‘Swindon?’ he asks.

  The man nods, staring at his feet.

  ‘Ever worked out the Bluebell?’

  He looks up at Jake, sadness replaced by a hardening of his features. The name of the pub seems to have changed the mood. ‘Wouldn’t know, mate,’ he says, standing up.

  ‘Rockbourne, outside Swindon,’ Jake says, watching as the man starts to walk away. Their conversation is clearly at an end. He knows something about the pub, Jake is sure of it. And maybe about the barman who served Kate that night.

  ‘Couldn’t you go to the police?’ he calls after him.

  The man spits to one side. And then he stops, about twenty yards away, his back still to Jake, and looks around him, as if taking in the forest for the first time, the still summer air. A shiver runs through Jake. Has he pushed him too far? The man pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a rasping strike of a match, and walks on.

  It’s a sound that Jake has heard before.

  27

  Kate

  Kate stares at the phone screen, watching it power down to darkness. She can’t go on like this. Her paranoia is killing her. She’s fine when she’s just talking to Rob. It’s when she sees his face that this feeling kicks in, a sickening, gut-wrenching sense that it’s not him but someone who looks identical.

  A moment later, Rob starts to call her on FaceTime on her laptop. She snaps it shut, looking around the kitchen. Shit. The landline in the hall. She rushes out and pulls the handset cable from the wall socket. There’s no other way for him to communicate with her now. The house is isolated. She feels better already.

  Bex is still asleep. Kate walks down the corridor towards the guest room and stands outside the door. She can’t wake her again. Not after last night’s drama. Bex would never forgive her. Instead, she opens Rob’s office door, pleased that he’s still been unable to lock it remotely, and steps inside, followed by Stretch, who’s come to see what she’s doing.

  She’s not sure herself. She just wants to get a better sense of the Rob she doesn’t know so well, the man he was before she met him. She walks over to his desk, picks up the Rossetti and stares at it again, the frightened faces. How They Met Themselves, as she now knows it’s called.

  ‘What’s this place?’

  Kate spins round to see Bex in her pyjamas, standing bleary eyed in the doorway.

  ‘Rob’s office,’ she says.

  ‘His Cornish man-cave?’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Kate asks, ignoring the comment out of some strange sense of loyalty. She said something similar once to Rob and he didn’t find it funny.

  ‘Good, thanks. Apart from being woken up in the middle of the night by this crazy best friend of mine who doesn’t realise how bloody lucky she is.’ She bends down to pet Stretch, who is at her feet, tail wagging like a demented windscreen wiper.

  Kate smiles at her. Where would she be without Bex? ‘Sorry about that.’ She pauses, her smile fading. ‘I’ve just spoken to Rob. Asked about him talking in fluent French on the TV.’

  ‘And?’ Bex asks, looking up at her.

  ‘He says they got him to practise it for the cameras.’

  ‘There we go,’ Bex says. Kate turns away, recalling Rob’s explanation. ‘There’s always a rational explanation for these things,’ Bex adds.

  ‘I guess so.’ Kate’s still not convinced.

  ‘What you doing in here anyway?’ Bex asks.

  ‘Looking at this.’ She gestures at the picture behind her.

  ‘Bloody hell, don’t tell me that’s an original Rossetti,’ Bex says, coming over to study it more closely.

  ‘There are four versions, apparently,’ Kate says. ‘It’s called How They Met Themselves. Those two people on the right are the doppelgängers.’

  ‘Complete with a Ready Brek glow around them.’

  They both stare at the picture in silence.

  ‘You want some breakfast?’ Kate asks, leading her out of the office.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind a bit more of a nosey around first,’ Bex says, lingering at the door. ‘Any more hidden masterpieces?’

  Bex loves her art. It’s one reason they’re such good friends.

  ‘He doesn’t really like people to come in here,’ Kate says, about to close the door behind them. And then a book catches her eye. She takes it off the shelf by the door and looks at the cover: Le Bouc émissaire. She reads the back, conscious that her hands are trembling.

  ‘What is it?’ Bex asks.

