Last Seen Alive Read online

  The older one, with straight brown hair and an unremarkable face, asks us to show him the underwear. We troop after Jamie to the kitchen. The basque is still by the bifold doors where Ziggy dropped it. The material is a light colour, maybe cream or pale pink, it’s hard to tell, it’s so soiled with blood and dirt.

  ‘Have either of you touched it?’ asks the older policeman while the younger one picks it up with tongs and places it into a plastic bag.

  I shake my head and Jamie says, ‘No. Like I said on the phone, our dog dug it up from the garden …’ He looks puce.

  The older officer retrieves a notebook from the pocket of his jacket and flicks it open. ‘I’m going to have to take a statement.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Jamie.

  ‘This isn’t your house?’

  ‘We’re doing a house swap. With a Philip and Tara Heywood,’ explains Jamie.

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘We’ve never met. My wife organised it after they put a note through our letterbox.’

  The officer turns to me with a sceptical look on his face. ‘That’s a rather unusual way to go about things.’

  I can feel myself blushing. ‘Well, I … we needed a holiday …’ I say lamely.

  Jamie turns to me, frowning, as the police officer consults his notes and I throw my hands up as if to say, I panicked.

  ‘So, you’re saying this house belongs to a Philip and Tara Heywood?’ he continues, glancing up at Jamie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I assume you have details for them?’

  ‘I do,’ I say. I disappear into the living room to get my phone and then trot back to the kitchen, reeling Philip’s number off, and the policeman scribbles it down. I can feel the tension coming off Jamie like steam. I have to concentrate on keeping my hands and legs still. I want to run. Run far away from this place.

  ‘Have you spoken to Tara Heywood at all?’ he says, looking from Jamie to me.

  ‘No … I’ve just spoken to Philip. On the phone,’ I say.

  ‘So you’ve not seen Tara?’

  ‘I’ve not seen either of them. It was all conducted by phone after the leaflet came through the letterbox.’

  ‘Right. Of course.’ He rubs his hand over his chin. ‘Obviously we’re going to contact the Heywoods but unfortunately you can no longer stay here. Are they still at your property?’

  ‘No,’ says Jamie. ‘Philip spoke to my wife yesterday to say they were leaving.’

  ‘So you can return to your flat?’ His eyes are hard as he assesses Jamie.

  ‘Well … yes. It looks that way,’ says Jamie.

  ‘That might be for the best. But we will need to talk to you again. And you’ll need to give us the key to this house and your address in Bath.’

  Jamie gives the officer our address. The younger policeman has peeled back the bifolds and is standing in the garden, looking down at the hole in the ground where Ziggy must have found the basque. The rain is so heavy that a mist has formed, thick and grey, so that I can no longer see the steps that lead to the beach. What will they do now? Will they get a team in and comb the garden, looking for further evidence of a crime? I think of the implements in the basement, the scalpels and knives. Philip is used to skinning animals. He’s a surgeon. Has he hurt Tara? Have we been living in the house, oblivious, while all this time she’s buried somewhere in the garden?

  Jamie is unusually quiet on the drive home. The rain is so heavy that the wipers are on full speed and they squeak as they pan back and forth. We’re both in shock, silently reeling from what we found back at the house. The other things – the taxidermy in the basement, the surveillance equipment, the skull in the tree, the footprints, even Jim – are bad enough. But the underwear … the blood. Every time I recall it, a chill runs through me.

  I worry about Jamie driving the three-hour journey when he’s still ill. He’s tried to convince me in the past to get back behind the wheel, to practise, gain confidence, but I’ve refused. I’ve told him I’m scared of having that responsibility. I can’t be in charge of a machine that could potentially kill someone.

  It’s dark by the time we pull into our street. Jamie manages to find a parking space right outside our building. I’m relieved to be home, but my stomach clenches every time I think of walking back into our flat. What have the Heywoods left behind?

