She says, ‘My mum. My adoptive mum. She was a bit – well, is a bit chaotic. Lovely, lovely, lovely. But it was my dad who kept her on track. And he died when I was eight and after that … I was always late for everything. I never had the right stuff for school. I didn’t used to show her the slips for trips and things because there was no point. She booked a holiday in the middle of my GCSEs. Emigrated to Spain when I was eighteen years old.’ She shrugs. ‘So I just had to be the grown-up. You know.’
‘The keeper of the tissues?’
She laughs. ‘Yes. The keeper of the tissues. I remember this one time I fell over in the playground and cut my elbow and my mum was just sort of flapping about looking for something in her handbag to clean it up with and this other mum came over with a handbag exactly the same size as my mum’s and she opened it and pulled out an antiseptic wipe and a packet of plasters. And I just thought: Wow, I want to be the person with the magic handbag. You know.’
He smiles at her. ‘You’re doing really well,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
She laughs nervously. ‘I’m trying,’ she says. ‘Trying to do the best I can.’
For a moment they sit in silence. Their knees touch briefly and then spring apart again.
Then Libby says, ‘Well, that was a waste of time, wasn’t it?’
Miller throws her a devious look. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘not entirely a waste of time. The girl. Lola? She’s Sally’s granddaughter.’
Libby gasps. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because I saw a photo on Sally’s desk of Sally with a younger woman holding a newborn. And then I saw another photo on her wall of Sally with a young girl with blond hair. And then I saw a child’s drawing framed on the wall that said “I Love You Grandma”。’ He shrugs. ‘I put it all together and hey presto.’ Then he leans towards Libby and shows her something on the screen of his phone.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘It’s a letter addressed to Lola. It was poking out of her handbag under her desk. I performed the classic kneeling-to-tie-my-shoelace manoeuvre. Click.’
Libby looks at him in awe. ‘But what made you even think …？’
‘Libby. I’m an investigative journalist. This is what I do. And if my theory is correct, Lola must be Clemency’s daughter. Which means that Clemency must live locally. And therefore, this address’ – he points at his screen – ‘is also Clemency’s address. I think we might just have found the second missing teenager.’
A woman comes to the door of the smart bungalow. A well-behaved golden retriever stands at her side and wags his tail lazily at them. The woman is slightly overweight; she has a thick middle and long legs, a heavy-looking bosom. Her hair is very dark and cut into a bob and she wears gold hoop earrings, blue jeans and a pale pink sleeveless linen top.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh,’ says Miller. ‘Hello. Clemency?’
The woman nods.
‘My name is Miller Roe. This is Libby Jones. We’ve just been talking to your mum. In town. She mentioned you lived close by and …’
She looks at Libby and does a double take. ‘You look … I feel like I should know you.’
Libby bows her head and lets Miller do the honours.
‘This is Serenity,’ he says.
Clemency’s hands go to the doorframe and grip it, momentarily. Her head rolls back slightly and for a moment Libby thinks she is about to faint. But then she rallies, puts her hands out to Libby and says, ‘Of course! Of course! You’re twenty-five! Of course. I should have thought – I should have known. I should have guessed you’d come. Oh my goodness. Come in. Please. Come in.’