  ‘A French translation of The Scapegoat by Daphne du Maurier,’ Kate says, flicking through the well-thumbed pages. ‘About doubles.’

  Kate replaces it on the shelf, trying not to dwell on the book, what its presence in Rob’s office might mean.

  ‘Tea?’ she asks, as they walk back down the corridor to the kitchen.

  ‘Could murder a coffee,’ Bex says, watching as Kate opens one of the cupboards. ‘It’s just a book, Kate. Might not even be his.’

  ‘It’s in French, Bex,’ Kate says, spooning some coffee powder into the espresso machine. ‘Why read Daphne du Maurier in bloody French?’

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ Bex says. ‘He’s trying to learn the language.’

  Kate can’t hold it together any longer and turns away, her eyes stinging.

  ‘Oh, Katie,’ Bex says, coming over to comfort her.

  ‘I hung up on him,’ she says, steadying herself against the sideboard. She’s feeling dizzy. ‘When we were talking earlier.’

  ‘Why d’you do that?’

  ‘We were on the phone and then the signal improved and I saw his face and…’

  Kate starts to cry, big hot tears, the last few days finally catching up with her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Bex says quietly, still holding her.

  After a few moments, Kate unpeels herself from Bex’s arms and fetches a glass jar of granola, placing it on the table. She feels better when she’s doing things. She takes out a pot of yoghurt from the fridge, which is now behaving itself.

  ‘His smile,’ Kate says. ‘It was as if he was mocking me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Rob would never do that.’

  ‘I know.’ Kate pauses. ‘That’s what’s worrying me.’

  They catch each other’s eye. ‘Will he be angry with you?’ Bex asks, turning away. ‘For hanging up on him?’

  ‘He doesn’t do anger,’ Kate says, laying out some cutlery on the table.

  ‘Count yourself lucky. Nothing wrong with a bit of anger, mind. Shows passion.’ Bex raises her eyebrows suggestively as she sits down at the table, idly stacking away some magazines. She grabs the top one, a copy of Wired, and flicks through it.

  ‘Actually, he was angry with me once,’ Kate says, sitting down opposite Bex. ‘Early on, when he came to see me at Mum’s.’

  ‘Staying with in-laws can be very stressful.’

  ‘It wasn’t that.’

  Kate tries hard to think back to the visit, soon after she’d left hospital. She was spending a few weeks with her mum before the move down to Cornwall. Rob used to visit at weekends. Did he ask her about her memory? She was still heavily medicated for her injuries and those early days remain a blur.

  ‘What was it, then?’ Bex asks.

  ‘I failed a recognition test of some kind. He showed me some images of faces.’

  The details start to come back, but it’s like she’s seeing everything through a thick fog. Her mum had gone shopping and they were at the kitchen table in her house, photos laid out in front of her, as if they were playing pairs.

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’ Rob had asked, pointing at someone – a doctor, she thinks it was. White coat anyway. She’d shaken her head and his fist had slammed down onto the table. So hard her herbal tea had spilt. She remembers that. He suddenly became very kind to her, mopping up, apologising, saying he’d had a stressful time at work. And then he’d asked her to put on the headset. It was the first time and she was scared, although her fear was numbed by the medication.

  ‘You OK?’ Bex asks.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, putting that day out of her mind.

  ‘He’s just trying to help you,’ Bex continues, resting a hand on hers. ‘And he’s done a pretty good job, I’d say.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  She tucks into the yoghurt, deciding not to tell Bex what she can remember. She’s not sure if she’s imagining it all anyway.

  ‘I texted Jake this morning,’ Bex says, changing the subject. ‘Told him he can stay at mine.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’ And surprising. Maybe they’d make a good couple. Bex would be better at knocking him into shape than Kate ever was.

  ‘Poor sod.’ Bex pauses. ‘You’d better ring Rob back.’

  She’s right. She turns on her phone and a voicemail message pops up. Before she can play it, though, the phone starts to ring.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Bex says, getting up from the table with her coffee. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

  ‘It’s showing “Number unavailable”,’ Kate says.

