Finally, I met his gaze. ‘You don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you? That both Niamh and Immy are missing?’
He seemed to choose his words carefully. ‘Uniform favour the hypothesis that Imogen let herself out of the gate and fell into the river. And it seems the most likely scenario. But I don’t like coincidences, Mrs Cooper. Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind.’
Sam offered to come and keep me company after she’d driven the DI back to the station, but I thanked her and told her I’d rather be on my own. I needed to process everything I’d discovered in the last couple of hours. Stuart’s probable affair, Niamh’s descent into addiction, and DI Jones’s theory that she may have had something to do with Immy’s disappearance.
I ran upstairs and rifled through the drawers in my desk, looking for the file containing Niamh’s contract and details of her next of kin. I found it tucked underneath a Lonely Planet guide to the Greek Islands. The irony didn’t go unnoticed. I opened the file and pulled out the sheet of paper I was looking for, surprised to see that the only contact details Niamh had given for her parents, Maggie and Patrick O’Sullivan, was a scrawled mobile number. The space for an address was blank. I hadn’t bothered asking for references when we’d taken her on - there’d been no point as we were Niamh’s first host family. And I’d been desperate for her to start so I could get back to work.
I stared at the phone number. Did they even get a signal in the wilds of County Cork? I dialled, tapping my fingers on the desk while I waited for someone to pick up.
Eventually, there was a click, and a woman said, ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs O’Sullivan?’
‘And who is this?’ Her voice was so faint we may as well have been using plastic cups and string.
‘My name’s Cleo Cooper,’ I said loudly. ‘Your daughter Niamh was my au pair for a while. She looked after my son, Nate.’
A sharp intake of breath. ‘Niamh?’
‘Look, is there a landline I can phone you on? I can hardly hear you.’
She ignored me. ‘What about Niamh?’
‘I wondered if I could speak to her?’
There was a pause, and for a moment I wondered if we’d lost the signal. I stared in exasperation at my phone and was about to redial when Mrs O’Sullivan said, ‘We haven’t seen Niamh for four years. She left for England the summer she finished her Leaving Cert and never came home.’
‘Oh.’ I picked up a ballpoint pen and began clicking it, watching the tip appear and disappear. ‘Is she in touch with you at all?’
‘No. I’m afraid she and her da had a falling out before she left. He wanted her to stay on the farm, but my little fledgling was determined to spread her wings. You’re the one she worked for? The lady with the sandwich business?’
‘Organic meal kit company,’ I said. ‘Niamh stayed with us for a year, then went to work for a family in Rochester.’ There was no way I was telling this woman her precious daughter was a prostitute. ‘I don’t have their contact details, and the mobile number I have for Niamh rings out.’
‘Why do you need to speak to her?’
Click, click, click went the pen.
‘Mrs Cooper?’ Mrs O’Sullivan said, her voice soft and insistent. ‘Tell me, why do you need to speak to my Niamh?’
I stared at the whitewashed church on the front of the guidebook until it blurred. ‘My daughter’s missing. She’s only three…’
‘I’m truly sorry to hear that. And you wanted to let Niamh know? That’s very thoughtful of you.’
‘No, it’s not that. I wondered if Niamh knew where she might be.’
Her voice sharpened. ‘Why would she know such a thing?’
Because Immy is her daughter. Your granddaughter. And there’s a sliver of a chance that Niamh’s taken her. But I didn’t say this. Instead I said, ‘You’re right, I’m clutching at straws. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
‘Ah, you’re all right. I understand. I feel as though I’ve lost my daughter, too.’
I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me. ‘If you hear from her, will you let me know?’
‘I will,’ Mrs O’Sullivan agreed.
I gave her our landline and my mobile number, asking her to repeat both back to me so I knew she’d taken them down correctly.
‘I hope you find your little girl,’ Mrs O’Sullivan said. ‘What’s she called?’
‘Imogen.’
‘An Irish name!’ she said with delight. ‘That’s grand, that is.’ Her voice turned grave. ‘You and little Imogen will be in my prayers. God bless you.’
I thanked her and ended the call.
But as I clicked my pen and stared at the guidebook, I knew I needed a miracle, not a prayer.
Chapter Thirteen
Stuart let himself into the house just after two. I confronted him in the hallway.
‘The police know Immy’s not ours.’
His eyes widened. ‘How?’
‘Because they’re not stupid. They’ve seen her birth certificate. I’ve told them we only put your name down so we didn’t have to go down the adoption route. We should have told them from the off. It smacks of deceit. But that’s not all. You won’t believe it, but Niamh’s on drugs.’
He did a double take. ‘She’s what?’
I recounted the conversation I’d had with DI Jones as I followed Stuart into the kitchen. He went straight to the sink, picked up a pint glass from the draining board, filled it with water and drained the lot, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before turning to me. His forehead glistened with sweat.
‘I’m sorry.’
I eyed him with suspicion. ‘What for?’
‘You were right. We should have told the police.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘But at the time it didn’t seem important. The important thing was finding Immy.’
‘I know.’ I gathered the accounts, straightened them and replaced
