‘Did she see you?’

  ‘Yes, but she didn’t take me on. She went out the back door and I went back to my bottles. Layla wasn’t one to want comfort when she was upset. I’d never seen her cry before that. Not after, either. I noticed, though, after that, couldn’t help it. We were serving a private oil lunch about that time. One of the men at the lunch was watching her. Couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was all red and coy.’

  ‘She was pretty. That can’t have been unusual.’

  ‘Yes, but the way she was ignoring him was different. She liked to flirt. It was good for tips. I just came away with the sense that she knew him. Somehow.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the man?’

  ‘Not much. Salt and pepper hair, maybe late forties. Nice-ish looking.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you remember the oil company?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘Goodness, what were they called? They were in all the time back then, before the market crashed – shooting days, dinners, lunches.’ She rubbed her temples for a moment. ‘It might come back to me.’

  ‘Maybe the hotel has records. Thanks Irene. You’ve been such a help.’

  She looks awkward.

  ‘I meant to say. I saw you. In the paper.’

  Cal nods vigorously, wanting to spare her – and himself – the discomfort of saying it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  ‘That means a lot. Thank you.’

  It’s strange. He’s hidden the truth of his past his whole life, so convinced he’d be tearing himself open every time he mentioned it. Only it’s not like that at all. Every time someone acknowledges her, it releases the squeeze, ever so slightly. Margot deserves to be remembered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Cal isn’t dressed the part this time. The woman at the hotel reception frowns at his T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘I was hoping to speak to Archie?’

  Her lips pinch.

  ‘I will check if Mr James is available.’

  There’s a younger woman sitting behind the desk doing some paperwork – she smiles conspiratorially at him while the first woman mutters down the phone. Archie is there a moment later, the smile on his face dented only slightly by the inconvenience Cal sees in his eyes. He doesn’t care. They do the obligatory handshake, but Cal isn’t offered coffee or taken through to the billiard room this time. He half expects to be told to use the tradesmen’s entrance. He’s experienced this before. People will tell you that they want to help but they don’t always mean it.

  ‘So, how can we assist?’

  ‘I wondered if you might have any records from that time – of bookings and events. Maybe starting with the month Layla vanished?’

  ‘Records? For the hotel?’

  ‘We’re investigating the possibility that she may have met someone here. A guest.’

  Archie rubs his chin, looks regretful, though Cal can’t shake the feeling that it’s a charade.

  ‘We’re on a completely different system now, sorry. None of the old information has been kept.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. Sorry not to be able to help.’ He shrugs, not seeming in the least bit sorry as far as Cal is concerned.

  ‘What about the old guest comment books?’ They swivel to look at the young woman holding a sheaf of paperwork. ‘Sorry.’ She flushes. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. All the old guest sign-in and comment books are up in the library. Might be worth a try? You never know…’

  Archie’s eyes narrow briefly. ‘What a splendid idea, Ellie.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cal tries to transmit his utter gratitude to Ellie, though he has the feeling that she has enjoyed getting one over on old Archie as much as he has.

  ‘I can take you up there,’ she says, her gaze flicking to her boss. ‘If that helps?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Archie waves her through, addressing Cal as he passes. ‘If you’re sure this is necessary.’

  Cal is already following Ellie towards the staircase. ‘It’s very helpful, thank you.’

  The library is small and ancient, sloping wooden floorboards and what must be the original shelves. It seems to be used as a function room now, though today the tables are bare and the room is cold.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says again.

  ‘It’s no worry.’ Ellie grins, leading him to a shelf full of visitor books. ‘I sometimes like to have a nosy. The ones from the bedrooms are best but the main ones do have a lot of names in them.’

  She selects one from the middle of the shelf and flicks it to the opening page. ‘It’s just a question of finding the right era. Which year are you looking for?’

  ‘She went missing in 1986.’

  They pull books from the shelves, comparing the start and end dates until eventually Cal holds the two volumes that cross the period he’s most interested in.

  ‘I think there might be some old desk diaries in the cupboard too. I can take a look?’

  ‘Would you?’

  He helps her pull papers and books from one of the low cupboards. Incredibly, there they are, labelled by year.

  ‘Could I take them away with me, do you think?’ He makes a face at her; they both know Archie would insist they stay on the premises.

  Ellie grimaces. ‘Promise you’ll bring them back?’

  He nods, tracing his finger across his chest. ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t say anything about not taking them… so we could just assume?’

  ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

  Ellie laughs. ‘I’ll just act dumb. It’s how I’m usually treated here so it won’t be a stretch for them to believe it.’

  Cal hugs the books to his chest. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’

  ‘I’ve listened to the first episodes.’ Her jovial expression vanishes. ‘I’m the age she was back then. I’ve been imagining her working here. Someone must know what happened to her.’

  Cal scuttles from the hotel like a rat with a piece of cheese, afraid Archie will come after the precious books and demand he reads them on the premises. But as soon as he is clear of the estate, he pulls over and calls Irene.

