You Can Trust Me (40 page)

But perhaps our version of Kara was an illusion, a construct that we simply
wanted
to believe in. After she died, Innocent Kara became the only possible version of the person she had been: the victim who was too good for this world, taken from us too young. Everyone who knew her believed in Innocent Kara.

Everyone except Julia, I think wistfully. Perhaps that was why Kara adored her so much, because Julia let her be herself.

I reach the end of the road and break into a jog as I turn the corner. I try not to run too fast and draw attention to myself, but the keys are now burning a hole in my jeans pocket and I'm imagining Alexa noticing they're gone and calling the police immediately. My imagination is so fixed on this outcome, I can almost hear the sirens as I duck into a coffee bar. It's a bit of a dive—with stained plastic tables and the smell of stale coffee wafting across the dirty linoleum floor. I head for a table at the back and ask for a cappuccino from the sallow-skinned waitress. She retreats behind the counter. I look around. There are only three other customers in the café, a man reading a newspaper in the corner and two women intent on their conversation by the window.

No one is watching me. I put my hand in my pocket and take out the keys to Alexa's vacation house. I hold out the plastic label attached.
CROWDALE
.

I whip out my phone and Google the word. Less than a second later the details flash up on screen. Crowdale, in Princetown, Dartmoor. There's even a postal code. I click through to Zoopla. The house last changed hands three years ago.

I shake my head. I still don't see how anything significant could be stored in a vacation rental. Even if Alexa—a groomed, middle-aged businesswoman, albeit with a rather seedy business—is somehow connected to a rape and murder from eighteen years ago, why would she keep part of the evidence somewhere so public?

I look at the keys again. Princetown is about an hour's drive away, in a fairly desolate part of Dartmoor. My cappuccino arrives. I take a sip. The coffee tastes both weak and burnt. Disgusting.

I call Damian, explaining where I am and that I have news, but I can't speak. He tells me he is at Honiton staion, picking up his car, and that I should wait while he drives over. I can't finish my coffee, so I order an orange juice, then use the dryer in the ladies' to get the worst of the damp out of my hair. My clothes still feel uncomfortable against my skin. I sip my juice and think about calling Will. He should have both Zack and Hannah with him by now. I send him a text, asking if the kids enjoyed their day, but he doesn't reply.

An hour passes. Damian is stuck in traffic. I order another juice and wait. The sun is setting and the café is about to close by the time Damian arrives. He leaps out of his Mercedes and rushes into the café before I can even get up from the table. We head outside, into the rain, and walk over to his car.

“What did you find out?” he asks, his whole body tensed.

We sit in his car and I explain how Poppy sought me out and tried to sell me information. “I don't think she was ever really going to tell me where she got the locket—or who from—she just wanted my cash. Anyway, I followed her to Honey Hearts.…”

Damian's eyes widen at this, getting bigger still as I explain how I overheard Poppy's conversation with her mother and, then, how I stole the keys to the holiday rental where she's been staying.

“It's called Crowdale, on Dartmoor.”

“What about the police, Livy?” Damian interrupts, looking shocked. “I thought we agreed earlier you were going to take everything to the police?”

I stare at him. I'd completely forgotten our earlier plan for me to go to the authorities.

“I can still do that.” Rain drums on the car roof. “I can give the police the keys. They can look in the the rental.”

“But … but…” Damian shakes his head. “Don't you see that if Alexa is involved with Julia's death, then she'll know the locket that Poppy stole is significant—and the house where she stole it from is a significant place.”

“Okay, then—”

“So if she realizes you took her keys, she's going to try to cover her tracks straightaway.”

“Why does that stop me taking the keys to the police?” I look at him, bemused. “Like I said,
they
can go there and investigate.”

Damian stares at me as if I'm mad. “The police won't go anywhere without a warrant, which there's no reason to grant, other than you saying the locket was once there.”

“But it
was
. Poppy said she found it where she'd been staying. Which was her mother's vacation house.”

