‘Yeah. The lake.’
‘The lake? What do you mean, the lake?’
‘That’s where he is. In the lake at Greenbank. I put him there.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Webley said, ‘but are you telling us that the person who killed your husband is now at the bottom of a public lake?’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? Anyway, I’m bored with this now, and I’m starving. I’m not saying no more. Go and find Derek and then we’ll have another natter.’
And that was the end of the interview. Despite further insistent probing, Jean point-blank refused to answer any more questions until her claim had been investigated. Webley had no choice but to put in a request for the lake to be searched.
They found Derek. He was in no fit state to talk.
Later in the evening, Webley brought Jean in for interview again and confronted her with a photograph of the hapless Derek.
‘Yeah, that’s him,’ Jean said.
‘And why did you use Derek to kill your husband?’ Webley asked.
Jean jabbed her finger angrily at the picture of the eighteen-inch-high figure.
‘Cuz the narky old git loved those frigging gnomes more than he loved me. That’s why!’
So, that was last Sunday.
Sometimes it goes like that. In a sudden epiphany, a suspect realises they’re probably not going to get away with it, and they confess everything.
Webley thinks she probably won’t be as fortunate today.
She finishes her cereal, pushes the bowl aside, grabs a slice of marmalade-smeared toast. Alternates between munching on that and gulping down strong coffee. She is still waiting for the caffeine to kick in. So tired on this day that everyone else regards as a day of rest.
Parker hasn’t helped.
She was awake for hours in the night, thinking about those stupid flowers. What did he reckon it would make her do? Was he hoping she’d take one look at them and think, Ooh, dead flowers from Parker; I really must rush into his loving arms?
I mean, seriously?
And why dead ones in particular? Because to be honest, that sounds almost like a threat. The message on the card backs that up, too. Without love we wither and die. We die? As in, the two of us?
She decides she needs to stop thinking about it, because it’s not helping anything and she needs to get to work. Even though it’s a Sunday.
She carries her plate and bowl and mug to the sink, to be washed later, then heads out to the hall. She grabs her jacket and bag and goes to the front door.
Which is when she finds it.
It’s a padded brown envelope on the floor. She stoops and picks it up. It says ‘Megan xxx’ on the front. She can guess who it’s from.
The envelope is very light. She gives it a squeeze but can’t work out what it might contain.
She takes it back into the kitchen. Putting down her bag, she rips open the envelope and peers inside.
She’s not sure what she’s looking at. Is that some form of packaging?
Tentatively, she reaches in and pulls some of it out.
It looks like…
Hair.
Human hair. Dark, like Parker’s.
She tips the envelope and shakes it over the worktop. More hair falls out. And some of it is thick and curly, and she realises it’s body hair. Possibly even pubic. There’s a lot of it, too.
‘Jesus!’ she says, grimacing.
A small white card drops out of the envelope. Its typewritten message says, ‘My dearest Megan, I’m tearing my hair out at the thought of not being with you. I need you xx’
‘What the fuck?’
She finds her phone and calls Parker. It goes straight to voicemail, so she leaves a message.
‘Have you gone fucking nuts? What’s with the hair? Is this really yours? You’re freaking me out now, Parker. Call me back, and you’d better have a fucking good explanation.’
She ends the call. When it rings in her hand almost immediately, she answers it without looking at the name.
‘Well?’ she demands.
‘Yeah, I’m well thanks,’ Cody says. ‘Not so sure about you, though. Missing my wit and companionship?’