‘Mum!’ Becky’s shaking me. ‘It’s six o’clock.’
My eyes fly open. ‘Gosh, I must have been tired,’ I say, pulling myself to a sitting position on the bed, and stretching. I can’t believe I fell asleep again. Perhaps it’s my body’s way of healing after the attack. ‘Fancy going to the local pub for dinner again?’ I go on, knowing I’m incapable of cooking right now, and we may get to talk to some locals who remember Willow or Ava.
‘OK,’ Becky says. ‘We might see scary-man again.’
‘Maybe. Although why are we calling him scary-man, exactly?’
‘Because he freaked us out,’ she said. ‘He’s totally scarier than IT.’
‘Hardly,’ I say, laughing and getting up. ‘Nothing’s scarier than a psychopathic clown.’
We head downstairs, and I shove my feet into my flip-flops. Becky sits on the bottom step of the stairs and pulls on her Doc Martens, despite the heat.
I take the opportunity to stroke her hair, but she wiggles me away. ‘Mother!’ she says, flapping her hand as though batting away an annoying fly. ‘Leave the hair.’
Outside, the sun seems triple the size it should be, and I slip on my sunglasses and hat.
Once at the end of the road, I stop. ‘I’m going to make a little detour. Can you go on ahead? I won’t be long.’
Becky widens her eyes. ‘Why? Where are you going?’
I sigh. ‘If you must know, I’m going to Justin’s house.’
‘You know where he lives?’
‘Mmm. And … well … I’ve already been there.’
‘What? When? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘I’m already worried, Mum. I can’t believe you went there on your own. He could be Ava’s killer. Or have kidnapped Willow! Jeez!’ She spins on the spot, rubbing her forehead. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Her eyes are watery, her lip quivers, but she takes a deep breath. ‘So did he talk to you, mention that he’s Willow’s father?’ It’s as though she’s swept my stupidity from her thoughts.
‘Yes and yes.’ I bite down on my lip. ‘I was stupid to go. I know that. But I honestly can’t imagine him killing Ava or hurting Willow.’ I approach her with caution and link my arm through hers, pull her close. ‘Come with me now,’ I say, and she nods.
We’re silent as we head for the house and walk up the path towards the front door. I knock three times, as Becky hops onto the overgrown front garden. She leans on the windowsill and peers through the grubby glass.
‘Looks as though it’s deserted,’ she says, moving away. ‘Yuk,’ she adds, looking at her hands. ‘Seagulls’ poop, jeez, I need to wash this off.’
‘Yes you do,’ I say with a shiver, handing her a wet wipe from my bag, as she moves towards me bashing back a wayward bush.
‘This place is pretty gross, Mum. In dire need of a makeover, that’s for sure.’
I open the letterbox. ‘Justin,’ I call, but still nobody comes to the door. ‘Maybe he was taken away in the ambulance,’ I say.
‘Ambulance?’
‘Mmm, it was here earlier.’ I shudder, giving the house one final sweep, my eyes falling on the garage set back from the house. The word ‘killer’ has been spray painted on the door in huge letters.
‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’
*
When we reach the pub, Becky heads into the loos to wash her hands, after I’d insisted the wet wipe wouldn’t have removed all the germs.
‘Glad we didn’t scare you off,’ the landlord says as I approach the bar. ‘What can I get you?
‘A lemonade and an orange juice, please.’ I reach for two menus.
‘Leave the drinks with me,’ he says. ‘I’ll put them on a tab and bring them over.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and pad over to the same table we sat at last time, passing an elderly man in a cap folded over a newspaper, a young border collie asleep at his feet.
‘What do you fancy?’ I ask as Becky appears, and drops down opposite me.
‘To be honest, I’m not that hungry,’ she says.
‘Oh come on, love. You must eat.’
‘I’ll eat later,’ she says. ‘There’s stuff in the fridge at the cottage.’ She looks deep into my eyes. ‘It said killer on the garage door, didn’t it?’ she says, her voice a wobble. ‘Do you think someone believes Justin killed Ava?’
‘Sorry to intrude.’ It’s the old man with the border collie. His pale blue eyes, sitting under bushy white eyebrows, are fixed on us, his Cornish accent strong. ‘Are you talking about Justin Havers?’
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile, eager to strike up any conversation with a local who might lead us to Willow. ‘We’ve just been to his house, but he’s not there.’
‘Avee met him?’ he says, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and blowing his nose.
I nod. ‘Once, that’s all.’
‘Been in prison, he has. Armed robbery.’
‘Yes, yes he told me.’
‘Aye. Not surprising really. His mother died when he was sixteen, and his father turned to drink. He wasn’t a bad father, just never recovered from the loss of his wife – guilt played a part, he’d been a bit of a womaniser over the years. Sadly, the boy – Justin – got mixed up with those Bristow boys,’ he went on, as though I knew who he was talking about. ‘Went off the rails like a train without a driver.’
