Martin – 6.25 a.m.
Connor gives Martin a vague set of instructions. ‘Up the hill, turn left. Keep going for a couple of miles,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you when to turn after that.’
‘You know where he lives?’
Connor nods. ‘His parents’ old farm, up in Larkhall.’ When Martin tilts his head, Connor adds, with a shrug, ‘He keeps an eye on me, I keep an eye on him.’
Great, thinks Martin. So, John Dalton’s been making death threats to Connor, and Connor’s been spying on Dalton. There’s no way on earth this isn’t going to turn into a total shit show.
The smart thing to do would be to turn the car around, go back to Frank’s, call the police and let them handle it. But while the idea that Dalton might have done something to Jessie feels terrifying and unreal, it doesn’t sound so far-fetched. Somebody sent her that dead bird, and released that video footage. Somebody is trying to ruin her. And who has more of a motive than John Dalton?
‘We’re just going to talk to him, right?’ Martin says, over the sound of the rain drumming on the car’s roof.
‘Sure,’ Connor says, staring grimly at the road ahead. ‘Just talk.’
Being alone with Connor makes Martin feel queasy. Angry too, in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. No matter, he thinks. They don’t have to be friends, don’t even have to talk to each other. They just need to find Jessie. But soon enough, even the small mercy of silence is taken away from him.
Connor clears his throat. ‘The way I was with you, back when we were kids …’ he says. ‘It wasn’t cool, wasn’t right.’ He clears his throat. ‘If I could go back, do things differently, I would. Just so you know.’
Is he trying to apologise? Is that what that was supposed to be?
Of course, thinks Martin. These days, Connor likes to present himself as a gentle giant, who wants nothing more than to be left in peace to care for his ailing grandmother. Well, he can fool some people, but he can’t fool Martin.
‘Let’s just focus on finding Jessie,’ Martin says.
Connor shoots him a stony-faced look. ‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘Right at the next turn.’
How typical of him, to think that he can make things right with a half-arsed apology. That’s the problem with people like Connor Starling. They only care about the consequences of their actions once it’s too late, once the damage has been done. And make no mistake, Connor has done plenty of damage. The man’s a liability. He was a rotten kid, and Martin would put money on him being a rotten adult too.
‘Why did you do it?’ Martin asks, his anger suddenly boiling over. ‘That day you pushed me over and ripped up my library book. Why?’
Connor considers it for a moment. ‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘Maybe I was jealous of you.’
What a ridiculous idea. At thirteen years old, Connor was nearly six feet tall. He was popular, he could run, he could fight. He was the school bad-boy – just about every girl had a crush on him. And while those things might not have got him very far in life, back when they were kids, they counted for something.
Martin lets out a laugh. ‘Sure you were,’ he says.
‘I was,’ Connor says. ‘You were smart, you came from a nice part of town, lived in a nice house, with nice parents. You had nice clothes. You had everything, I had nothing.’
It’s true that Martin did live in a nice part of Westhaven, in a nice house, and his parents did their best to look after him. But how could Connor have possibly known any of that at first sight?
‘Impressive,’ Martin says. ‘You knew all that about me from the moment you saw me, sitting on that bench, reading my book and minding my own business?’
Connor nods. ‘Kind of.’ He interrupts himself, points. ‘Next left.’ Then goes on. ‘I could tell what kind of kid you were by the new Nikes on your feet, the way your clothes were all neat and ironed. All that stuff? It adds up, says something about you.’
‘Your powers of deduction are truly astounding,’ Martin says.
Connor turns to him. ‘Don’t tell me it wasn’t the same for you. That you didn’t think I was going to be trouble the moment you laid eyes on me, because of the way I looked, the way I dressed. You wouldn’t even look at me, never mind talk to me.’
‘Because the first thing you did was insult me. And you were trouble, weren’t you? In case you’ve forgotten, you were the one who stole my book and pushed me over.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ Connor says. ‘I was having a bad time at home, and when I saw someone like you, I wanted them to have a bad time too.’
‘That’s why you did it? You wanted to ruin my day just to make yourself feel better?’
‘Maybe,’ says Connor. ‘Look, I was a bad kid, OK? I didn’t think before I opened my mouth, or before I lashed out. I was angry, all the time. I know I hurt people, and I know I can’t take any of that back no matter how much I wish I could. I don’t expect forgiveness. Sometimes …’ He tips back his head, as if he can peer through the roof of the car at the stormy sky above. ‘Sometimes I think you’d have all been better off if you hadn’t met me.’
Is he fishing for sympathy? Well if he is, he’s come to the wrong place.
‘Hate to say it,’ says Martin. ‘But I think you might be right about that.’
The truth is, it feels good, after all this time, to put into words what he’s never been able to share with Jessie: it was Connor’s fault, all of it. When he came into their lives he turned everything upside down. He wasn’t just a bad influence, he was reckless, dangerous. If not for him, everything would have been fine and – Martin is certain of this – Amy would still be alive today.
‘Take the next left, then pull over,’ Connor says.
Martin slows down as they approach a gap in the hedgerows that line the road on either side. The car’s headlights illuminate the muddy ground as Martin turns in, shine their way up a dirt track, at the end of which is a run-down cottage surrounded by several outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. An old Land Rover is parked up, its tyres sinking into the earth, and the rusted carcasses of various pieces of farm equipment lurk in the shadows.
Martin parks up, and they sit, observing the house through the rain-spattered windscreen. It looks dark, unlived in.
‘He moved here after his divorce,’ Connor says. ‘He lives alone.’ Then he gets out of the car, closes the door behind him with a soft clunk. Martin follows suit, stepping out in the rain, his feet immediately sinking up to the ankles in a thick slurry of mud and manure.
Connor moves silently towards the front door of the cottage, and Martin follows. Once there, they step under a small porch, out of the rain, and Connor hammers on the door with his fist.
‘We’re just going to talk to him, right?’ says Martin. ‘Find out if he knows anything?’
‘Right,’ says Connor, but from the way he’s rolling his shoulders and shifting his weight from foot to foot, like a boxer in his corner waiting for the bell, it looks like talking is the last thing on his mind.