‘I really don’t know what she’s got herself into,’ she continues.

  ‘With Rob?’ he asks, surprised. ‘I thought you approved.’

  ‘I did. Still do. But… It sounded right weird, that man threatening to come back and take over Rob’s life. What sort of a knob would say a thing like that? Makes me wonder if Kate might be onto something.’ She pauses. ‘If she hasn’t got Capgras.’

  ‘If it’s not Capgras, it’s something else in her head,’ Jake says, for his own benefit as much as hers. ‘Rob hasn’t been replaced by a double. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen. You and I know that.’

  He leans forward and glances at the Google results for Kirby, Rob’s Facebook friend. He’s been searching all evening, ever since he left DI Hart in the water meadow. Was it wrong to accuse the detective’s son of arson? There’s no proof. He looks at the screen again. He hasn’t been able to find anyone who fits Kirby’s Facebook profile. Odd. No one even close to a match.

  ‘You’re right,’ Bex says. ‘I saw Rob on Paddington station and I’ve talked to him on FaceTime down here. It’s ridiculous, the whole idea.’

  She still doesn’t sound sure. ‘So what’s the problem?’ Jake asks.

  She hesitates before speaking.

  ‘The Thailand story’s changed things, that’s all. Got me thinking. What if there really are two of them? The one I saw in London and the one Kate met down in Cornwall? Rob and this bloke Gil?’

  ‘It’s easy to get carried away,’ Jake says, trying not to sound patronising. Too many years in journalism have left him with a default cynicism that he’s not proud of, but it prevents him from leaping to fanciful conclusions.

  He lets Bex talk some more. She has a lot to get off her chest, including a couple of jets they heard during a FaceTime chat that apparently proved Rob was still in Cornwall. It’s clear to him that things have got out of hand for Bex and Kate in their seaside bubble.

  ‘I was going to call Kate after she’s seen this Dr Varma,’ he says, typing in some new search terms for the elusive Kirby. ‘But maybe it’s best if you do it.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she says. ‘And sorry, you know, for being a bit off with you earlier.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Jake hangs up and then he freezes, staring at the screen. At last he’s found a Kirby who matches the criteria. Worked at one of Rob’s companies, looks like the photo on Facebook – and died five years ago.

  Jake reads the information again, eyes widening in disbelief. Kirby’s definitely dead. He reaches for the phone to call Kate, recalling the chat he had on Messenger. If he wasn’t talking to Kirby, who the hell was replying to his messages?

  62

  Kate

  ‘Rob said you wanted to see me urgently,’ Ajay says, glancing around the apartment as they make their way over to the kitchen area.

  Kate wonders if he’s been here before. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says.

  Is it urgent? Or is she wasting Ajay’s time?

  ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Glass of wine?’ she asks as he perches awkwardly on a high kitchen stool.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he says, smiling. And then his expression becomes more serious. ‘Rob mentioned what you saw on the beach in Cornwall. I’m so sorry. It must have been very distressing for you.’

  Of course. Ajay thinks he’s here to debrief her about the dead body. That’s what Rob must have told him after she rang from the pub in a state last night. It was upsetting, but it’s not what she wants to talk about.

  ‘We were both shocked – I was with my friend Bex when we found the body,’ she says, wondering how she’s going to turn the conversation to Capgras. Doctors must hate it when patients try to self-diagnose.

  ‘Would you like to tell me a little more about it?’ he asks. ‘How you felt?’

  ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you about something else,’ she says, hesitating. Ajay smiles, encouraging her to continue. ‘It sounds a little crazy.’

  ‘Crazy?’

  She realises it must be a loaded word in his world, one that he probably tries to avoid.

  ‘Delusional,’ she offers instead.

  ‘Tell me,’ he says.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Every time I see Rob,’ she begins, shifting her position on the kitchen stool, ‘I think it’s not him.’

  Jesus, she does sound crazy. Unhinged. Ajay looks at her, unblinking, as if she’s the only person in the world. She likes that about him, his undivided attention.

