The Family Remains(55)

I nod. This is true.

‘I was lucky,’ she continues. ‘Lucky to have been taken out of that environment and raised in a normal family.’

‘And now you are lucky because you have a lot of money?’

She smiles. I can see that this money has made her happy. And it makes me wonder what she has done with all that money. If the brother and the sister had tracked her down for their share of the money and tried to take it from her by force or blackmailed her into giving it to them, then she would not look so relaxed about her change of fortunes. But she is relaxed. So I think that maybe she has shared the money, happily, equally; that she is at peace with the money because she has comported herself in a reasonable and fair-handed way.

‘So, will you buy a larger property now?’ I ask.

‘Yes. I mean, I’ll keep this place. Rent it out for a very low rent to a young couple or a single person, someone who is struggling. I won’t need the income, but I know how hard it is to make ends meet for young people. Everything is so expensive. And I’ve been looking at a place further out in the country. With a bit of land. Somewhere I could run an interior design workshop. Maybe a barn or an annexe, something like that.’

‘So you will still work?’

‘Well, it’s early days. I haven’t got it off the ground yet. But my friend, Dido’ – she points to the door – ‘she’s the head designer and franchise owner of the kitchen showroom in town where I used to work; she’s going to help me get set up.’

Dido is waiting outside the living-room door. She thinks she is invisible, but she is not. I can hear her breathing, hear her bare feet against the wooden floorboards, a slight clearing of her throat. I wonder how much Dido knows about the mystery that her friend is part of. Maybe as much as the dog, who has stopped growling, but is very much staring at me.

‘Well. That sounds like a great plan and a great use of your inheritance. And what of the rest of it?’

‘The rest of it?’ She looks somewhat startled.

‘Yes. A house in the country. A barn. A business. You will have plenty left over?’

‘Well, not really. I mean, I’ll give some to my mother. Of course. And maybe, you know, some charities. Investments. That kind of thing.’

I nod. I need somehow to get into Libby Jones’s bank account. I’ll need a warrant but I will worry about that later.

‘Do you ever fear that one of your siblings might come to you, once they hear of the sale of the house? It is on the internet after all; soon the land registry will post the selling price and the whole world will know. Including your brother and sister, Henry and Lucy. What would you do? If they came to find you?’

I hear Dido break out into a strong cough behind the living-room door.

‘They won’t,’ Libby says.

I don’t respond to this with words, but a raised eyebrow.

‘They’re probably dead.’

I try to look as if there is a small chance that I believe what she has just said, but it is hard. ‘Dead?’ I say. ‘That seems a dramatic conclusion to have reached.’

‘It’s the only thing that makes any sense though, isn’t it? Like you say. Teenage children, here one minute. Gone the next.’

‘Ah, well, yes. You may think that. But it is easier to keep a living person hidden than a dead body. As a detective, I know this only too well. A change of name. A change of appearance. A different country. Very easy to do. So they may not be dead at all, Miss Jones; in fact, and in all probability, they are much more likely to be alive. Have you ever tried to trace them?’

A very firm shake of the head follows my question. ‘No. No I have not.’

‘Would you want to?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not curious to know what became of them? To have them in your life?’

‘I just assumed they were dead. It never occurred to me …’

I sigh. This conversation has gone as far as it can go. But as I get to my feet the dog begins once more to growl and I look at the dog and I realise that there is one more question to ask.

‘Your mother’s dog, you said?’

She nods.

‘So this is your adoptive mother’s dog?’

‘My—?’ All the colour leaves her face. ‘Yes.’ She rallies. ‘Yes. My adoptive mother’s dog.’

‘And where is she, your mother?’

‘She’s in Spain. She lives in Spain, or well, at least she sometimes lives in Spain. She has a place. She sometimes comes back. We – It’s kind of a dog-share thing, I suppose.’

Libby Jones is gabbling. Lying. Or covering up a lie. I think of the photo in the Guardian of her birth parents: the exotic, dark-haired, half-Turkish mother. The squat, bulldog-faced father. She looks like neither of them. Not in any respect. I am leaving Libby Jones’s home with more questions than I arrived with.





42





Lucy and the children climb out of the Uber outside the Angel Inn. It’s a 1920s building, on the cusp of deco and nouveau, with metal-framed windows and an ornate chrome revolving door. It’s not as slick as the Dayville, but it is more charming, more to Lucy’s taste; less, she imagines, to Henry’s.

In the foyer, Lucy grasps Stella’s hand and heads towards the reception area.