  The pavement is polished with rain. I get out of the car and stand staring up at the familiar creamy Bath-stone walls with the blackened stain around the middle so it looks like the house is wearing a belt. Evelyn’s lamp glows from behind her lace curtains. I can just about make out her silhouette, sitting in the chair by the window, her knitting needles no doubt clacking away. It’s reassuring to see her. She barely sleeps, so she told me once. I peer over the railings to our basement flat. The windows are dark, I observe with relief. The Heywoods must have already left – if Tara was ever there that is. It did cross my mind earlier to ring Philip’s mobile but when I voiced it to Jamie he told me to let the police handle it.

  I stand with Ziggy as he sits on the wet pavement under the street lamp, his tail wagging half-heartedly. The raindrops shimmer under the light. Jamie drags our suitcase towards me. ‘Home again, home again, jiggety jig,’ he says. It’s something we always parrot whenever we’ve been away for longer than a day. Like a talisman. I know he’s hoping it will be lucky now, as he adds, ‘You definitely think they’ve left?’

  ‘I bloody hope so. Oh Jay, what a nightmare.’ He leans in and kisses me tenderly, his eyes tired, and then he takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself. I squeeze his hand in reassurance as I follow him down the stairs gingerly, expecting Philip Heywood to come storming out of our front door at any moment, maybe with a scalpel.

  Jamie throws me a wan smile as he turns the key in the lock. My heart is in my mouth, terrified of what we might find. He pushes the door open and I follow with apprehension, surprised by how narrow our hallway is, how cramped our living room and kitchen, even though in the past I’ve always thought they were generous for a two-bedroom flat. After living at the Hideaway for five days I’ve become used to all that space.

  I let Ziggy off his lead and he charges in and out of the rooms, happy to be home.

  ‘Everything seems in order,’ says Jamie with relief, standing in the middle of the kitchen and glancing around at the wooden Ikea units. They look tatty after the slick gloss of the Heywoods’ designer kitchen. My eye goes to the chip in the black laminate worktop, the missing tile above the cooker and the white paintwork that needs freshening up. Everything is how we left it.

  ‘It smells different,’ I say. A scent hangs in the air that wasn’t evident before. Not perfume exactly, more incense. And there’s an empty glass on the worktop. I pick it up and examine it, noting the lipstick on the rim. A dark purple smudge. So a woman has been here. Tara? I place the glass in the sink, not sure what to think.

  Jamie leaves the room and I flit around the kitchen, opening and closing the cupboard doors, even peering into the dishwasher: all as we’d left it. Apart from the glass, nothing is out of place. I find Jamie sprawled on our shabby sofa that’s covered in dog hairs, looking more relaxed than he ever did on the Heywoods’ furniture. But his pallor is grey with exhaustion. I perch next to him, worried.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just tired.’

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’ I leave him lying there watching an old episode of QI and go to our bedroom. I stand in the doorway, assessing the room, wondering about the couple who have slept in our bed. I feel violated somehow, knowing they have stayed here, feeling as though our lovely flat, our sanctuary, has been tainted by something unseen, almost as though an unsavoury spirit has pervaded the place, changing the energy. I run my hand over the duck-egg-blue duvet cover. It looks rumpled, as though recently used.

  In a sudden frenzy I pull the cover from the duvet and rip the sheets from the bed, bundling it all up and shoving it into the washing machine. I put clean l
inen on the bed and then slump to the floor, my broken arm aching. My eye catches something on the floor by my bedside table, and I bend down to pick it up. It’s a silver necklace, a St Christopher, its fine chain sliding between my fingers. I frown, a memory blooming and then fading in my mind so that I can’t quite grasp it. I drop the necklace into the pocket of my cardigan.

  Our guests have looked after the place, there’s no doubt about that. It’s almost as though they haven’t been here. If it wasn’t for the glass, the rumpled bedding and the strange smell in the air, I’d have assumed the place had been standing empty. Then I remind myself that they probably haven’t been here much anyway, spending most of the time at the hospital with their daughter.

  I’m contemplating whether to get the vacuum cleaner out or if it will disturb Evelyn above us when I remember Jamie’s cup of tea. Then I hear a shout coming from the spare bedroom. I dart in there.

  ‘What is it? What have you found?’