  ‘I’ve got the guest books from the hotel for the year Layla went missing. If I bring them over, will you take a look at the names, see if anything jogs your memory?’

  ‘No problem. You coming now? I’ll put the kettle on.’

  The route to Irene’s house takes Cal past the road to the stables. He can see a woman in a field with a horse. For a moment he imagines it is Layla. Her lonely figure casts a melancholy image. He can only hope he is getting closer, that the answer is in reach.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  EPISODE SIX: OIL MAN

  We’re sitting in a sunlit kitchen that belongs to Irene – an old colleague of Layla’s. Irene’s cat Nina is washing her paws in a beam of light on the floor. On the table in front of us is a box of old reservation diaries. The books are a mess of scribbles, decades-old phone numbers and bookings scrawled in their pages, crossed out, amended. But we now believe Layla could have been in some sort of relationship with a regular visitor to the hotel, so we’re poring over these volumes in the hope we can help Irene remember.

  We start on the day Layla went missing and work back from there to see if anything jogs Irene’s memory. It’s a shame this wasn’t done thirty-five years ago, but it’s too late to go back and change how the police investigation was handled, and it’s a miracle we’ve been able to find these. Luckily, the old names begin to trigger memories.

  ‘I mind on this wedding. They were a total nightmare. The best man was wasted, threw up in the bar and then slated the mother of the bride in the speech. Pure carnage.’

  ‘How about this one? North Sea Extractions?’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t think that’s the one I remember.’

  We spend all morning flicking through the pages. I’m about to suggest we give up, but then Irene spots something.

  ‘That rings a bell. That company.’

  ‘Is there a person’s name?’

  ‘Not there, no. But here they are again. This one has two names.’

  We’re not going to reveal any of these names at the moment, not until we’re sure there is a connection with Layla. However, once we see it, it’s easy to find one of the two men’s names, repeated frequently. It’s possible this is unrelated: Irene says some oil companies did use the hotel a lot for business meetings and lunches. This was right before the oil market crashed and entertaining came to a halt. However, she’s sure this company was the one holding a particular lunch she remembers, where Layla seemed to know one of the executives. Could this be the lead we’re looking for?

  Once we’ve made a note of all the visits in the months leading up to Layla’s disappearance, we decide to check the weeks after she went missing. I turn back to the date Layla vanished. We immediately spot something that seems too much of a coincidence:

  ‘Hang on. He was there that day.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t working that day.’

  ‘We didn’t see it before because we didn’t have the name. There, look…’

  ‘What does this mean?’

  We move forward through the pages, scanning in silence. Then. There it is. A week after Layla disappeared, we find a scored-out event.

  ‘Look, Irene. Here, again. They were due in. I think it says lunch and shooting but it’s hard to tell. It’s been scribbled out.’

  We keep going, turning the pages until we reach the end of the book. What we now know, after all this time, is that once Layla vanished, the oil man didn’t come back.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Cal parks on a narrow road only a stone’s throw from the River Dee. He watches the house through a gap in the trees – a significant departure from the small cottage on the exposed hillside in which Layla lived. Here, the rich green lawns are tamed, striped from careful mowing, and the grey stones of the imposing house glow in the post-rain light.

  Something inside him hums with the feeling that he is on the right track. Though John Knowles has retired from the oil company and moved his influence to the golf course, it was not hard to find him online. Chairman of the club, house on Deeside, fishing rights, river views. Balmoral just down the road.

  He sits for two hours before he sees movement. There will only be one chance to ambush him. If he fails, then Knowles will be forewarned and the advantage lost. Eventually, his patience pays off: a man he recognises from photographs crosses the gravel driveway to a gleaming Land Rover Discovery – the same type of car as the one Layla was seen getting into – followed by two spaniels, tails wagging, tongues hanging. The man opens the boot and then squints up at the sky, encourages the dogs into the back. He is tall, in decent shape for his seventies, with grey hair.

  Cal sets off down the gravel driveway, warmed by the sun creeping from behind the clouds, adjusting his microphone. Knowles must hear the crunch of his feet, because he turns to face him, the car key dangling from his hand.

  ‘John Knowles?’

  The man frowns, his face papered with confident caution. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s Cal Lovett. I’m making a podcast about someone I think you used to know.’

  John Knowles stares back at him. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence, though Cal is sure he sees a twitch in the man’s jaw, a hardening on his face, the disappearance of blood from the skin.

  ‘Can you guess who that might be?’

  ‘I really don’t have time for games, Mr Lovett. You’re on private property. If some old business associate has got himself mixed up in something untoward that’s really his affair.’

  It’s like that, then, Cal thinks.

  ‘Affair. Interesting choice of word. Have you thought about Layla much, over the years?’

  There is a long, slow moment when John Knowles looks at Cal, back at the house and then at Cal again. He can see him trying to calibrate what Cal might know, how to react.

  ‘Have you seen the news, recently? It might not have made it to you; it is an old case, after all.’

