The Girls Who Disappeared(15)

As I reverse, I notice Mrs Rutherford watching me, her hand on the gate latch, the bag at her feet. Maybe the rumour mill is already at full grind and she knows who I am. I can still see her in my rear-view mirror as I pull out onto a winding lane that leads me towards the high street. I’m distracted and take a hairpin bend too fast, nearly veering into a BMW coming the other way down the lane.

I apply the brakes, my breathing slowing along with the car. The BMW driver is around my age with a shock of dark hair and he mouths, ‘Fucking idiot,’ at me as he passes. I drive on towards the high street. Just before the field of standing stones a lane leads to a National Trust car park. I park, then head along the path that runs parallel to the stones and cross to the rank of shops and cafés, my breath fogging out in front of me. I tug my bobble hat further over my ears, coldness seeping into the fabric of my clothes. As I’m walking I ring the number Brenda gave me for DS Crawford. It goes straight to voicemail and I leave a short message, explaining who I am and where I got his number. I drop my mobile into my pocket and pause outside an attractive Tudor building with Bea’s Tearoom in white flowery writing hanging from an old-fashioned black sign. A chalk board on the pavement indicates that the tearoom is upstairs. It looks like a good place to get coffee and gather my thoughts. I also plan to write down some notes from Brenda’s interview that I’d like to follow up with DS Crawford.

I climb the narrow stairs and am out of breath by the time I reach the top. An open doorway leads into a cosy room with ceiling beams and a floor with a slight incline. The carpet is red and faded to rose pink in places and the waitresses (I note they are all women) are wearing old-fashioned black uniforms with white frilly aprons and matching hats. A tourist trap, I imagine. Two arched leaded windows look out over the high street and the standing stones in the distance.

‘Can I help you?’ says a young girl, who can’t be older than eighteen. She looks faintly embarrassed by her get-up, making me wonder if she’s new.

‘Do you have a table free?’ It’s a silly question when only one is occupied, by an older couple who aren’t speaking to each other. The woman is watching me and not even trying to hide it.

‘Just for yourself?’

‘Yes. Please.’ It doesn’t faze me, eating alone. My life as a journalist has always been solitary. Especially in the early days when I worked for a press agency and spent many hours door-stepping celebrities or politicians, then had to file the story over the phone. I’d huddle up on a kerb somewhere, or a hidden corner of the street, and furiously write out the first paragraph so that I didn’t stumble over my words when reciting them to the short-tempered editor at the other end of the line.

She leads me to a table next to the window and takes my order. When she’s gone I glance around the room. It’s not very big, with only half a dozen tables and, apart from me, just the older couple sipping tea from fine-boned china cups. The woman has platinum-blonde hair and a thin, anxious expression and she keeps glancing at me. I smile at her, but she averts her eyes, her face frosty. Charming. Word must have spread that I’m here. I open my notebook half-heartedly, trying my best not to feel uncomfortable. I survey the uneven walls with their thick paint, cracked in places, and the mahogany tables and chairs. Someone has put up bunting along the counter where pink and yellow iced cupcakes are piled high on pretty bone-china cake stands. I imagine this place is heaving during the summer months with tourists hoping to soak up the quaintness.

I pick up my pen and scribble Olivia said she was being followed, then underline ‘followed’ three times. I wonder why this wasn’t in the press. Brenda said nothing came of it. Unless … I chew the end of my biro. Unless the police didn’t believe Olivia? I take my phone out my pocket and place it on the table. No call back from DS Crawford yet. I’m itching to speak to him.

‘Here’s your black coffee and lemon drizzle cake.’ The waitress appears by my shoulder. I thank her and tuck in, although I’m still full from breakfast with Brenda. I don’t even want the cake. It’s force of habit. Since my marriage broke down I seem to crave sugar. Some people lose weight when they’re unhappy but I’m the opposite.

I sip my coffee, my gaze going to the window as I mull over Brenda’s interview. A man outside catches my attention, mainly because he’s acting oddly. He’s looking up and down the street, and talking into his phone, as though he’s waiting – or, more accurately, searching – for someone. Then he glances up at the window and I instinctively shrink back in my chair so he can’t see me, though I’m not sure why. When I look again he’s gone.

I return to my notebook and start scribbling what I’ve learnt about Ralph Middleton when the man from outside sweeps into the room. He’s panting slightly from the exertion of the narrow staircase. He’s about my age with dark brown hair that falls over his high forehead and he has to stoop to get through the doorframe. He has one of his hands in the pocket of a black North Face padded jacket over a shirt and tie.

‘Wesley.’ One of the waitresses, an attractive brunette, perhaps late twenties, trots over to him. Wesley? Olivia’s boyfriend? I give him the side eye while pretending to read my notes. He’s good-looking and knows it.

And then it strikes me. Was it me he was looking for outside? Olivia must have mentioned I spoke to her earlier.

‘Izzy,’ he says, wrapping an arm around the waitress’s slim waist. The older couple at the next table are watching him too, the woman with barely concealed contempt. Now this is interesting, I think, sitting up straighter and sipping my coffee.