  Jamie is standing over his desk, shaking his head in confusion. ‘I think they’ve stolen my work folder. It’s gone – the client list I was building, their names, how much they owed me …’

  ‘Don’t you have records on your computer?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘But I also made hard copies. They’ve obviously been in here, rifling around …’ He bends over and starts pulling at drawers and rummaging through the endless paperwork that he’s never got around to sorting out.

  ‘Why didn’t you lock the drawers?’ I ask in dismay.

  He stands up and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. ‘I didn’t think. What the hell are they planning to do with my folder?’

  I’m trying not to panic because that would tip Jamie over the edge. He doesn’t often lose his rag but his illness compounded with the long drive and the shock of what has happened on holiday is taking its toll. We should have locked the desk or hidden our paperwork. Everything important is in this study: our bank statements, our mortgage details, our deeds for the flat.

  The filing cabinet is heavy as I haul the drawers open, my heart in my mouth. Please let everything be in order, I will as my fingers flick through the papers. I’d suggested the house swap in the first place to give Jamie a break but it has only succeeded in making him more stressed. ‘Jamie,’ I cry when I find the folder he’s looking for, ‘it’s here.’

  He’s by my side in an instant. I hand it to him and his whole body visibly relaxes. ‘Oh, thank God,’ he says. ‘I was so sure I’d put it in my desk drawer.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like anything has been taken, Jay, don’t worry.’

  But later, as we lie in bed listening to the comforting sounds of the Bath traffic outside our window and the occasional ambulance siren, I know that my fears at the Hideaway weren’t solely down to PTSD. There had been reason to worry. The strange things that took place there, the man at Lizard Point, the bloodied underwear in the garden, maybe even Jamie’s food poisoning. It was all connected somehow.

  And despite Jamie’s protestations to the contrary, after the way he over-reacted about his folder I know that deep down he thinks so too.

  14

  The next morning, I leave Jamie in bed to recover and knock on Evelyn’s front door. It occurred to me during the night, when I woke up in a cold sweat, that she would have met Philip and Tara when they came to collect – and give back – our spare key.

  Evelyn’s weathered face breaks into a huge grin when she sees me standing on her doorstep. She seems to have aged in the week since I last saw her. Evelyn is tiny, not even five feet tall, and walks with a stoop. Her silver hair is always tied back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. ‘Libby, my love, come in,’ she says, beckoning me over the threshold. I step into the hallway. I love Evelyn’s flat; it’s the two floors above ours, with original Victorian cornicing, high ceilings and patterned floor tiles in the hallway, creams and browns with a blue flower at the centre of each square. Not to mention the huge garden which would be perfect for Ziggy. Jamie confided in me once that he hoped by the time Evelyn was ready to ‘move on’ we would have enough money to buy her place. I know his ‘move on’ was really a euphemism, but the thought of Evelyn dying is too upsetting to think about.

  I follow her into her elegant front room – she calls it the drawing room – and sit down on one of her Louis XVI-style chairs. ‘I thought I heard you come home last night,’ she says after offering me a cup of tea, which I decline. I’ve completely gone off tea.

  ‘I hope we didn’t disturb you …’

  Her eyes twinkle. ‘Not at all. You know me, never sleep. Did you have a lovely holiday?’ She leans forward in her chair and studies my face. She has this way of looking at you so intently it feels like she can read your every thought.

  I find myself telling her everything then, the words spilling out of my mouth in my desperation to unburden myself. She flinches when I describe finding the torn, bloodied clothing. When I’m finished she looks at me steadily. ‘My goodness,’ she says eventually. ‘That’s quite some holiday.’

  I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. It feels like a release.

  She laughs too and then her face grows serious again. ‘It all sounds very strange, Libby, particularly the clothing. Do they think it’s Mrs Heywood’s blood?’

  I fidget. ‘They haven’t said yet. But it looks like the kind of thing she’d wear. I …’ I try not to squirm under her unwavering gaze. ‘I noticed some similar items in her drawer.’ I haven’t been explicit about what clothing we found. I feel uncomfortable talking about basques to my eighty-year-old neighbour.

  ‘The thing is, Libby my love, you knew nothing about them before you let them stay in your flat, did you?’

  I grimace. She notices.