  Knowles steps towards the car. ‘This really isn’t a good time.’

  ‘I know about you and Layla.’

  John Knowles turns sharply. ‘I think you should leave.’

  ‘They haven’t released the exact details of where she was found, though. Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think this has to do with me.’

  ‘You used to attend meetings at the hotel. Frequently.’

  Knowles looks at him; his face seems greyer, his expression less sure.

  ‘Along with hundreds of other people in my line of business.’

  ‘But they didn’t suddenly stop going there.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He glances back at the house again.

  Cal takes the leap of assumption.

  ‘I know about the waterfall. Did something happen there, John? Did she want something from you that you weren’t prepared to give?’ The man’s skin ghosts beneath his expensive skiing tan. ‘Is there somewhere else we could talk? Somewhere more private?’

  These are not his usual methods, but the painful energy trapped inside him, the need to act instead of think, pushes him on.

  ‘I don’t have anything to say.’

  ‘I just think it would be better if you put across your side of the story.’

  ‘What do you mean, side? I don’t have a side. When I left Layla at the waterfall, she was fine. More than fine.’

  Bingo.

  ‘You must have seen she was missing. If that’s true, why didn’t you come forward? You must realise it doesn’t look good.’

  He finds himself glancing at the man’s hands as he speaks, wondering what they might have done. Did Layla know what was happening to her?

  Words stream from Knowles in a sudden rush. ‘Look, I assumed she’d had an accident on the horse. Then the papers suggested she might have run away and I just… I couldn’t be seen to be involved with an investigation like that. Layla was a lovely girl, but we weren’t going to be…’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did she know that?’

  Knowles sighs and rubs his head. ‘Layla was smart, realistic. I offered her an out and she said she wanted it. She knew what we had wasn’t going to be forever.’

  ‘But now they’ve found her – it seems pretty clear she died there, at the waterfall.’

  Confusion furrows the man’s brow. He is a good actor, Cal can admit. If you didn’t know he was the last one to see Layla alive then you’d almost believe him.

  ‘She can’t have done.’

  ‘Could you take me through that day? It would really help.’

  John looks shiftily at the house and Cal watches the indecision on his brow cloud into something blunt and unyielding. When he returns his gaze, the hope Cal felt for co-operation ices over.

  ‘No. I want you to leave. Now.’

  ‘Mr Knowles…’

  But, without another word, the man climbs into his gleaming car, slams the door and accelerates away from Cal, leaving him alone on the raked gravel.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Cal emails pictures of the extracts from the hotel visitor records to the police, reiterates the testimonies he has that Layla was involved with someone. He waits for news that they have questioned John Knowles, but instead Jean calls to tell him that they have taken Stephen in for questioning. There is a high note in her voice: he can hear the adrenaline and hope, and yet can’t give in to it.

  He has a horrible feeling the police are using the affair as evidence to mount a case against the chef, and increasingly he finds he can’t believe the man killed Layla and left her there all this time, so close to the place he lives and works. He doesn’t seem cold and controlled enough to be able to tolerate the reminders, the presence, the drift on the breeze.

  DI McKenzie refuses to take his calls and the days roll forward. Stephen is released without charge. Cal lines up his notes, writes and rewrites the script for the next episode, splicing together thoughts and comments from the main players, skirting the edges of what he thinks is the truth but cannot explicitly say, hoping the listeners will draw their own conclusions.

  Perhaps it is time for him to pack up and leave, monitor the situation from home, but Cal finds he cannot abandon his post yet. Besides, Chrissie is happy here. Watercolours of the Aberdeenshire landscape hang from every curtain rail. He isn’t sure if they are part of her course or not; he doesn’t want to ask in case they aren’t. He finds himself awed by her unleashed talent, in a similar way he’d been when he met Allie and saw the way she made sense of the world, translating its complexity to paper in a way that makes him feel it, understand it.

  The primal washes of greens and greys reflect the countryside around them. She’s captured the breadth and depth of the sky, the sense that here you can breathe more freely, that you are smaller, dwarfed by the landscape instead of dominating it. He isn’t surprised it has inspired Chrissie – he feels a deep, almost religious connection to these hills, woods and fields.

  Every time he thinks of home, the anticipation of the decisions that must be made, the dismantling of his marriage, overwhelms him. He liked his old life, cannot comprehend the thought that it is over and they will have to move to a new phase.

  And then there is Margot. He sees her in his dreams, clawing her way from the earth, begging to be found. Are the police doing anything to prove the theory he feels in his bones, the dreaded suspicion that wakes him in the early hours, clammy and breathless, heart churning? The thought of contacting them again drains and paralyses him. So instead he fiddles with the paperwork and the editing, takes long walks with Chrissie that leave his boots caked in mud and his clothes sodden but do little to still the drumming in his brain.

  * * *

  He meets Shona for lunch one day, to discuss the episode and any progress being made.

  They have barely sat down when his phone starts ringing. It is an unregistered number. He looks at Shona apologetically.