She had checked the weather forecast.
Maine in January was always cold and to make matters worse, there were reports now of ice storms, rain freezing on top of snow, winds blowing down trees and power lines. But that was inland. Portland was on the coast. She had her fingers crossed.
She had crammed what she needed into a big sports bag which she hoped would qualify as cabin luggage and she was going to carry a warm-lined moleskin jacket she had bought a few days ago in Gap. She had thermal underwear, too, and gloves, as well as a woollen ski hat, which, she reminded herself now, she had forgotten to put into the bag.
She looked at the clock. Eight a.m. Time she was out of there. Her flight left at eleven and she was supposed to check in hours before that.
She hurried up to her bedroom and found the hat. Downstairs again she shoved it into her bag and after a last swift look round she headed for the door.
As she opened it, the telephone started. For a second she thought of letting the thing ring but then she dropped the bag and her coat and grabbed it.
‘Hello?’
There was no response. Her heart seemed to miss a beat. She saw Noel Kennedy’s face.
‘Hello, who is this?’ she said.
‘Meg?’
Her heart thumped. ‘Dan?’
‘Yes. Look, Meg, I need to talk to you.’
She could hear trouble in his voice. ‘What is it? Has something happened?’
‘No. I just need to talk to you. There’s something I have to tell you.’
She groaned. This could not be happening at a worse time. ‘Dan, look, I can’t talk now.’
‘Meg, please. There are things you need to know.’
‘About what?’
‘Not on the phone. I have to see you.’
She wanted to see him, too, but it was impossible. ‘Oh Dan, this is awful. If you’d called a moment later you wouldn’t have got me at all. I’m on my way to the airport. I’m flying to Boston.’
‘Boston?’
‘Yes. I’m going to see the Everetts. Look, I haven’t the time to talk about this – any of it. Whatever you have to say, it’ll have to wait until I come home. I’ll only be away for a couple of days. Dan, I’m sorry but I have to hang up.’
‘Meg, no, don’t. Wait. Just listen to me.’
‘No, Dan, I can’t. Don’t do this to me. We’ll talk later. When I get back.’
She rang off and it was as if she had cut him loose. She grabbed her things and ran out the door, feeling terrible and wishing she had told him she was glad he had called.
Maybe she would ring him from Portland. That would be good.
She threw the bag into the back seat of her car and pulled out quickly from the kerb without checking her mirror. There was a screech of brakes. A horn blared.
A red mail van was inches from her front wing. She had not seen it at all. The postman driving it glowered at her. It was her usual man, the bald one. She gave him an apologetic wave, mouthed ‘sorry’, and drove on.
Just after eleven, as the Aer Lingus Airbus with Meg on board turned onto the main runway at Belfast International Airport and increased speed for take-off, Dan Cochrane drove into Truesdale Street.
He was not in the van today.
This time he had brought his own little blue Fiat.
He found a parking space a few doors down from number thirty and got out. As he walked back up the street he looked around discreetly but there was no one to observe him. Meg’s front gate squeaked as he opened it. He took a couple of keys from his pocket and checked that he had the right one. ‘Keys cut in five minutes’, said the sign in the window of the hardware shop just along the road, and they had been as good as their word. He had got this particular one cut the day he had gone for the milk, the day the letter from the Everetts had arrived.
He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, thinking about what he was looking for and where he might find it.
The postman had been, obviously after she had left, because there were letters still on the floor. He picked them up. One looked like a bank statement, another was a bill or a circular of some kind.
But it was the third letter that got his attention.
It was bulky and it bore the logo of Granada Television. They had made that programme she had appeared on. He felt it in his fingers for a second or two, debating, then he slid his thumb under the flap and opened it.
There was another letter inside and a note on Granada headed paper.
Dear Dr Winter
This came recently. The sender asked us if we would pass it on to you. Seeing who it is from, we thought you might want to see it.
Hope everything is OK with you.
Best wishes
Sally
Cochrane looked at the sealed envelope. Meg Winter, it said. To be forwarded. He turned it over and read the sender’s name and address on the back.
He blinked in disbelief. This couldn’t be right.
Then he tore it open.
There was just one sheet of lined paper and what it contained was written in an unsteady hand. He read the letter swiftly and when he had finished, there was a cold sheen of sweat on his brow.
He shoved the letter into his pocket and began his search.
He tried Meg’s bedroom first, going through drawers and the things in her wardrobe. Handbags, a dusty briefcase. He stopped in his tracks when he found a shoulder-bag with stains on it that looked like blood.
He went back downstairs again and straight away he found everything he wanted in the kitchen, where he should have started in the first place. It was all under the magnet on the door of the fridge.
He sat and spread the notes on the table, setting the phone beside him. He had calls to make. Urgent, desperate calls.
He looked at his watch and tried to work out what time it was in New England.
Just after six a.m. he reckoned. Early. But he couldn’t leave it any later. Every moment counted.