‘Hang himself,’ Lulu snapped.
‘Yes. Uh. Yes. Well, some very small pieces of the blue nylon material – we’re talking under a millimetre in size – were found on the kitchen floor, presumably falling there when the twine was cut. But no ball of twine, or any other lengths of it, were present anywhere in the property. It’s possible that Mr Montgomery cut the twine to size earlier and disposed of the twine he wasn’t going to use somewhere outside the property, but it doesn’t seem likely. It’s, uh . . . well, it’s literally a loose end.’
‘Does it matter when Paul cut the twine and what he did with the rest of it? I mean, really?’ She rolled her eyes at Nick, who was staring at her fixedly, the pungent egg sandwich in its greaseproof paper untouched on his lap. ‘I’ve got rather more important things to worry about here. My husband’s aunt is missing and we’re helping with the search. I have to go.’
She ended the call and puffed out a breath. ‘Unbelievable.’
She told Nick what the policeman had said.
Nick heard her out without speaking. Then he said, slowly and clearly, as if to a child, ‘Why would the police ask you if you’d taken anything from Paul’s house?’
‘Well, because I was in shock, I suppose, and might have shoved the twine into my pocket without thinking.’
‘But he wasn’t just asking about the twine, was he? Did you take anything. It’s the sort of question he might ask someone’s partner, someone who was familiar with the house, not someone who’d only been there once.’
‘He was just asking about the twine.’
‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘You said he said “anything”。’
‘Meaning the twine. Obviously.’
‘Oh. It’s obvious, is it, and I’m too thick to get it?’
Lulu shook her head in confusion.
‘Had you been to Paul’s house before?’
‘What? No! What exactly are you accusing me of?’ She felt suddenly shaky and weird, as if the world had tipped on its axis.
‘You and Paul were very friendly, weren’t you? Hugging and kissing.’
‘Nick, don’t be ridiculous! We never kissed! Oh my God! You can’t seriously be thinking there was anything going on between me and Paul?’
She recoiled as he suddenly thrust his face into hers. ‘You tell me, Lulu.’
And then he was gone, out of the car, striding off to rejoin the search, walking straight past Andy – who was standing gaping at him – without acknowledging the giant of a man or even seeming to see him.
Lulu moved on autopilot through the forest with the others, Nick’s implicit accusation going round and round her head. He was just two people down the line from her, but whenever she looked over at him, he studiously ignored her.
She told herself that it was enough to make anyone lose it, lash out at the person closest to them – yet another member of his family disappearing. What must that be doing to him?
When they’d finished searching the area they’d been assigned and were walking back along the track, Nick walking ahead of Lulu with Carol Jardine, a quiet voice said, ‘Lulu?’
Andy was at her side. He didn’t return her smile.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said in a rapid whisper.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Not here. Not now. Can you meet me, tomorrow morning? It’s important.’
‘Well, I –’
‘You can’t tell Nick. Mum said you told her he works early in the morning, yes? From seven till nine? You could meet me at, say, seven-thirty? But it can’t be in public. There’s an abandoned little farmhouse about quarter of a mile west of Sunnyside, up a track on the right. I’ll meet you there. And don’t tell Nick. You mustn’t tell him, okay? Or anyone?’
And before she could respond, he had run off ahead of everyone down the track, arms hanging, rather ape-like, by his sides.
Lulu sighed inwardly. Presumably Carol had told Andy that she was a therapist, and he had issues he wanted to talk through. Searching for Yvonne was inevitably going to be tough on everyone who knew her, not just Nick. Anyone with an underlying vulnerability, such as she sensed in Andy, was going to be particularly at risk of a negative impact. She could meet him tomorrow, she guessed, and let him talk.
Back in the car park, as she and Nick were changing out of their walking boots in a tense silence, one of the police officers, a small, neat woman with her hair in a bun, approached them. ‘Mr and Mrs Clyde? I’m PC Melissa Jackson. I wonder if it would be possible for myself and a colleague to speak to you about Ms Moncrieff? Can we meet you, back at your property?’