Final Cut(31)

‘I’ll do my best,’ I say.

‘I’d like to help, if I can?’

‘Help?’

‘You know I’ve got a boat?’

I nod, though I’m not sure why he’s telling me.

‘There was a clip of you with it, I think.’

‘Aye. I do some fishing. I were thinking, I could take you out on it, if you fancy it?’ He nods towards the camera on the table between us. ‘To get some footage, I mean. Lovely views of the place from out there. Just if it’d help, like.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’

Never, I think. I can’t. I hate the water, can’t stand boats, never learned to swim. Even now, imagining it, all I can see is blackness, above and below, the icy cold invading me, plugging my breath, pressing in until I’m nothing, merged with the void.

But I can’t tell him that. It sounds ridiculous.

‘Maybe. Sounds like it’d be good.’

He grins, then takes out his wallet and a pen.

‘Here’s my number.’

He jots it down on the back of a receipt and, even though there’s no chance in hell I’ll go on his boat, I take it.

‘By the way,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘About Gavin …’

‘Gavin?’

‘Watch him.’

It’s a surprise. I thought they were friends. It was Gavin who suggested Bryan sort out my car.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Nothing. I’m just saying he was asking lots of questions. Digging around, especially when he first arrived. Bit like you.’

‘Really? He seems to me like he’s just someone trying to fit in.’

‘You think? Trying a bit too hard, if you ask me. Almost like he has something to prove. And there’s something else.’

‘What?’

He leans forward, even though the bar is noisy and no one is paying us any attention.

‘This is probably nothing. But the night you arrived? He asked me to tell you he was on his way from seeing me, when he bumped into you.’

Despite the fire, I go suddenly cold.

‘And?’

He shakes his head. ‘He wasn’t. I hadn’t seen him that day. Not at all.’





18


Zoe’s parents live on the outskirts of Malby, in the same house from which their daughter disappeared. I leave after breakfast, telling no one where I’m going, happy to be driving once more, though anxious about where I’m headed. The morning sun shines weakly through thin cloud and I’m startled by a memory; a morning, it must’ve been not long before Daisy died. We were sitting on a bench on the cliffs, not far from Bluff House. It was pre-dawn, we’d been up all night, messing around, talking and smoking and staring out to sea. And then the sun appeared, a glow at first, then a sliver of golden light over the horizon. A new day, but back then it’d felt as important as a new year, a new millennium. A new beginning, but what had we done with it? Look where we’d ended up.

I push the thought away then drive on towards Malby. As I reach the town the road curves round to cross the river. Behind me, way in the distance, sits the ruined abbey, blackly illuminated in the morning light. A minute or two later the satnav tells me I’ve reached my destination.

The house is small, 1930s I’d guess, with a pebble-dash front and a tiny overgrown garden sloping up towards the door. There’s a light on in the hall, and as I watch one comes on in the front room, too. A woman opens the curtains, glancing out with curiosity to where I’ve parked. Zoe’s mother, I suppose. I get out of the car, walk to the door and ring the bell.

The house is quiet, but after a moment the door is opened. A man stands there, dressed in jeans and a grey hoodie. He’s balding, his hair is cropped short, his skull craggy and pitted. I hold out my hand.

‘Hi.’

He makes no move to return the gesture.

‘We’re fine, thanks.’

‘I’m not selling anything—’

He goes to shut the door. Maybe he thinks I’m with a religious group, a Jehovah’s Witness, or perhaps some politician canvassing for votes.

From somewhere in the house I hear his wife. ‘Who is it, love?’

‘Mrs Pearson?’ I say, before he can shut the door in my face.

His wife appears. ‘How do you know my name?’ she asks. She’s younger than her husband, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and tight jeans. She resembles her daughter. ‘What is it you want?’

‘My name’s Alex,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m staying in Blackwood Bay.’

‘That right? And what’s that got to do wi’ us?’

‘I’m wondering if I can talk to you about Zoe.’

A wave of pain rolls over her face, but she extinguishes it before it can take hold.

‘That so?’ she says, regarding me now with undisguised hostility. ‘Well, you can fuck off.’

‘I’m not a journalist,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble. If you could just give me ten minutes.’ She begins to react, but I interrupt her. ‘Please? I’m worried that something’s going on with the girls—’

‘What?’

‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll explain.’