He can’t work out why it feels so personal this time. When he argues for Layla is he really arguing the case for Margot? Does it matter if he is doing that? Surely the families of the disappeared need someone on their side who understands, who will keep pushing at the doors closed to them.

  He isn’t going to give up.

  ‘I’ll speak to Jean and Tam,’ he says.

  * * *

  Jean answers the door. The hope that flickers into her eyes when she sees him melts away as he shakes his head.

  ‘No big news, Jean.’ He knows to say that quickly. ‘But a few small things and I thought it would be good to update you.’

  She sags a little, nods. ‘I was away to have a fly cup. Come in.’

  He stands in the doorway as she takes a mug from the cupboard and pours tea for him, the water steaming as it hits the tea bag. ‘No Tam today?’

  ‘He’s up at the top field. He’s been on about re-fencing that for a while now. Do you want me to fetch him?’

  ‘No need.’

  They settle in the conservatory.

  ‘So, one thing that came up. The lady that runs the stables now. She seems to think maybe Layla didn’t ride out the way everyone thought.’ He sips his tea while Jean digests her confusion.

  ‘But there’s only one road in…’

  ‘She said something about the wood at the top? Though it would be hard to get a horse in there.’

  Jean looks sceptical but he notices her body language; she’s sitting straighter.

  ‘It would be like Layla to find a secret place.’

  ‘Really?’

  She smiles and her eyes brim. She pats her pocket for a hankie, wipes her face. In the moments of exposure Cal sees the lines and the age. His own mother’s face comes to him – something familiar in their desolation. He presses on.

  ‘I think this gives us another place to search. If she had an accident elsewhere, for example.’

  ‘But after all this time.’

  ‘I’d like to try dogs that are specially trained. I know a lady who can bring her team. I’ve worked with her before and she’s excellent. If there was any trace, I think they’d find it.’

  Jean nods. The fateful fragments of hope are back. ‘If you think it’s worth a try.’

  ‘The only problem is that it does cost a bit to do. It might take a few days to cover the area between the stables and woods, especially if we loop round to the hotel.’

  He hates himself as he says the words. It feels like exploitation. He knows desperate people will pay anything for answers – he could be suggesting a clairvoyant.

  Jean lifts her chin at his words. ‘The hotel?’

  ‘It would be a sensible border to set.’

  He sees the thoughts rolling, the determination in the set of her jaw. Her fingers clench the hankie in her lap.

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  * * *

  As he leaves the cottage, dusk is falling and he can see the lone figure of Layla’s father in the distance. The faint sound of a mallet hitting wood reaches his ears. Clouds press down on them and the scent of rain is in the air. He shivers. Since Dubois, he doubts himself more. He doesn’t know what to believe about Layla, what he would feel if a strange man was making half promises to his mother and suggesting she open her wallet to find Margot.

  He drives slowly back to the B&B, heart racing when a pheasant makes a suicide dash across the road. Perched on the edge of the bed, he traces a route through the rational arguments. You have to narrow down possibilities, eliminate certain options, that’s how you inch closer to the truth. They are adults and he has laid it out truthfully, that is all he can do. Even so, it takes him a long time to fall asleep. The responsibility sits on top of the blankets, weighing so heavily his chest tightens.

  Eventually he must sink beneath consciousness, because he dreams. A hot day, sunlight fierce overhead, refracting from water, making his eyes sore. A wriggling maggot on a hook, thick hands over his, helping him cast into deeper water, where grasses overhang the banks and shoals sleep in shade.

  In his dream he is seven, maybe eight, his knees raw with the permanent bruises of childhood. He stares and stares at the water but the fish don’t bite. It doesn’t matter. They eat their sandwiches sitting on tickly grass, thick wedges of ham between doorsteps, melting Penguin biscuits.

  In his sleep he settles, relaxes. It’s a mirror of a real day, a day with his father before. On the bank, he scrambles to his feet, dusts the crumbs from his lap. Across the water, in the distance, he can see lines of cars, rotting and rusting into the earth. Turning to scrap.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPISODE THREE: THE WRONG PLACE

  The day Layla went missing she seemed distracted. Staff at the hotel reported that she showed up late for her breakfast shift. She yelled at the chef when he remonstrated with her. After she left early, the chef spoke to the hotel’s management and a verbal warning about her behaviour was due to be issued the following day. It wasn’t needed. Layla never worked there again.

  From the hotel, we know she went home and changed her clothes. Her mother heard her come into the cottage and go upstairs. She slammed her wardrobe door against the wall and Jean called up to her, angry about the noise and Layla’s lack of care. Those were the last words she spoke to her daughter.

  ‘I’ve never forgiven myself for that. I was so angry. She was difficult, always had been, but it had been getting worse. Her father was beside himself. Maybe she should have moved out, living with her parents can’t have been fun, but… Anyway, I heard her, but I didn’t see her. She was only in for ten minutes before she went off to the stables. I wish I could change that. I’d give anything to go back.’

  At the stables, Layla was supposed to work through a list of chores with stable hand Jim before riding the horses. Instead, she tacked up the best horse on the block, a young thoroughbred called Ruby. Before Jim could stop her, she’d ridden off without him.

