My heart gives an almighty thud. I read the email again, thinking I must have misread it. But it’s even more disturbing than before, because this time, there can be no mistake.
I try to be objective. Rudolph Hill, or the source behind him, has to be someone who knows my past. Ellen’s announcement about our engagement will have been logged online somewhere, and knowing the relentless competitive drive in journalists to find a new story – or a new angle to an old story – there are probably Google alerts set up for my name. So this could simply be a reporter wanting to make a story out of ‘Partner of Missing Woman Hangs on to Cottage Despite Plans to Marry Sister’ or some equally puerile headline. He must have done some digging to know that I still own the cottage in St Mary’s. Or used old knowledge. Is it the same person who left the Russian dolls? Are both these things part of some elaborate plan to make trouble for me? But who would want to? Because the Russian dolls were left with such ease, it has to be someone local.
A voice in my head hisses Ruby’s name. I never found out if she was responsible for the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ article, because it didn’t really matter, even if it did stir up some animosity towards Ellen. I don’t remember the name of her journalist cousin but it could be Rudolph Hill.
I find it hard to believe that Ruby would do such a thing. I understand that she’s sore at me over Ellen, I understand she feels I treated her badly, and I did. But why play games, and why now, why not last year when Ellen first moved in with me? It has to be more than just to get back at me. I look at the email again, at the mention of my marriage to Ellen. And then it hits. The wedding. It changes everything – at least, in Ruby’s eyes, because it makes my relationship with Ellen permanent.
I go and find Ellen. She’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge, looking at its contents, Peggy sitting hopefully beside her. She turns at my arrival and her face lights up, reminding me how lucky I am to have her.
‘I was wondering what to make for lunch,’ she says.
I go over and slide my hands around her waist.
‘Wonder no longer,’ I tell her. ‘I’m taking you out.’
Turning up at The Jackdaw with Ellen is the best way I can think of to test Ruby, see what her reaction is when she sees me standing there so soon after her email. And safer than confronting her in private, where I might find it harder to keep hold of the anger I feel at her stupid games.
I pull Ellen towards me, and her body folds into mine. I bend my head to kiss her and when she responds passionately, we almost end up having sex, right there in front of the fridge.
‘Are you sure you want to go out for lunch?’ she murmurs when I begin to pull away. But I need to get this thing with Ruby sorted.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Let’s walk down to The Jackdaw.’ She looks questioningly at me. ‘We’ve given Ruby enough time to get used to the idea that we’re getting married,’ I explain. ‘Besides, Peggy is missing Buster and I could murder a steak-and-ale pie.’
I run upstairs to fetch my wallet and we walk down to the village, our fingers locked together. I walk fast because I’m impatient to get there, impatient to put an end to the uncertainty of the last three weeks, when Ellen found the first Russian doll. I want – need – to get back to how we were before, without memories of Layla intruding on us. But with Peggy stopping to explore under every hedge, it’s impossible to hurry, so I content myself with imagining the look on Ruby’s face when Ellen and I walk in.
The Jackdaw is packed, as it always is on a Friday lunchtime, with tourists outnumbering the locals, who know to avoid the rush and arrive later in the afternoon, once it’s over. There aren’t any free tables in the garden so we make our way inside. Buster is in his basket next to the bar and opens his eyes to check us out before he goes first to Peggy, then to Ellen, who bends so that he can lick her face, so different from Layla, who was too scared to touch dogs.
Peggy slopes off to drink some watered-down beer from Buster’s bowl and out of the corner of my eye I see Ruby coming towards us, her dark curls held back from her face by a red bandana, a bunch of silver bracelets on her arm. She likes to pretend she has gypsy blood but the truth is that her dark skin and black hair are a legacy from her Italian grandparents.
‘Long time no see!’ she says, greeting us with a kiss. ‘I hope you haven’t been avoiding me.’ There’s amusement in her voice as she says this, as if she knows that we’ve been keeping out of her way since the wedding announcement appeared and I have to admire how good an actress she is. But when she insists on opening a bottle of champagne to celebrate our forthcoming wedding, doubt begins to creep in. I know Ruby well, and what you see is what you get.
We leave Peggy with Buster, and Ruby finds us a table. She fetches three glasses and pours the champagne.
‘You’ve got yourself a good one there,’ she says to Ellen, raising her glass. ‘You too, Finn,’ she adds, which is generous of her because I know she thinks Ellen is wrong for me and not just because she’s Layla’s sister. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’
After five minutes of perfectly normal small-talk, all to do with the wedding, which will take place at the end of September in the little stone church in the next village along, Ruby takes our order and leaves – but not after raising her eyebrows at me when Ellen orders a small salad and no starter. There’s no malice in her gesture, just a good-natured Seriously? Is that all she’s having? I can see where she’s coming from – in contrast to Ruby herself, Ellen watches her weight constantly. She’s super-slim without an ounce of fat on her and no amount of encouragement will persuade her to have anything remotely calorific. I used to tease Layla about the amount she ate and also about the weight she’d started to put on once we moved to Devon. That’s the thing about losing someone; you tend to remember every careless remark, even those made in jest.
While we’re waiting for Ruby to bring lunch, we finish the champagne and while we’re drinking it, I’m wondering why it isn’t adding up, why this Ruby seems so at odds with the Ruby behind the dolls and emails. So maybe it’s not Ruby, maybe it’s somebody else.
The hardest thing I’ve had to deal with over the years is the possibility that Layla was kidnapped from the car park in France. At first, I thought she’d run away because of what happened that night, and that she would quickly turn up safe and sound. But as the days wore on, then the weeks and months, I had to consider what the police believed, which was that she’d been taken by someone, either the driver of the car I’d seen parked outside the toilet block, or the driver of the lorry I’d seen taking the slip road. Despite huge efforts on the part of the French police, no trace was ever found of either driver, even though I’d been able to give them a fairly good description of the man I’d seen. The photo-fit circulated to the general public had brought up no names. Like Layla, he had disappeared into thin air so it was logical to presume that he had taken her from the picnic area.
So if Ruby isn’t behind the Rudolph Hill alias, who is? And more to the point, what does he know about Layla’s disappearance?
TWELVE
Before