9

“It’s not particularly relevant right now,” Abbie Rose tells me as we go outside, when I ask her why she hasn’t mentioned Leah Danning. “There’s a balance between pushing Evie just enough but not too much. The Leah Danning case was years ago. Until Evie’s stronger, I’m not sure reminding her is going to help.”

“I guess not.” I’m deep in thought. I already know that when they’re investigating crimes like this, the police look up similar past cases. I’m wondering if there’s something she’s not telling me.

“Are you sure I’m not keeping you?” Abbie Rose looks at me.

“It’s fine . . . now that I’m not going away.” Slightly ashamed, I remember Rick’s outburst, then airily wave a hand. “I was going to see a friend for a couple of weeks, but she canceled. Something came up.” I lie because I don’t want her to know how empty my life is.

“Do you work?” Her interest seems genuine.

This time I tell her the truth. “I used to work in PR, but I was made redundant. I’m taking a sabbatical while I figure out what to do next.”

* * *

Back home, I unload the shopping and tidy the house. There’s no evidence that Rick’s been back, which ordinarily I wouldn’t think about, but the circumstances of his departure are still rattling me. At one point, I almost call him, but something stops me.

After wrapping up in one of his Sherpa hoodies, I make a cup of tea and take it outside. I sit at the table on the far side of the yard. After an afternoon at the hospital, I’m glad about the solitude. I listen to the sound of the waves as the last of the light fades, until the drop in temperature seeps through my clothes, making me shiver.

I’m thinking of Jen, then Leah and Casey—all of them victims and only one of them still alive—wondering if Abbie Rose has found a link between them. After picking up my mug, I head inside, aware of an odd restlessness.

At this time of year, Cornwall is quiet, but not so quiet that when I drive to Truro to collect the paints I’ve ordered, I’m not astounded when I recognize Nick, talking on his cell, as he walks away from a parking lot. His photos had flattered him. In real life, he’s smaller, his lips are narrow, and his chin is weak.

He’s not friendly, either, when I catch up to him.

“Excuse me. . . .” He ignores me as I jog after him. “You’re Nick, aren’t you?” The sound of his name gets his attention. “Sorry.” Catching my breath, I stop beside him. “I recognize you from your photo. I know Jen.”

He frowns, the line between his eyebrows deepening. “And you are?”

“Charlotte,” I tell him. “Harrison. I identified your wife from the photo the police put on Facebook. We were at school together.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “They mentioned you. But you clearly don’t know Jen well if you think she’s my wife.”

“Wife, partner, whatever . . .” I shrug. “Why would I? I hadn’t seen her in years, and Jen can’t remember anything. Have you been to see her?”

“Briefly. She was off her head on some cocktail of painkillers.” He sounds resentful rather than sympathetic. “Same old Jen. Always the victim.”

I stare at him. “She was attacked.”

“Yeah. So she says.”

Is he for real? “You’d have to be a contortionist to self-inflict those injuries,” I say sharply.

He sighs. “Sorry. I’ve spent the past two hours being bombarded with questions by the police.”

“Abbie Rose,” I offer.

“Yes. Her and a guy. Jen and I parted somewhat acrimoniously. Excuse me if I’m less than sympathetic. I never expected to see her again, but then I get dragged in to yet another of her dramas.”

The picture of Jen he paints doesn’t sound at all like the confident, controlled girl I remember from school. “What about your daughter?” I ask, trying to deflect him.

An odd look comes over his face. “As I told that policewoman, as far as I know, there isn’t one.”

I feel the blood draining from my face. “You’re kidding.”

But he’s clearly not. “Look, I’ve had a long drive and a difficult afternoon. I’d really like a sandwich and a coffee. Do you know anywhere?”

We walk down a couple of streets to a little café I know that does good coffee. He orders a double espresso and a cheese sandwich, while I order a skinny latte. Sitting at the small table, he’s less aggressive.

“So, let me get this straight.” He looks directly at me. “You knew Jen at school, you obviously know nothing about me, yet you’re going to see her and now you’re sitting here with me.”

“When you put it like that . . .” I hesitate, feeling slightly awkward at his directness. “It probably sounds strange, but the thing is, people don’t get attacked around here. Cornwall’s safe. It makes what happened more shocking. I suppose, also, I’ve lost touch with everyone from my past. Seeing Jen again has stirred up all kinds of memories.” I pause. “But the main reason is Abbie Rose thinks seeing me might help her,” I add as the waitress brings our coffees over. But I’m still shocked at what he said about Angel. “And apart from you, I’m the only person who’s recognized her.” I change the subject. “You said you don’t have a daughter. After what Jen’s said, I’m not sure what to think.”

“I couldn’t believe it when the police told me. But thinking about it, I suppose she could have been pregnant when we split up, or got pregnant shortly after. I wouldn’t have known. If it was mine, you’d think she would have told me, but like I said, we didn’t part on good terms. Jen doesn’t give a fuck about anyone other than herself. I’ve told the police that if—when—they find the child, I want a DNA test. But there’s another possibility.” He stares at his mug, frowning. “She had a late miscarriage a few years ago. It really upset her. She was six months pregnant. It was a girl. With her injuries and obvious amnesia, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s confused.” He pauses. “Anyway, I’ve told the police about it. It’s up to them who they believe.”

His callousness leaves me flabbergasted. “She’s been through so much. If she has a daughter, and the police seem to believe she has, then this attack after the miscarriage, on top of what happened to Leah all those years ago—”

He interrupts me. “Leah?”

“Leah Danning.” I stare at him. The entire country knew what had happened to her. It was in the national papers, on the TV news, for weeks. “She disappeared in broad daylight while Jen was looking after her. Leah was three.”

