Jean huffs at the word boyfriend. ‘It wasn’t serious.’ She fixes watery eyes on him. ‘He’s still there. Living in that cottage like nothing happened. He knows. I know it was him.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Jean closes her eyes in pain. ‘The bruises. She tried to hide them but I saw. God help me, I never said a word.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After three hours in the cottage, Cal emerges into a twilight glow, cold and clear, sucks fresh air into his lungs, places his equipment carefully in the back of the car. He is exhausted. His mind whirls with ideas, images of Layla, of his sister, his home. He is overcome with a desire to speak to Allie, despite everything, but when he dials his wife’s number she doesn’t answer. He wonders who she is with, what she’s doing, or if it is as simple as her promise that it is over between them. Is that why she won’t tell him the man’s name?

  He has found himself a small bed and breakfast close by. Ideally it would come with a gossiping farmer’s wife who knows everyone and everything to have happened here in the past fifty years, but the owner, Marilena, has been here less than five.

  Cloistered in his room, Cal spends an hour jotting down notes from his afternoon interview. He has names to follow up on – the lad Layla was supposed to ride out with that day is still local, there are people from the hotel, from the stables. He pauses the recording and stares at the page. Their reaction to his questions about her school friends surprised him. He sets it going again.

  ‘She stopped seeing them.’ The tightness of Jean’s voice reminds him of her hands gripped so tightly together.

  ‘Really? Why was that?’

  Silence. He remembers Jean looking at Tam, who’d shifted in his seat.

  ‘They went their own ways.’ Tam’s words sound dismissive. ‘Off to university or whatever. She had her horse riding.’

  ‘Was there no suggestion Layla might go to university?’

  It was Jean who answered.

  ‘There wasn’t the money. And she didn’t need it. She was just fine here.’

  Cal ends the recording and sets down his pen. There were grants back then. The money feels like an excuse for low expectations. Maybe that’s unfair. He thinks of the bleak cottage on the hill, wonders if it was as desperately lonely back then or if that comes from the grief that now hangs in the air. Is it possible Layla faked her disappearance so she could escape? The thought nags at him. He knows the urge to run, that it can make you take rash decisions. If Layla is alive that’s a good resolution, but he dreads another story blowing up in his face. There are only so many times you can start again.

  He pours a drink and dials Chrissie’s number, keen to hear her voice, to connect with home in some way, to be there for her in a way he cannot, or at least does not, manage in person.

  Her voice is tight.

  ‘All right, love?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  He wonders if the way he left, the argument with Allie, still reverberates in their home.

  She sighs.

  ‘Nothing. School… Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter. What about you? Are you there? Have you been to the scene of the crime?’

  She hams up the last four words to make him laugh and he knows she is changing the subject, but he is relieved that she still wants to talk to him so he lets her.

  ‘Not yet. We don’t know if there is one, to be honest. I met Layla’s parents today, though.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They just want answers.’

  ‘Will you get them?’

  Her voice is wistful.

  ‘I’ll try, love.’

  There’s a moment of silence and then the words seem to burst from her.

  ‘Mum says you’re always chasing Auntie Margot’s ghost and that we’ll never be enough. That you haven’t dealt with it.’

  He feels a spark of anger, sadness, that Allie confides in their child. Chrissie knows only the barest details about the aunt she never had. His parents clammed up the year after Margot went missing and never unlocked themselves again, so his side of the family is a disappointment, composed of broken people, ghosts and the absence of cousins. He likes that when his daughter talks about his sister, she acts as if she knew her, like it matters, but it worries him that Allie’s anger spills out when he isn’t there.

  ‘Mum shouldn’t say that to you. It isn’t true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Margot’s been gone a long time.’

  ‘But you don’t have answers.’

  He is silent for a moment, listening to his daughter’s breath down the line. From the window he can see the full cold moon bathing the countryside in silver.

  ‘Sometimes there aren’t answers,’ he tells her.

  That isn’t the truth and he wonders if she knows he is lying. There are always answers. Finding them is another thing entirely. He can’t escape the belief he has missed the only chance he had. That his answers hung from a hospital door.

  ‘Is Mum there?’ he asks.

  There is a pause, then his daughter’s voice tightens again, this time with regret. ‘She can’t come to the phone.’

  ‘But she’s there?’

  ‘Where else would she be?’

  ‘Nowhere, love.’ He curses himself for involving her. ‘I should go. Maybe speak to you tomorrow?’

  He waits for her to tell him she’s busy – out with friends.

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  * * *

  Unable to sleep, he goes back out to the car for his bag of paperwork. It’s breathtakingly cold; stepping into the pure darkness is like plunging into a pool of ice water. A thin fog drifts around the building. Cal jogs to the vehicle, pressing the button to unlock it, the car’s lights flashing and illuminating the path in the mist.

  He leans into the back seat to grab the rucksack and notices the letters lying there. Was it only yesterday that he stood at the end of the drive beside the mailbox? He grabs them and rushes back to the warmth of the bed and breakfast. If he doesn’t throw them away here, he’ll only have to do it later.

