I drive down narrow country roads. Houses are now a rare sight between endless fields.
‘Is that it?’ Becky says, pointing out a cottage in the near distance.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, noticing the satnav insists we have over half a mile to go to the village, but I slow up anyway. It’s a beautiful cottage, picture postcard perfect, with roses around the door, and my hopes rise that it is where Willow is staying.
‘Floral Corner,’ I say, seeing the sign, and putting my foot down on the throttle once more.
‘Shame,’ Becky says, looking back. ‘It looks well nice.’
I pull up outside Ocean View Cottage at three o’clock, tired and achy from the drive, though thankfully my migraine has shifted, for now at least. The cottage is pretty with jasmine climbing the whitewashed walls. It’s perched on a hill looking over a small deserted bay, a short walk from a country pub and a little shop at the foot of the hill.
I’ve parked in a layby, and we get out of the car, and grab our holdalls from the boot, before walking up the rustic road towards a wooden gate. It’s so peaceful here; just the sound of birds chirping in the trees, and the distant crash of waves on the beach. The sun is warm on our backs and, once we’re on the path leading to the front door, the stunning view of the sea fully opens up in front of us. I stop for a moment, and the sea gives the appearance of winking at me as the sun glints on the silvery blue water. The sand is a burnt-orange colour, and I imagine pulling off my socks and trainers, and sinking my feet into its warmth, and wonder if Willow has been down there – reading, paddling. But then I think of the letter with the photographs, the last call from her. She was lost in finding her mother’s killer – had she even noticed her surroundings?
By the time we reach the door my stress levels have lowered. I love the sea air, and memories of childhood holidays in Cornwall with my parents drift in. I wish we were here under different circumstances – a holiday with my daughter, perhaps Aaron following on in a few days. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.
The front garden is laid to lawn, though browning due to the hot summer we’ve had so far, but it’s neat, with a freshly painted fence, and a wrought iron bench under the window. Had Willow sat here, trying to work out who took her mother’s life?
‘It’s so quiet,’ I say. As though the world has ended.
‘A bit too quiet, if you ask me,’ Becky says, looking around.
I ring the bell three times, before bending to look through the letterbox. ‘Willow! Are you in there?’
Becky steps across the grass towards the window, and cupping her hands around her cheeks, to block the sun, she looks in. ‘I can’t see anyone,’ she says.
I clench my fist and rap my knuckles against the door. ‘Willow, it’s me. Rose,’ I call out.
‘She could be in the garden,’ Becky says, pointing to a six-foot gate leading to the rear of the house.
‘Yes, good idea.’ I take the initiative and open the gate. Leaving our holdalls on the front doorstep, we walk into the back garden. ‘She’s probably out in the sunshine,’ I add, but as soon as I see the tiny garden – a square of neatly cut grass, also faded by the sun, I know Willow isn’t here.
After looking in through the patio doors at the rear of the house, we head back to the front door.
‘Who’s that?’ Becky says, and I turn to see a teenage boy wearing a yellow baseball hat at the bottom of the path, staring our way. ‘God, do you think it’s the boy in the photo?’
I take the picture from my bag of the man in a yellow cap, and study it. It’s difficult to tell, as it was taken so far away. ‘I’m not sure.’ I look at him a little longer before calling out, ‘Hello!’ He stands waxwork still. ‘Excuse me, but have you seen Willow?’
He turns, and races down the road.
‘Wait,’ I call after him, dashing down the path, but he’s young and wiry – soon out of sight.
‘That was odd,’ I say, walking back up the path, and stuffing the photo back in my bag with the others.
‘Freaky,’ Becky agrees.
There’s a stone ornament by the door – it’s a rabbit wearing a waistcoat, meant to portray the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, I suspect. As a child, my dad would often leave keys under garden ornaments if he or Mum weren’t going to be there when I arrived home from school, something he and Eleanor would do too. I lift it. Sharing a home with a beetle and several worms is a brass key.
‘Yay!’ Becky says, grabbing it. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘But where is she?’ I say, taking the key from Becky and sliding it into the keyhole.
She shrugs. ‘The shop perhaps? Maybe she’s getting things in.’
I turn the key and open the door. But I’m not convinced she’s gone shopping. She still hasn’t replied to my voicemail from earlier. Something isn’t right, and my stomach churns – my stress levels, so successfully lowered by the sight of the sea, creeping up again.
‘Willow!’ I call out as we step inside, despite my certainty that she’s not here. ‘Willow, it’s me, Rose,’ I go on as we head through a narrow hall, and into a small, square lounge. The floor is wooden, with scattered rugs in primary colours. A bright orange sofa and armchair are angled around a wood burner, and a twenty-inch flat-screen TV. The walls are painted cream, and there are a few pictures on the walls of generic scenes I recognise as Cornwall. On the coffee table is a pile of tourist magazines.
I pick one up, and flick through it, memories of visiting the places inside as a child, flooding in. ‘I think it’s a holiday let,’ I say.
I go into the kitchen, where there is barely enough room for one person, and there’s a vague smell of something spicy in the air. It’s got plenty of cupboards for its size, a cooker, fridge, kettle, and microwave.
I stream water into the kettle, not sure why. I don’t want a hot drink. In fact, I could do with something stronger.
Despite that, I flick on the kettle out of habit, and head back to the lounge, where Becky is looking out through the patio doors, into the back garden. I look about me. There’s no sense of Willow’s presence. She’s always been messy, leaving her clothes everywhere and driving me crazy – but it’s clean. Spotless. Too immaculate, in fact, as if the owners have cleaned it ready for the next holidaymakers. But Willow has possession until August, that’s what she said. Then why does it feel as though Willow has never been here?
‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ I ask.
Becky turns. ‘Let’s look upstairs first,’ she says, heading for the door.
Before I can reply, she dashes by me, and I follow her up. There are three bedrooms and a bathroom, but it’s not until we get to the third bedroom that I sigh with relief. Willow’s red leather jacket is lying on the floor in the corner – typical Willow. I race over to pick it up, pressing it against my nose, breathing in her perfume. ‘She must be out,’ I say, looking through the window at the lonely bay below. But things still aren’t right. There should be piles of her clothes, make-up, bottles of perfume. I open the wardrobe. It’s empty. A shiver tickles my spine, as I glance out of the window to see a cloud cover the sun.
‘Where is she?’ Becky says, as the feeling of unease grows, settling heavy on my shoulders.