I think for a moment about Justin – the man I met, unsure what to feel. ‘Do you remember Ava Millar’s murder?’ I ask.
He takes a sip of his beer. ‘I do. It was me who found her.’ He shakes his head. ‘Finding that young woman will live with me ‘til the day I die – all that blood.’
‘I’m so sorry. It must have been awful for you.’
‘Aye, it was indeed. Bostagel has never been quite the same since it happened – for anyone. It was as if the ground cracked under the bloody lot of us, sending splinters everywhere.’ He meets my gaze, his eyes watery. ‘There was talk that Ava was dead even before the knife went in, but I don’t know how true it is. Rumours, that’s all. But what I do know is Inspector Jones had a terrible breakdown at the time. Convinced Gail didn’t kill her sister, he became obsessed with the case. But I’m telling you this now,’ he taps his large, red nose, ‘those sisters never got on, and from where I’m sitting it was more than your normal sibling rivalry.’
‘What about Rory? He’d just got married, he must have been devastated.’
He nods. ‘Broken-hearted he was – poor chap. It was awful seeing him cry.’ He shakes his head, as though trying to dislodge the memory.
‘And Dexter?’
‘Can’t say I recall him too well. Bit of a mummy’s boy by all accounts, left Newquay to go to university after Ava died, if I remember. In any case, he had an alibi – couldn’t have killed the young woman if that’s what you’re thinking.’
The landlord appears and puts our drinks on the table. ‘So what’ll it be?’
I look down at the menu. ‘I’ll have the lasagne, please,’ I say, before glancing back at the elderly man, hoping our conversation isn’t over, but he’s on his feet. He nods my way, taps his cap, and heads for the door, his dog by his side. His newspaper tucked under his arm.
‘Lasagne,’ the landlord says, scribbling on his pad. ‘Good choice.’ He moves his eyes to Becky.
‘Nothing for me,’ she says closing the menu, and handing it to him.
‘I can’t tempt you with our beef and ale pie? Battered fresh fish?’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’
‘OK,’ he says shuffling the menus. ‘You’ve picked a lovely week. It’s been glorious again today, hasn’t it?’
I nod. ‘Yes, we’ve been lucky,’ I say to be polite, but feel far from it.
‘Though the weather forecast says a storm is on its way, I wonder what they’ll name—’
‘Has the man been in again?’ Becky cuts in, looking up at the landlord.
‘Man?’
‘We asked you about him last time.’
He presses his finger to his bottom lip and furrows his forehead. ‘Ah, you mean the Scotsman?’
‘He’s Scottish?’
‘Mmm, I think so. Or maybe Welsh.’ He tilts his head. ‘Got an accent anyway.’ He shakes his head. ‘No, I haven’t seen him since you were last here, I’m afraid.’
‘He’s Scottish,’ I repeat to Becky, as the landlord walks away.
‘Or Welsh,’ she says with a roll of her eyes. ‘How the hell doesn’t he know the difference?’
‘Shh! He’ll hear you.’ I take a wet wipe from my bag and swipe it over the table several times.
‘I want to know why the man was staring at us, is all,’ Becky says, sliding down in her chair, and folding her arms tightly across her chest.
‘Perhaps he wasn’t. Maybe we’re a bit paranoid at the moment. Well I know I am. It’s not every day your sister goes missing and you end up searching for a killer.’ As I hear my own words, it confirms what I already know. I’m not only on a mission to find Willow, I need to find out what happened that night in 2001. I need to find out who murdered Ava Millar.
*
We’re back from the pub, and it’s much later. In fact, Becky is in bed asleep when, from the landing window, I see someone out in the darkness at the foot of the path. His hood is up, his face a blur of features. I realise I’m afraid, and acutely aware how isolated we are. My chest tightens. If someone wants to attack us, they can. If someone had wanted to abduct Willow, they could have.
I duck back as he takes sudden long strides towards the front door.
Heart thumping, I race down the stairs and thrust the three bolts across in time with his knocks. I can’t believe I hadn’t done so when we got back from the pub.
I dash into the kitchen and grab a carving knife from the kitchen drawer. Am I overreacting? But it could be anyone. It could be the man who hit me on the beach.
There are two more ways he can get in, I reason: the patio doors and the back door. I need to check both. I race to the back door, which is locked and bolted, and return to the lounge. The light is off, but the moon highlights the figure now standing on the patio. Within moments he’s thumping on the window, pressing his face against the glass.
The knife tumbles from my hand, and thuds onto the carpet.
I can see his familiar face now. Oh God, what the hell is he doing out there in the darkness?