  In his room, Cal sets the little plastic kettle to boil and tips the paperwork onto the desk by the window. While the water bubbles noisily, making the tiny kettle bounce and judder, he tears open the letters, discarding the inevitable offers of WiFi and insurance. The last letter is different – a neat handwritten direction on the front. He half-recognises it but his mind is elsewhere as he slides his fingernail under the seal.

  When he sees who it is from, Cal throws the paper onto the bed in shock – as if it’s capable of burning him. The sight of the elegant penmanship makes his skin crawl. It’s a letter from beyond the grave. He has unwittingly driven all this way with a piece of the Woodland Killer in the car behind him.

  The kettle clicks off and he wipes his forehead. Suddenly the peaceful dark beyond the window seems to encroach on the room. He closes the curtains to shut it out, pours himself a cup of tea, all the while conscious of the discarded letter on the bed. He is sure whatever is in there will make sleep impossible, but how can he leave it until morning? He takes a deep breath, sits down and lifts the page.

  Dear Mr Lovett,

  Christopher. Do you mind if I call you that? It was a pleasure to see you again today. I find I rarely have the opportunity for such stimulating conversation and I hope to speak with you again soon.

  I hope I didn’t alarm you. My little surprise, earlier. You must forgive the indulgence. It gets a little dull in here and the look on your face was a picture. I expect not many people remember her these days, do they? A person’s loss is reduced to scrap. Perhaps we can talk about her sometime. I may be able to help you. I would like to help you.

  However, I must confess that I am disappointed that you failed to grasp the truth of my mother’s betrayal of my father – a man simply trying to provide for his family and who did not deserve to be treated so boldly. I hope you’re not going to be tedious, Christopher. I hope you can keep an open mind.

  Do feel free to write to me, Christopher. Once we have smoothed this petty wrinkle in our understanding, I feel sure we can continue our conversation and that I can provide the illumination you are lacking. This can only be good for us both.

  Yours,

  Marc Dubois

  Cal stares at the words, reads them over and over until the letters blur and his eyes hurt. There it is again. Scrap. It itches at the edge of his mind. He thumps his fist into the bed, wishes he could scream with frustration but the sound is stuck inside him, bouncing around until his stomach feels heavy with dread. Gradually, the weight of the words sinks through him. He paces the room, scouring the letter for more, searching between the lines for certainty, a concrete clue.

  It is all so tantalisingly out of reach, and yet he knows. He knows deep down that he sat across the table from his sister’s killer. He bought him chocolate bars, agreed with his delusions, watched the lines of his face and the look in his eyes. The letter only adds to Cal’s instinct that Dubois didn’t orchestrate his own death. He was having far too much fun for that.

  The words circle his mind, the killer’s essence lingers in the room. Feeling sick, he crosses to the window, thrusts it open so he can breathe, taking deep gulping breaths. The cold makes him shake but he stands at the window for a long time, numb with grief, the letter resting between his fingers.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Cal wakes early, anxiety a pall around him, thick, viscous. He forces himself out of bed, tries to quell the jitters by breathing deeply. His mind is busy, tumbling over itself with thoughts of Dubois and the lost shadow of Margot. In the early hours he made his resolution. He will contact the police force at home and tell them his theory.

  Bleary-eyed, he sweeps back the curtains and what he sees makes his breath catch. Mist coats the land like a thick white blanket, from which trees protrude like ghosts. Above the ground fog, the sky is clear and the sun illuminates the view, burning away the fronds where it touches them. It is indecently beautiful. He pictures Layla, riding her horse through the mist, galloping up the heather-covered hillside.

  Showered and dressed, he drives to a bakery. Curious about local pastries called butteries, he buys a bag of them and a large coffee, tearing pieces from one as he sits in the car and logs into the Facebook account for his podcast. Die-hard listeners are already speculating about the subject of his next series.

  He’s losing his touch. What’s he even working on? Cal forces himself to the next comment, finds he doesn’t need to leap to his own defence.

  It’ll be great, whatever it is. He recognises the handle: ‘Star-kissed Dreamer’ – an anonymous listener who follows everything he does. He wishes he had her confidence.

  He knows he is putting off the call. Eventually he forces himself to take the first step. He remembers the name of the detective who last reviewed the case, but after long minutes on hold and being passed around, it is a different voice that he hears. His hands are shaking.

  ‘Christopher Longacre? I’m Detective Foulds. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.’

  ‘That’s okay. And it’s Cal now. Cal Lovett. I changed my name.’

  There’s a pause. A sympathy beat.

  ‘I see. Detective Carson retired last year and so your sister’s case falls under my department. I understand you might have some information about Margot?’

  She is making it easy for him. He can do this.

  ‘Yes.’ He breathes. ‘I’m a reporter now, I have a true crime podcast.’ He waits, but she gives no hint of recognition. ‘I interviewed Marc Dubois. Before he died.’

  He feels the intake of breath, the change in the air that always accompanies that name.

  ‘No one knows who I was, who I used to be. Not even anyone I work with. But he… he knew things about me. He knew my real name.’

  ‘And you think…?’

  The voice is careful.

  ‘I think he killed my sister.’

