“Yeah, okay.”
Kate took the phone away from her ear to send the photo. Moments later she heard a ting on the end of the phone. “Hang on, love . . .” There was a rustling and then a clatter where Bev dropped the phone. Then a moment later she came back on the line. “Yes, that’s Jo’s writing . . . ,” she said, her voice quavering. “Is this a clue?”
“It could be.”
“Oh. You think those blokes could have had something to do with her going missing?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just found it . . .” Kate’s voice trailed off, trying to find something she could say to comfort Bev. “This will all take time, but I promise you we’re working hard every day on this.”
Yuck. That sounded so corporate, thought Kate.
Bev sighed.
“I just had a row with Bill. He stormed out. Took off in his car. I wanted to follow ’im, but I’ve had the best part of a bottle of Jacob’s Creek . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Kate.
“Yeah, well. We have these ups and downs. It’s the stress. We’ve never lived together before, after all these years . . . You will tell me the moment that you find something out, won’t you, about those names?”
“Yes,” said Kate.
“Okay. I sent you over the first payment. I did it online.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m staying in tonight . . .” She gave a bitter laugh. “Listen to me—I stay in every night. I’m going to open another bottle, bugger it, and watch telly. There’s no bloody curtains here. I know I shouldn’t moan, but I miss my curtains. I’ve got all these huge windows looking out to sea. I know we’re high up, but I can’t shake the idea that someone’s peering in.”
“Do you think someone’s outside?”
“Course not. No. All the other houses are far away, and if some fisherman wants to peer at me through a telescope, he won’t see much, just me getting plastered in front of Coronation Street . . . It’s just my thing. I like closing curtains. I like having a cozy room . . . Bill’ll come back when he’s calmed down. What did you have for your tea?”
“Nothing, yet. I’ll probably have egg on toast.”
“Nice, with a bit of brown sauce. Okay. I won’t keep you. You can phone me, whenever. Night, love.”
“Good night.”
When Kate came off the phone, she thought how lonely Bev had sounded, and she kept hearing her words echoing in her head.
Bottle of wine, bottle of wine, another bottle of wine, and the sound of a cork popping from a good bottle of wine. Red wine, rich and full bodied, that delicious sound when the first drops pour out of the bottle.
Myra had been Kate’s AA sponsor, and after she died, Kate hadn’t tried to find another, but she did keep going to meetings.
Kate pushed the image of a large glass of red wine from her thoughts, sat back down at her computer, and started to search through the Google results for David Lamb and Gabe Kemp.
10
The Brewer’s Arms was a small gay bar situated on a stretch of the canal in Torquay, twenty miles down the coast from Ashdean. In its past life, it had been a brewery, and the entrance was nestled under a long line of brick arches. On this quiet Monday evening, the sun was starting to set on the canal bank, reflecting orange on the still water.
Hayden Oakley approached the front entrance and smiled at the bouncer at the door. The bouncer, a thick-set man with a boxer’s nose, returned the smile and stood to one side to let him in.
In the dimly lit interior, Hayden felt the warmth and the pounding music on his skin and smelled the scent of a thousand aftershaves clashing in the air with a sweet chemical tang. It was a real meat market. Propping up the bar was a group of older guys, sitting with ice buckets of champagne. They were watching with studied intensity, like fishermen waiting for a bite on the end of a hook, as a group of attractive young guys danced on a small dance floor bathed in the scattered shards of light from a glitter ball.
All heads turned to look at Hayden. He was tall and lean with an athlete’s build and a smooth, fresh face. He guessed that most of the older guys at the bar didn’t have more than a few pounds between them, but the prospect of a night with a twenty-year-old with a slim waist was worth putting on your good jeans and T-shirt and forking out for a few drinks.
There was one guy that Hayden was hoping to see at the bar, and he smiled when he saw him, sitting on the end. His name was Tom. He wore jeans and a tight T-shirt, and he had a baseball cap over his thick, dark hair, which hung down to his shoulders. He wasn’t the best-looking guy, but he had a slightly battered straight-guy look about him, and more importantly, he had money. He was the only one who had a bottle of proper champagne in his ice bucket. They’d met here the previous week. Tom had bought a bottle of vintage champagne, and they’d chatted and flirted for a couple of hours, and Hayden had hinted at more. That was the key, thought Hayden—play a little bit hard to get. Tom worked in finance, business, or something. Whatever he did, it made him lots of money.
“Hi, sexy,” said Tom as Hayden approached. Tom was shy and soft spoken. “You thirsty?” He held up a spare champagne glass.
“Always,” said Hayden. He leaned over to kiss him, and Tom pulled him close, squeezing his waist. Hayden put his hand on Tom’s waist, which felt thick and solid, and trailed it down to his firm backside. There was a thick square in the back pocket of his jeans. Money. Last time they met, Tom had pulled out a wad of fifty-pound notes to pay for their drinks, and it felt like he’d brought even more with him this time.
Hayden pulled away and smiled at Tom. The older man’s brown eyes twinkled mischievously in the multicolored lights from the dance floor. A slow song started to play, and a few of the young guys who’d been dancing left the floor and started circling around the row of barstools. Three of them already had drinks on the go with the older guys, and they chatted and flirted and had their glasses topped up.
“You had a good week?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, I bought these jeans,” said Hayden, pulling up his tight T-shirt to reveal his washboard stomach and the top of his new Levi’s. Tom’s eyes lit up.
“Nice,” he said, tipping the flute of champagne back and downing the contents.
This is going to be so easy, thought Hayden.
A lad with a ratty face and hair dyed far too dark for his skin tone came dancing over to them. His name was Carl. His eyes lit up when he saw the bottle of Mo?t.
“You guys want a third?” he shouted, in the same throwaway manner as if asking for a portion of chips. His pupils were dilated like two large inkwells, and he had a cold sore on his bottom lip.
Hayden shook his head.
“Go on,” said Carl, leaning close. “Champagne makes me really slutty.”