Page 52 of The Psychopath Next Door

They sat down, Fiona putting the carrier bag containing the box at her feet.

‘Why did you put on a British accent when you ordered the drinks?’ Rose asked.

‘You noticed? I don’t want anyone to remember encountering an Aussie woman here.’

Rose looked a little confused but didn’t push it. She looked around the garden. ‘He’s not here.’

‘No. It’s probably too early.’ It had just gone twelve. ‘We’ll wait an hour, and if he doesn’t turn up, we’ll try plan B. Now, drink your lemonade.’

Rose took a sip and winced. ‘It’s flat. Can I ask a question?’

‘Thequestion?’

‘No. Just ... What did he take from you? What are we trying to get back?’

‘It was something that belonged to an old friend of mine. A woman called Maisie. My best friend.’

Rose waited.

‘Have I not mentioned her before? She died four years ago. Killed herself.’

That part was true. The next part was one of her little white lies, though it was based on a truth – a story she would tell Rose in due course.

‘Maisie owned an artwork by a really famous artist, but she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure it was genuine. Patrick knows a lot about art, so she took it to him to appraise. Then, after she died, he denied ever having it, even though I know for certain she lent it to him. All this stuff with that valuable Beatles record brought it back to me. Not because I want the money, but because it’s so unfair. Maisie wouldn’t have wanted him to have it.’

Rose appeared to absorb all of this, giving the distinct impression she didn’t really care.

‘Patrick knows Maisie had a friend called Fiona, which is why I need you to call me something else.’

One potential problem was that he knew what Fiona looked like – or what she used to look like, back when she’d been a brunette and considerably curvier. Now she was skinny with blonde hair, so she was sure he wouldn’t recognise her, especially with the fake accent. Also, he’d never seen her in the flesh, just photographs.

‘What do you want me to call you?’ Rose asked.

Fiona looked her in the eye. ‘I want you to call me Mum. Can you do that?’

‘Sure.’ Rose hadn’t hesitated. ‘What makes you think he’s going to come here anyway?’ she asked, sipping the flat lemonade.

‘Did I not tell you? I read his book.’

Patrick had made everything easier for Fiona by self-publishing a memoir a few years ago:A Man of Many Words:The Autobiography of a Newspaperman, currently sitting at number 1,364,744 in Amazon’s sales rankings.

Patrick had, as detailed in his book, worked as a journalist his whole working life, starting out as a local crime reporter in his native Southend-on-Sea before moving to London and getting a job first with theEvening Standardand then with one of the broadsheets. His byline would be familiar to anyone who had read the paper he worked for, but he wasn’t famous. He didn’t write columns or opinion pieces or appear on TV discussing the issues of the day.I’m an old-fashioned newsman, he’d written in his memoir.I worked the Fleet Street crime beat.

But although Patrick Grant had focused on crime for most of his career, he had also covered something else.

Chess.

According to his book, he was a keen and capable player himself.I could have been a professional, perhaps, but gettingreallygood at chess requires dedicating one’s life to it. I decided to master journalism instead.The book was full of such boasts about how wonderful its author was.I am certainly enjoying having more time to practise in my retirement, and if anyone wants to see if they can beat this old duffer I can often be found in front of a board in my local drinking establishment.And there had been a photo of him standing in front of this pub.

Fiona picked up the carrier bag and slid the box out. The box that contained her chess set.

Half an hour passed. It was almost one now and there was no sign of him. Fiona sighed. If he didn’t show, she was going to have to go to his house and try plan B, which was similar to what she had done with Max – using Rose to get into his house. But just as she was thinking it through and wondering how long to give it, Rose tugged at her sleeve.

A bald man, slim and fit-looking even though he was in his eighties, had entered the pub garden, carrying a pint glass full of a dark brown liquid.

It was him.

18

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