‘Oh my God, I must have fallen asleep! I’m so sorry, Cleo,’ she muttered, trying to extricate herself without waking Nate.
‘It’s not a problem,’ I whispered back, suddenly reminded how young she really was.
On the Thursday afternoon, three days before we were due to fly home, I went into the villa in search of some paracetamol, leaving Stuart and Nate in the pool. Too much sun and half a carafe of rosé had left me with a banging headache. I searched through the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen with no luck, before heading upstairs to our room. When I couldn’t find any in my handbag or in Stuart’s washbag, I wandered along the landing to the master bedroom to see if Melanie had some.
As I approached the door to their room, I heard what sounded like a quarrel and I stopped in my tracks. Melanie berating Bill about some perceived misdemeanour, no doubt. She could be a terrible nag. Then I remembered Bill was down by the pool. Curious, I bent my head to listen.
‘… it’s obvious to me, Niamh, that you’ve developed an… infatuation… with Stuart.’ Her voice dripped with contempt. ‘But you need to wake up and smell the coffee, honey. You’re a child. He would never be interested in you.’
My eyebrows shot up. Melanie wasn’t my greatest fan. I was surprised she was watching my back.
‘Honestly, I haven’t…’ Niamh squeaked.
But Melanie cut across her. ‘You have no idea how much damage you could cause by throwing yourself at him. No idea. So, if you want to do him and yourself a favour, back right off, understood?’
‘Of course,’ Niamh gabbled. ‘The last thing I want to do is cause trouble.’
‘Good, I’m glad I’ve made myself understood. And you won’t be breathing a word of our little chat to either Stuart or Cleo?’
‘I won’t,’ Niamh said. ‘I promise.’
‘Then we’ll pretend this conversation never took place. Please close the door behind you.’
Niamh’s flip flops clacked across the wooden floor and I backed down the hallway, slipping through our bedroom door and closing it softly, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. The flip-flops click-clacked past, accompanied by a stifled sob, and further down the landing a door slammed shut. I waited for a few minutes before letting myself out of our room, almost colliding with Melanie.
‘Cleo! I thought you were by the pool.’
I was about to thank her for intervening, but something stopped me. Instead, I massaged my temples. ‘I have a thumping headache. I don’t suppose you have any painkillers?’
‘Of course,’ she said with a brief smile. ‘Follow me.’
Chapter Sixteen
TUESDAY 15 JUNE
We’d only been home for half an hour when Stuart’s phone buzzed.
‘It’s Bill. He’s asking if he and Mel can pop round.’
‘Of course,’ I said, even though the last thing I felt like was putting on a brave face for our friends. The press conference had sapped my energy, and I was running on empty. A scalding shower and a change of clothes had failed to rinse away my lethargy. But I knew Bill and Melanie were as worried about Immy as we were. It wasn’t fair to shut them out.
They were on the doorstep ten minutes later. Melanie hugged me and Bill patted my shoulder and showed me the contents of the bag he was carrying.
‘I asked Sheila to print up some posters. I hope you don’t mind. We thought we’d go door to door handing them out.’
I stared at the top poster, at the colour photo of Immy and the call to action in capital letters to hammer the point home: PLEASE PHONE THE POLICE IF YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, as if your average paedophile would do that. Underneath, a plea to search outbuildings and sheds for our daughter. It looked uncannily like a poster for a missing cat, and I was about to point this out when I stopped myself just in time. They meant well.
‘Cleo?’ Bill gave a helpless shrug when I said nothing. ‘We wanted to do something.’
‘I know and thank you.’ I touched his hand. ‘I’m sure it will help. Coffee?’ I flicked the kettle on, took four dirty mugs from the dishwasher and rinsed them half-heartedly under the cold tap.
‘Let me do that,’ Melanie said, bustling over. ‘You take the weight off your feet. How did the press conference go?’
‘How d’you know about that?’
‘Stuart told us,’ Melanie said. She ran hot water into the sink, squeezed in some washing up liquid and snapped on my rubber gloves.
‘It wasn’t as bad as I expected,’ Stuart said. ‘And Cleo was right. The more people who know about Immy the better.’
‘It was worse than I expected,’ I admitted, dropping my head in my hands. ‘I felt as though they were all judging us.’
‘I’m sure they weren’t,’ Melanie soothed.
But she was wrong. ‘Remember when David Cameron left one of his kids in the pub that time? I thought that was bad enough,’ I said. ‘And we lost our daughter from our own back garden. What must people think?’
‘That you’re as human as the rest of us. How’s Nate doing?’
‘A couple of the kids at school have been giving him grief. And he misses his sister.’ My voice cracked, and I rubbed my face. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Your daughter’s missing,’ Melanie said, handing me a mug of coffee. ‘You’re allowed to be upset.’
‘I know.’ I took a sip, scalding my tongue. ‘Did Stuart tell you about Niamh, too?’
‘Niamh?’ Bill said sharply. ‘What about her?’
‘The DI who’s taken over the investigation found out Niamh is Immy’s birth mother and he’s been trying to track her down. Turns out she’s a prostitute and a heroin addict. I think he thinks Niamh might have taken Immy.’ Melanie and Bill were staring at me with disbelief and I turned to Stuart and said, ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell them this.’
‘Because it’s a crock of shit.’
Anger rose inside me, hot and raw. ‘How can you know that?’
‘There’s no way Niamh would have taken
