CHAPTER 55
There is a strange buzzing sound in my ears as his words sink in. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Maisie helped cover it up. All of them: Dorothea, Annette and Rosemary. They …’ He coughs and looks ashamed. ‘They set up your father, for revenge for how he treated your mother, but it wasn’t him who killed her. Her death was an accident …’
The sky tilts and I have to hold on to the gate for support.
‘What happened?’ I cry, my voice almost lost in the wind.
‘I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I have to go. I just wanted you to know the truth. I’ve already said too much – but I’m worried for my own life. If anything happens to me, please tell the police what I’ve told you.’
‘Aiden! Wait!’
But he hurries off down the lane, his head tucked into his chest, his hands in his pockets. How could he throw a grenade at me like that and then just run away?
A shard of white-hot panic slices through me as I let myself into the villa.
My hands are shaking as I peel off my wet jacket and hang it up.
I think of Annette’s response to the sculpture, her telling me it was about domestic abuse when that wasn’t the full story at all.
Did she know Dorothea was going to reveal the truth in her sculptures?
Is that why she was stopped? And what is the truth?
I still don’t know. Aiden said my mum’s death was an accident.
Was it caused by one of them – Dorothea? – or all of them?
I kick off my trainers and slump onto the bottom step, my head in my hands, trying to process all this information. Annette killed Maisie. Does that mean she killed Dorothea too? And is Rosemary next? But the Latin? Dennis’s attack? I’m missing something. I just can’t work out what it is.
I get up from the stair, my body heavy. I picture the sculpture again: the red paint on one of the hands, all those miniature items, and I try and assimilate them in my mind.
The Zippo lighter must be about Bobby, then there is the toy spade – a reference to the fact they buried Bobby?
The pearls – Annette always wears pearls.
I head down to the kitchen. I’m surprised Solly hasn’t rushed to greet me. He usually does.
And then I step into the kitchen and realize why.
Sitting alone at the table, calmly drinking a cup of tea from one of Dorothea’s bone-china cups, is Annette.