Bring Me Back (B.A. Paris)(65)

My mind keeps going back to the keys. There’s something that isn’t adding up. If Layla had wanted Ellen to have a set, in case she wanted to come to St Mary’s at a time when we weren’t there, she would have told me. There was no reason for her not to; she would have known I wouldn’t mind. So it’s more plausible that Ellen has only had Layla’s set of keys since Layla disappeared. Did Layla send them to her after she disappeared from the parking lot? Or – and now my heart starts racing – did Layla give them to her in person?

The car skews to the left as I momentarily lose control, distracted at the implications behind my last thought – that sometime after Layla disappeared, she and Ellen met up. Is that why Ellen never questioned me about what happened that night, because she already knew? Why she never speculated about where Layla might be, if she had been kidnapped, if she was dead or alive, because she knew? I had put it down to a sensitivity for my feelings – but could her reserve have been for a darker, secret reason? Had Layla somehow made her way back to Lewis after she disappeared from the picnic area? Is that why Ellen has brought me here, why she left the link to CalMac ferries on her computer, because this is where Layla is?

It’s a struggle to exercise caution, to not get carried away. I remind myself of all Ellen has done, her subterfuge, her secrets, her lies. Isn’t this what she’s wanted me to believe all along, that Layla is alive? But whatever the truth is, I’m certain Ellen knows more about Layla’s disappearance than I could ever have imagined.

The road becomes a single-track lane and each jolt, each bump, fuels the fury that has been steadily building inside me since I saw my emails to Layla on Ellen’s computer. Through the rain, my eyes pick out the inky waters of a loch to my left, black reeds jutting through its surface like a three-day growth and I reduce my speed, searching for a cattle grid. Seconds later, my wheels find it, jarring my concentration. I pull in on the other side of the grid. As I get out of the car, adrenalin courses through me.

I look around, shielding my eyes from the rain. Fifty yards or so ahead, on a hill to my right, there’s an old stone house with a corrugated roof, reddish in places with years-old rust. Even at this distance, I can see it’s deserted. I make my way along the road and up the rough footpath to the house anyway, my shoulders hunched against the foul weather. I’d given no thought to rain when I’d thrown a thin jumper on over my T-shirt as I left for the airport, and I’m already soaked through. As I approach the cottage, the feeling that I’ve come to the wrong place deepens; there’s no sign of life, no light at a window. I realise that there’s no trace of Ellen’s car – the logical place to park it would have been where I parked mine, by the cattle grid – and it occurs to me that the link to CalMac Ferries might be another of her ruses, a trick to deter me from finding her true destination. Overcome with frustration, I give a cry of pure rage.

Something – a sound – stops me in my tracks. It comes again – a small bark.

‘Peggy!’ I call. The door to the house, slightly ajar – I can see that now – is nudged open and Peggy comes lumbering towards me.

‘Peggy!’ I crouch down so that she can lick my face, telling her she’s beautiful, that I’ve missed her because, somewhere deep in my heart, Peggy has always represented Layla.

Layla. ‘Where’s Ellen, Peggy?’ I ask. She nuzzles my face a last time then squirms from my grasp.

I follow her into the house. The first thing I notice is how cold it is. There’s a room to the right and through the open doorway I see Ellen huddled on a sofa, a blanket drawn up around her. She must have heard me arriving, she must have heard Peggy bark, she must know I’m here, yet she doesn’t move. After a moment, she raises her head, as if only just aware of my presence, and the look of delight on her face – that she has succeeded in dragging me all the way to Lewis – infuriates me.

I take a step towards her.

‘You came,’ she says, her voice shaking with cold. Or maybe nerves.

‘How could you, Ellen?’ I ask harshly, aware that Peggy has curled up at Ellen’s feet. Another betrayal. ‘How could you be so cruel?’

Her face, so full of expectancy, sags, and I feel a savage pleasure that she has underestimated me.

‘I thought . . . ’ she falters.

‘What?’ I snarl.

‘That you’d come to bring me back.’

‘Bring you back?’ I look at her uncomprehendingly. ‘To where?’ She stares back at me, a blank expression on her face. ‘Simonsbridge?’ She drops her head – was that a nod? ‘I haven’t come to bring you back, I don’t want you back. Not after what you’ve done.’ She flinches at my anger. ‘Why did you do it, Ellen? We were happy, weren’t we? We were going to get married, for God’s sake! Why wasn’t that enough for you?’

‘Because you didn’t love me, not like you loved Layla.’

I ignore the hopelessness in her voice and take another step towards her. ‘I could never love you like I loved Layla,’ I say, looming over her. ‘Why did you have to make me think Layla was alive? I might have been able to forgive you anything, but not that. Not making me believe Layla was alive.’

‘Layla is alive,’ she whispers.

My heart thuds. ‘So where is she?’