The Retreat(17)

Worried that Julia might overhear me, I took my mobile to the edge of the garden.

Edward’s assistant, Sophie, answered and transferred me across.

‘Lucas!’ he exclaimed. ‘Or should I say “acclaimed novelist L. J. Radcliffe”?’

‘I don’t know about acclaimed.’

‘Ah, don’t be modest, man. I read it. Bloody brilliant. So what can I do for you?’

I explained that I was helping out a friend and was hoping to get some advice. Then I detailed everything I knew about Lily’s disappearance and the subsequent investigation.

‘The police have given up, apparently, convinced Lily drowned. But Julia doesn’t believe they did everything they could to find her, that they gave up too easily. She can’t afford to hire someone so I offered to help out.’

I cleared my throat. It was a white lie.

It was quiet on Edward’s end of the line. Eventually, he said, ‘You should save your money.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because in cases like this, when it involves kids, the police always pull out all the stops. Especially if the parents are nice and middle-class. I don’t think an investigator would be able to find out any more than the police did, and it’s just going to stir up all the hope in your friend’s heart again.’

I thought about it. ‘But if we can set Julia’s mind at rest, so she knows the police explored every avenue . . .’

He sighed. ‘All right. You’re not going to let this go, are you?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Okay. Look, I’m busy at the moment. There’s no way I can schlep all the way to Wales. But I do know someone who lives in Telford, just across the border. Let me text you her number.’

‘Okay,’ I said. I have to admit I was disappointed.

Edward’s text arrived a minute later.

I looked up at Nyth Bran and shivered as I remembered my half-dream, the bleeding walls, the sense that the house was alive.

I ought to be in there, writing. The problem was, I had an itch now. I wanted to know what had happened to Lily, and not just because I couldn’t resist a mystery. I imagined myself finding her, bringing her to Julia, the tears and the joy that would follow. Even if the chance of that happening was a thousand to one, the image was powerful enough to compel me to do something.

I called the number Edward had sent me.



Zara Sullivan wasn’t busy. In fact, she told me she could meet me in Beddmawr in two hours. While we were on the phone, she looked up cafés in the town on TripAdvisor and told me she’d be at Rhiannon’s Café at one o’clock.

‘I’ll be wearing a red baseball cap,’ she said, then hung up.

I stared at my phone. Was she for real? Or was Edward playing a joke on me?

I arrived at the café five minutes late. It was the kind of place I’d usually avoid, chintzy and dimly lit, all pots of tea and scones, frequented and staffed almost exclusively by the over-sixties. There were a number of paintings on the walls depicting mining scenes: men heading down the pit, women with babes in arms watching them go. Among these, the same picture that hung in the pub. The woman in red among the trees.

Sitting in the corner with a pot of tea before her was a woman in a red baseball cap. She took it off as I approached and shook out her hair, which was blonde and stringy, hanging around a moon-shaped face. It was hard to tell how old she was – somewhere between thirty and forty, though she was dressed like a teenager in a black puffa jacket. She really didn’t look like a private detective, but then everyone said I – with my reddish hair and ‘friendly’ face – didn’t look like a horror novelist.

‘I listened to your book on the drive here,’ she said. ‘The first hour of it, anyway. Not bad.’

‘Er . . . thanks.’

‘I’m sure the more you write, the better you’ll get.’ She raised a hand and beckoned over the waitress, a spritely woman in her seventies. I ordered coffee.

‘Let’s discuss terms,’ Zara said, not wasting any time. Her hourly rate was more than I’d expected, but still reasonable. ‘I could travel in from Telford every day, but it would be easier for me to stay here,’ she said. ‘If you’re willing to pay. I like to immerse myself, get to know the locals.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Luckily, I have an FWB in the police in Wrexham.’ That was the nearest large town, where the investigation into Lily’s disappearance would have been centred.

‘FWB?’

‘Uh-huh. A friend with benefits. More than one benefit, in this case.’ She grinned and slurped her tea. ‘Have a Welshcake. They’re scrummy.’

Producing a notebook from her messenger bag, she said, ‘Right. Can you tell me everything you know?’

‘Before I start, there’s one condition. I don’t want Julia Marsh finding out I’ve hired you to do this. I’ll tell her if you find anything but I don’t want to get her hopes up. So you need to be discreet.’

‘Discretion is my middle name.’ She readied her pencil over her pad and raised her eyebrows.

The café was busy but the hubbub masked our words as I told her what I knew.

She wrote it all down, then closed her notepad. ‘Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow with a progress report.’ She stuck out her hand. It was sticky with cake residue. ‘Let’s find out what happened to little Lily.’