“Ian told me, yes. And what of the farm and Mr. Cowley?” And why would Tim care a fig about either? she wondered.
“I mentioned to Mr. Cowley my intentions regarding Bryan Beck farm,” he said. “I suspect Tim overheard.”
“And what are your intentions? Are you thinking of raising sheep yourself?” Manette sounded tart and couldn’t help it. The farm, after all, should have gone to Tim and Gracie. It should not now be the sole property of this man who’d done his best to ruin their lives.
“To keep it, of course. But also… I did tell him that Tim and Gracie would be returning to their mother. Tim may have overheard that.”
Manette drew her eyebrows together. She knew, of course, that this was the logical progression of events. Farm or no farm, Tim and Gracie could hardly continue to live with their father’s lover now that their father was dead. It wouldn’t be easy moving to their mother’s home — Niamh being Niamh — but there wasn’t an alternative as long as they were underage. Tim would understand this. He would doubtless have been expecting it, and he doubtless would also have been preferring it. So would have Gracie. Thus, to have this piece of information set him off to the extent that he would jump out of Kaveh’s car and run off …? This didn’t make sense.
She said, “I don’t mean to be offensive, Kaveh, but I can’t imagine the children would want to live with you now that their dad’s dead. So is there something else…? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Kaveh looked at her squarely. “If there is, I can’t tell you what. Will you help, Manette? I don’t know what else — ”
“I’ll handle it,” she said.
When he’d departed, she phoned the school. For ease of information, she claimed to be Niamh. She learned at once that Tim wasn’t there for a second day. The school was worried, as it would be. Losing one of their pupils could mean all sorts of things and not a single one of them was good.
Manettte phoned Niamh next. The answer machine took the call in Niamh’s irritating purr, doubtless designed as a siren’s song for potential suitors. Manette left a message, but then switched to, “Tim? Are you there, listening to this? If you are, pick up, love. This is your cousin Manette.”
Nothing, but of course, that didn’t mean much. If he was in hiding, he was hardly going to reveal it to someone searching for him. And he would know Manette was looking for him. He would know everyone was looking for him.
There was nothing to do but set out on a search. Manette didn’t want to do it alone, however. She went to Freddie’s office. Not there. She went to Ian’s office, and there Freddie was, beavering away at Ian’s computer, trying to make sense of the money trails. She watched him for a moment before she spoke. She thought, Dear Freddie, and her heart hurt briefly, as if making her aware of its presence for the first time in years.
She said, “Have you a moment, Fred?”
He looked up, smiled. “What’s up?” And then, “What’s happened?” because he read her as well now as he’d read her when they were married.
She told him the gist: Tim was missing, and she needed to make the drive to Niamh’s, which seemed to be the only place left where he could be in hiding. But she didn’t want to make the drive alone. Or better said, she didn’t want to confront Tim alone. Things were iffy with the boy. She felt a little… well, a little in need of backup if it was going to come down to another confrontation with him.
Of course, Freddie agreed. When had Freddie not agreed? He said, “In a tick. Meet you at the car,” and he set about doing whatever he needed to do to close up shop for a while.
He was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes, he was climbing into the passenger seat of her car, saying, “Don’t want me to drive?”
She said, “One of us might have to jump out and tackle him, and I’d rather it was you, if you don’t mind.”
They made good time to Grange-over-Sands, taking the coastal route along the empty bay. When they pulled up in front of Niamh’s white house, it was to see her on the doorstep bidding a fond farewell to the same bloke Manette had encountered the last time she’d been in Grange-over-Sands. Charlie Wilcox of Milnthorpe Chinese takeaway fame, she thought. She murmured his name to Freddie, but she didn’t need to say anything more about the man’s relationship with Tim and Gracie’s mother. Niamh herself was making that clear enough.
She was wearing a dressing gown with enough leg showing through its opening at the moment to indicate she had nothing on beneath it. Charlie was wearing last night’s clothing, an out-on-the-town getup with a jacket and trousers, white shirt, and tie rakishly unknotted round his neck. Niamh cast a quick look in the direction of Manette’s car and then gave herself to a serious good-bye kiss, locking her leg around poor Charlie’s leg and doing a bit of bump and grind against him. Her mouth was so wide upon his she might have been excavating for his wisdom teeth with her tongue.
Manette sighed. She glanced at Freddie. He was blushing. He shot her a look. She shrugged.
They got out of the car as the kiss ended. Charlie was walking dazedly to his Saab still parked in the drive, and he nodded a hello that was utterly unembarrassed. Seemed like he was getting quite comfortable coming and going and doing what Niamh needed to have done, Manette thought. Just like a plumber seeing to the pipes. She snorted at the thought and approached the front door.
Niamh hadn’t closed it. She’d gone inside, however, most likely thinking that Manette and Freddie would do likewise. They did, shutting the door behind them.
Niamh called, “I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m putting on something decent.”
Manette didn’t comment on this. She and Freddie went to the sitting room, which displayed the remains of a tryst: wine bottle, two glasses, a plate bearing crumbs and bits of cheese and chocolate, sofa cushions shoved onto the floor, and a pile of Niamh’s clothing lying nearby. Niamh was, Manette thought, certainly having the time of her life.
“Sorry. Haven’t got to this yet.”
Manette and Freddie turned at the sound of Niamh’s voice. Her “something decent” turned out to be a black leotard, which hugged every curve of her body and did everything possible to emphasise her breasts. These stood to attention like infantrymen in the presence of their commanding general. Their nipples strained against the thin cloth.
Manette glanced at Freddie. He was looking out of the sitting room window, at the fine view of the bay that it provided. With the tide out, plovers and knots by the thousands were in. Freddie wasn’t a bird man, but he was giving them considerable attention. The tips of his ears were absolutely magenta.
Niamh smiled slyly at Manette. She said, “Now. What can I do for you two?” and she bustled round as well as one could be said to bustle in a leotard. She put the cushions back onto the sofa and plumped them nicely, then picked up the wine bottle and glasses and took them into the kitchen. There the remains of a Chinese takeaway dinner were on the worktops and the table. It seemed that Charlie Wilcox was providing all sorts of sustenance, Manette thought. Stupid sod.
Manette said to her, “I phoned. Did you not hear it, Niamh?”
She fluttered her fingers in a pooh-pooh gesture. “I never answer the phone when Charlie’s here,” she said. “Would you? In my position?”
“I’m not sure. Which one
Niamh was at the worktop, picking up the takeaway cartons, inspecting them for remains that were salvageable. “What about Tim?” she asked.
Manette felt Freddie come into the kitchen behind her. She moved to one side to give him room. She glanced at him. He stood with his arms crossed inspecting the mess. Freddie wasn’t big on the pickings of daily life being left round to clutter up a place.
Manette gave Niamh the story in brief. One missing son, two days truant from school. “Has he been here?” she finished, fairly sure of the answer.
“Not that I know of,” Niamh said. “I haven’t been home every moment. I suppose he could have come and gone.”
“We’d like to check,” Freddie said.
“Why? D’you think he’s under a bed? Do you think I’m hiding him from you?”
“We think he might be hiding from