  ‘Answer it, Kate. It’s probably him.’

  She takes the call. It’s not Rob.

  28

  Silas

  Silas waits for what seems like half the car-owning population of Cornwall to drive out of the village before he steers down the single-track road to the quayside. Miraculously, he finds somewhere to park. The sandy beach is spread out below them and beyond it the wide expanse of the sea.

  He and Strover sit still for a few moments, admiring the view across to Nare Head. His father, who was also a detective, used to tell him stories about stakeouts when he was with the Regional Crime Squad in the 1980s. Everyone preferred the Mark 2 Vauxhall Cavalier in those days because you could put the seats back and sleep. Which was fine until a joint undercover operation, when half the force would turn up in the same car.

  ‘Mountains or seaside?’ he asks Strover, still looking ahead. It’s been a quick drive, three hours from Swindon, including the judicious use of a blue light on their unmarked car on a congested section of the M5.

  ‘Sorry, boss?’

  ‘Are you a mountain or a seaside person? People tend to be one or the other. Like Africa and India – you prefer one continent or the other. Edinburgh or Glasgow. London or New York. Mountains or seaside.’

  ‘Neither really,’ she says, clearly confused.

  ‘Where do you go on your holidays, then?’ he asks. Silas loves to travel.

  ‘City breaks.’

  He nods his head in approval. He likes a good city break himself – Krakow last time – but he’s a seaside man at heart. Always has been. Not the big beaches but rugged coasts and hidden coves. Western Isles of Scotland, the Pelion peninsula in Greece.

  ‘Should you call her again?’ he asks. ‘Check that she’s still in?’

  Strover rang Kate earlier, before they set off from Gablecross, exaggerating her Bristol accent to explain that she had a special Sunday flower delivery and asking if Kate would be in today. Silas was taken aback by how naturally Strover slipped into character, wondered if she’d ever considered undercover work. The deceit didn’t sit comfortably with either of them, but they needed to talk to Kate. And Jake had revealed that Kate’s new man had had to return to London. Flowers might work. If they gave her warning of their arrival, there was a good chance she’d choose not to cooperate.

  ‘I’ll call her again now,’ Strover says, as Silas gets out of the car. ‘Are we walking?’ she adds, surprised.

  ‘What flavour?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m buying us ice creams. You must have ice cream at the seaside.’

  ‘Honeycomb if they’ve got it,’ she says hesitantly as she puts the phone to her ear.

  Funny, he had her down as a mint choc chip. You can tell a lot about someone from their choice of ice cream.

  ‘And you’d better buy some flowers – decent ones,’ Strover calls after him, before slipping into Bristol florist mode to talk on her phone.

  Silas walks off, Strover’s words carrying in the summer breeze. ‘Is that Kate?’ she asks. ‘This is the florist’s, I called earlier… Just checking you’re in for a delivery today? About ten minutes?’ He smiles to himself. Strover’s coming on nicely.

  Ten minutes later, they pull up in front of the house where Kate’s living, Silas licking the last of his rum and raisin ice cream from his lips. It is the weekend, after all. In truth, he’s nervous. He hasn’t seen Kate for nearly five months, not since she left hospital and disappeared off their radar.

  ‘Grand Designs,’ he says, getting out the car and looking up at the house. ‘Got to be.’

  The entire front of the single-storey house is glass, most of the interior hidden behind blinds. To the left of them, a shiny Tesla is hooked up to a charging point in front of a standalone double garage. He’s sure they’ve got the right place. The address matches the one Strover found for Kate’s partner’s businesses. And she established from the DVLA database that the only car in Rob’s name, a Tesla, is also registered at this address.

  ‘Different,’ Strover says, joining her boss at the front door.

  He’s holding a large bunch of carnations, the best he could find in the village shop. If there were another way of doing this, he’d do it. The last thing he wants is to frighten Kate. She’s been through enough already.

  ‘Not my bag,’ he says, standing back to take in the property’s glass and steel frontage. ‘Good for growing tomatoes in though.’

