Sheila didn’t reply.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m thinking,’ she said.
I perked up for a moment. Maybe Sheila could use her espionage capabilities again. Type Janice’s name into some remote MI5 computer and have a satellite send us precise co-ordinates of her location.
I heard her scrabble around on the other end of the phone. ‘Just looking on Google Maps,’ she said. ‘Tell me exactly where this hut is?’
I opened Maps myself and directed her to the little square that marked the spot.
‘Yes,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Looks bloody unlikely to me.’
Then: ‘What about these glamping cabins?’
‘What glamping cabins?’
Sheila sighed. ‘The glamping cabins about three hundred metres from the hut Emma’s gone to search.’
‘I – what?’
‘Leo, are you looking at Google Maps?’
‘Yes! But – oh. Yes, I see them.’
I clicked on them, and my heart beat faster. ‘These look promising.’ I clicked through a load of photos, trying to see if they had a view of Coquet Island, but Sheila beat me to it.
‘Coquet Island,’ she said. ‘Bingo. Right, let’s find out if she’s staying there.’
‘Are you able to do that?’ I asked, reverently. ‘Do you still have access to surveillance systems, or something?’
After an abrupt laugh, Sheila picked up what sounded like a landline and called a number. I waited, almost excitedly, expecting her to ask to be put through to some field agent in a Northumberland bunker.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Is that Alnmouth Glamping Cabins? Excellent. Now listen, I need to get hold of one of your guests, urgently. Her name is Janice Rothschild. Yes . . .’
A few seconds later, the call was done. ‘Right,’ Sheila said. ‘That was the owner of these huts. She’s in Sicily for the summer, but – yes, it says on her system that Janice is staying in hut number two. I suggest you call Emma. Get her over there as soon as she arrives in Alnmouth. She’s what, four hours away?’
She paused. ‘How was that for espionage?’ She was polite enough not to laugh.
I stared at the cabins online, picturing Janice having a couple of drinks for Dutch courage before opening her pills. My stomach churned. Would she have chosen her outfit? Did she have a last meal? Did she know what she was going to do when she woke up that morning?
I pictured the sight of her, collapsed on the floor, and I imagined Emma and Charlie walking into the hut, the sheer horror of finding her.
Then it was all very simple.
‘Ruby,’ I called. ‘Ruby, find your shoes. We’re going for a long drive in the car.’
I couldn’t allow Emma to do it. I couldn’t allow her to live another moment of this nightmare alone.
John wanders up to Emma and me, as we sit in silence. He wags his tail for a moment before heading off inside, in search of food.
I don’t know if Emma’s too tired to talk, or perhaps too nervous, but she sits perfectly still, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She’s wearing the beanie hat again.
I track a bird as it crosses the bay. Emma’s taught me what these birds are before, but the name eludes me now. This drives her mad: she’s always said I never listen to a word she says, but I do. Did. I thought about her words late at night when I was dropping off. When I sat at my desk, writing obituaries. I thought about her words when I was driving, walking, eating, and I did that because she was the only person who had ever made sense to me.