‘The accountant must have spotted the discrepancy. According to the cash flow statement, we’ve been paying both RP and this new producer for the last three months.’
‘Oh, that.’ Bill leaned back in the seat and laced his hands behind his head. ‘I wanted to be sure about Blackberry Organics before we went all in with them, so I kept RP on the books until I was happy Blackberry were reliable. But I told you all this, remember?’
I ran my hands through my hair. ‘Christ, what’s happening to me? I can’t seem to remember anything at the moment.’
‘Which is totally understandable.’ He unlaced his hands and studied my face. ‘You’ll get through this, Cleo. Whatever happens. You’re the strongest person I know.’
‘Stop being nice, or I’ll blub again.’
‘I mean every word. And I don’t want you fretting about work, all right? You concentrate on the family and finding Immy. I’ll look after FoodWrapped.’
‘Thanks, Bill. That means a lot. I don’t think I have the bandwidth to do both.’
‘And nor should you have to.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t you worry. I have everything under control.’
Back in the kitchen I noticed a spare pile of posters, some Sellotape and a box of drawing pins on the worktop by the toaster. I stared at Immy’s picture. She was on one end of a seesaw, her feet on the ground and her chubby hands clutching the handle. I hadn’t seen the photo before, but I remembered the day it had been taken. We’d had Sunday lunch at a country pub with Bill and Melanie at Easter. When Nate spotted a children’s play area across the road from the pub, Stuart and Melanie, the designated drivers, offered to take the kids over so they could let off steam while Bill and I finished our coffees and settled the tab.
I watched them from the window while the waitress cleared the table. They looked like a regular family enjoying a Sunday afternoon at the swings. Had I felt a pang of envy, a twinge of guilt that I should have been out there with them? That it should have been me snapping away on my phone as Immy shrieked with glee on the seesaw? That I should have been the one helping Nate across the monkey bars, not Melanie?
It hadn’t even occurred to me, because Melanie slotted into my place so flawlessly. She always had.
I regretted it now, as I studied the photo, examining every inch of Immy’s face. Her auburn hair, the colour of autumn leaves. Her sea-green eyes alight with fun. The dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. And that wide, wide smile as she said ‘cheese’ for Melanie, her fourth favourite person in the world after me, Stuart and Nate.
‘Does she have any distinguishing features?’ the police had asked time and again, and I’d run through the list: red hair, green eyes, freckles, etc, etc. But Immy was so much more than a list of features or a two-dimensional picture on a poster. She was vibrant, funny, and kind. And no photo, no stark police-issued description, could ever convey her soul, the very essence of her.
I pushed the poster to one side and filled a glass with water. I’d rather have poured myself a large glass of wine and carried on pouring until I’d drunk enough to send me into a dreamless sleep, but I knew alcohol would make me melancholic, and it certainly wouldn’t help find my daughter.
I checked my watch. I still had an hour before Nate needed picking up from school. Gathering the posters and the drawing pins, I slipped my phone into my pocket and let myself out of the house.
Chapter Eighteen
I checked up and down the street before I let myself out of the front gate, in case any reporters were loitering outside the house. Satisfied the coast was clear, I stepped out and turned left, making my way towards the town hall, St Mary’s Church and the Fordwich Arms, the second of the two pubs in our tiny town.
Immy’s face on a telegraph pole as I neared the church told me Stuart and Melanie had come the same way, so I took a right into Yew Tree Gardens, pinning a poster to a lamppost before heading into School Lane. I’d just passed the row of quaint terraced cottages when I heard a front door open and a woman’s querulous voice behind me. ‘Cleo, dear, is that you?’
I turned, my heart sinking when I saw Phyllis Collins, the local gossip, standing on the doorstep.
‘Is there any news? I couldn’t believe it when the police knocked on the door Sunday dinnertime and said poor little Immy was missing.’
I clutched the posters to my chest. ‘No. There’s no news.’
She crept closer and peered at my face. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle’s just boiled. You look as though you could use a shoulder to cry on, and I’m a good listener.’
And the minute I left, you’d be sharing my secrets with half the village.
‘I’d love to, Phyllis -’ her puckered old face lit up, ‘but I can’t today. I need to put these posters up.’ I turned them over to show her. Her face fell, and she nodded.
‘You do what you’ve got to do to find your little girl. Does the surrogate know?’
‘The what?’
‘The Irish girl who had Immy for you. Does she know she’s gone?’
‘You’re mistaken, Phyllis. Niamh wasn’t a surrogate mother.’
‘Then what was she? I often saw her walking around the marshes when she was expecting. Our chats were quite enlightening.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘She unbuttoned herself to me on several occasions. Said I reminded her of her granny back in Cork.’
Why, was she an interfering old bitch, too? I wanted to say. But I kept my mouth shut. I wouldn’t gain anything by poking the bear.
‘Niamh’s granny was called Imogen, too. Did you know that?’
I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to admit as much to Phyllis fucking Collins. ‘Of