  ‘Oh, I know it’s what you young people do nowadays. With all this Air Nub nonsense …’

  I assume she’s talking about Airbnb. I don’t correct her.

  ‘But I don’t know,’ she continues. ‘You’re letting strangers into your life, aren’t you? With all their funny ways. All their baggage – and I’m not just talking about their suitcases.’

  ‘I’m worried, though, Evelyn. About Tara. Obviously I’m going to assume something violent has happened. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well yes, of course …’

  ‘Did you see them, both of them, I mean? Did they both come to pick up the key on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, a man came. Youngish. Older than you. Maybe mid-thirties. I couldn’t say exactly. When you get to my age everybody looks young.’ She chuckles and sits back in her chair, folding her pale hands in her lap. The veins criss-crossing her skin are a lumpy blue-green. My heart goes out to her, imagining her sitting in this room day after day with only her memories and the many photographs that line the mantelpiece for company. I make a vow to myself to come and visit her more often. As far as I’m aware she never has any visitors. She’d mentioned a nephew once. I remember because she described him as her only living relative, who was ‘unlikely to procreate because he’s a homosexual’. She’d whispered the word ‘homosexual’ as though it wasn’t supposed to be spoken aloud, reminding me that we were from different eras despite the fact that she’s one of my closest friends.

  ‘Was a woman with him? His wife?’ It isn’t until I ask that I realise how desperately I want her to say yes. The thought that Philip has killed Tara at the Hideaway and buried her in the garden for my dog to find is too horrific to contemplate.

  She shakes her head, silver tendrils of hair bouncing around her jawline. ‘No, he turned up for the key alone, although a few days later, the Wednesday I think …’ she squints as she tries to recall it. ‘Yes, it was definitely a Wednesday because the recycling men came. Anyway, I saw a woman outside. By the bins. It was quite dark.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I say, exhaling with relief. So Tara was with him, which means she’s still alive. But if it isn’t Tara’s underwear that we found in the garden, then whose is it?


  Her expression darkens. ‘You know, he never returned with the key. In fact, I got the sense that he was hardly at your place. No lights were ever on, apart from that first night.’

  ‘Maybe they were at the hospital. They might have been able to stay the odd night with their daughter?’

  ‘I suppose. I did hear a bit of a noise. I’m sure it was yesterday but it might have been Wednesday …’ She frowns. ‘One day merges into another for me.’

  ‘What sort of noise?’

  ‘A bit of shouting. A sort of scuffle. Banging. I think they might have been having an argument. I heard a woman’s voice.’

  ‘It could have been about their daughter. Stressful time, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ she says, but I can tell by her expression that there is something she’s not telling me.

  I crane forward in my seat. ‘What is it, Evelyn?’

  She shakes her head again as if to dispel any unpleasant or uncharitable thoughts about Philip Heywood. ‘Nothing, really. He just seemed a bit odd, that’s all. A bit agitated. But of course, he was probably worried about his daughter.’

  I fill her in on his phone call and how he’d left earlier than planned. ‘Maybe he forgot to leave the key in his hurry,’ I say, trying to swallow down my alarm that he still has access to our flat. Maybe I should have drawn up a contract. I’d been too trusting, assuming there would be no issues if it was a swap.

  She nods in agreement but her kind eyes are troubled – or maybe puzzled, I can’t quite work it out. It’s as though she’s trying to access a thought or concern that is just out of reach. But I don’t want to probe too much, just in case it has nothing to do with Philip Heywood at all.

  As I go to leave, kissing her papery cheek, she places her crinkly hand on my arm and says, her voice serious, ‘I would get those locks changed, Libby, love. Just to be on the safe side.’

  The locksmith is here within hours and I relax a bit, knowing Philip Heywood can’t get in. I try to ring his mobile a few more times but each time it just rings out. I can’t resist searching the Cornish newspapers to see if there have been any developments, any arrests made, or any bodies discovered, but each time there’s nothing about Philip Heywood, Tara or the Hideaway. I consider googling him for his office number but I’m worried that it will look as though I’m stalking him, and he has his daughter to think about. He’s bound to be tied up looking after her. After all, as far as I know, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Anyway, it’s up to the police now.