‘Shall I email Rory Thompson now?’ Becky says, as we head for home.
‘Yes, I guess so. The quicker we send him a message the better.’
Becky opens her email account on her phone. ‘So what shall I say?’
‘Mmm. Well.’ My mind goes blank. ‘Just ask him if he’s been to the UK recently. Ask if he’s seen or heard from Willow. The card is in my bag.’
‘OK,’ she says, retrieving the card, and typing a message into her phone.
It’s as we reach the village that Rory responds. Becky reads out the message.
‘Hi Rose and Becky. I haven’t heard a word about Willow since she was adopted, and haven’t been to Cornwall in a couple of years. I live in Italy with my wife and two sons. I’d love to see Willow, so please drop me a line when you catch up with her. Best wishes, Rory.’
Becky looks up from her phone. ‘Well, that’s him out, I guess,’ she says.
‘Unless he’s lying,’ I say, as we pull up outside Ocean View Cottage behind a Fiat I don’t recognise. I kill the engine, and we get out of the car. There’s a man by the front door, his back to us. He’s looking out at the bay, a holdall at his feet. Is it the man who knocked on the patio door last night?
‘Oh God, is that scary-man?’ Becky says, echoing my thoughts as we hover by the car. ‘Call the police, Mum. Now!’
He turns, and I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘It isn’t the same man,’ I say. This man is at least ten years older, with short dark hair, a goatee beard, and glasses.
On seeing us he raises his hand. ‘G’ day,’ he calls, and heads down the path. He stops as he reaches us, his face bright with excitement. ‘Willow?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, aware I sound blunt. There’s something familiar about him. ‘Willow isn’t here right now. And you are?’
‘Peter Millar,’ he says, and I recall the photo of him that Willow sent in the box: the hippy with unruly hair and glasses like Harry Potter. He’s smarter now, tanned, and carrying a little more weight, which suits him. His glasses have trendy red frames, and he’s wearing narrow-legged checked trousers and a white polo shirt with a Kookaburra motive. ‘Willow wrote to me,’ he goes on, and I remember Inspector Jones telling me how she’d got in touch with her uncle. ‘I haven’t seen her for about eighteen years. It was a shock to hear from her.’ He paused. ‘So you are?’
‘Rose Lawson,’ I say. ‘Willow’s stepsister, and this is my daughter, Becky.’
‘Willow mentioned you both in her letter,’ he says with a smile. ‘She said she was trying to find my sister’s killer.’ His eyes seemed to evaluate us, as though deciding whether to go on. ‘Did you know?’
I nod, and glance at Becky.
‘I promised Ava before she died that I would look out for Willow. But her custody went straight to my mother – her gran – who put her into care after I’d gone back to Australia.’
‘Yes, we heard about that.’
‘I was never told who adopted Willow.’ He bit down on his lip. ‘But I never stopped thinking about her – hoping she was OK. When I received her letter I was blown away and booked a flight over.’ He glances back at the cottage. ‘So where is she?’
‘She’s not here right now,’ I say again.
There’s an awkward silence before Becky says, ‘She’s disappeared.’
I glare at her, and she shrugs.
‘Disappeared?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘Uh-huh,’ Becky goes on. ‘She asked us to come, but when we arrived on Friday she wasn’t here.’
‘I’ve had a couple of messages from her,’ I say, deciding to go along with Becky’s revelation. ‘She said she’s fine, but—’
‘You don’t think she is,’ he cuts in.
‘Exactly,’ Becky says. I can tell she likes this man, and I think I do too – but my hackles are still up, protecting us.
‘Have you spoken to the police?’ he asks.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘They’ve put out a missing persons report. Checked the hospitals.’
‘I’ll stick around,’ Peter says. ‘Find somewhere to stay. I’m not leaving until I know she’s OK.’
‘You could stay here,’ Becky says, and my eyes widen. ‘There’s a spare room.’
He looks up at the cottage, and it hits me it belongs to him – that’s what Jeannette Millar told us. ‘I’d rather not,’ he says. ‘Thanks all the same, but I haven’t got the greatest memories of living there, if I’m honest.’
‘Well, come in for a cup of tea or coffee then,’ Becky says.
‘No, sorry,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to go out again, Becky. Remember?’
‘What? Where?’ She knows I’m lying.
‘It’s fine,’ Peter says, as Becky throws him an apologetic look. ‘I need to find somewhere to stay, anyway.’
‘Come on, Becky,’ I say, glaring at her before storming towards the cottage, feeling far too hot, but she doesn’t follow, and the arrival of Peter Millar makes me wonder if I can cope anymore. Maybe it’s time we went home.