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘An impostor, a double, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Just not Rob. It’s as if he’s been replaced by someone.’

  ‘And this has been happening for how long?’ he asks.

  She’s reassured that he’s taking her seriously. A diagnosis would make it so much easier when she next sees Rob.

  ‘The past four days. Since he came down to see me in Cornwall on Friday.’

  She remembers the look in his eyes when he watched her painting that day. The mug shattering into pieces on the concrete floor, the sudden certainty that she was talking to a total stranger. Stretch trotting away in fear. ‘My best friend Bex, she thinks I might have something called Capgras delusion.’

  Ajay looks up at her, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘Capgras? Interesting. It’s a rare condition.’

  ‘But you have heard of it?’ she asks, noting that he pronounces it with a silent ‘s’. It suddenly all feels a little too real, hearing the word repeated by a leading neuropsychiatrist.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Technically it’s classified as a delusional misidentification syndrome – an extremely unusual disorder.’ He pauses, looking at her again with a certain detachment, what she’s come to recognise as clinical interest. Maybe it’s not such a long shot after all. ‘It’s more common in women than men,’ he adds. ‘And it can occur in association with migraines.’

  She stares at him. They both know she suffered from migraines after the accident.

  ‘And is it true you only think someone’s a double when you see them?’ she asks. ‘Not when you talk to them on the phone.’

  ‘That’s correct – connectivity between the auditory cortex and memory appears to be unaffected. In fact, auditory cues can be used to help patients restore the association between a person and a face.’ He pauses. ‘But there’s a lot we still don’t understand about Capgras. And at present there’s no known cure. In some cases, when it’s caused, say, by a right hemisphere lesion, only the left visual field is affected.’

  ‘Meaning?’ she asks, her head beginning to spin. Only the left visual field is affected.

  ‘You only think the person is a double if they’re to your left.’

  Her eyes start to well up.

  ‘As I say, it’s a rare condition,’ Ajay repeats, noticing her discomfort. ‘Very rare.’

  She doesn’t know whether to be pleased or frightened. The thought of no cure for Capgras isn’t great. Nor is the prospect of seeing Rob as a double for the rest of her life. But at least it might explain what’s been happening to her. Her own brain injuries from the accident were all on the right hemisphere, which controls the left part of her body, including her left eye. Does she only think Rob is a double when he’s in her left field of vision? When she dropped the mug of tea on Saturday morning, he was on her left. And at Truro station, when the woman approached Rob… he was to Kate’s left too.

  63

  Silas

  Without speaking, Silas sits down next to his son in the hut in the forest, wincing at the pain in his knees as he pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them. The last time he sat like this was in the cubs more than forty years ago, trying not to look up Akela’s skirt.

  ‘I just want you and Mum to be together,’ Conor says after a while.

  Silas closes his eyes. ‘It’s not that easy,’ he says.

  And he doubts whether it would fix anything in Conor’s life if they did give it another go. His problems run far deeper. Mel blames him for not being tough enough on their son when he was younger. Silas tried to explain that it was hard to play the disciplinarian when you were feeling guilty about being an absent father, but it never washed.

  ‘Have you even tried?’ Conor asks, rocking more violently now.

  Silas senses the anger beneath the surface. He doesn’t want to do or say anything that might provoke it further.

  ‘It needs us both to want to get back together and I don’t think Mum—’

  ‘Mum wants it,’ Conor shouts, interrupting him. ‘She told me.’

  ‘OK,’ Silas says, taken aback by Conor’s sudden outburst. He’s glad they are up here in the woods, far from anyone. ‘So Mum wants it.’

  Neither of them says anything. Silas closes his eyes and becomes aware of a nearby buzzing. He looks up and sees a wasp nest in the far corner, under the green corrugated-iron roof. A mass of delicate, beautiful swirls, like one of the big brown-sugar meringues that Mel used to make with Conor when he was little.

  ‘When did she tell you she wanted us to get back together?’ he asks.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Conor says. ‘When I phoned her to say goodbye.’

