Final Cut(44)

‘But what if that’s exactly what she wanted?’ I say. ‘If what you’re saying is true, maybe it was revenge. A big fuck-you to whoever hurt her.’

‘Only she’s the one who’s dead, isn’t she? Some revenge. And Sadie …’

‘What did her mum say? When you told her the truth?’

‘Sadie’s? I couldn’t get hold of her.’

‘How hard did you try?’

I see her mood turn. ‘You think this is easy for me?’ she hisses. I can smell garlic on her breath. See the pale, bleached hairs around her mouth, even in the semi-dark. ‘He was my father. You think I like what he did? You think I’m on his side? You think I don’t fucking hate him, even though he’s dead?’

‘Why are you telling me, then?’

‘Who else?’ she says sarcastically. ‘Gavin?’

‘Why not?’

Her laugh is like acid. ‘I don’t trust him. All that running-the-film-club stuff? Sounds desperate, if you ask me. Like he wants something. And when he arrived he was asking even more questions than you.’

‘About Daisy?’

‘Zoe, mainly.’

‘But he’s been here a fair while. Hasn’t he?’

‘Two months. Maybe three.’

I go cold. He’d told me a year, at least. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Just watch him.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.’

I realise then.

‘Was it you who sent the postcard?’

‘What postcard? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

I believe her. I feel sorry for her. She lost her father, and the good memories of him, too. In some ways, she’s just another victim.

‘I thought you could help.’

‘Help?’

‘You see it, too. Something’s still going on.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. I see the girls every day in the café. There’s a lot of drink. Drugs, too. And they act weird, sometimes. Scared. They get calls, then just leave. Like they’re terrified of someone.’ She sighs. ‘Maybe I’m reading too much into it.’

I look over towards the yew. ‘You’re not,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen it, too.’





25


I drive Liz back. On the way I resist the temptation to ask more about Gavin, but once I’ve said goodbye I decide I have to find out what’s going on with him myself.

It doesn’t take me long. A phone call to Jess and I have his surname – Clayton – then two minutes online and I have his LinkedIn profile. From that it takes no time to find his most recent employer, a Financial Services Technology company based in London for which he worked as a coder.

The next step is a little trickier. A rather breathless call to their HR department at first fails to elicit details of his next of kin, even once I’ve told them it’s an urgent but confidential matter and hinted that something awful has happened. The best they can do, they say, is to take my number and ask Tanya to call me back. Tanya? I think, as I tell them that’d be great. His mother, perhaps? His sister? Or is he married, after all?

‘Hello?’

‘Who is this?’

The voice is American. She sounds either anxious or annoyed; it’s impossible to tell which.

‘It’s about Gavin Clayton.’

‘I know, they said. What’s he done?’

What’s he done? I think. Not What’s wrong? Or Has anything happened?

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s just … who is this?’

‘His wife. Now, can you tell me what’s going on?’

It’s not a surprise, not really. I keep my voice level.

‘I’m in Blackwood Bay,’ I say.

‘He’s still there?’

‘Yes. He’s here.’

‘And you are?’

‘A friend,’ I say. ‘I suppose.’

She laughs.

‘I suppose? Are you fucking him?’

‘No,’ I say. Her voice is clipped, precise. I imagine her in a black jacket, a pencil skirt. A solicitor, maybe.

‘I’m making a film. Gavin helped to set things up locally.’

‘I bet he did. So what is it you want from me?’

‘He didn’t tell me he was married.’

She laughs. ‘He’s not.’

‘You’re divorced?’

‘Nearly.’

‘What happened?

She snorts. ‘It’s none of your business, but if you want to know, ask him yourself. Ask him what he did.’

I hesitate. ‘Does it have anything to do with Zoe?’

‘The missing girls,’ she says. ‘Oh yes. With him, everything’s about them. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’

Gavin waves cheerfully as he pulls into the car park, and I force myself to smile. I’ve been passing the time, calming myself, filming the view over the village. The long shadows from the low sun look almost abstract in the warm light. He strides confidently over.

‘Morning! Everything okay?’

‘Kind of.’