‘Christ, I’ll keep out of her way, then.’
The Home Office had decided that big was beautiful. Small forces must be gobbled up by larger neighbours, supposedly because terrorism and organised crime didn’t recognise local boundaries, more likely because some number-cruncher in Whitehall imagined it might save cash. Goodbye bobby on the beat, hello regional call centre. Now the politicians were wetting themselves because they’d got their sums wrong. Most of Hannah’s colleagues were praying that soon mergers wouldn’t merely be shelved, they’d be dead and buried. If forces amalgamated, people in the countryside would lose out, as per usual. If it came to a choice between throwing resources into some urban sink estate or cosy Keswick or Kendal, there would only be one winner.
‘Reason I’m here, I wondered if you wanted me to have a quiet word with this reporter who’s been stalking you.’
‘I can fight my own battles. He turned up here as I was arriving, but I sent him off with a flea in his ear.’
‘What do you reckon to him?’
‘Looks a bit like the young Frank Sinatra.’
‘Christ. Is that good?’
‘Not really. I never was that keen on “My Way”.’
‘Not what I heard,’ he muttered. ‘Any road, journalists are like pit bull terriers. Good idea to throw ’em a bone now and then.’
‘Thanks, Les, but there’s nothing you or I can do to satisfy Di Venuto. We don’t have the resources to look into every case the force never managed to close. He’s come up with nothing new. Emma was a mixed-up lady. In the end we had to go along with the SIO’s gut instinct.’
‘Which was?’
‘He reckoned she didn’t want to be found.’
* * *
‘Recharged the batteries, Mr Stevenson?’
The landlady gave a shy glance of greeting and Guy wagged a finger in playful reprimand.
‘Rob, please.’
‘Rob.’ She tittered. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wonderful what a nap can do.’ He stretched his arms. ‘I feel at home already.’
‘That’s marvellous.’ Regret made the corners of her mouth turn down. ‘The Lakes are full of hotels with spas, Jacuzzis and gourmet cuisine. Foreign chefs, glowing write-ups in the Michelin Guide. How can a woman on her own compete?’
‘Don’t beat yourself up over it, Sarah. Give me traditional home comforts any day.’ In time he’d accustom himself to the sinister rumble of the central heating. ‘Here I feel like a house guest, not an entry on some computer system. As for food, I’m very much a full English breakfast man.’
She brightened. ‘Fried egg, two sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato?’
‘Perfect! I draw the line at black pudding, though.’
‘Oh, me too.’ A comical shiver. ‘Blood frightens me.’
He drew breath. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow morning already.’
‘You move on in a week’s time, then?’
‘That was the plan.’ So as to negotiate a discount on the daily rate. Always handy, even though Coniston Prospect must be the cheapest B amp;B south of Carlisle. ‘But you never know. Seems like I’ve been on the road for years. Perhaps it’s time to put down one or two roots.’
‘Really? What do you do for a living?’
I live dangerously. The phrase trembled on his lips. It excited him, the glamour of adventuring into the unknown. But over the years he’d learned not to show too many cards too soon.
‘Financial services. Internet-based stuff, mainly. Have laptop, will travel. That’s me.’
‘Goodness. Sounds very high-powered.’
A modest shake of the head. ‘Not as glamorous as you might think. Money’s all very well, but if it’s all tied up off-shore, it isn’t much use in the short term, don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And then there’s the hours. This 24/7 economy is terrific but we all need to sleep. Good people burn out too often. I tell myself, the simple pleasures are best.’
‘Oh, you’re absolutely right.’
‘And where better to enjoy them than here, in God’s own country — and in good company?’
Their eyes met. Blushing, she jumped out of her chair.
‘I’d best be off to the supermarket. Stock up on eggs and bacon!’ At the door she wavered. ‘If you wanted an evening meal, it’s no bother.’
‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience.’
‘Not a bit of it. I’d be glad of someone to talk to apart from the cat. The German couple who have the room on the first floor, they don’t say much. Only have eyes for each other.’
‘Young love, eh?’ He sighed in amiable reminiscence.
‘Well, I’ll see you later.’
When she opened the door, a Siamese cat stalked in. Svelte and snooty, with almond-shaped eyes, its demeanour suggested a commandant in Bridge over the River Kwai, sneering at a sweaty prisoner of war.
‘Rob, meet Clooney,’ the landlady said.
The cat gave a dismissive flick of its tail. Guy contrived a weak grin and kept his mouth shut. The animal looked as though it wouldn’t believe a word he said. The landlady said how intelligent Clooney was and left Guy in peace.
After the door had closed behind Sarah Welsby and her pet, he settled into an armchair and flicked the TV remote. Half a dozen soldiers had been blown up by a suicide bomber in the Middle East and a minister was insisting that their sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. Five turgid minutes of regional news focused on wind farms and planning permission for affordable housing. The weather forecaster promised squally showers. Nothing about Emma Bestwick. No surprise; there simply wasn’t a story.
Against expectation, this irked him. A ten-year anniversary ought to mean something to someone. At least Tony Di Venuto remembered. It was plain from the article that he’d done his homework. He’d mentioned stuff that was new to Guy.
Emma’s sister and her husband, Karen and Jeremy Erskine, have lived with the torment of not knowing Emma’s fate for a decade. Mr Erskine, who teaches history at exclusive Grizedale College, was one of the last people to see Emma before she disappeared. Yesterday, however, he stated that his wife did not wish to make any public comment. ‘This is a private family matter,’ he commented, before adding, ‘My wife has lost hope of seeing her sister again. Ten years is a long time, we don’t believe she will ever come back. Karen needs to move on.’
Jeremy Erskine. Interesting that Di Venuto had made the point that he was one of the last to see Emma — alive was the implication. How could Karen get on with her life if she had no idea whether Emma might turn up? Always there was the tantalising chance that one day the doorbell would ring and she’d open up to stare into a familiar, much-loved face. Guy’s heart went out to her.
He made a note of the phone number of the editorial office and slipped on his wet weather jacket, tying the knot of his hood tight beneath his chin. Outside, the sky was the same colour as the slate buildings and passing cars had their headlights on. Opposite the Glimpse stood a chip shop, its lights dazzling in the murk, and a shuttered fudge emporium that specialised in clotted cream and rum ’n raisin flavours. No wonder Sarah Welsby was running to fat.
Rain spat into his eyes, but he blinked hard and kept moving, scanning the streets for somewhere to phone from. He didn’t have a mobile — who would he ring, who would want to get in touch? Besides, this wasn’t a call he could allow to be traced.
When he saw the phone box, he remembered the last time he’d used it. To ring up Emma Bestwick.
The kiosk was empty and he was in a hurry. No point in ignoring it out of some kind of superstition. He stepped inside and dialled. The switchboard girl at the newspaper office put him straight through.
‘Tony Di Venuto?’
Of course, he disguised his voice. A whisper does not have a recognisable pitch, hadn’t Nicole Kidman said so in The Interpreter?