I massaged my temples. Every time my thoughts drifted to Bill, images of him slumped over the wheel of his wrecked sports car forced their way into my head. A sob rose in the back of my throat and for once I let it out, and another, until my body was wracked with grief. Because Bill was dead. No matter what he’d done, he was one of my oldest friends. I couldn't believe I’d never see him again.
Time passed. An hour, maybe two, I couldn’t be sure. When I’d cried myself dry, I padded into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water and wiped my face with a square of wet kitchen towel. ‘Come on, Cleo,’ I said to the empty room. ‘Get a grip.’
I dialled the office.
‘Good afternoon. This is FoodWrapped. How may I help you?’
‘Sheila, it’s Cleo.’
‘I’m sorry, Cleo, but Bill’s still not in. I’ve tried calling his mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail and the home number is permanently engaged. Has he been in contact with you?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid Bill’s had an accident.’
‘An accident?’ There was no mistaking the concern in her voice. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘He was in the Lotus and he hit a tree.’
I heard the scrape of a chair. ‘Which hospital is he in?’
‘I’m so sorry, Sheila. He’s not in hospital. He… he didn’t make it.’
‘You’re talking in riddles. Tell me where he is.’
‘He’s dead, Sheila. Bill is dead.’
A gasp, then a hiss. ‘If this is your idea of a joke…’
‘Christ, why would I joke about something like that?’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘It was awful.’
‘You were with him?’
‘I was, yes.’
Her voice was strangulated. ‘How did you let it happen?’
‘Look, I might as well tell you because you’ll find out soon enough, anyway. Bill committed suicide. He drove straight at the tree because he wanted to kill himself. No one could have stopped him.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘You’re lying!’
‘I wish I was.’ I paused. ‘Are you all right?’
Sheila had begun wailing, an unearthly sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I cast around for some suitable platitudes. ‘He’s at peace now. And it was so quick he wouldn’t have felt a thing.’
The wailing increased in volume, and I frowned. I knew she was fond of Bill, but this, this hysteria, seemed excessive. Keeping my voice brisk, I said, ‘Sheila, you need to take a deep breath and calm down. Bill would want you to stay strong… for the company’s sake,’ I added, wincing, but it seemed to do the trick. The wails became muffled sobs, and I spoke over them. ‘I need to go now, all right? Take a minute if you have to, but please keep this under your hat for the time being. I want to tell the team myself. I’ll talk to you later.’
Next, I dialled Sam Bennett’s number.
‘Cleo? You must be psychic. I was about to call you.’
She must have heard my exhalation of breath, because she said quickly, ‘I’m afraid Immy’s still missing, but I have an update from the search team sergeant.’
‘And?’
‘His officers and teams from Kent Search and Rescue have searched the river all the way to Pegwell Bay and apart from Immy’s sandal, which was found the night she disappeared, there has been no sign of her. Nothing.’
‘Is that unusual?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily, but -’ she broke off.
‘Tell it how it is, Sam, please. I’m a tough cookie. I can take it.’
‘As you wish. The sergeant said he would have expected Immy’s body to have come to the surface by now if she had drowned. But that’s not the main reason I’m phoning. We’ve had a call to the incident line from a woman who’s just come back from a fortnight in Saint Kitts. She lives at the bottom of Moat Lane.’
It was on the other side of the village. My heart started beating a little faster. ‘And?’
‘She only found out Immy was missing when she saw a poster while she was walking her dog this morning. She has a CCTV camera in her garden. It’s one of those covert ones disguised as a rock, which is why our guys didn’t notice it while they were doing their house-to-house inquiries. She looked back at the footage from Sunday afternoon and spotted something of interest.’
My heart was now thumping in my chest, and I licked my lips. ‘What?’
‘Unfortunately, the camera points to her house, as you’d expect. But you can see a small section of the garden wall beyond it. I’m going to send you a still now, OK?’
My phone vibrated in my hand with an incoming text. ‘I’ll put you on speakerphone,’ I told her.
I peered at the image on my screen. It showed a double-fronted Georgian house with symmetrical parterre gardens either side of the imposing front door. A double garage to the left and beyond it a boundary wall, built using local flints by the look of it.
‘Can you see her?’ Sam demanded.
‘See who?’ I used my thumb and finger to enlarge the photo. And then I sat down on a kitchen stool as my legs gave way beneath me. Because, her head just visible above the flint wall, was Immy.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed, staring at the picture until it blurred.
‘So it is Immy,’ Sam said with satisfaction. ‘We thought so, too.’
‘But I don’t understand. I drive past that wall all the time. It must be six feet high. How can it be her? She’s half that height.’
‘It’s five-and-a-half feet tall. DI Jones sent a PCSO out to measure it. The consensus is that Immy must be riding on someone’s shoulders.’
‘Someone under five foot six?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So she didn’t
