McBride scratches at a grizzled sideburn. ‘Look, at the end of the day, those cars were meant for staff, not drunk members. Yes, perhaps the keys should not have been left in the ignitions, but they were all in a staff car park and Home members aren’t notorious car thieves, are they?’ He raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘And the causeway? There was a huge sign with the tide times on it. It was well lit. The only mystery is where the hell they thought they were going, and why it was so urgent.’ As for Ned Groom? He shakes his head. ‘I ask myself that. Only the perimeter of the island has CCTV – very deliberately, to ensure the privacy of Home’s members – plus the lobby of The Boathouse and the reception area of The Causeway Inn. Nothing suspicious was seen on any of them.’ As for Freddie Hunter’s helicopter? ‘Well, forensics checked it very thoroughly, more than once, but they found nothing at all to suggest Ned had ever been inside it. And anyway, have you met the man? Being attacked by Freddie would be like being mauled by a kitten. So. The last multiple-confirmed sighting of Ned is just after midnight on Friday night. A chap at the absolute apex of his career, shuffling a little shoe with Georgia Crane on the dancefloor, a little stumbly maybe, a little flushed. Then he heads out, patting the pockets of his jacket for a lighter maybe, a cigar or a cigar cutter perhaps. And then he’s gone. Just’ – he makes a gesture with his fingers – ‘gone.’
Chapter Six
Saturday Morning
Adam
‘Not coming? What do you mean he’s not coming?’
It was six thirty in the morning and Adam and Nikki were the only people in The Barn, apart from the thirty or so Home staff polishing glasses, laying tables, gossiping covertly in corners, waiting attentively for the slightest hint that he or Nikki wanted something. Soon members would start arriving – most of them for their first breakfast on the island – nursing their first hangovers of the weekend. Parts of the walk up from Adam’s cabin had felt as though he was wandering through the aftermath of a music festival – an abandoned golf buggy lay on its side by the path, empty champagne bottles and shards of wine glass, stem still attached, littered the gravel, a single high heel sat upright in the mud. No doubt when members did start emerging for breakfast, some would look like they’d spent a rough weekend at Glastonbury too.
For now, though, there was a hushed calm in this cavernous restaurant with its rustic flagstone floors and vast ropework chandeliers, as Adam faced down an eggs Benedict and drained his second Bloody Mary and Nikki nursed a cup of green tea. A working breakfast, just the three of them, Ned and Nikki and Adam, that’s what this was meant to be – a chance to touch base, make sure everything was all set for the day ahead. Except Ned had not turned up. Which given the time he had called this meeting for, was more than a little rude, Adam felt.
‘How do you know he’s not coming?’ Adam asked, exasperated.
‘He sent me an email, at half two this morning.’ She gave a disinterested shrug, tapped her iPad two or three times and held it out across the table. He squinted at it.
‘Classic Ned email,’ he observed. ‘Terse. Cryptic. No fucking around.’
It consisted of three words: ‘Gone to London.’ Adam checked the time-stamp, read it once more, and passed Nikki the iPad back. ‘And that’s it? No other messages since?’ Nikki made a show of checking her phone, then shook her head.
‘You know he doesn’t tell me everything. I have to guess what’s going on from his inbox half the time.’ Was Adam imagining it, or was there a little bit of edge to her voice?
‘Gone to London,’ Adam said. ‘Gone to London. Well that’s fucking convenient, isn’t it, right in the middle of a launch weekend. That’s just . . . great. Well, don’t tell anyone else, will you? Especially not Annie – she’s already swanning around as if she owns the place, as per bloody usual. I doubt she’ll even notice anyway – too busy fangirling the members. If anyone needs Ned urgently, pass them on to me. I don’t want this lot’ – he gestured around the restaurant – ‘slacking off, today of all days.’