Damian shakes his head again. “The word of a drug addict won't count for much, believe me, that's if you can even find her again or if Alexa backs up her story, neither of which seems very likely.” He sighs and rests his head on the steering wheel.

“So what do we do?”

Damian looks up. “Well, we don't have much choice now. Alexa Carling said this Crowdale place is a vacation home, right?”

I nod.

“So … if her daughter has been using it, but she's just had to give Alexa back the keys, the chances are high that the place is empty. We need to take a look at it as soon as possible, before Alexa works out what you've done.”

We drive in silence toward Dartmoor. The sky darkens as we travel. I check my phone, but Will still hasn't replied to my text. He will definitely be with Zack and Hannah now. My heart twists at the thought of the three of them together, in our home, without me. I glance across at Damian. He suddenly seems very young and far less attractive than he did yesterday.

The rain grows heavier, bringing with it a soft gray mist that makes it hard to read the passing signposts. In the end, we get lost only once on the way to Princetown, but it's still not easy to find Crowdale once we're there. The houses are spread out across the moors and set back from the narrow lanes with their dry stone walls. Our task is made harder by the driving rain and the mist that swirls creepily around us.

We crawl along as the light fades completely from the sky and the rain slows to a pattering. The darkness and drizzle make it feel later than it really is.

“Here.” Damian looks up from the map he's consulting and points to a turnoff on the left. We drive along the unpaved road—not much more than a muddy track—stopping when we reach a low gate that crosses the path. A sign by the gate reads
CROWDALE
. The house itself is fifty yards or so beyond—a squat stone cottage on two floors. I pull the hood of my jacket up as I get out of the car. Damian turns up his collar. Silently, we climb the gate and trudge along the path to the house. Against the charcoal and silver sky, it looks bleak. Deserted. Spooky. Dark curtains hang at the closed windows. No lights are on.

We reach the front door. There are two locks. Ivy crawls up the wall on either side. A sign hung over the door flaps against the stone:
CROWDALE
. Damian looks at me.

“You're up,” he says.

I take Alexa's keys out of my pocket and fit the first of the two into the top lock. It turns with a click. I take the dead bolt key and twist that inside the lower lock. It sticks at first. I give it a wrench. The door, stiff and old and heavy, swings open. The house inside is in darkness. I step in, the stone flags on the floor are cold underfoot, even through my shoes.

Behind me, Damian fumbles for the light switch.

With a flick, the corridor fills with bright light. There are two doors, one on either side and a flight of stairs leading up to the first floor. Both doors are open. I peer around the first door, into a living room. It's anally neat.

A memory from Kara's murder investigation years ago flashes into my head:
Our profilers say the guy who did this is obsessive about covering his tracks. He has left no clue, no hint of his presence.

I shiver as I follow Damian into the living room. There is hardly any furniture. Just two low couches and a large-screen TV. A built-in cupboard on the far wall opens easily to reveal a shelf of DVDs. I pick a couple at random. They are all art films, mostly foreign.

“These are odd films for a vacation rental,” I whisper. “You'd expect stuff for kids, not this.”

Damian nods.

I look around for evidence of Poppy's stay. Surely the straggly-haired addict I met would make more mess? I cross the hall into the room opposite: a kitchen. A large bottle of Pepsi stands open on the table, along with the detritus from a meal—bread, a slab of butter, some cheese.

We head upstairs. The landing at the top of the stairs is tiny. A small bathroom with the door open is opposite; a closed door on either side. I peer inside the bathroom. A sink, with a small cupboard above and a bath. No ornaments. No decoration. Just like the rest of the house. Not even a mirror.

I open the cupboard. It contains a bottle of mouthwash, a toothbrush, and toothpaste on one shelf. Shaving foam and a shaving brush and razor on the other. This is, literally, all. I stare down at the sink. A large bar of orange soap. A threadbare towel hangs to one side.

