“Sebastian shoved his keys down the front of his trousers,” Peter said. “Remember that?”
“Oh yes,” Yash said.
“The last any of us saw of Rosie and Noel was as we ran out into the rain in the dark. They never came back in. What we figured is that they were off shagging somewhere. The next morning, they still hadn’t come back in. Sebastian and Theo went out to look for them . . .”
She trailed off.
“Theo and Sebastian found them,” Peter said quietly.
That was clearly the end of what they were prepared to say on the matter.
“You have a lot of pictures,” Stevie said to Sooz.
“Oh yes. I was the photographer of the group. You used to have to buy film and get it developed, and it was expensive, but I knew someone who worked at Boots who developed my pictures for free—so I took loads and loads of them.”
“Did you take any . . .” Stevie proceeded carefully. “。 . . that weekend?”
“I did,” she said.
“Would you mind?” Izzy said. “I know it’s a bit of a strange ask, but . . . could we see them?”
Sooz nodded.
“Of course. I’ll go and get them.”
She was gone only a moment and returned with three black paper sleeves full of printed photographs.
“These are the last photographs I took of all nine of us,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at the sleeves. “I’ve never been able to digitize them. I don’t even like looking at them. I keep them separate. I don’t know how they could help, but . . . if anything helps find Angela . . . Go ahead. Feel free.”
She waved her hand toward Stevie, indicating she was welcome to examine the photos. She tucked herself back on the sofa.
“Some are from the week or so leading up to our going away,” she said. “I’d just gotten the first two developed before we left for Merryweather. I remember showing them to the others in the car. I took the last roll while we were there. For a long time, I couldn’t pick up my camera again. There’s about six months between the photos in that last pack.”
There was a lot of red-eye, flashes caught in windows and mirrors. No filters. Just people glancing up from their lives and being caught in a moment, bent over to pick up a beer or a book. Making faces behind each other’s backs. The same nine people, over and over. Occasionally there would be someone else on the side of the image, but the stars of the show were always the same.
“Look at this!” Peter said, holding up a picture of a bald Angela. “Remember Ange shaved her head right before we went away.”
“Oh yes, that’s right,” Sooz said. “That was . . . a game of truth or dare. We were all a bit stoned. Sebastian had some powerful joints. He grew his own special blend. I think I set that dare. Didn’t think she’d do it. I thought she looked great. Very Sinead O’Connor.”
“This one,” Yash said, pulling one out of the stack. “This is probably the last one of all of us together. It was taken when we arrived at Merryweather.”
He handed Izzy and Stevie a group photo. Nine people—goofy smiles, suitcases, looking a little worse for wear and very happy. And there, behind them all, was a structure. Gray wood, plain, with a little closed window above the door.
“That’s it,” Sooz said quietly. “That’s the shed. That’s where . . . that’s the place. We took the photo there because we’d just arrived and I put the camera on the car and set the timer. When I saw it later, saw what I had in the photo . . .”
She was unable to continue.
“What were they like?” Stevie asked. It was a good question to ask to get people to open up and talk.
“Rosie?” Sooz let out a short laugh. “Rosie was . . . fierce. She was from Dublin.”
“Stubborn,” Peter said, nodding. “She could drink with the best.”
“And how,” Yash confirmed. “I once saw her drink twelve pints in an afternoon. Twelve. Barely had an effect on her.”
“She was incredibly loyal,” Sooz went on. “If you had a problem, day or night, Rosie was there for you. If you were sick, Rosie was by your side. If she was mad at you, you knew it. She was wonderful. And so funny. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as funny as Rosie. She would have been famous. I believe that.”
“I could see Rosie hosting Bake-Off now,” Peter said. “Or doing panel shows.”
“She’d have been great on our show,” Yash added.
“Noel . . .” Sooz let her gaze drift to the ceiling. “When I first got to Cambridge and met everyone, Noel was someone I couldn’t figure out. He seemed very straitlaced, serious. Really into poetry. He played the straight man in comedy brilliantly. He played baddies as well. You could play off Noel in any scene. He had that gift. He kept his feelings close to his chest, but . . . I believe that all along, Noel was in love with Rosie. I felt it. I could see it. But he didn’t work up the courage until the very end. I’m glad that, at the end, they had a moment.”
Peter cleared his throat and Yash looked toward the window.
“Right,” Sooz said, collecting herself. “We’re going to figure this out. Despite being absolute rubbish, Julian’s done well for himself and does good work. He’s an MP. I know he’s making inquiries. He’ll call everyone in the world if he has to. I trust him on that, and he’s maybe the only one of us who can do something directly. But we’re going to do all we can. I’ve been posting online. We’ve all been. Whatever you need from us, you ask.”
“Day or night,” Peter said.
“And wherever she is,” Yash said, “off looking for Henry the Eighth’s old pants or whatever she’s doing, we’re going to give her an earful when she’s home. It’ll be all right, Izzy. You have all of us. And we never leave each other alone.”
15
“SO,” STEVIE SAID, “ALL OF THESE PEOPLE SLEPT WITH EACH OTHER all the time. That’s a lot of what we learned.”
The group was seated around a large, circular booth in a restaurant in Chinatown in Soho. Over plates of Singapore noodles, ho fun, and shredded duck pancakes, they told Janelle, Nate, and Vi about the information they had gleaned from Sooz, Peter, and Yash.
“Also . . .” Izzy reached for a spring roll. “Everyone seems mad at Julian a lot. Julian Reynolds. He’s an MP from up north. He has a good track record on issues but he’s been in the papers for having a lot of partners. All of it is interesting, but it doesn’t tell us anything about where my aunt is, does it?”
“Anything new from the police?” Vi asked.
“They say they’re going to go through the CCTV tomorrow. It would be more helpful now. Anything could be happening. What the hell do I do?”
“Get the word out,” Vi said. “Post it everywhere.”
This kind of thing was very much Vi’s wheelhouse, and soon the table was in a discussion about graphics, messages, and influencers. After they finished their meal, they knocked together a flyer, got a thousand copies made, and went up to Islington together to shove them into letter flaps and post them everywhere they could.