The Secret Mother(36)

She doesn’t reply. The static over the intercom disappears. Did she hear what I said? Is she going to come and speak to me?





Chapter Seventeen





I make my way back along the pavement to the café, the chill December wind barrelling me down the street and sweeping me across the road. It’s liberating to walk without having to look over my shoulder, although I’m not quite confident enough to risk being out in public without my woolly hat pulled down low by way of disguise. If I can keep from being recognised, it will be a novelty to sit and relax in a place without feeling under siege from the media. Will Fisher’s ex-housekeeper come to meet me? I hope so. Maybe she’ll feel more comfortable on neutral ground.

I push open the door to the coffee shop and step inside, enjoying the smells of cinnamon and coffee, the warmth from the hot air vents, the chatter of strangers. After queuing for a few minutes, I order an Americano, recklessly add an almond croissant, and find a seat away from the window. The croissant is warm and sweet. I lick icing sugar off my lips and take a sip of the scalding coffee, allowing my mind to go blank for a few blissful minutes. Enjoying this moment of respite. Willing my thoughts to keep away. But I can’t stop myself from glancing up every time the door opens. From peering through the window to see if Merida Flores will walk past. With a jolt, I wonder if there’s another Costa on another road, opposite a different Tube exit. I quickly google my location, but this appears to be the only one in the vicinity.

Half an hour goes by. I order another coffee. Too soon, an hour has passed. It’s clear she isn’t coming.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I wipe my hands on a napkin and fish out my mobile. It’s a text from Carly.

Well?

I sigh and tap in a reply.

No good. She wouldn’t talk to me.

Go back and try again.

There’s no point.

Well, that was a giant waste of time.

I don’t reply. What can I say? I hate to admit it, but Carly was right – there’s a lot more going on here than I first thought. I wonder why Fisher’s ex-housekeeper would follow me around but refuse to talk. Is she keeping an eye on me for some reason? Maybe she’s still secretly employed by him. But why? And where do I fit into all of this?

What else can I do? I really don’t believe there’s any point in returning to the woman’s flat. The expression in her eyes was one of genuine fear – I don’t want to be the cause of that.

I ponder it all for a few moments, reluctant to give up and go home. What would I do back there except mope around and worry? Much as I still dislike Carly, she has given me the kick up the backside I need to be proactive. To find out if there really is something else going on behind the scenes.

I realise there is something I could do… but it’s so outrageous that even the thought of it gets my pulse racing and my fingers tingling. The sounds of the café swell and recede. Can I really be contemplating this?



* * *



I navigate my way along icy country lanes in a little Toyota, in what’s turning out to be a freaking blizzard. The weak afternoon light is a dim consolation. It’s been snowing since I hit Winchester. Perhaps I should’ve checked the forecast before I set off. Too late now. After I left the café, I dusted off mine and Scott’s joint credit card and used it to hire a car. Guilt needles me. I promised myself I would never use this card – I probably should have cut it up to avoid the temptation. But I tell myself it’s in a good cause. With hindsight, I probably should have started my journey a lot earlier in the day, but by the time I’d found a cheap hire-car place and filled out all the paperwork, it was past midday when I left London.

After following diversion signs due to an accident, I reach the quaint town of Wimborne, the lights of its bay-windowed shops and cafés attempting to lure me from my car. But I ignore their call and drive straight through until I’m back out into the Dorset countryside, my fingers gripping the steering wheel, my eyes darting from the satnav screen to the road ahead, spinning snowflakes dive-bombing the windscreen.

The road curves this way and that, with high snow-covered hedges on either side. Every time a car approaches from the opposite direction, I press the brakes, unfamiliar with the bends, paranoid about crashing. Road signs point down dark, narrow lanes to villages with strange names like Witchampton, Gussage All Saints, Monkton Up Wimborne and Sixpenny Handley.

And then, suddenly, there it is – the sign telling me I’ve reached Cranborne. The dashboard clock shows 2.50 p.m. already. I’ve been driving for almost three hours, which may not sound a lot, but the last time I got behind the wheel of a car was over a year ago, when I drove Scott’s BMW back from a friend’s barbecue in Surrey. A day I’d rather forget. Scott and I argued terribly on the way home – I guess that day was the beginning of the end for us.

I must be crazy for doing this; for going to Fisher’s house. But I really have nothing left to lose. Even if they lock me up, could it be any worse than the way I’m living now? A prisoner in my own home. A home I no longer love. I need to be brave. To demand answers. To confront this man and ask him if he has any clue why I’m embroiled in this drama. Plus, if I’m honest, Carly’s revelation about James Fisher taking four days to report Harry missing has made me worry about the boy. And I can’t help myself: I need to see that he’s okay.