Page 58 of Don't Let Him In

“Because it’s exactly the same as the box my Christmas present from Nick came in. Can you remember who gave it to you?”

“Oh,” says Marcelline, cocking her head slightly and returning her glasses to her nose. “I actually think it was a gift from my ex.”

“Who’s your ex?” Ash has never known Marcelline to have a boyfriend, so this must have been a long while ago.

“Jason. We split up about three years ago. Kind of casual. Too young for me.”

“Any idea where he got the soap from?”

“No. No idea. I do remember feeling a little offended that he thought posh soap was a nice gift for a lover. It made me feel very old, and actually, now I come to think of it, maybe that was the beginning of the end.”

“Nick said he got it from a shop in Mayfair, but I’ve done a gazillion hours of googling and cannot find a shop in Mayfair that has branding like this and sells soap like that. This Jason guy… where did he live?”

“Oh, somewhere in the countryside. He was a farrier.”

“Where in the country?”

“Erm, one of those chocolate-box villages… can’t remember what it was called. I never went there. But somewhere in Kent.”

“What was his surname?”

“Trevor.”

Immediately Ash grabs her phone and googles “Jason Trevor farrier kent.” A photo comes up on a local website. She turns the screen to Marcelline. “Is that him?”

“Oh,” says Marcelline, peering at the photo. “Yes! Gosh, he’s aged.”

“In three years?”

“Country living, I guess. What does it say about him?”

“It says he’s an award-winning farrier who’s been working in the north Kent countryside for over twenty years. And it says he lives in Reading Street. And here’s a number.” Ash pauses. “Can I call him? Do you mind?”

“Erm, oh…” Marcelline blanches slightly. “I guess. I mean, don’t talk about me. Or you can mention me. A bit. But only if he asks.”

Ash gives a tiny, dismissive shake of her head. “No, it’s fine. I won’t say anything.”

Jason picks up on the third ring.

“Oh, hi! My name’s Ash. I wonder if I could ask you a strange question?”

There’s a taut silence before Jason says, “Right. OK.”

“A long time ago, you bought a box of handmade soaps to give to your girlfriend, Marcelline.”

“Marcelline?” He sounds uncertain about the name, seems to be struggling to recollect. Then he says, “Oh, yeah. Marcy!”

“Yes, Marcy.” She throws Marcelline a quizzical look and she nods in return.

“Sorry, you saidsoap??”

“Yes. You gave her a gift set of soaps, in a pink box, quite fancy. And I desperately need to find out where the fancy soaps came from.”

“Oh my days,” says Jason. “I mean, no. I really don’t… And youknow, I think, if I’m being honest, they might have been a bit of a regifting thing? To be totally frank? I think my mum might have given them to me? Because I’m going to be honest, I’m not really the type to buy soap. Not for anyone. I can’t picture myself doing it. Not ever. So, yeah. I reckon my mum gave them to me.”

“And would you maybe have any thoughts about where she might have got them from?”

“God, no. And she’s dead now.”

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