‘So Willow definitely visited her father,’ I say, as I close the front door and see Becky standing at the foot of the stairs.
‘Really?’ she says biting on her nails.
‘Really,’ I repeat, imagining the effect it would have had on Willow, on top of everything else. ‘She would never have coped,’ I add in a whisper. ‘Especially if she thought he may have killed her mother.’ I take a deep breath and lead the way into the lounge. ‘Anyway, the inspector is going to report Willow’s disappearance at his end. He’ll keep us updated.’
‘What can the police actually do?’ Becky says.
I fiddle with my earlobe, thinking. My only knowledge of police protocol is gleaned from TV. ‘I guess they’ll check hospitals.’ I pause ‘Maybe I should tell your grandpa and Eleanor she’s disappeared,’ I say, already knowing it’s a bad idea.
‘Leave it for a bit, Mum,’ Becky says. ‘She could turn up today. We don’t want to worry them – especially Grandpa.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. What good would it do, anyway?’
Becky glances out of the front window. ‘Jeez, it’s that boy again,’ she says. ‘The one in the yellow cap.’
I join her at the window, sensing there’s something suspicious about him. His stance. The way he stares.
‘I’m going to speak to him,’ she says. Before I can reply, she dives into the hall, and shoves her feet into my flip-flops. ‘He may know where Willow is,’ she adds, throwing open the front door, and racing down the path.
I head out after her, bare feet slapping crazy paving. ‘Becky,’ I call.
I expect the boy to run, like he did before, but he doesn’t, and moments later Becky is standing next to him.
‘What do you want?’ she says with a bite in her voice. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The boy is taller than Becky, almost six foot, older than her, I suspect. His faded yellow baseball cap covers shiny black hair, a long fringe hangs over one of his mud-brown eyes – eyes that are vacant, as though he doesn’t see what’s in front of him. He doesn’t speak.
‘Are you looking for Willow?’ I say.
‘Do you know where she is?’ Becky adds, but he just looks up at the house, then down at his feet.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
He lifts his gaze once more, studies us for a few seconds, before taking off, sprinting until he’s out of sight.
‘What the hell?’ Becky looks at me wide-eyed.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply, leading the way up the path, feeling emotionally battered. ‘This just gets weirder and weirder.’
*
After a morning of going over everything and constantly checking my phone, I suggest a walk to the village shop. Becky declines. She says she’s going to watch TV to take her mind off things.
Slathering sun cream on my arms, I head down the road in my white vest-top and knee-length shorts, feeling guilty that I’m enjoying the sun on my face – the sounds of the countryside. Again, I wish I was here on holiday.
The village store is in dire need of renovation, and the amalgamation of smells – spices, bread, vegetables – that greet me as I head up the aisle of the shop, confuses my senses.
I place two pints of milk in the wire basket I’m carrying and open a small chest freezer. I grab a box of chicken in breadcrumbs, and some frozen veg – it’s not very exciting so I doubt I’ll tempt Becky to eat. I keep hoping her food obsession is a phase she’s going through – that nagging too much will only make it worse. But then I don’t want her ending up like Willow did.
The woman in her sixties behind the counter smiles as I return with the basket and unload it.
‘You on holiday?’ she says, blowing a tendril of ginger hair from her tanned, plump face. She’s wearing a pale pink short-sleeved blouse, over black trousers. A necklace with a large pink stone hangs around her neck. ‘You’ve picked a gorgeous week.’
‘Yes, the weather’s perfect,’ I say. ‘We’re staying at Ocean View Cottage.’ Her hand freezes on the till.
‘Really? She pauses for a moment. ‘Are you a friend of Willow’s?’
‘She’s my stepsister, but she’s not there at the moment.’
‘Nice girl,’ she says, continuing to ring up the items. ‘£6.95, please, love.’
I hand over a ten-pound note, and with a deep breath, I say, ‘Do you remember the Millars?’
‘Ooh, I got a tingle of déjà vu just then,’ she says, with a shudder, pressing her ample chest. ‘That’s exactly what she asked. Willow, I mean.’ She hands me my change and rams the till drawer closed. ‘Well, of course I remember the murder. Everyone around here does. Young Ava Millar’s death was a terrible tragedy.’ She shakes her head and bites her lip as she stares into space. ‘I hadn’t been here long when it happened.’ She rubs her neck, avoids eye contact. ‘You just don’t expect it in a quaint little village like Bostagel, do you? Only good things should happen here.’
She’s right. The village is stunning. Picture-postcard perfect.
‘Taking over the shop,’ she went on, ‘meant I got to know people quickly.
The mother, Jeannette Millar, didn’t mix much with us village folk, kept herself to herself mostly, even before Ava’s murder. The older daughter, Gail, was a beauty. Full of her own importance, God rest her soul. Now I liked Ava well enough, but she had another side to her. In fact, my son Dexter worked with her for a bit at the big DIY in Newquay. Took her out once, he did.’
‘Dexter?’ My mind swings back to my conversation with the inspector earlier. ‘Dexter Powell is your son?’
‘Uh-huh. Yes.’
Trying to keep my voice even, I say, ‘Does he still live here?’
‘Lord no. Hasn’t lived with me for years. In fact, he doesn’t come to Cornwall often.’ There was a sudden sadness in her voice. ‘Though he calls me every Sunday without fail. He’s always been a good boy.’ She pauses for a moment before adding, ‘It was a crying shame what happened to those young Millar girls.’ Her eyes tear over. After all these years, it still distresses her. ‘How can such a terrible tragedy happen to two young girls?’
‘
‘It’s truly awful,’ I agree, tears filling my eyes too. This is getting to me. Just as it got to Willow.