‘What the hell were you doing on my patio?’ I yell as Maxen approaches, a few steps behind Peter. The couple tucking into gammon and eggs at the next table glance our way, and whisper to each other from behind their hands.
Maxen presses his body against our table, far too close. ‘I was looking for Willow,’ he says, his Welsh accent strong – how the landlord confused it with a Scottish dialect remains a mystery.
‘I’ll get another drink in, shall I?’ Peter says, disappearing to the bar, and I wish he hadn’t raced away so soon, leaving this stranger gazing down at us through narrowed eyes.
He’s about forty, slim, his fitted grey T-shirt clings to his toned chest. He drags his fingers through light brown hair, and I notice an air of vulnerability about him.
‘Why were you looking for Willow?’ I’ve lowered my voice, but I’m aware I still sound snarky. I don’t care. He’s part of the reason my nerves are so frazzled. I turn from his stare, to notice the bar, so quiet a moment ago, is filling with people from the garden, covering their heads with their hands, and laughing. Through the windowpane I see the clouds have darkened, and splatters of rain hang on the glass.
‘She contacted me about a week ago,’ Maxen says, and I meet his eye once more. ‘Asking what I remembered about the night her mother died. I came to Cornwall on Friday morning to meet up with her, but she didn’t answer the door. She hasn’t answered my calls or messages either. Last night I thought I’d come to the cottage again, see if she was there. I didn’t expect anyone to be home, if I’m honest.’
‘You could have picked a more suitable time. You scared me half to death.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry. I’m a creature of impulse when I’ve had a few. Do you mind if I sit down?’ Without waiting for an answer, he pulls out the chair next to Becky and sits down. Becky shuffles closer to the wall and looks over at me with worried eyes.
‘Maybe sit here,’ I say, rising. ‘Next to Peter.’
‘Fine.’ He gets up, and we swap seats.
‘You were staring at us the other day,’ Becky says, nibbling on her nails, her shoulders hunched.
He nods. ‘I was trying to muster the courage to talk to you both. I thought you might know where Willow is. I’ve been asking everyone.’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘Peter says you’re her stepsister and niece.’
We nod, as he scrutinises us, the tension in the air tangible. ‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘Well, I was one of the last people to see Ava alive,’ he says. His voice trembles. He avoids eye contact. ‘I spoke to her when she was on her way to the beach.’
Peter approaches with a tray full of drinks, and Maxen grabs a gin with jittery hands. Knocks it back in one.
‘Willow told me my father’s helping her. He was the inspector on the original case.’
‘You’re Inspector Jones’ son?’
‘That’s right, although I haven’t seen him for years. We went our separate ways a long time ago.’
‘I told Willow about Maxen when we chatted on the phone,’ Peter says, once he’s sitting down. ‘I said he may be able to help her. Maxen and I stayed in touch for a bit after my sister died.’
‘We met at Rory’s stag do,’ Maxen says.
‘And later at his wedding,’ Peter says. ‘Kept each other’s contact details, didn’t we, mate?’
Maxen nods. ‘I went back to live in Wales soon after Ava’s death,’ he says. ‘I’d lived in Pwllheli until I was six, been happy there. So when a job came up that I couldn’t turn down, I returned. My father stayed here and worked on the case for ages. He’d always liked Ava, felt sorry for her, and when she died he became a bit obsessed with solving the case. We barely kept in touch.’
‘So you haven’t been back to Cornwall in all that time?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘But when Willow wrote to me, I decided it was the right time to return to Bostagel and set the record straight, and hopefully see my father.’ And without another word, he knocked back the dregs from his glass, got up, and headed back to the bar.