Jenny drove the van into North Berwick and listened to Fiona sobbing over the hands-free phone. She was a wreck. She’d been obsessively walking around Cramond in an attempt to conjure Sophia from thin air. Now her sobs filled the van as Jenny drove past a petrol station then the sign for the Marine Hotel to the left.
‘I’m almost there,’ Jenny said, glancing at the satnav and signalling left.
‘Tell him you’ll fuck him up,’ Fiona said between tears.
‘We don’t know he’s involved.’
Fiona breathed heavily. ‘Just tell him I have dirt on him.’
Jenny turned into Fidra Road. ‘Try to stay sane.’
‘If anything’s happened to her…’
‘Stay positive, for fuck’s sake. Why would he hurt his own daughter?’
They both assumed Craig had Sophia. The police were keeping options open, but fuck that, Jenny and Fiona knew better and maybe Karl Meyer was the key.
Fidra Road was full of big houses, bigger gardens, trees and hedges giving privacy to the wealthy of East Lothian. There was a lot of old local money here, but North Berwick was now also a target for rich commuters, bankers working in the city, which was where Karl Meyer came in.
Jenny reached the end of the road and parked. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Call me when you’re done,’ Fiona said quietly.
She sounded like a zombie. Jenny imagined Hannah going missing at eight years old and felt sick.
She hung up and turned the engine off. She got out and ogled the view. The road ended with small wooden bollards and a knee-high sign, Beware! Golf Course. The west links were beyond, manicured fairways and greens, undulating rough, elderly men and women in lurid golf outfits pulling their trolleys from tee to green. Beyond them was the wide Forth estuary, a handful of tiny, knobbly islands scattered along the coast, the ghost of Fife shimmering in the distant haze.
Jenny looked at 1 Fidra Road. It was on a stretch of three-storey stone mansions lining the golf course, sea views, gardens with gazebos and summer furniture. Of course you’d spend time in the garden with this view.
She went to the front door on the other side and rang the bell, stared at the etched glass in the door, a depiction of Fidra island, boat bobbing nearby.
The door opened and there was Karl Meyer. He was very tall and bony, dark hair, stubble and small rimless glasses. He wore expensive fitness gear, cycling top and shorts, a striped neck scarf even though it must be twenty degrees today. He looked annoyed, rich people don’t like being interrupted.
‘Sorry to bother you.’ Jenny handed over a business card. ‘My name is Jenny Skelf, I’m a private investigator helping police with inquiries.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m trying to find Craig McNamara,’ Jenny said. ‘He used to do PR for you? I understand you knew him well.’
Karl swallowed but had his game face on. You didn’t get far in finance by blabbing at the first opportunity. He looked beyond Jenny but she resisted the urge to turn.
‘How do you know where I live?’
Jenny nodded. ‘We have the files from Craig’s old company, full cooperation of his ex-wife Fiona. You know her.’
Karl pressed his lips together. ‘All the files?’
Jenny smiled. ‘Precisely. Now, about your involvement with Craig.’
‘There is no involvement.’
‘But you worked closely on a couple of takeovers, right?’
‘Purely professional.’
‘Right,’ Jenny said. ‘That must’ve been sensitive work, markets affected, jobs on the line.’
‘This is not a discussion worth having.’ Karl pushed his glasses, rubbed a hand against the space-aged material of his shorts. ‘Certainly not at my house, this is highly inappropriate. I have a good mind to call the police.’
Jenny nodded. ‘I’m sure they’d be interested in the details Fiona has about your company.’
Karl smiled and shook his head. ‘Your attempt to threaten me is pitiful. Please leave.’
He went to hand her card back, but Jenny didn’t take it. He tried to close the door but she pushed her fist against the etched glass. He swung his hand and knocked her arm away, slammed the door. She looked at the glass, imagined picking up a hefty stone from the rockery and smashing it.
Instead she swallowed and left, walked along the road then into the separate path for the granny flat she’d spotted, a boxy rectangular building attached to the house. The front door said ‘1a’, the glass inlay with an etching of the Bass Rock.
Jenny raised her hand to ring the bell then paused. She flexed her fingers and tried the handle. It turned. A thrill ran up her chest as she stepped inside, saw waterproofs hanging on the coat rack, welly boots by the door. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she walked along the hall, framed golf cartoons on the wall, a nautical map of the Forth. She reached the kitchen, new cupboards, spotlessly clean. She thought about Craig, how he’d been fastidious to live with, everything in its place. She wondered if he was still like that, if it was possible on the run with a wee girl in tow. But maybe he wasn’t running, maybe he was living comfortably under their noses.
She heard a noise from the next room, went down the corridor, saw it was the living room, sofa along one wall and sea view through a huge patio door. She took another step into the doorway and saw two leather armchairs. One had an old lady sitting in it, eighty at least, a book of word puzzles on her lap, pencil in hand.
The floorboard under Jenny’s foot creaked and the woman looked round. Nothing wrong with her hearing then. She stared at Jenny then began gesticulating and shouting loudly in German. She pushed out of her chair and picked up a golf club that was leaning against a wall, a driver with a big metal head. Jenny turned and ran, feet clattering down the hall as she went out of the flat and slammed the door, ran down the road to the van, started the engine and did a frantic three-point turn, heart hammering in her throat as she drove away, the old woman standing at the end of her path waving the driver over her head like a furious dervish.