  Sue was a regular at the stables at the time. She remembers that afternoon clearly.

  ‘Jim was red mad. He was swearing and saying how he was going to get her back. I think it was worse because he was sweet on her for a while. He asked her out, I think, but she turned him down. He wasn’t the only one, though. I saw the way Doug looked at her. We all did.’

  In episode one, we detailed the extensive searches that took place on the riding routes near Hightap stables. What we’ve since discovered is that those searches were likely doomed to fail. In this episode, we’ll examine the possibility that Layla took Ruby somewhere else entirely. A path no one has considered before…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LAYLA, 1986

  It’s raining but she doesn’t care. The cottage manages to be freezing cold and stifling at the same time and she feels trapped. Her parents are looking at her with increasing frustration. What is she going to do? When is she going to attempt to make a home for herself? There has been talk of a job at the stables in the college – helping out on a course she wishes she could do herself. But she doesn’t have the grades.

  Head down, she walks through the fields in the direction of the hotel. Stephen will be there, hungover from the previous night, and it is something to do.

  The rain pelts the grasses, making pools in the track she trudges along. Even when she steps under the cover of the wood, it trickles through the canopy. Tears drip from the mist of bluebells that carpet the woodland floor. She throws back her hood and allows the rain to run down her forehead, frustration boiling inside her.

  He doesn’t see her at first, the guest. He is running through the trees, kicking up mud, spattered with it. At first, she doesn’t realise it is the man from the room service morning, the one for whom normal rules do not seem to apply. She steps into the middle of the path and has time to see his initial irritation at the obstacle change to something else. He halts abruptly, and a smile comes to his face.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he says.

  The way his eyes travel across her is intoxicating. She feels relief. He will leave, but for a short period of time she has something to help her forget.

  He asks to see the grounds, so she shows him the overgrown pathway to the back of the kitchen garden – walled in with grey stone ten feet high. It is a strange fortress of protected plants in neat rows, a sheltered microclimate. When they reach the edge furthest from the hotel, he stops and quirks an eyebrow at her. She holds his gaze and, before she knows it, her back is pressed against the sodden wall, unfamiliar lips hard against hers, the weight of his body fixing her in place.

  A trail of cold drips makes its way down the back of her neck. She opens her eyes and he is watching her, his expression intense. With a thumb, he traces the track of the rain down the side of her face. For a moment, she feels self-conscious, aware of the pointlessness of it all. She wishes she’d made it through the forest to the cottage without stepping into the path of the wolf.

  But then the feeling vanishes and they both laugh.

  ‘Well,’ he says, taking a step back, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  She feels a sudden urge to walk away. It is safer to reject now, quickly. She flips her hood over her head, raises a hand.

  ‘Bye then.’

  * * *

  She dresses carefully for the evening shift, wears more eyeliner than usual, smooths her hair into a ponytail that swings when she walks and hikes her skirt higher than they are allowed.

  It doesn’t matter, because he isn’t there. In the candlelit dining room, there are only older couples sitting silently across from each other beneath vast oil paintings. Night falls outside and she sees the ghost of herself in the long windows, flitting from table to table in the low light.

  Her mood deflates. Monotony replaces the excitement she felt at being desired. Not for the first time, she finds herself daunted by the prospect of life continuing in this same way. There has to be more, but she doesn’t know how to find it – where to look or how to unlock it. Money is an impenetrable barrier. She needs to train for something, but what can she do? If it wasn’t for the horses, she would go mad. All the mucking out, the schooling and the endless tack cleaning is worth it for those moments of freedom. When she’s on horseback she has confidence – leaping jumps and ditches that make others quail. If only it spilled over into the rest of her life.

  She sticks her head out into the hallway, thinking she might be able to chat to the new receptionist, tap her up for information about people staying at the hotel, but the night porter is already sitting at the desk, frown in place and gaunt suspicion at her appearance.

  ‘What are you needing?’ he asks, as if he knows.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shrugs. ‘Just seeing if Babs was here, like.’

  He turns back to his paper.

  ‘Nup.’

  She lays the tables in the dining room, hearing the chatter in the kitchen rise now all the guests have moved to the bar or the billiards room. There’s a squeal from one of the younger waitresses, and she can picture the sous chefs jesting with them, offering up the puddings and expensive ice cream as they clear the fridges and freezers for the new week.

  The kitchen door swings back and the head waitress strides across the room.

  ‘Layla, are you still here? Away with you. The night porter can tidy up these bits. He’s little else to do.’

  She grabs her coat and bag and scuttles down the creepy back corridor, out into the car park, which is overhung with starlight and the dark silhouette of the hill above. Behind her, the hotel and its hotchpotch of turrets and towers glows with life and luxury. Layla holds her breath and turns on the spot, craning her neck to the constellations and grasping for a sense of herself, a clue of who she is meant to be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  LAYLA, 1986

  She traces the rim of her wine glass with a wet finger, enjoying the grimace on Stephen’s face.

  ‘Cut it out.’

  Layla smirks, sighs. Across the bar, a group of his friends are sinking pints, their voices loud and their faces red.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She refocuses on Stephen. ‘Think about what?’