“I don't understand. It looks like a
man
lives here,” I say, coming out of the bathroom. “A
monk.
”

“Really?” Damian gestures into the room on the right. He is standing in the doorway. I go over and peer in. It's a tiny bedroom in a phenomenal mess. Clothes and magazines scatter the floor. A small wooden wardrobe is empty, the doors hanging open. A low bed stands in the center of the room. A single blanket is strewn over a dirty mattress. No sheets. Two grubby cushions appear to serve as pillows. A toiletries bag is open on the mattress. Two tubes of lipstick, an apparently unused toothbrush and a box of tampons spill out, onto the blanket.

“Christ, I don't know.” I turn away and head to the other room, opposite this one. I open the door.

We're back to Mr. Anal. The iron bedstead is covered with a tightly drawn white duvet. The walls, floor and fitted cupboards are painted white. Damian strides over and pulls open the doors. Inside rows of shirts and a couple of suits and slacks hang neatly, each item spaced separately from the next, so none of the hangers touch. A row of men's shoes—mostly smart and brown or black—line up underneath the clothes. As Damian heads for the chest of drawers under the window, I look around. There is absolutely nothing to give any indication of the personality of the owner of this room. No books—in fact, there's not a single book in the house. No computer. No photos. No pictures. No ornaments. Even the top of the chest of drawers is completely empty. I check under the pillows. No sleepwear lurking anywhere. All I can find is a long, old-fashioned key, tucked under the mattress.

The room is eerily sterile. I shiver. Damian puts his hand on my shoulder.

“I don't get it,” he says.

We head back downstairs. I'm about to tell him that the whole house—apart from the messy bedroom—fits the profile of Kara's killer, when I catch sight of a small door under the stairs. I turn to Damian. “What about in there?”

Damian strides over. The door is locked. He steps back with a groan. “If I break it down, it'll be obvious we've been here.”

I open my palm, revealing the key I found under the mattress upstairs.

“Try this.”

It fits the lock. Damian turns it with a click. The door opens onto stairs. Narrow and concrete, they lead down into darkness. Damian feels for the light switch. Turns it on. I follow him down the stairs. It's a small, square cellar. No doors, no windows, just bare brick walls and a concrete floor. Two cardboard boxes stand against one window. I peer inside and see only books: crime novels, dog-eared paperbacks, a few ancient encylopedias. Nothing personal, nothing to indicate who the books' owner might be. A naked lightbulb hangs from the ceiling.

“This is hopeless.” Damian's voice sounds hollow.

I peer around the room, searching for something, anything, that might explain how Alexa Carling's daughter found Kara's locket in this strange house. I run my hands over the wall at the far end of the cellar. My fingers glide over the bricks, then hit a ridge. I stop. Peer closer. The gap between these two bricks and the two below is looser than the rest, the bricks not flush against the wall. I pick at the cement. It crumbles in my hand.

“Look,” I say.

Damian rushes over and kneels beside me. We slide our fingers between the bricks. All four come away easily, revealing a dark hole behind. There's no sound in the room. All I can hear is my own, jagged breathing.

“Go on,” Damian urges.

I reach my hand inside. My sweating fingers meet cool metal. It's a box. I grip the sides and pull it out. It's beautiful—about the size of a large shoe box and hammered out of some kind of silver. Very simple and very unusual.

“I've never seen anything like this before,” I whisper.

“Let's open it.” Damian crouches down and reaches for the lid. It's locked, and this time, there's no sign of a key.

I glance at Damian, chills creeping down my spine.

“There's something bad about this box,” I say, my voice hoarse.

I put my hand on the metal. It's cold to the touch. I don't believe in ghosts or evil spirits but, if I did, I would be certain that one lurks inside this box, right now.

“I don't want to open it,” I say. The silence around us—from the house and the moor beyond—weighs down on me like a physical presence. The evil is here, in this room, coming from this box. “If we open it, we let the evil out.”

“That's ridiculous.” Damian takes the box from me. “We need to see what's inside this.”

I look up, frozen with fear. Damian peers at the lock.

“Don't you feel it?” I ask.

He shakes his head, intent on examining the box. He disappears, returning a minute later with a knife from the kitchen. He levers the blade between the lid and the main part of the box, then prizes it open with a snap.