saw him were out of their heads half the time. They assumed and we believed them.’
‘Felicity has been in my flat,’ he says. ‘Of course her fingerprints would be there.’
‘Has she been in your bedroom?’ his mum asks. ‘Has she ever climbed up your fire escape and slipped into your kitchen through a window?’
This time, it is Joe who has nothing to say.
‘There have been no sightings of Shane since Felicity left Cambridge,’ Delilah says.
‘There were precious few before.’
‘She left in a hurry. Even you said as much. She must have thought we were on to her. She ran, Joe.’
The head of the crime scene team is walking towards them. ‘You can come in now,’ he tells Delilah.
Joe and Delilah squeeze themselves into protective suits and enter Felicity’s house.
‘She didn’t leave much behind,’ the crime scene manager tells them. ‘The whole place has been thoroughly cleaned.’
‘Any sign of the white dress?’ Delilah asks.
The crime scene manager shakes his head. ‘We did find one thing,’ he goes on. ‘Downstairs.’
Delilah and Joe follow him into the basement. Beneath the stairs is a cupboard, the twin of the one immediately above in which Felicity spent her more difficult nights. The padlock has been forced apart.
‘We had to break it open,’ the crime scene manager tells them. ‘Interesting collection of stuff inside.’
Delilah peers into the cupboard and then steps back to let Joe see.
Mainly, he sees clothes, but doesn’t recognise any of them. Some of them are men’s clothes, jeans and huge, baggy jackets. The dresses, though, are tight, short, made from shiny fabrics. He has never seen Felicity wearing any of them. There are sequined tops and tight Lycra leggings. High-heeled shoes. In one corner is a stack of DVDs. Horror and slasher films, judging by the titles on their spines. In the opposite corner is a similar stack of romantic comedies and Disney movies. He sees packs of cigarettes, bottles of whisky and the spectacles case he remembers from her living room, the one that she claimed not to own.
On the floor are two pairs of casual shoes, a pair of walking boots and some trainers. Delilah gets to her knees and examines the underside.
‘Size nine,’ she says.
‘The ones in the wardrobe upstairs are sevens,’ the crime scene manager tells her.
‘Hello.’ Delilah is feeling around the inside of a trainer. She pulls out a wad of newspaper from the toe.
On a top shelf several sweaters and sweatshirts are folded neatly. One of them is black.
‘Bag,’ Delilah instructs. ‘Large one.’
With gloved hands, she lifts down the black garment and holds it by the shoulders. It falls open to reveal the logo of the Golden State Warriors.
62
Joe
Several hours later, Joe sits in the police meeting room wearing disposable gloves as he flicks through a wedding album found in a locked trunk in Felicity’s loft. Also on the table is the silver-framed photograph he stole from her bin but hasn’t examined properly before now. He doesn’t look up when the door opens but knows from her perfume that his mother has joined him.
‘This isn’t Felicity’s wedding.’ He turns to the second picture in the album, that of the bride leaving home on her father’s arm. The tall blonde-haired woman looks a lot like Felicity but the wedding car the pair are heading for is a black Mercedes from thirty years ago. The people watching in the street are wearing the fashions of the late 1980s. ‘I think this is her mother.’
Delilah takes a seat beside him.
‘She found this photograph not long before she left.’ He holds up the silver-framed picture. ‘It was the only real evidence I saw that she was married, that Freddie existed. Turns out it isn’t even her wedding.’
‘Are you sure?’ Delilah asks. ‘It’s an odd thing to do, get your parents’ wedding mixed up with your own.’
Joe holds the framed photograph next to a similar one in the album. ‘Same dress, same groom, same guests, even the same bridesmaid.’ Joe turns the pages to find a picture of the tiny bridesmaid offering a lucky horseshoe up to the bride. He points a gloved finger to the little girl. ‘I think this is Felicity,’ he says.
‘So, what are you saying? That Freddie isn’t real?’
Joe thinks back to his conversation with Felicity’s work colleague, to the attack at her house, to her genuine terror.
‘I have no idea who Freddie is,’ he says. ‘But I’m sure he’s real.’
63
Joe
‘I wish you’d let me drive.’ Joe is breathing heavily as they slow down outside the residential