‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said.
Melanie handed me an enormous bunch of roses. They were yellow, Immy’s favourite colour, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if she’d chosen them on purpose.
‘I thought you might like some company,’ she said.
‘How did you know I was on my own?’
‘Stuart dropped by on his way to check the nesting boxes.’
‘Funny how he gives me hell if I dare go into work, yet it’s fine for him to swan off counting bloody dormice.’
Melanie smiled brightly. ‘I could murder a coffee. Shall I stick the kettle on? It’s such a lovely day I thought we could sit outside.’
Melanie made coffee while I found a vase and a pair of kitchen scissors. As I cut an inch off the stems and popped the roses in the vase, I recalled asking Immy once why she loved yellow so much.
‘Because it’s warm like summer,’ she said, before climbing into my lap and pulling my head down for a kiss. The memory blindsided me, and to hide my distress I held the roses to my face and breathed in deeply. But they’d been cultivated for their appearance and vase life and didn’t smell of anything.
We took our drinks into the courtyard. The bees were still buzzing around the wisteria’s pea-like purple flowers and the river was still burbling as it snaked its way to the sea, yet everything else had changed beyond recognition. In a parallel universe, Immy was still with Nate in the den, playing with her Peppa Pig. In the real world, she’d been missing for three days. Most three-year-olds turned up within an hour of being reported missing. That’s what the search sergeant had confidently informed me. I did the calculation in my head. It was almost seventy-two hours since Immy disappeared.
A lifetime.
For three days we’d been in hideous limbo, not knowing whether she was alive or dead. I was already struggling to picture her face, and it terrified me. Yet I could remember every horrific second of the last three days. How brutal the brain was, forcing you to relive events you’d do anything to forget, while treasured memories slipped out of your grasp.
‘Tell me, Cleo,’ Melanie said, squeezing my hand then letting it go. ‘How are you doing?’
You’d never guess from her furrowed brow and her sympathy-laden voice that she was screwing my husband.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Considering. Did Stuart tell you Niamh’s been sleeping rough at the old warehouse?’
An emotion I couldn’t pinpoint crossed her face. ‘He mentioned it, yes.’
‘I know the police are still searching the river, but it’s been three days now and they haven’t found her. I think Niamh took Immy.’
She glanced around the garden as if she was looking for someone to rescue her. Why are you so flustered, Melanie?
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ she said at last. She was quiet for a while and we sipped our coffees. Then, out of the blue, she said, ‘Have the police considered that Immy’s real father could have taken her?’
My eyes widened. ‘What makes you say that?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s another possibility, isn’t it?’
‘But he was just some random from the beach party. She never even knew his name.’
‘That’s what she told you. But you only have her word for it.’
‘What d’you remember about that night?’ I asked, keen to know.
‘You and Bill were both pissed as farts. You staggered off to bed while Stuart helped me clear up, and at about half past ten he walked Niamh down to the beach.’
‘Did you see him come back?’
She frowned. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘He never came to bed. He said he slept in Nate’s room. Did you see him come back?’ I repeated.
A dark flush stained her throat. ‘What are you saying?’
I paused for a beat. Once the words left my lips, there was no taking them back. And then I thought, fuck it, I have nothing to lose. ‘Sometimes I wonder if Stuart is Immy’s dad.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t deny Niamh was infatuated with him. Perhaps on the way down to the beach they, you know…’
Melanie shook her head.
‘It would explain why he was so quick to agree to adopting Immy. And he was the one who suggested putting his name on Immy’s birth certificate.’
The theory ran roughshod over Niamh’s claims she’d been raped. I now knew my husband was capable of infidelity, but I couldn’t believe he would rape someone. I only had Niamh’s word that someone had attacked her. Perhaps it was a lie to throw me off the scent, to cover up the fact that she’d slept with my husband. That would explain her reluctance to go to the police, and the ease with which she seemed to bounce back from the rape. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. ‘Well?’ I said.
‘He can’t be,’ Melanie said.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he was with me.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘What?’
She stared at the clouds drifting above our heads. ‘Bill and I had a massive row that night, not long after you went to bed. I had a go at him about his drinking. I told him it was getting out of control and he needed help. He hit the roof.’ She lowered her gaze to mine. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry. I was frightened, Cleo.’
I breathed out through my nose. ‘Bill would never lay a finger on you.’
‘Then you don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a mean drunk.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head, as if chasing a memory away. ‘Anyway, he stormed off, muttering about finding a bar that was still open. I was about to go after him, but then Stuart came back from walking Niamh to the party, and asked why I was so