For the first time, he’s lost for words. His mouth opens and closes again. “I dimly remember it. I’d never been to Cornwall, so I didn’t pay too much attention, I suppose. But . . .” He shakes his head slowly. “Why the hell didn’t she tell me about it?”

I shrug. It’s a good question—and I’m amazed Abbie Rose didn’t mention it, or maybe she’s saving it for another day. But it’s hardly a secret.

“She hinted that something had happened . . . in the past.” He’s thoughtful. “Jen had a habit of glossing over what she’d rather not talk about. If I pushed her, she got angry. She said that things happen to people—not always good—but that was life. If you couldn’t change them, there was no point obsessing over them. It was better to move forward.”

Dimly, I remember how Casey used to hide her past. But life was really cruel to her, while Jen had led a charmed life—or so it had seemed to everyone else. After Leah disappeared, Casey hadn’t been able to move forward. It seems unfair that eventually, Jen had.

I change the subject. “Are you staying long?”

“No longer than I have to,” he says firmly. “I’m planning to leave after I’ve been to the hospital tomorrow. If necessary, I can always come back.”

“What went wrong between you?” Sitting back, I stare at him, curious.

“Too many differences,” he says briefly. “I thought we wanted the same things. It turns out we didn’t. Nothing was ever enough for her—not me, not the farmhouse we moved to . . . not even being pregnant. She’s one of those people who’s always searching for something, only she hasn’t figured out what it is.”

He makes no reference to the trauma of Jen’s miscarriage—or to the fact that she must have been unhappy. He’s clearly one of those men who can see things only from his own point of view. Maybe Jen hadn’t gotten over Leah, after all, but wasn’t able to turn to him. I can understand that, now that I’ve met him. “Relationships can be tough.” I raise my eyebrows. “Speaking from experience. But it must have been good between you once. You were engaged.” Then I add by way of explanation, “It was announced in the local paper. The police found it. It’s how they learned your full name.”

He stares at me, then shakes his head in disbelief. “We were going to get married. We’d decided we’d move first. We looked at dozens of houses, but nothing was right. We knew exactly what we were looking for. . . .” He glances at me. “You don’t want to hear all this.”

“No, go on.” I wait for him to continue.

“I’d found this rambling old place in the country. Our forever home . . .” He says it sarcastically. “We were living in London, so it was a big change for both of us. I was going to commute, and Jen was going to work from home. We were excited about it. Jen got pregnant . . . sooner than we’d planned, but it didn’t matter. We decided to put the wedding off until after the baby was born. Then she had a miscarriage.” He’s silent then.

“That must have been terrible—for both of you.”

He shrugs. “Jen was devastated. She didn’t really think about how it affected me. It hit her really hard. It didn’t matter what I said. She cut herself off from me. I don’t know.... Maybe she had some kind of breakdown. Whatever it was, she was impossible. It was all downhill from there.” His voice is bitter. “When someone shuts you out like that, it’s the final nail in the coffin.”

So there were other nails. I’m wondering what they were. “Was that why you split up?”

He laughs cynically. “To this day, I don’t really know. She never tried to talk it through . . . or explain. I came back from work one day to find she’d turned the house upside down and moved out. It was the last straw. I couldn’t get through to her. In the end, I let her go.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t have much choice.”

What he’s saying doesn’t ring true. He doesn’t seem like someone who’d give up that easily. “When are you planning to see her again?”

“The police suggested tomorrow morning. Suits me. I’ll have plenty of time to drive home.” He looks as though he can’t wait to get away from here. He frowns at me. “I’d stay away from her, if I were you. She’s bad news.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go. . . .” After pushing my chair back, I get up, leave a handful of coins on the table for my coffee.

“You’re off?” He looks surprised at my rapid departure.

“Places to go, people to see,” I say dismissively, pulling on my jacket. “It’s been nice meeting you, Nick Abraham. See you around.”

As I walk away, I’m trying to imagine him and Jen together—and failing. He’s cold, with an anger under the surface, which he doesn’t hide very well. I hope Abbie Rose has seen that side of him, but I’m wondering, also, just how well he keeps his anger under control.

* * *

“It just seemed like the thing to do,” I say to Abbie Rose the following afternoon, when I go to the hospital. “I came to pick up some art materials and just happened to see him walking along the street.” I’m talking about Nick, wanting to find out what she thought of him. She already knows we’ve talked. “We had a coffee. I felt a bit sorry for him.”

It’s true. He wore the jaded bitterness of someone who didn’t know how to roll with life’s punches. What happened with Jen had clearly stayed with him—unless he’d always been like that. “You can’t tell, can you?” I add, looking at her.

“Tell what?” She looks confused.

“About Nick. Have you thought, Detective Constable, that he could say absolutely anything about her, and we wouldn’t know if he was lying, because Jen can’t remember a thing?” Personally, I don’t trust him an inch.

Abbie Rose frowns. “What exactly did he say?”

I shrug. “Not much. Just that she lost the plot after she miscarried at six months. He made some remark. . . .” I pause, trying to remember what he’d said. “Yes. Same old Jen. Always the victim. Those were his words. And that he didn’t know he was a father.”

“It’s possible he isn’t. And it’s only one half of the story,” Abbie Rose says. “That’s the problem.”

“I thought after what she’s been through, he’d have some sympathy for her, but there was none. Not a shred. How is Jen?”

Abbie Rose stares at me, a frown on her face. “After Nick left, she was quite upset. She might be pleased to see a friendly face. But it’s probably best not to stay too long today. She’s tired.”

“Sure.” I pause. “Isn’t it confusing for her? I mean, Nick calls her Jen, but we’re all calling her Evie.”

Abbie Rose’s eyes meet mine. “Maybe you should ask her which she’d prefer.”