It was after six o’clock when I drove back over the hump-backed bridge into Fordwich. The adrenalin and cortisol that had surged through me like a tsunami in Chatham had leached away, and I felt strung out and bone tired. I turned into King Street and pulled up outside the house. The police car was conspicuous by its absence, so I put my iPhone on speakerphone and dialled Sam Bennett’s number.
‘Sam,’ I said, the moment she answered. ‘I’ve been to Niamh’s squat to see Tracey, the woman who lives there. She told me Niamh was planning to go home to Ireland.’
‘I know. She told my mate Tommo as much, and DI Jones has spoken to a colleague in the Garda. They sent an officer round to the O’Sullivan farm this morning. I’m afraid Niamh wasn’t there.’
‘That’s because she told Tracey she had some unfinished business here in Kent,’ I said.
A momentary silence on the other end of the line, then Sam said, ‘Are you sure? Tracey didn’t mention that to Tommo.’
‘I’m sure.’ I didn’t mention the seventy quid I’d slipped Tracey for the information. ‘You have to admit it’s suspicious.’
‘We don’t know if she was referring to Immy. She could have been talking about anything.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I said, losing patience. ‘Immy’s birth mother does a disappearing act after telling a friend she has some unfinished business to see to, and then her daughter vanishes off the face of the earth, and you’re telling me it’s a coincidence? Christ alive, I’ve heard it all now.’ I laughed mirthlessly.
‘I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.’ The officer’s tone was conciliatory. Did the woman ever get riled? ‘But I’ll pass the information onto DI Jones. I’m sure he’ll send someone to do a follow-up visit to Tracey.’
‘Thank you. That’s all I ask.’
‘Is that everything?’
‘It is.’
‘Good. And one last thing. You could have wound up in all sorts of trouble this evening.’
‘I was fine,’ I said, knowing there was no way I could report the keying of my car to the police now. I’d have to pay for the repair myself. What with the parking ticket, it had been an expensive day.
‘This time, maybe,’ Sam said. ‘But from now on, please leave the detective work to us.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
CORFU
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
The Scottish poet Robert Burns had something to say about the best-laid plans of mice and men, and it was that they often went awry. And he was right. Melanie’s attempt to warn Niamh off Stuart backfired spectacularly.
Maybe it was out of spite, maybe she thought she’d make Stuart jealous? Who knew how the barely formed brain of an eighteen-year-old girl worked? I sure as hell couldn’t remember. But that night Niamh, dressed in a skimpy emerald-green top and a denim skirt that scarcely covered her arse, turned her attentions to Bill.
We decided to stay at the villa for the evening and have a barbecue by the pool. Bill and Stuart drove to the local supermarket and bought chicken kebabs, steaks and spicy local sausages, and I whipped up a couple of salads.
While Stuart put Nate to bed and Melanie laid the table, Niamh waltzed over to Bill.
‘Need any help with your sausages?’ she said, a hand on one hip and an eyebrow arched suggestively.
Bill roared with laughter. ‘Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ he said, handing her a pair of tongs.
I caught Melanie’s eye and pulled a face as if to say, ‘What the actual fuck?’ but she shrugged and carried on folding napkins. It was understandable. If she reacted, Niamh would know she was getting under her skin. And I couldn’t say anything because I wasn’t supposed to have heard Melanie warning Niamh off Stuart.
As Bill instructed Niamh on the intricacies of charring good meat to a crisp, I went inside in search of a bottle of wine. As an afterthought, I grabbed a can of Coke for Niamh, but when I offered it to her, she said, ‘I might have wine tonight.’
‘Yes,’ Bill cried. ‘Don’t fob the poor girl off with that tooth-decaying crap. Have wine, the drink of the Greek gods.’
Niamh had necked her first glass and was making impressive inroads into her second when Stuart appeared, showered and dressed in chinos and a linen shirt that showed off his suntan.
‘Did Nate go off all right?’ I asked, handing him a glass.
‘After much procrastination and six stories,’ he said. ‘He was so desperate to eat with us.’
‘And he could have, but we’d have paid for it tomorrow, and it’s our last day. I want everything to be perfect.’
I sat next to Stuart at the table, sipped my wine and studied him surreptitiously. We’d made love a couple of times during the week but always at my instigation and, if I was honest, both couplings were perfunctory at best. I suppose it was inevitable, this slide from passion to indifference. We were hot-headed teenagers when we met, not much older than Niamh, and we hadn’t been able to keep our hands off each other. Now we were in our thirties, with a small child, busy jobs and innumerable other responsibilities competing for our time and energy. It was no wonder we had little time for each other.
But tonight, as the wine warmed my stomach and the evening light faded to indigo, I watched him in the candlelight and desire shot through me. My nerve-endings tingled, as if I’d plugged my hand into