  ‘I like it,’ Strover says, glancing across at the drive. ‘And the Tesla Model S Performance. Nought to sixty in 2.4 seconds. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five-mile range. Top speed 155 miles per hour.’

  Silas shakes his head in bewilderment. ‘You are the source of the most unlikely information.’

  ‘Girls not meant to know about cars?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  Not convinced, Strover leans forward to press the doorbell. ‘Driving one of those things is like sitting in the future,’ she says, looking across at the Tesla again.

  ‘Wait,’ Silas says, gesturing at the security camera. He moves forward and holds the carnations up close to the tiny lens, blocking the view with flowers.

  29

  Kate

  The phone call was from the florist again. This time the woman was ringing to say that the delivery would be in ten minutes.

  Kate knows it will be lilies. More white ones. She guesses Rob’s still feeling bad about returning early to London yesterday. Jake used to give her flowers too but never bought ones. He used to cut them when he was out walking in the forest. Honeysuckle, dog-rose and cow parsley, tied up with meadow grass. Rob isn’t a great one for getting his hands dirty in the woods and he wouldn’t have survived one night on their leaky old narrowboat. Everything has to be clean and in the right place, like the house. It’s a measure of the man that he’s allowed her to come into his home and make such a mess.

  Bex is still having a shower as Kate half-heartedly tidies up their breakfast things. She’s filled with a sudden desire to drive up to London, try to recapture some of the loved-up feelings from before. Rediscover the Rob who walked onto her hospital ward that first day, his eyes full of kindness and curiosity. Maybe it’s only seeing him at weekends that’s messing with her head, making everything feel so disconnected. She needs to be with him in London, stay at his flat, meet him for lunch at the office. Be an ordinary couple.

  She wanders over to the easel where her painting of Stretch sits half finished. Behind it, on the mirror, she’s stuck up a collection of photos of her and Rob from their first few weeks down in Cornwall together, when he was working from here. She leans forward and looks at him, the man she loves: emerging from the waves with a surfboard, teasing her by a rock pool with a crab in his hands, standing on the harbour wall at sunset drinking Provence rosé.

  These photos all look like Rob, a reminder of those first few weeks here. She was still in considerable discomfort then, but the pain was lessened by the ease of her new life. She and Jake used to say that they didn’t want a lot of money, just enough to make things run a bit more smoothly. That’s how it feels with Rob. He hasn’t let his ridiculous wealth change him. They go to the village pub for dinner – coconut vegetable curry for her, cod and chips for him. There just isn’t that flinch any more when the bill arrives. And she doesn’t worry that the car will break down.

  A recent photo of Rob sitting at the harbour café catches her eye. She remembers when she took it. He was grinning at someone using the ‘perv-oculars’ to scan the suntanned bodies on the beach below. She looks more closely at the picture, grateful to be able to study Rob’s handsome face without feeling strange. And then she notices someone in the background, standing in the coffee queue. It’s the same man who sat next to her yesterday, before her swim. And he’s staring at the camera. At her.

  The front doorbell rings.

  30

  Silas

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ Silas says, holding out the bunch of carnations. It’s good to see Kate again.

  ‘You bastard,’ Kate manages to say, visibly shocked as she takes the flowers.

  Silas should have warned her. He tenses his foot, ready to insert it into the doorway in case she slams the door in their faces. She looks well though: healthy, barely recognisable from the woman he last saw in hospital, bandaged and full of tubes. Her long brown hair’s up, shaved at the nape. Edgy, stylish. She must have struggled to conform when she was working for the police.

  ‘It’s OK, we’re not here to ask you back,’ he says, palms held up in front of him. ‘We just want to show you one picture, that’s all.’

  ‘A long way to come for one picture,’ Kate says, still holding her ground on the doorstep.

  ‘One picture’s often all it takes – as you know.’

  ‘Has this got anything to do with the court case?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Can we come in?’ Silas peers past Kate into the airy hall, which looks bigger than his entire flat in Old Swindon. ‘Please?’