  From the train track. Silas remembers seeing the missed calls from her, the ease with which he’d ignored them. Was that after Conor had called her?

  ‘I heard what happened,’ Silas says. ‘And I’m glad you didn’t go through with it.’

  ‘Are you really?’

  Conor is calmer now, more reflective, his body no longer rocking.

  ‘Of course I bloody am,’ Silas says. ‘What made you want to do it?’

  ‘You?’ Conor says.

  Silas winces. It’s painful, like a knife between the ribs, but a part of him knows that he needs to hear this if the two of them are ever to patch things up.

  ‘My shitshow of a life,’ Conor continues.

  ‘If you’re in trouble…’

  ‘Trouble?’ Conor laughs. ‘I’m not a child any more, Dad.’

  ‘There’s always a way out, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Not from this there isn’t.’

  ‘From what?’

  Conor remains silent.

  ‘I’m not interested in the boat fire,’ Silas says, worried that he might be overplaying his hand. He’s learnt to keep back how much he knows, at least when interviewing suspects. But this is his own son.

  ‘You’re a cop,’ Conor says. ‘Of course you’re interested in the boat. That’s why you’re here – in the village.’

  ‘I came here today because someone saw you – recognised you from the missing person posters I’ve been putting up everywhere.’

  ‘You’re lying. I saw you two nights ago, down by the boat. With the firemen.’

  So Jake was right: his own son is an arsonist. He lets the thought sink in. Conor must have been watching the boat fire unfold from a safe distance. How did it come to this? His own flesh and blood. Thank God no one was injured.

  ‘OK, so I was here that night because of the fire,’ Silas says. ‘As a cop. I happen to know the owner of the boat, Jake. The man I was talking to down at the railway just now.’ Silas pauses. ‘The same man who saved your life.’

  Conor looks up at him, seemingly shocked by the revelation. Silas lets the implications sink in for a few moments before continuing.

  ‘But I’m here today as a father, to find my son. Your mum and I, we’re… we’re worried sick about you. Been looking for you everywhere. Both of us.’

  He’s not good at this, talking so openly about his emotions. It’s why he’s always declined Mel’s requests to attend joint counselling sessions.

  ‘So why didn’t you ring Mum back yesterday?’ Conor asks quietly.

  Because she only ever gives Silas grief. Bucket-loads of it. Conor must have called her again later in the day, told her he was safe, no longer feeling suicidal.

  ‘You’re right,’ Silas says. There seems no point in arguing. ‘I should have called Mum back.’

  ‘Then you’d have known that your own son nearly killed himself yesterday.’

  Silas closes his eyes. ‘We need to get you help,’ he says. ‘For whatever… difficulties you’re in.’

  Conor reaches for a cigarette from his pocket.

  ‘Here, have one of mine,’ Silas says, pulling out his own packet.

  Conor hesitates and then takes one, studiously avoiding any eye contact.

  ‘We can get you out,’ Silas says quietly. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘You don’t know these people,’ Conor says, lighting up with a match.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t bet against it.’ Silas lights up too. ‘I’ve met some pretty objectionable individuals over the years.’

  He feels happier talking about police work, on safer ground.

  ‘These people are from London, Dad. They don’t give a fuck about anyone. One mistake and you’re dead.’

  Silas knows Conor is right. Rural knife crime has soared since county lines got a toehold.

  ‘Life means nothing to them,’ Conor continues.

  ‘And these people, they asked you to torch the boat?’

  Conor nods.

  ‘And threatened to kill you if you didn’t?’

  Conor nods again. ‘I hung around till I saw the bloke living on the boat had got off.’

  That was good of him. ‘It’s coercion – not your fault,’ Silas says. ‘I see it all the time. And the courts understand.’

  ‘The courts?’ Conor looks up. ‘You arresting me?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. I’m just saying you’re not automatically to blame.’

  Silas gets to his feet and looks out through the door to the grassy area outside, his back to Conor.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re recruiting for them too?’ he asks, trying to bury his revulsion, the shame of it all. ‘Drug mules. Schoolkids.’