  There is a moment of silence. He tries to imagine her face on the other end of the line, her thoughts.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but he wrote me a letter before he died. I opened it last night. That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘And what did he say? In the letter. Did he give you a location?’

  Cal falters.

  ‘Nothing specific. Just hints. But he keeps mentioning scrapyards.’

  ‘Mr Lovett.’

  ‘Cal.’

  ‘Cal. Look, I don’t know what we might be able to do with this information. But why don’t you email me a copy of the letter and any other information you have and we’ll take a look into it.’

  Her voice is professional. It gives nothing away. It isn’t enough – the understated reaction to a seismic revelation. He wants fireworks, horror, validation. But it will have to do for now.

  ‘I have recordings as well,’ he tells her. ‘I just don’t think he was a man on the verge of suicide. I think maybe there must have been foul play…’

  Foulds becomes brisk. ‘We are not investigating the death of Marc Dubois, Mr Lovett. I’m sure you know that. Any concerns you have about that need to be directed to the force in charge of that investigation.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ For a moment Cal worries he has blown all his credibility, turned her against him with lunatic accusations.

  ‘But as regards your sister, I’m happy to take a look at the letter and listen to the recordings you have. That’s all I can do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he stammers. ‘I appreciate it. I’ll send them through.’

  When she hangs up, he stares at the letter. The word ‘scrap’ dances in front of him, clicks into the memory of the recording. Scrapyards, he remembers. Scrapyards of our lives.

  * * *

  The cottages sit in a row of three. The furthest one is as neat as a pin, garden blooming with flowers and regimental vegetable rows – he sees courgettes, carrots, lettuce. The other two are less maintained. One has a scrubby patch of ground strewn with children’s toys, faded plastic diggers filling with rainwater. Stephen’s house is the middle one – a soggy deck chair sits next to a sand-filled bucket that appears to be two inches deep in fag ends.

  Cal is conscious that he hasn’t been invited onto the estate. Microphone ready, he knocks on the door in the centre, waits. When no one answers he presses his face to the glass in the door, cups his hand over his eyes to see.

  ‘He’s not there.’

  The voice makes him jump. A woman in a blue dressing gown stands on the doorstep of the cottage with the abandoned garden toys, her hair wild, her eyes puffy. She gestures at the trees with an unlit cigarette.

  ‘Stephen. He’s up at the hotel. On the breakfast shift.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  Though she doesn’t ask for one, he feels he owes the woman an explanation.

  ‘I’m Cal. I’m making a podcast about someone Stephen used to know.’

  ‘Layla.’ The woman supplies the name without hesitation.

  He pauses. Surprised.

  ‘Nothing stays a secret around here.’

  Some things do, he thinks.

  ‘Did you know her?’

  The woman concentrates on clicking the lighter, holding it up to the cigarette. The air is cold and her feet look blue on the stone step. Once she has taken a long drag, she shakes her head.

  ‘We only moved up a couple of years back. From Yorkshire.’

  ‘Do you work at the hotel?’

  She nods. ‘I did bar work, like. Before I had the nipper. Phil’s the meat chef. He’s the reason we’re here.’

  ‘But you’ve heard about Layla.’

  ‘People talk.’ She looks at him in disbelief. ‘Nowt else to do, is there?’

  ‘What do they say happened?’

  She shrugs, inclines her head in the direction of the empty cottage. ‘A lot of folk think it was him.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘He’s a miserable bugger, right enough, but…’ Cal waits. She only shrugs again. ‘What do any of us know?’ A cry starts from inside the cottage and she rolls her eyes, stubs the cigarette out on the wall then throws it over the fence into the sand bucket. ‘I’d best get on. Stephen will be back about ten for a break, I’d guess.’

  Cal steps back, waits for her to go in and snaps a quick picture of the row of cottages in the woods. Then he makes for the path through the trees.

  His call with Detective Foulds feels a lifetime away from this haunting place. He follows the path until it creeps out from behind a bank of rhododendrons that have run wild, and crunches onto a gravel driveway. In front of him the hotel presents its elegant face: grey pillars flank a large door and the tall glass windows to either side gleam. Cal skirts the building, finding the kitchen easily enough. Tucked at the back of the building, away from the lawns and the views. Boxes of vegetables stand waiting to be taken in, alongside crates of milk and juice.

  ‘Guest entrance is that way.’ A thin woman dressed in a white blouse and neat tartan skirt emerges from the open door. Her dark hair has a purple tinge but her face dates her, lined with past troubles. She must be in her sixties, Cal guesses.

  He channels his most winning smile and humble pose.

  ‘I’m not a guest – I was looking for Stephen.’

  ‘Oh right. I’ll tell him. He’s making bread at the moment.’

  She peers curiously at Cal. He notices she’s holding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘I can come back, it’s no problem. Don’t let me stop you.’ He gestures to her hands.

  She nods and flips the lid on the pack open.

  ‘Who shall I say was asking for him?’

  ‘Cal.’ He shifts a little, watches her inhale the first long drag, sees the lines on her face relax. ‘Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Aye. Too long.’

  He decides it’s worth the ask.

  ‘As long as thirty-five years?’

  She snorts. ‘Maybe. I’ve stopped counting.’