‘Nobody’s booked into the observatory tonight,’ he said. ‘I checked with the secretary.’ He’d told her that before. He couldn’t cope with the silence. It wasn’t like him; usually he was restful. Perhaps she should have left him in the incident room, so he could contact his wife every ten minutes. But Vera was used to having him with her at important times. She was glad she wasn’t doing this alone. He cleared his throat. ‘Apparently it was quite busy on Monday. There was some rare bird. But this time of year, people really only come for the weekends.’
She pulled into the verge, switched off the engine. There were no street lights and it was so quiet that they could hear the ticking of the car as it cooled. Outside it was almost dark, impossible to see colour or detail, but she could make out the shape of the hedge running alongside them.
‘I’ll walk up the lane,’ she said. ‘See if there are any lights on in the cottage, if there’s a car there.’
Ashworth didn’t answer.
The heat as she got out of the car made her think of Spain. There should be cicadas, the smell of rosemary. Walking down the lane, keeping close into the hedge in case she heard a car turning off the main road, she was reminded again of her father. Until she was old enough to protest, he’d taken her out on his raids. She’d hidden in ditches and behind patches of scrub and drystone walls, keeping lookout for him in case the police or RSPB wardens should appear. She’d hated every moment. The panic. The fear of being arrested, locked up, of getting it wrong. What would she do if someone did turn up? But it had been exciting too. Perhaps that’s why I became a cop, she thought. I got addicted to the adrenaline rush at an early age.
Her eyes were becoming adjusted to the dark and, before she came to it, she saw the five-bar gate which led into the observatory garden, and beyond that the matt black shape of the cottage. There was no car. Not on the lane, at least. It was possible that it had been pulled onto the drive and was hidden by trees and a bramble thicket. She wouldn’t see it from here. She walked on down the lane in the hope of getting a better view of the front of the house, where there were windows. Would he take the risk of turning on lights? Was he there at all?
At first she saw nothing, then there was a flicker of light. The striking of a match or a torch being switched on and off. So brief that she could have imagined it. If she’d been the imaginative sort. Perhaps Joe was right after all. Perhaps Parr was here. She imagined how triumphant Joe would be when she told him there was someone in the bungalow. She allowed herself a daydream. She was in Julie’s kitchen, her arm round Laura.
She turned and walked back to the car, let herself in. She’d just shut the door when Ashworth’s phone went, startling her so she felt her heart suddenly race.
He pushed the button after the first ring. ‘Yes?’ Even his whisper seemed very loud after the silence outside. Then she felt him relax and she could tell it wasn’t his wife on the other end. She must still be tucked up at home with her cocoa. He wouldn’t have to run back just yet to be present at the birth. ‘It’s Charlie,’ he said. ‘He wants to talk to you.’
She took the phone from Joe. ‘Well, Charlie? What have you got for me?’
‘I found Parr.’
‘Where was he?’
‘The first place you suggested. The cemetery. Next to his wife’s grave. It’s twenty years today since she killed herself. When I got there he was sitting on the grass. Looked as if he’d been crying.’
‘You got someone to check his tyres against the mark on the road at Seaton?’
‘Aye, and they’re nothing like,’ Charlie said. ‘He drives a new car. Billy Wainwright said the tyre that left the mark was almost illegal. Besides, I don’t think he’s been in a fit state to snatch the girl. Sounded to me as if he’d been in the cemetery since early this morning. He puts on a good show, but I’d say finding that lass at the lighthouse brought it all back. When I got there he could hardly hold it together. I asked him about Laura Armstrong, if he knew what had happened to her, but he didn’t have any idea what I was on about. Really, all he could talk about was how he’d let his wife down. I took him home, had a quick look round inside the house before I left him. There was no sign of the girl.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’ She handed the phone back to Joe. ‘They’ve found Samuel Parr. He had nothing to with abducting Laura.’
‘So that’s it, then. We can go back to Kimmerston.’ She couldn’t tell if he was pleased that his theory had come to nothing, or pleased that he could get back to his wife.
‘Someone’s in the cottage. I saw a light.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. I’m not given to visions.’
‘One of the birdwatchers, perhaps. The members have keys. They’re supposed to let the booking secretary know they’ll be there, but they don’t always.’
She saw him sneak a look at his watch, took no notice, shut her eyes to help her concentrate.
‘Why don’t we just go to the front door?’ Ashworth said. ‘Find out who’s there and what’s going on.’
She ignored him. It was important to think this through. Perhaps Samuel Parr’s short story about the abduction of a child was irrelevant. A strange coincidence. She’d been so desperate to find Laura Armstrong that she’d allowed herself to be misled, swept along by Joe’s enthusiasm. But the details were so similar, so consistent. She thought of the jacket of the anthology, the swirling greens and blues of the design, a stylized image of waves. The title in white, sharp against the patterned background. Parr’s name at the bottom of the page. She’d borrowed the book in hardback from the library. Hundreds of people could have had access to it.
When she opened her eyes, she knew what had happened. She’d been right all along. It wasn’t a surprise to her. She usually was.
Chapter Forty-Three
She was relieved when they found the door of the cottage was unlocked. Ashworth hadn’t mentioned it again but she wasn’t sure he believed her about the light. Not when they pushed open the five-bar gate, lifting it carefully on its hinges, and the place was dark. They walked across the grass to avoid the sound of their feet on the gravel drive. The grass was long and felt cool, slightly damp, through her sandals. Then a thin moon appeared and she even questioned her own judgement. Perhaps what she’d seen had been some sort of reflection. She’d wanted so much to find Laura here. She looked through the window, but could make out nothing inside.
But why would the cottage be open if the place was empty? She touched the door gently until it opened a crack, and listened. Joe Ashworth was making his way to the back of the house. She couldn’t hear a thing, not even his moving. She stretched in her arm and ran her fingers over the inside wall, feeling for the light switch. Woodchip wallpaper, then the smooth plastic of the surround to the switch. She struggled again to remember the layout of the bungalow. She was sure there was no hall. This was the living room. Beyond it lay the kitchen and to the right two doors leading to the bedrooms which were used as dormitories. She gave Ashworth a few more minutes to take up position, switched on the light, pushed the door wide open.
The light came from a low-watt, energy-saving bulb which hung from the centre of the ceiling, but for a moment it blinded her.
‘Police. Don’t move.’ She blinked as she shouted, heard a noise somewhere, a door being opened.
There was no one in the room. It was much as she remembered it. A table under the window. It might once have been a decent piece of furniture but now it was scratched and covered with rings from coffee cups and beer glasses. Two upright chairs pushed under it. A sagging sofa and two easy chairs facing the empty grate. On the walls photographs of birds and a number of paintings and drawings, mostly terrible. A few shelves with natural history books, maps and field guides. In the seconds it took to look around her, Ashworth appeared. The noise she’d heard had been him opening the door into the kitchen.
Without speaking she threw open the doors to the bedrooms. They were both surprisingly neat. Three sets of bunks in each. Grey blankets folded at the foot of each bed. A faint smell of mildew and socks.
She turned to follow Ashworth, who’d wandered back into the kitchen. It was the time to admit she’d been wrong. To get him to promise not to tell the world they’d cocked up and to let him go home to his enormous wife.
‘Someone’s been here very recently,’ he said. ‘The kettle’s still hot. The light you saw could have been
