Rosie. She was the weak link, Alix was sure of it. Time for another chat.
In the bookshop, the bearded man was extolling a book about Viking burial customs to a wizened little chap in a tweed jacket. No sign of Rosie Ive downstairs.
Alix went up to the first floor. Rosie was bending down to look at the crowded shelves, trying to see where she could squeeze in the scruffy hardbacks she held in each hand. Alix read the titles off the spines. Moominland Midwinter and Spitfire Parade.
“Sorry, it’s me again.”
Rosie straightened, put the books down on a stool. “What is it this time?”
“We never finished our conversation properly and now your mother won’t talk to me at all.”
“So why should I?”
“Because I want you to understand, the two of you can’t hide the truth forever.”
“What are you talking about?” Rosie demanded thickly.
“I’ve figured it out. The two of you were right, up to a point. Your father never killed those old people.”
Rosie’s cheeks had reddened. “What do you want from us?”
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Alix was exultant. It was an effort to restrain herself from punching the air.
Rosie took a step towards her. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Just tell me the truth.”
Rosie reached out a muscular arm and seized Alix’s scarf, jerking it tighter around the neck. “I’m saying nothing. Hear me? Nothing!”
And then Alix saw the look in her eyes and knew that she’d got it wrong after all. Not Jayne — Rosie.
“So it wasn’t money,” she said. The scarf was uncomfortable. Rosie wasn’t strangling her, but she felt vulnerable and afraid. “A power thing? A cry for help? Munchausen’s by Proxy, something like that?”
Rosie’s head was very close to hers. The breath of a murderer warmed her cheeks.
“Rosie, you need help.”
“My mum gives me all the help I need. Now leave us alone!”
Rosie let go of the scarf and raised a beefy arm, as if to hit her. Alix stumbled backwards, felt her feet giving way beneath her. She was off the ground now, arms flailing as she grabbed in vain for the railings that guarded the staircase. As she plunged headfirst, she screamed and Rosie cried out something about a terrible accident.
Falling, falling, falling. Any moment now her neck would snap. But what filled her mind at the last was the memory of Jayne Ive’s angry, defiant face. Jayne, who had sacrificed the old folk, and sacrificed her husband, too.
She must have known.
Fore!
by Katherine H. Brooks