Page 51 of The Psychopath Next Door

But back to Patrick. He was a much trickier adversary than pathetic old Max, even though Patrick was actually thirty years Max’s senior. She had been concerned he might die while she was in prison, which would have robbed her of her opportunity to make him pay for wronging her, but thankfully he was still going, the tough old bastard.

‘How would you feel about an outing today?’ Fiona asked Rose. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not going to play any pranks on anyone.’

‘Oh.’

‘You’re disappointed?’ Fiona smiled. ‘Well, maybe we can fit a prank in. We’re going to visit someone else I used to know. Someone who’s got something of mine. Something I want back.’

‘Cool,’ said Rose.

Patrick had recently moved to a small village in Sussex called Wadhurst, an hour on the train from London. When she picked Rose up, Fiona had asked Ethan and Emma if it would be okay to take her on a day trip into the countryside, and they’d thought it was a great idea. ‘It’ll be good for her to get out of London after what happened,’ Ethan had said. Emma had even suggested that they take Dylan with them, but to Fiona’s relief he’d moaned and said he already had plans to meet up with some mates in town.

‘Dad’s still really excited about that Beatles record,’ Rose said with a frown. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’s going to be his money.’

‘Some people are like that, Rose. They applaud other people’s good fortune. I don’t understand it either.’

‘Yeah. Why should I be happy when other people do better than me?’ Rose seemed genuinely puzzled, and Fiona patted herknee. She was about to ask how her parents were getting along at the moment, hoping to hear about tension between them, when Rose said, ‘Iris mentioned you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Last night. She said she’s sure she knows you from somewhere, and started asking me and my dad questions, like what kind of job do you do.’

Fiona’s internal alarm system blinked to life. She certainly didn’t recognise Iris, although most old women looked the same to her, just as babies did.

‘She asked if you’ve always lived in Croydon.’

‘I see. And what did your dad say?’

‘He just said something about you being Australian.Doyou know her?’

‘No.’ Fiona stroked her chin. If Iris did actually recognise her and was able to place her, it would be a disaster. Fiona might have changed her surname and appearance, but anyone studying photos of the old and new Fionas would easily see she was the same person. And although she’d paid that geek a lot of money to push news stories about her way down the search results, they were still out there.

Wadhurst train station was situated some way out of the main village. Leaving the station with several other passengers, a middle-aged woman smiled at Rose, then Fiona, and said, ‘After you.’ The kind of thing that didn’t happen when Fiona was on her own.

‘Are we going to his house?’ Rose asked, as they stood outside the station, Fiona consulting the map on her phone. In her other hand, she held a carrier bag, into which she had managed to squeeze a box.

‘No. We’re going to the pub.’

‘Thepub? Is that where this guy hangs out?’

‘Kind of.’

She filled Rose in as they walked up the main road, not in the direction of the village itself but the opposite way, towards the outskirts. They passed pretty cottages, a petrol station, a sign that advertised free-range eggs. Fiona had always fantasised about living in a big house in the country, a place with a long drive and large grounds and a swimming pool, surrounded by woods. The kind of place where screams would go unheard. If everything hadn’t gone wrong a few years ago, she’d be living somewhere like that now ...

The thought stoked the flames in her belly. Made her hatred for Patrick burn extra-hot.

The pub she was looking for was called the Half Moon. It proved to be a small, ramshackle place halfway down a wide lane that was surrounded by farms. A pub for locals, not one of these country pubs that was part of a chain, with an area for kids and a carvery with half-price deals for pensioners. She suspected the only food you could buy at the Half Moon was a packet of pork scratchings, and a pickled egg if you were lucky.

They went inside.

‘They should change their name to the Slaughtered Lamb,’ Fiona said under her breath. ‘Don’t stray from the path, Rose.’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind.’

Fiona ordered two lemonades. The barman, a middle-aged man with a wispy moustache, regarded her with complete disinterest. There was a caravan park a short distance from here, and Fiona guessed he was accustomed to confused tourists wandering in and then wandering off again when they realised this place didn’t sell food.

They took their glasses of lemonade out the side door into the pub’s garden, a grassy area with a few trestle tables. It was an overcast day, but warm, and Fiona had been worried the garden mightbe busy when she wanted as few people to see and remember her as possible. But the beer garden was empty.

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