‘Yes, and do you know why? Because psychologically, symbolically, Billy needs these killings to be good deeds – saving all of us, not doing irreparable harm, not committing murder. That’s the most dangerous kind of killer there is. By clutching on to Lane – her obvious kind nature, her benign, naïve stories – Billy’s making a statement: “I too am good. All I want is what Lane wants: for the world to be a better place.”’

Charlie took the pages from Simon’s hand. ‘I’d better read this odd story out,’ she said.

‘Yeah. Don’t be surprised if you feel sick when you work out what it means. I did.’

Charlie was about to say that maybe she ought to finish her pasta first, but Simon had already taken the bowl from her hand and left the room.

‘Wait,’ she called after him. ‘If you weren’t in Poole today, where were you?’

‘At an Indian restaurant called the Khaybar in the morning.’

‘But you don’t like spicy food.’

‘I wasn’t eating. Then in the afternoon I went to Hot-n-Tasty in Combingham – the caff opposite Linzi Birrell’s flat.’

‘Why? Oh, God – not that bloody row about the lasagne?’

‘No, actually – nothing to do with lasagne.’

‘Then why?’ Charlie asked.

Simon shook his head and said nothing.

Chapter 20

20

from Origami by Kim Tribbeck

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

‘Will you trust me? Us being parked here is the worst idea. It’s a pedestrianised street. Cambridge traffic police are fanatics. Bad combination.’

‘Exactly – pedestrianised,’ I say calmly, trying to lead by example. ‘So unless the traffic police appear on foot …’

‘They will! Any second now – maybe at the exact moment Liv and Natalie arrive, and then we’re fucked. We need a better plan.’

We’re in my car, parked opposite The Tailor’s Cat in Cambridge. Charlie is proving to be a twitchy and irritating stakeout partner. As big a pain in the arse as I was when she was the calm, sensible one driving me around. Why are human beings all so determined to cock up the things that matter most to them?

I’m not sure that, deep down, Charlie wants to find out the truth about her sister.

I’m sure I do and that we will. Today.

‘Cambridge traffic police are like a weird religious cult. When Simon and I followed Liv and Gibbs here last year, they swooped down on us every time we stopped the car for even a few seconds. They’re inflexible, they don’t smile—’

‘Can you be quiet?’ There’s nothing for us to see at the moment, but I want to watch in silence in case something happens.

Charlie lights another cigarette. She’s got through about fifteen since we set off. ‘It’s not surrogacy,’ she mutters. ‘Does the Director of Science and Blah-blah at Cambridge University’s Botanic Garden sound to you like the kind of woman who’d sell her own baby?’