was the Ghost?’
‘Still do, I think. They had a theory that he wanted revenge on his ex, but to cover his tracks he made it look like she’d been the victim of some random serial attacker. The cops couldn’t make it stick, though – some sort of balls-up with the evidence, a technicality. They never had enough to charge him.’
I sit back on the bench seat, staring at a point over his shoulder. ‘My God.’
‘Are you OK?’ he says.
‘Dominic Church was Zoe Clifton’s estranged husband?’
‘They’d split up about six months before she was attacked. There was another theory that Zoe was in a relationship with the Ghost – that he was a new boyfriend – and when she found out what he’d done, he tried to kill her. That in fact the Ghost knew all three victims personally, and they weren’t random at all. But the police never found any new boyfriend and we couldn’t stand that line up.’
‘Where did the boyfriend theory come from?’
‘A few of the cops. The family.’
I sit for a moment, trying to process what this means, taking a gulp of the tonic water and wishing there was gin in the glass too.
‘What about Leon Markovitz?’ I say. ‘You know he was arrested too?’
Simms gives me a twisted smile. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Someone who knows. You’ve heard of him, though?’
‘Everyone in the industry’s heard of him: Leon’s a walking, talking cautionary tale. Total fruit loop.’ He took another pull on his beer, index finger raised in admonition. ‘You want to stay well away from him.’
‘You’re not the first person to tell me that. Did you work with him?’
Simms frowns in mock offence. ‘Him? God no. Heard some pretty scary stories about him on the grapevine. We never crossed paths though, he was News of the World, then Sunday People. Went off the deep end when he got banged up.’ He tapped a finger against his temple. ‘Several screws loose, that bloke.’
I indicate his almost-empty pint glass. ‘Can I get you another?’
‘Anyone would think you were trying to get me drunk.’ He raises an eyebrow, reaches into his jacket and hands over a business card embossed with the black and white crest of the Daily Mail, just a mobile number and email, no landline. Matthew Simms, Crime Correspondent. ‘Unfortunately, I have to get back to the grindstone before my news editor starts jumping up and down. Give me your number and I’ll drop you a message if anything else comes up.’
We both stand up and I type his number into my phone to send him a blank message. I get the feeling he’s about to lean in for a peck on the cheek, Parisian style. But I pocket his business card and hold out a hand instead.
‘It was good to meet you, Matt.’ We shake hands, his skin clammy in my palm. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
52
I stop outside High Street Kensington tube station and take the beer mat out of my handbag. An HP16 postcode is scribbled in biro in one corner. I put it into Google Maps and it zooms to a location east of Prestwood Ash, maybe half a mile out of the village. But it looks as if there’s nothing there, just green space on the computer image. I zoom out and back in again. Nothing. It occurs to me that Matt Simms might be a world-class bullshitter who has spun me a line just to get me off his back. He wouldn’t be the first tabloid journalist to have a tenuous relationship with the truth. I replay our conversation in my head, sifting through it, trying to judge the truth of his words.
Switching to satellite view, I catch my breath and say a silent apology to the reporter. Because it’s there: a single large house, set in its own grounds with a long driveway curving away from the road, the faint outline of a wall surrounding the entire property. I can see why Gilbourne wasn’t worried about me stumbling on their house through blind luck when I was in the village yesterday, why he didn’t push harder for me to stop what I was doing. This house is not even in the village, it’s in between Prestwood Ash and the next one down the road, St Leonard’s. Out on a limb. Private. Isolated.
I walk down the steps into the bowels of High Street Kensington tube station, heading for the northbound platform.
*
When I arrive, the wrought iron gates are shut. I pull off the