‘We need to get out of here,’ he said.
‘You can’t be serious. We’ll break our necks.’
‘What else are we going to do?’ The sharp, unfamiliar snap in his voice made me feel guilty. We wouldn’t have been in that situation if it weren’t for me. ‘The second they’re done, Jack’s coming in here.’
He was right. Adrenaline pumping, I wracked my brain for a plan. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sent a message. For the next couple of minutes, I paced the bathroom, sending messages back and forth. I was so engrossed, I didn’t notice that the rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh had stopped. The air smelled of sex and sweat. I went back to my viewing spot. Jack and the girl lay in bed, panting and naked. Then, very abruptly, Jack reached for a remote, clicked off the music and got up.
‘Get your stuff,’ he said, walking out of sight.
The blonde, skin glistening with sweat, climbed off the huge bed and bent to pick her dress up off the floor where Jack had discarded it. ‘You could at least let me shower first,’ she said with an Irish brogue.
Christopher tensed.
‘Get your stuff,’ he commanded again.
‘You could join me,’ she offered huskily.
‘Get your stuff.’
She wiggled into her dress. ‘I know who Elodie is,’ she said sulkily. ‘I saw her on the news.’
Jack stepped into view, wearing joggers and a clean T-shirt, and loomed over her. ‘I told you to get your stuff.’
He looked like he wanted to hit her, and she knew it. She lifted her chin defiantly, though there was a shake to her voice when she said, ‘No need to be rude, I’m leaving. Make sure you transfer my money before I’m home.’
A few minutes later, the front door slammed shut. Jack started stripping the bed. Glancing around the en-suite, I saw the laundry basket in the corner beside the shower. My stomach sank. I was barely breathing as Jack scooped up all the sheets and started marching towards us. Christopher and I stepped back, as though we could meld into the tiled walls.
He was going to find us. There was nothing we could do.
Then the doorbell sounded.
Jack stopped in his tracks.
He muttered something under his breath before dumping the sheets onto the floor outside the en-suite door. He turned and padded out the room. I exhaled, my heart pumping hot adrenaline through my veins. I waited until I heard the front door open before I took Christopher’s hand and led him out the en-suite. He dug his heels in. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘Using the distraction,’ I said. ‘It’s a friend.’
‘A friend?’
I yanked him into the bedroom and onto the landing. We paused at the top of the stairs and I glimpsed my accomplice’s flat cap and tufts of white hair. ‘Well, if you’d be so kind to jumpstart my car,’ George was saying to Jack, ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’
He sighed. ‘Yep. Sure.’
Then George led Jack out onto the street, and Christopher and I shot down the stairs, through the living room and out the back doors. We sprinted across the grass. Christopher followed me around the back of the shed where we crouched down, our breath clouding out in front of us.
‘Who was that?’
‘A friend of Elodie’s – he gave me his number the night of the lantern release and told me if I ever needed anything, I could get in touch.’
Christopher’s dark eyes were furious. ‘We almost got caught.’
‘But we didn’t.’ I took his hand in mine, grateful when he didn’t whip it away. ‘Look, do you see now that Jack is a crazed sociopath?’
‘I never said I didn’t believe you, but I can’t arrest him for calling out another woman’s name during intercourse, especially when I broke into his house.’
My legs started to cramp so I dropped to my knees. The grass was damp and soaked through my jeans. ‘I’m going to prove Jack knows David. The photo is gone but there must be another way. Can you ask the rugby club for a record of employees?’
‘Ada …’
‘Please. If I’m right then David Taylor was manipulated by Jack and while David goes to prison, Jack gets away with it.’
Christopher’s eyes searched my face and whatever he saw there made his soften. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Chapter Forty-Three
150 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
‘She’s twenty-six, lives on a riverboat, makes her own granola and wears those baggy trousers you see on elephant riders …’ Jack is clicking his fingers, trying to summon the word.
‘Hareem pants?’ I offer.
‘Yes! Hareem pants, she loves them, can’t get enough.’
‘Paired with wicker sandals?’
‘Absolutely. She doesn’t believe in monogamy, and she has one of those hamsa tattoos on her hip.’
‘Doesn’t know “hareem pants” but does know “hamsa”,’ I tease. ‘Interesting.’
He grins. ‘You’re stalling.’
‘Hmm. Okay, I’m going to say her name is … Sky?’
‘Bingo. I also would’ve accepted River and Rain. And Yasmin if I was feeling generous.’ He slides the plate of mince pies across the kitchen island towards me and I take one. It’s January and we are still working our way through the Christmas leftovers. ‘You go.’
Seefer jumps onto my lap and rotates a couple of times before she slumps herself down. I rub that sweet spot beneath her chin and she purrs loudly. Stroking her eases my anxiety, if only a little. ‘Okay, he’s in his fifties, wears those cheap check shirts from Burton’s and he’s always in the pub, every night, sitting at the corner of the bar. He’s red-faced and balding and he can make any innocuous conversation racist.’
‘Any?’
‘Any. It’s a skill his twenty-something children loathe.’
‘For example …’
‘Really?’
‘Just trying to get a feel for him.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Like, you’d say, “Nice weather we’re having,” and he’d answer, “Yeah, and they’re all out in it, aren’t they? Walk through town with your eyes closed and you’ll think you’re in bloody India.”’
Jack snorts. ‘What an arse. Okay, let’s see. My money’s on Andy or Steve.’
I nod. ‘I also would’ve accepted Dave. Ooh, I have another.’
‘Go for it.’
‘She doesn’t own a TV and she makes sure everyone knows it. She lives in a big country home and goes to book club but always googles the author’s interpretation first so she has the most insightful comments. She has two children, a boy and a girl – privately educated, of course – their hobbies include riding, piano and tennis, and she wouldn’t dream of feeding them anything that isn’t organic or steamed and she makes sure everyone on social media knows it. She uses the hashtag blessed. But … she’s bored of her work-away husband and even though she knows he’s fucking his secretary, she won’t leave because she will not fail this wonderful thing called life.’
‘You know this woman, Fray?’
‘Nope.’ I smile. ‘Just really good at the game.’
‘Her name’s Ada?’
For a second, my smile falters and I accidentally let a little of the hatred I have for him seep out, but I’m quick to recover. ‘Try again.’
‘Karen?’