  He frowns. ‘About us going on holiday. I was thinking maybe Tenerife for a week? We could ask for the time, anyway. It’s not like we work in the same department.’

  ‘But then… they’ll all know.’

  ‘About us? They all know already! And anyway, what’s wrong with them knowing?’

  Layla drains the last inch of warm wine so she doesn’t have to answer right away.

  ‘Nothing, that’s not what I mean.’

  ‘Well. What do you mean?’

  She means: I don’t know if I want to be with you. I don’t always find you that interesting. The sex is good but maybe that’s not enough. I make you hurt me and you like to do it. But she can’t say any of it. She pushes back the padded stool she’s perched on. Picks up his empty glass and hers because she can’t help herself, just can’t leave it for some other poor sod to clear.

  ‘Another?’

  Stephen nods. She goes to the bar without letting any of the thoughts pelting around inside her spill free. Maybe she should go to Tenerife. For a break. But her ambivalence about Stephen isn’t the only hesitation. It would cost most of the money she has saved. The escape fund. Is it silly to have an escape fund and nowhere to escape to? Probably. It isn’t much, but she likes having it there. In her worst moments she thinks about the trickle of pounds in the account, how they are gradually building.

  The barman catches her eye and serves her earlier than he should. His shirt sleeves are rolled back to the elbows and her eyes wander over his strong forearms, something in her brain activated and aroused by the movement, the capability. She glances back and their table is empty. Stephen has joined some of the boys playing pool. He doesn’t look at her. He’s pissed off. She slides the banknote across the bar then pockets the change and carries the drinks to the table. Sits alone.

  He ignores her for another hour, letting the pint warm, untouched, while he hits the pool balls too hard with the cue and they ricochet across the table without finding their mark. She thinks about leaving, but then she catches sight of Doug and Sal coming in through the swing door and weaves her way to them.

  She sees the way Sal’s eyes narrow, the sourness in her face, but Doug reaches out an arm to draw her in and buys her a drink. He is red-faced and half-cut, always an expansive drunk, though with an occasional cruel side.

  ‘Don’t know what we’d do without this one,’ he tells the men lined at the bar, turning to his wife with a twinkle. ‘Eh, Sal?’

  She stays with them, ignoring Stephen, relieved that she has a place in the world, that she is useful, wanted.

  It’s getting late and she’s tired so she crosses to the Ladies where she can splash some water on her face, cool down. When she looks up, Sal is standing over her.

  ‘I think it’s time you went,’ she says. Her lips are painted bright red; Layla notices the sharp points of dangly earrings.

  ‘Doug asked me to stay for a drink,’ she says, injured.

  ‘And now you’ve outstayed your welcome.’ Sal doesn’t wait, flips the door so hard that it slaps back and forth behind her.

  Layla goes to retrieve her coat. Stephen is at the table, a flushed look on his face.

  ‘Are you not wanting another?’

  ‘No, think I’ll get on.’

  ‘You let him buy you a drink.’ He raises his chin to where Doug is holding court.

  ‘I work for him.’

  ‘No, Layla, you don’t. It’s not a job.’

  ‘I do a lot for them.’

  ‘He looks at you funny.’

  ‘Fuck off, Stephen.’

  Layla grabs her jacket, her heart stuttering fast at the argument, afraid the people around them will hear, will say something to Doug and Sal.

  ‘Wait. I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Radiating animosity, they thread their way through the crowd at the bar – Layla forces herself to smile and wave at Doug and Sal.

  ‘Are you away?’ Doug leans in and she feels the hot sweat of beer and breath on her. Layla nods. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Sal is talking to a woman by the bar. She doesn’t turn to say goodbye.

  The pub is small and the heat of the bodies means the outside world feels even colder than it should. Rain drives sideways across the car park. She hesitates in the doorway, then feels Stephen’s hand sneaking down the back of her jeans.

  ‘Get off.’

  She’s drunk and smarting still from Sal’s words.

  ‘I can’t fucking win, can I?’

  ‘What do you mean? Is this about the holiday?’

  ‘No, Layla. It’s about everything. Just talk to me. What’s going on?’

  He tries to touch her cheek and she flinches, then regrets it as she sees rage and despair slide into his eyes. She thinks he might cry but instead he grips her upper arms, hard.

  ‘What’s your problem? Why can’t you just have a conversation?’

  She turns her head away and somehow he ends up pushing her backward so she’s against the wall of the pub in the rain. His face is close and the anguish and intensity she sees there frightens her. She doesn’t want to mean this much to him, doesn’t want to drive him crazy. Yet she keeps doing it, over and over.

  ‘Please, just tell me what’s wrong?’

  Her arms are pinned. It doesn’t hurt, but she can’t move, struggles a little trapped against the wet stone, against the feeling of panic. Water runs down her face like tears and she remembers the kitchen garden, this moment a distortion of that one.

  Stephen’s face comes forward and she kisses him to shut him up, to stop him asking questions she can’t answer. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine she’s back in the woods, but she can’t recapture the scent of the earth and the leaves and his taste. Here there is only beer and smoke, boredom and normality. It isn’t enough and she can’t explain why.