  ‘Jake tell you that?’

  ‘He put two and two together.’

  ‘They didn’t like him asking questions at the pub.’

  ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. The Bluebell. I need your help.’

  It’s a long shot, but Silas can see a way of playing Conor back into the organised crime gang. If he can discover more about the night Kate’s drink was spiked – who ordered it to be done – he might be able to help bring down the entire county lines network and expose any links it has with the modern slavery gang in Swindon that was recently sentenced. His boss won’t like it, but this is personal now. He also wants to know who sent Jake the CCTV footage.

  ‘Help you?’ Conor says. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because then I can help you,’ Silas says, turning to face him.

  Once the drugs network has been disbanded, Silas can make an argument for Conor, cite the assistance he’s given the police, the mitigating circumstances. Would that really work? Or is he deluding himself?

  ‘I’m off,’ Conor says, gathering up a small rucksack and brushing past him out of the hut door into the evening light.

  ‘I just need to know who gave the order to target Kate, the super recogniser who worked for me,’ Silas says, calling after Conor as he heads off into the sunshine. ‘And find out who sent the CCTV footage of her drink being spiked at the Bluebell.’

  He follows Conor out of the hut, but Conor is already ten yards away, striding across the open grass. A startled pheasant crows in the distance.

  ‘The CCTV footage was sent to Jake, the guy whose boat you torched,’ Silas calls after him. ‘Someone might know that the pub cameras were hacked.’

  Conor is not interested. Silas scans the forest, as if searching for something else to say, but he knows there’s only one thing that will get his son’s attention.

  ‘I’ll make an effort with Mum,’ he shouts, his voice echoing through the trees. Are they mocking the hollowness of his words?

  Conor is thirty yards away now. He stops and turns.

  ‘We’ll try to sort things out,’ Silas continues, eyes locked on Conor’s across the long grass. ‘Maybe get some counselling. I promise.’

  64

  Kate

  Rob was being a little disingenuous when he said there were a few things in the fridge for supper. Like he’d said there were a few clothes in the bedroom wardrobe. Kate’s just finished an exquisite crayfish salad, moist and meaty. He knows it’s her favourite seafood. Readymade, of course. Rob is a hopeless cook, buys all his meals from a high-end delivery service. There was a bottle of Sancerre too and she treated herself to a glass. What the hell. She’s not meant to drink, but tonight feels different, as if she’s turned a corner.

  Ajay couldn’t stay long, but they talked some more about Capgras and he didn’t rule out that Kate might be suffering from it. In fact, the more they chatted, the more he seemed to entertain the possibility, particularly once they’d worked out that she only ever thinks Rob’s a double when he’s to her left. Weird. The whole auditory cortex thing also fits with her experience of talking to Rob on the phone and feeling fine. Ajay gave her a coping strategy too: if she should find herself again thinking that Rob is a double, she should close her eyes and listen to Rob’s voice. It might encourage the brain to re-establish the neural pathways that link his face to the person she knows.

  After Ajay left, telling her that she could call him any time of day or night, she went up to the terrace and did some sketches, inspired by the sight of her work on the walls downstairs, and for once the pencil flowed and she’s reasonably happy with the results. Big harsh skylines, void of all people. If she starts to paint portraits again, she wants the landscape to be more prominent, to interact more with her subject, hint at the insignificance of humankind. She also keeps thinking about the man she spotted in the station shelter. DI Hart sent her a text earlier, confirming it was his son and that he’d met up with him. He just wanted to say thanks – and to congratulate her on her ‘dirty field spot’. The old skills are definitely back.

  Her only problem is Jake. He’s been trying to call her all evening and she hasn’t answered. She will always love Jake, but they’ve both moved on. She doesn’t want him to think there’s any chance they might get back together again. It’s not fair on him. He’s been texting her too, but she hasn’t read any of his messages and she’s now turned her phone off. Rob called again on the landline a few minutes ago, confirming that he’ll be back by 11 p.m.