The Retreat(36)

‘That’s Big Cat,’ Julia said.

I sucked in a breath. ‘The one that was in the river?’

She nodded. ‘The police kept him for a while, but they let me have him back.’ She picked the toy up, pressed her nose against its scruffy fur. ‘He still smells of the river.’

She set it back on top of the pile.

‘Lily loved cats,’ she said. ‘She was obsessed with them from the first moment she saw one, when she was a baby. It was actually her first word. Not “Mummy” or “Daddy” . . . “Cat”. And she always had two toys she loved more than anything. I think she might have loved them even more than she adored Chesney. Big Cat and Little Cat.’

I looked around.

‘Little Cat was in her coat pocket when she vanished. I think . . . I’m sure she still has him with her.’ Julia’s eyes shone and she had to take a moment to compose herself. ‘I hope he’s looking after her.’

‘I’m sure he is.’

She sat down on the bed. ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘Crazy? Of course not.’

‘I’m sure most people think I am. They think I should clear out this room, move on, but I can’t.’ She was trembling, one of her knees jerking up and down, her heel tapping against the floor.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. There was a box of tissues by the bed. I plucked one out and handed it to her. I wanted to put my arms around her, to comfort her – a basic human response – but had no idea if it would be welcomed.

When the tears had abated, I said, ‘I understand why you leave this room as it is.’

‘You do?’

I wanted to tell her that I understood because, even knowing Priya was dead, it had taken months for me to gather the strength to put away her things. Even now, they were all in boxes. I couldn’t take that final step – to remove her possessions from the flat. But I didn’t think now was the time to bring it up. This conversation was about Julia and Lily.

I also couldn’t tell her about my investigation into Lily’s disappearance. Not yet, when there was nothing concrete to share.

‘If I knew she was dead,’ Julia said, ‘I could . . . take action . . .’

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but nodded.

‘But I’m stuck.’ She looked up at me, eyes pink and sore. ‘It’s like I dived into that river two years ago. And I’m still under the water, holding my breath.’



I went back to my room, feeling helpless and useless, wishing there was something I could do to help Julia, knowing only one thing would actually work: finding out what had happened to Lily. And that reminded me – Zara still hadn’t called me back or responded to my messages. The notification beneath my last message said Delivered, not Read. When had I last heard from her? Time was beginning to blur, but it was the day before yesterday, in the pub.

I called her, and again she didn’t answer. What was going on? Had she given up? She could at least have the decency to answer my calls.

I ought to be writing my novel, but there was no way I could concentrate now.

I grabbed my car keys. I was going to look for Zara.





Chapter 18

I pulled up outside the Apple Tree bed and breakfast, where Zara was staying. It was a few streets back from the river on a long, quiet road with plenty of parking spaces. An elderly woman struggled home with bags of heavy shopping. A young father pushed a buggy containing a sleeping toddler. They were the only people around. The town had an abandoned feel to it, like there had been an evacuation. On a nearby lamp post, a tatty paper sign appealed for the return of a missing cat. Last seen 23rd June 2015. Two years ago. I hadn’t seen any posters about Lily. Maybe that was because everyone assumed she had drowned.

I rang the bell and a woman in her sixties answered.

‘Are you after a room?’ she asked. Her hair was dyed auburn and a cross hung around her neck on a gold chain.

‘I was actually looking for a friend of mine. Zara Sullivan. I believe she’s staying here.’

‘Come on in,’ she said. I followed her into a cosy sitting room. A little dog with grey fur snoozed on the sofa. It lifted its head to regard me, then went back to sleep, snoring gently.

‘I’m Shirley and this is Oscar,’ she said.

A painting of Christ hung above the fireplace. On another wall, a tapestry with a quote from the Bible: Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.

‘Romans 12:9,’ she said. ‘Are you a believer, Mr . . . ?’

‘Radcliffe.’

She peered at me. Her eyes were milky, unfocused. Cataracts. ‘Radcliffe. You’re not David’s son, are you?’

Of course. She was the same age as my parents. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘Well, look at you. All grown-up. And very handsome too. Not that I’m surprised – your father was always a very good-looking man. How is he?’

‘He passed away,’ I said.

Her face crumpled. ‘What happened?’

‘Cancer.’

‘Oh.’ Her hand went to the cross around her neck. ‘So he was the first.’

‘The first?’ I asked, but there was no response. ‘Shirley?’

She fell into an armchair, still gripping the cross with one hand. She stared into space, into the past.