Next morning, over a full English breakfast, Grayson told her that one of the old man’s daughters had been in touch with him (Laura gathered from the tone of his voice that they had in fact been more in touch than he was letting on), because Valentina’s son had phoned her out of the blue to ask what had happened to the house in Duckwith. The sister was worried that he might be about to stake an ownership claim, since the house was still unsold.
‘Yes,’ said Laura, ‘I checked. It’s still empty. Apparently it’s said to be haunted.’
‘Ah,’ he said, squeezing her hand over the dish of morning-gathered mushrooms. ‘How the past comes back to haunt us. Or maybe it never really leaves us.’
‘Mm,’ she said, trying but failing to think of something profound to say, and wondering whether her daughters had remembered to pack their gym kits.
She and Grayson parted affectionately in the car park of the hotel, with sweet lingering kisses and promises that they would meet again. But in her heart, she knew they never would.
She went straight to the office and called Graham, who was already at work.
‘I’m so sorry. Had too much to drink. Couldn’t trust myself to drive. Legless, actually. Don’t know what got into me. Are the girls alright? Left phone at the office.’
That last bit was the only actual lie.
His voice was cool and distant. ‘Not a convenient time to talk. In a meeting. Catch up tonight – if you’re planning to come home, that is.’
Oh dear.
She had a penitential salad for lunch, and gazed out of the window at the patisserie over the road, longing for a crusty tart with raspberry mousse and whipped cream topped with freshly grated chocolate to sweeten her afternoon tea break. It was drizzling again, people were scurrying along the glistening pavement with hoods up and umbrellas out. So she didn’t immediately recognize the couple crossing the road. The man had a cagoule on with the hood up covering his hair, but his backpack was visible as a bulge between the shoulders. The woman was carrying an umbrella, spinning it gaily as she skipped along, avoiding the puddles. They were talking animatedly and walking towards the bus stop again.
She grabbed her raincoat and keys, and raced down the stairs. Their bus was already pulling away, but the timetable at the bus stop told her it would be in Duckwith in about an hour. She went straight to the car park, and picked up her car. Although the rain had caused the traffic to build up, slowing her progress, she overtook the bus at the next stop. As she turned into Thorpe Road, she glanced in her mirror. There, a couple of cars behind, was the low-slung silver sports car. Furiously, she accelerated through an amber light, turned off the main road into a side street, and pulled over. A few moments later, she saw the sports car pass by on the main road.
She rejoined the traffic and, sure enough, about half a kilometre along, she saw the car pulled up outside a tobacconist’s, as if waiting for her to pass. As she approached, she craned her neck to see the driver, who seemed to be wearing some kind of pale overall. Then, as she drew alongside, she saw that it wasn’t an overall – it was a powder-blue suit, and the driver was Justin.
Looking straight ahead, she drove by without slowing, and watched the sports car pull out behind her. Then she slammed her brakes on hard. The car behind skidded on the wet road and smashed into her rear. She leapt out and ran round to his window.
‘What the hell are you doing, Justin? Why are you following me?’ she yelled.
He wound down his window and yelled back, ‘I’ve seen some crazy women drivers, but you really take the biscuit, lady.’
‘Answer my question! What are you doing here?’
‘What do you think I’m doing? I’m driving. Or I was, until you nearly wrecked my car.’
‘Correction! You nearly wrecked my car!’ Her voice had risen to a shriek.
‘Calm down, lady,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for hysteria. It’s just a little dent.’
‘I am calm!’ she screamed. ‘I just want to know why you’re following me!’
‘What the hell makes you think I’m following you? After our little chat the other day, I decided to take a ride out to Duckwith and do a bit of sleuthing – see for myself those famous clues.’ He grinned. ‘The print left by the slightly-worn-at-the-edge trainer.’
As if on cue, the Duckwith bus trundled past, and she caught a glimpse of the pink jacket through the window.
‘Stop lying to me, Jim . . . I mean, Justin! I’ve spotted you several times. You’re an utterly useless detective! You stand out a mile in your ridiculous outfit and your flashy car – I’d have to be blind not to notice you.’
He looked crestfallen, and she at once regretted the unkindness of her words. A little crowd of onlookers had gathered on the pavement, and somebody must have called the police because a moment later a patrol car pulled up and a jowly-faced officer climbed out.
‘Is anybody hurt? What happened?’
‘It’s OK, Baz, just a little spat between friends.’
Jim/Justin winked, and the officer nodded.
‘Go easy, Jim,’ he said. ‘No more cock-ups, right?’
‘Right, Baz. Nobody’s hurt. Everything’s insured. Isn’t that so, Laura?’
‘Mm.’ She noted the slight trepidation with which he’d addressed the policeman. She waited until the patrol car had driven off. ‘But I still want some answers. I thought we were supposed to be friends, and now I find you’ve been spying on me. Who asked you to follow me?’
He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, and she could see as he lit one that his hands were shaking.
‘Think about it. Use your powers of deduction, lady. Who do you know who might have been troubled by your erratic behaviour recently, your late nights, your drinking, your crazy stories about bow-legged footprints?’
‘You mean . . . Graham hired you to follow me?’
‘Ssh. I’m not saying a word. I signed a confidentiality clause.’
‘Oh, Jim . . . I mean, Justin . . . I mean, Jim, what I told you is all true. The old unresolved case. The mysterious couple. The empty house. I’m on my way there now. I know I’ve been a bit obsessed recently, but it’s not what you think.’
‘And the overnighter at the Heath Hotel?’
‘Oh, that . . .’
She felt a sunrise blush creep from her cheeks to the roots of her hair. She remembered the four-poster bed in the Heath Hotel, the handcuffs, the blindfold, the terrifying ecstasy of pain and pleasure. She remembered looking out of the window, and wishing she was back at home. She remembered Graham’s cuddliness, his kindness, the pleasant pace of their home life together.
Literature, she thought, has a lot to answer for.
‘. . . that was a terrible mistake. It won’t happen again.’
Jim/Justin was looking sceptical.
‘I love Graham. That was just a roundabout way of finding out. Please, Jim . . . Justin,’ she appealed. ‘For friendship. For old times’ sake.’
He took a notebook and a pencil out of the pocket of his powder-blue suit.
‘What was your cover story? What did you tell Graham?’
‘I told him it was a colleague’s birthday bash.’
‘Name? Address of premises?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
‘So I can put it in my report. I’ll leave it to you to square it with said colleague, should Graham ever check. Though I don’t suppose he will.’
‘Thanks, Jim . . . Justin. Look, can’t I just call you Jim?’
‘Sure.’
Though he didn’t look sure. She leaned in through the window and kissed his stubbly cheek.
‘C’mon, lady. Let’s get sleuthing,’ he said.