I pick up my pen and scribble Olivia said she was being followed, then underline ‘followed’ three times. I wonder why this wasn’t in the press. Brenda said nothing came of it. Unless … I chew the end of my biro. Unless the police didn’t believe Olivia? I take my phone out my pocket and place it on the table. No call back from DS Crawford yet. I’m itching to speak to him.
‘Here’s your black coffee and lemon drizzle cake.’ The waitress appears by my shoulder. I thank her and tuck in, although I’m still full from breakfast with Brenda. I don’t even want the cake. It’s force of habit. Since my marriage broke down I seem to crave sugar. Some people lose weight when they’re unhappy but I’m the opposite.
I sip my coffee, my gaze going to the window as I mull over Brenda’s interview. A man outside catches my attention, mainly because he’s acting oddly. He’s looking up and down the street, and talking into his phone, as though he’s waiting – or, more accurately, searching – for someone. Then he glances up at the window and I instinctively shrink back in my chair so he can’t see me, though I’m not sure why. When I look again he’s gone.
I return to my notebook and start scribbling what I’ve learnt about Ralph Middleton when the man from outside sweeps into the room. He’s panting slightly from the exertion of the narrow staircase. He’s about my age with dark brown hair that falls over his high forehead and he has to stoop to get through the doorframe. He has one of his hands in the pocket of a black North Face padded jacket over a shirt and tie.
‘Wesley.’ One of the waitresses, an attractive brunette, perhaps late twenties, trots over to him. Wesley? Olivia’s boyfriend? I give him the side eye while pretending to read my notes. He’s good-looking and knows it.
And then it strikes me. Was it me he was looking for outside? Olivia must have mentioned I spoke to her earlier.
‘Izzy,’ he says, wrapping an arm around the waitress’s slim waist. The older couple at the next table are watching him too, the woman with barely concealed contempt. Now this is interesting, I think, sitting up straighter and sipping my coffee.
Wesley banters with Izzy and the young waitress who showed me to my table – I deduce she’s called Chlo?. His arm hasn’t left Izzy’s tiny waist. Oh, so that’s who you are, I think, as I survey him. A bit of A One, as my mum would say. I know he’s noticed me because of the way he’s pretending not to. It’s as though this room is his stage and he’s the lead actor. He’s playing to me.
Izzy leads Wesley to a table diagonally opposite mine. He avoids looking in my direction as he sits down and orders from the menu. Izzy disappears to fetch his food and I pretend to read my phone while surreptitiously watching him. He’s fidgeting now, his fingers drumming on the red-checked oilcloth, his eyes darting about the room. And then, finally, they land on me. I look up just in time to meet his eyes. They are very blue, penetrating, challenging. He narrows them but doesn’t say anything. I lower mine and carry on scrolling through my phone, even though the signal is sketchy and I can’t load anything, aware that his gaze is still on me.
I decide I don’t like him. He’s too cocksure, his arrogance undignified, brash. I look up from my phone and catch his expression. He’s glaring at me, dislike written all over his face. It takes me aback for a moment and I can’t help but return the look.
‘You’re that journalist, aren’t you?’ he says loudly, across the room, his eyes flashing. The woman at the other table looks up from her mug to stare at me.
‘That’s right.’ I try to keep my voice calm although my heart is beating furiously, I’m not sure whether from anger or embarrassment or both.
‘I suppose you think this is all some big joke, don’t you? Coming here and ruining other people’s lives.’
I frown. ‘I’m not trying to ruin other people’s lives.’
‘Dredging it all up again.’
‘I’m just here to make a podcast.’
He laughs nastily and turns to Izzy, who’s walking in with his full English. He raises his eyebrows at the older couple in the corner. ‘She thinks she’s going to come here and solve it all,’ he mocks, addressing the room like a politician. ‘The police haven’t been able to solve what happened to your sister and her friends, Iz, not in twenty years, but Nancy Drew here thinks she’s got it all sorted.’
Izzy’s related to one of the girls? I’m intrigued.
‘I don’t think that. I’m here to gather information. That’s all.’ I wonder if Izzy is related to Sally. They have the same dark hair and clear skin. I need to interview her.
Izzy places his food in front of him. ‘Now, come on, Wes. I don’t want you here upsetting the customers. Eat your food in peace.’
I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought Izzy would speak to him that way given how she was purring around him earlier.
She flashes me a warm smile and, thankfully, Wesley shuts up.
I snap my notebook closed and push away my unfinished coffee and cake. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I pay, and then I walk out, aware that Wesley’s eyes are burning into me.
It starts to drizzle as I exit the tearoom. Next door is a tiny shop selling trinkets and jewellery. It smells of incense and, on the spur of the moment, I dart in there. I have a feeling Wesley might follow me, and I’m right because two minutes later he’s on the pavement, looking left and then right. What is his problem? I’m aware I’m acting cagey. I hope the girl behind the counter doesn’t think I’m a shoplifter, although she’s taking no notice of me, too busy flicking through a magazine and twirling her pink hair around her fingers. ‘Last Christmas’ is playing on the radio and the shop assistant is singing along to it half-heartedly. I pretend to browse. I’m intrigued by Wesley. Why does my being here unsettle him so much?
I hide behind a stand of glittery scarves and watch as Wesley fishes his mobile from the pocket of his padded jacket. ‘I’ve lost her,’ I hear him say. I steal a glance at the young assistant but she still seems oblivious to me and to the situation. ‘I’m going back in to finish my food. Yeah, babe, I said that, didn’t I …’ The rest of his words die as he heads back inside. I take the opportunity to hurry to my car before he sees me from the window.
Did Olivia send him? And if she did, then why?
10
The heavens open as I sit cocooned in the car scribbling notes, my breath steaming the windows, the rain blurring the hills and the sky outside. Izzy Thorne? I write. I need to speak to her urgently. I have no idea where she lives so I’ll have to go back into the tearoom and ask her, although I want to avoid doing it in front of Wesley. I check my watch. It’s been half an hour since I left and I hope he’s finished with his brunch.
I pull my hat firmly down on my head, shove the notebook and phone back into my bag and get out of the car. I’ll lurk in one of the shops and wait for Wesley to leave, then try to speak to Izzy.
Just as I’m walking across the car park my phone vibrates. A number I don’t recognize flashes on the screen. I shelter under the canopy of a block of public toilets to answer it, pleased when the male voice introduces himself as DS Crawford.