be running away from him. Witnesses saw a man getting into a posh silver car. Gashi drives a grey Mercedes. It’s close enough.’

‘He didn’t...?’

‘No, he didn’t kill her. She took her own life, Charlotte. She jumped off a cliff.’

‘Because of him?’

‘I doubt it. Though I’m sure he contributed. If what you told me earlier is correct, I’d guess he was just putting the proposition to her.’

‘But he couldn’t force her, could he?’

‘Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think she was upset enough to start with because of the trauma of the rape, and the pregnancy. Gashi only increased her confusion. I imagine that she listened for a while, and when it all got too much for her, her resolve strengthened, and she ran. She didn’t want to hear any more. That’s why she was running when she reached Durdle Door. Not because he was going to harm her or anything. It was just all too much. She did what she had intended to do anyway.’

Charlotte put her head in her hands.

The Albanians, Annie thought. Dammit, it was the Albanians all along, even if not for the reasons she had thought. But she was right. And Charlotte’s crime? They called it ‘soliciting to murder,’ and it could carry a life sentence. Gashi certainly wouldn’t be helping them, even if they could find him. He was hardly going to admit that Charlotte had more or less asked him to murder Blaydon and that he had done so. And it would be damn near impossible to prove anything; they would have their work cut out convincing the CPS that Charlotte had solicited Blaydon’s murder merely by telling Gashi about the rape, and that he was the girl’s father. Unless...

‘Is it true?’ she asked softly. ‘Was Leka Gashi Marnie’s father?’

Charlotte stared at her, wide-eyed, and said, ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

Charlotte simply reached for another tissue and nodded.

‘Blaydon?’

‘No.’

‘Then who? Do you know?’

‘It was after I got back to Oxford,’ she said. ‘The middle of July. There was an old boyfriend. His name doesn’t matter. We got too carried away to worry about precautions.’

‘But Marnie’s birthday was 15 March. You say you slept with Blaydon and Gashi in mid-June. That works out at exactly nine months from...’ Annie put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘Marnie was a month premature, wasn’t she, born after only eight months?’

‘That’s right.’

Annie looked at Gerry. ‘We should have known. Francine Sedgwick, Marnie’s mother, told us the baby they adopted had been born early, kept in the hospital a little longer than usual.’

‘Do what you want with me,’ Charlotte said. ‘I don’t care any more. I’ve told you the truth and that’s all there is to it.’

There was still ‘soliciting to murder’, which they might have a better chance of proving now that Charlotte admitted she had lied to Gashi about his being Marnie’s father, but even then, there were so many extenuating circumstances, the CPS might easily refuse to prosecute. All that remained was ‘wasting police time’ or ‘interfering in a police investigation’ or ‘obstruction of justice’ — lesser charges, but still serious. But it was unlikely that anything much would happen to Charlotte Westlake, Annie thought. And maybe that was all for the best. What would be the point in locking her up in prison? As was so often the case, she would probably be far harder on herself than the law would be on her. After all, she had been indirectly responsible for three deaths: Connor Clive Blaydon, Neville Roberts, and Marnie Sedgwick.

Jessica Bowen was busy making notes, and Charlotte was lost in her own grief. Then Jessica glanced up at Annie, questioning.

Annie just shrugged. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘We’ll consider all the options. But later.’

They gathered up their papers and left.