The Stepmother(42)

 

‘Well it’s still not the right time of year for chicks. You must have imagined it,’ he said. ‘Probably tired – and maybe a bit drunk?’

 

‘I didn’t even have a drink last night,’ I protested, and he looked at me oddly.

 

‘Really?’ He pointed at the recycling bin. A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc stuck out – my favourite – and an empty half-measure of Southern Comfort.

 

‘Not mine,’ I insisted. ‘Honestly, I swear, Matt.’

 

‘If you say so,’ he said, with a half sigh.

 

It was obvious he didn’t believe me.

 

When he left for work, I rang Marlena again. Frankie had a shift at the bistro, and I needed to see someone who actually knew me well.

 

‘I’d – I’d really like to see you,’ I said to my sister’s voicemail. ‘I should have said last night – I miss you.’

 

Need would have been a better verb.

 

Was I losing my marbles again?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

11 a.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Marlena calls back to say she’s on her way to Luton for a ‘recce’ and she could meet somewhere nearby for coffee.

 

We meet at a service station not far away, on the M25. She’s in the coffee shop, scribbling on a notepad, transcribing something from her phone.

 

We don’t kiss each other; we never do.

 

‘Hey,’ she says, not looking up properly. ‘Won’t be a sec. Grab me another black coffee would you? And a chocolate muffin. I haven’t got long.’

 

I do as I’m told. It’s easier, generally, I’ve found with her.

 

Sitting opposite Marlena, I wait for her to finish writing. She looks good; she always does. Her glossy black curls are bundled messily on top of her head; she wears a big fake fur, a leather mini skirt and high-tops that she manages to pull off, despite being thirty-six.

 

She finishes whatever it is she’s been scrawling. ‘So what’s up?’ My sister looks at me and grins.

 

‘Nothing really.’ I toy with my cappuccino froth.

 

‘That’s quite blatantly a lie.’ Her nicotine-stained fingers are itching to light a fag. ‘You look tired.’

 

‘How’s the no smoking going?’

 

She scowls at me like she did when I told her to brush her teeth aged five. ‘It’s not, as I’m sure you well know. Don’t rub it in!’

 

‘Sorry.’ I try to stifle a yawn. She looks at me again, enquiry in her dark eyes, and I shrug. ‘I’m not sleeping well.’

 

‘I thought you were over all that?’

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty-Six

 

 

 

 

 

Marlena

 

 

 

 

 

As I suspected, Jeanie didn’t look like someone who’d just got married and was basking in her honeymoon period. Sure, she had a massive rock on her ring finger and a new navy coat that looked expensive – Hobbs or Reiss or somewhere sensible like that – but she looked really tired, big shadows under her warm brown eyes. When she said she wasn’t sleeping, alarm bells sounded faintly.

 

Were we going down this route again?

 

‘I’m okay.’ She managed a half smile. ‘Really. It’s just…’ She trailed off.

 

‘What?’ Surreptitiously I checked the time on my phone. The bloke I was meeting was meant to be here in twenty minutes. I couldn’t miss the opportunity. If I could talk to the mullah of this group, he might have info on Nasreen’s disappearance; they might have one tiny clue at least – God knows we needed it. The lead in Germany had turned out to be nothing; there was no evidence of the girl on any flight to Turkey at the moment, despite the CCTV to Heathrow – so how the hell had she got to Syria – unless she’d had a fake passport?

 

If she had got to Syria – that was what I was starting to think.

 

‘Oh I don’t know.’ Jeanie pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and then she looked at me nervously. I always knew when she was nervous. ‘I do feel a bit like I’m imagining things, but…’

 

‘Spit it out.’ I felt frustrated, partly because of my lack of time. ‘Imagining what?’

 

‘It’s – someone knows, Mar. And it’s as if they might be making things – well kind of hard for me.’