The Stranger Diaries by Elly Griffiths

Author:Elly Griffiths
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2018-07-27T15:37:51+00:00

I drive home in a state of shock. Has a murderer been reading my diary? Has he (I think of him as a he, while I noticed that Harbinder did not commit herself) been following my innermost thoughts, the feelings that I would be too embarrassed to express out loud? All the times I’ve resented Simon and Fleur, my petty jealousies at work, my ridiculous belief that I’m going to write a book? Did he read that awful entry about Ella? Was that why she was killed? I have already disposed of one of these creatures. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And someone had not only read my diary but written in it. The tiny, sinister script that apparently matched the note found by Ella’s body. Had the writer been close to me at work or at home? Was he, as the police seemed to think, someone I actually know?

When I get home I have a raging headache and just want to go to bed with a hot water bottle and some aspirin. But I’m greeted by the pungent smell of frying mince and onions and, in the kitchen, Georgie and Ty are cooking.

‘We thought we’d cook you a proper Sunday lunch, Mum,’ says Georgie, tipping in a tin of tomatoes. ‘It was Ty’s idea.’

Suddenly I think of my grandparents in Scotland, the table loaded with roast meat and potatoes. Everything golden and glistening, tasting strongly of itself. The blue and white gravy boat steaming in the centre. Today’s lunch seems to be spaghetti bolognaise, heavy on garlic and oregano. I’m still feeling slightly sick and my stomach churns at the thought of the meal to come but there’s no denying that it’s a very sweet gesture. Ty is chopping up a green pepper, taking a lot of care to keep the pieces the same size. Georgie has laid the table and made a rather lovely arrangement of holly and ivy. Herbert is watching her as she stirs the sauce. I don’t want him to get fat so never feed him scraps. Georgie does though and he’s expectant. He loves human food.

‘I brought some wine,’ says Ty. He wraps a napkin round the bottle like a proper barman and pours me a glass.

‘Thank you, Ty.’ I try not to take too big a gulp. Ty pours Georgie a glass too but I decide not to say anything.

I need some ibuprofen but don’t want to take them with the wine so I force myself to sit at the table and chat. I try to find out whether Ty has ambitions beyond working in a pub and I’m pleased to find out that he is thinking of applying to university next year.

‘I’ve got A-Levels,’ he says. ‘English, IT and art. Not great grades but maybe I could get in to do English somewhere. I liked English at school. I had a really good teacher.’

People often remember their English teacher fondly. It’s never maths or ICT. This is something that sustains me on

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