I reached the beginning of the line of conifers and slowed down until I spied the entrance to the old nursery. The wrought-iron gates were closed. I jumped out of the car and gave them a tentative push. They swung open with a rasp that set my teeth on edge. Bill usually kept the gates locked, which meant he must be here. I got back in the car and inched up the track, butterflies swarming in my stomach.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I drove along an unmade track around a crumbling glasshouse to a small collection of outbuildings at the back of the former nursery. As the car crawled over the bumps and ruts, I turned this way and that, looking for Bill’s Range Rover. Everywhere I looked, there were signs of decay. Faded sacks of compost slung against a stained grey breeze-block wall, their peaty innards oozing out like guts. Ivy creeping through the skeletal rafters of a rotting workshop. A dead magpie, its midnight-black wings caught in a tangle of rusting barbed wire. I crossed myself without thinking and whispered, ‘Good morning, Mister Magpie.’
I was beginning to doubt Bill was here when I saw his Range Rover tucked behind yet another outbuilding. I parked my car in front of it and climbed out.
‘Bill, it’s me, Cleo,’ I called, my voice echoing across the hardstanding. I spun around, trying to remember which of the outbuildings Bill kept the Elan in. My gaze fell on a barn-like structure to my left. That was it - Bill’s euphemistically named lock-up. He’d sulked when I’d been more impressed by the building’s vaulted ceiling and exposed trusses and rafters than by his newly restored car.
I crossed the hardstanding to the big double doors, only to discover a heavy-duty padlock secured them. I gave it a half-hearted tug, but it was locked fast. From memory there was a door around the far side of the building, and I jogged over and waggled the door handle. It, too, was locked.
I banged my fist against the wooden panels. Three hard raps that made my knuckles scream. ‘Bill, are you in there?’ I shouted. From somewhere inside came a crash, followed by a string of expletives. ‘Bill! It’s Cleo. Are you all right?’
‘Piss off and leave me alone,’ Bill mumbled.
Relief made me giddy, and I leaned against the door for support. ‘Let me in, you bloody idiot. We need to talk.’
More unintelligible mumbling, then silence. I tried another tactic. ‘Bill, if you don’t let me in right now, I’m calling the police.’
Another clatter from inside the building, then the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened an inch. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘Yes.’ Without giving him a chance to change his mind, I shouldered my way in. Caught unawares, he staggered backwards into an old oil drum, knocking it flying. As I grabbed his arm to steady him, his boozy breath hit me in the face.
‘Christ, how much have you had to drink?’
He peered at me, his eyes struggling to focus. ‘Not nearly enough.’
‘Come on,’ I said, guiding him towards a bench along the back wall. ‘Let’s sit you down.’
‘Wait,’ he said, tapping his nose with his finger then pointing at the lock. After a couple of attempts, he turned the key and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. ‘Now it’s just you and me,’ he slurred.
A frisson of unease ran down my spine as Melanie’s words came back to me. You don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a mean drunk. But she was wrong. Bill was like a brother to me. I pulled at his arm and he shuffled beside me until we reached the bench. I pushed him towards it, and he sat down with a thump.
He reached for something on the floor beside him and I froze, a rabbit caught in the headlights. Only when he lifted the vodka bottle to his lips and drank deeply did I exhale.
Wiping his face, he grunted with satisfaction. ‘Better.’ He frowned at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Niamh’s dead.’
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
I perched on the bench beside him. ‘I need to know what happened at the Littlebourne warehouse last night. When you went to see her,’ I added, to be clear.
His head jerked back. ‘How d’you know about that?’
‘I was there. I saw you.’
‘Little whore,’ he spat, and I flinched. ‘Not you. Her. Little whore said it wasn’t enough.’
‘What wasn’t enough?’
‘Fifteen fucking grand like we agreed, and she says she wants more. Bitch. But I didn’t mean to.’ He turned to me with hangdog eyes, his bottom lip trembling. ‘I really didn’t.’
‘You gave Niamh fifteen thousand pounds?’ I leaned towards him. ‘For Immy?’
He frowned. ‘Immy?’
I talked quickly. ‘Did Niamh kidnap Immy, Bill? Was that ransom money you were paying her? Did she tell you where Immy was before she… before she died? Because I need to know.’
Bill cradled the half-empty vodka bottle to his chest.
‘Bill, am I right?’
He gave an exaggerated nod. ‘Good old Cleo, you’re always right. Not this time, though.’ He looked sidelong at me. The hangdog expression had morphed into a sly grin. Jekyll and Hyde. ‘Not ransom money. Blackmail money.’
‘Niamh was blackmailing you?’
He closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Fucking bitch.’
‘Why? What had you done?’
He took another swig of vodka, spluttering as the alcohol hit the back of his throat.
‘Bill, for Christ’s sake, tell me!’
‘Because of Corfu.’ His bloodshot eyes met mine.
‘What? What happened in Corfu?’
‘It wasn’t my fault. I was drunk. Drunk as a skunk.’ He raised the palms of his hands
