She switches off her laptop. Karl Lawson is Lucy Knight’s source. He’s been hacking into Amanda’s phone since long before Marcus disappeared. She was right when she suspected he was always hiding behind her. His watchful gaze on her back. There can be no other explanation. When she turned suddenly, he was there, not in person but in spirit, tracking her footsteps, planning how to strike at her heart. He eavesdropped on Hunter’s desperate plea for a meeting and staged today’s exposé with the precision of a trained assassin. Can he be so monstrous, so devoid of human emotion, that he is punishing her child for the sins of the mother? And if he is a monster, why would he spare Marcus? Her legs buckle. How much longer will she be tormented by him? She doesn’t want to know the answer but the truth is slowly dawning. Seven days. Seven wrenching, heartbreaking days before she will know the fate of her son.
Lar is still sleeping off the effects of last night’s drinking when a car enters the courtyard. She crosses to the window. Sylvia Thornton, punctual as usual. Did she confront her husband before she came here? She must have read the report or received a phone call, a text, a message on Viber or WhatsApp. Why aren’t her tyres scorching the courtyard? Amanda watches her long-legged stride as she approaches the house. Her hat is wide-brimmed, low over her forehead, and her red, high-waisted coat swings over black boots. She should be wearing armour and carrying a dagger, instead of a briefcase. Her expression is inscrutable as she enters the drawing-room. Is she a robot, programmed to withstand emotion? Amanda thinks about the bleach she poured over Graham’s clothes when she discovered he was cheating on her. The shirts she shredded. She left chaos behind her in that apartment where they had once planned their future together. Sylvia had made a future with Hunter. They pledged fidelity to each other and walked down the aisle, arm in arm. Yet, last night, Amanda was with him, both of them huddled like fugitives as they discussed how a lie could be shaped into a truth.
‘Sylvia, I’m so glad you’re here.’ Amanda sounds composed, but not apologetic. Apologetic equates to culpability and Sylvia must not hear the tremor of guilt in her voice. ‘I’ve just seen the online edition of the Orb. It’s appalling. You have to allow me to explain.’
‘Why?’ Sylvia asks. ‘What can you tell me that I don’t already know?’
‘What do you know?’
‘That you’ll lie to me, as you’ve been doing ever since your son disappeared.’
‘I’m not lying, Sylvia. What they’ve printed is scandalous, manipulated…’
Sylvia is wearing a citrus perfume, a light, fresh scent that imbues but does not dominate the air; yet it is forcing Amanda to breathe shallowly, to speak faster. ‘I denied knowing Hunter for obvious reasons. He did help me on a few, a very few occasions, with some confidential information during the search for that girl. He believed, as I did, that her uncle was guilty and the police were ignoring his findings. We were wrong, horribly wrong, as it turned out. But our relationship was never anything other than professional.’
Grubby encounters in unmemorable hotel rooms. The tawdriness of what was once exciting. Those torrid months she’d spent with Hunter have taken on the quality of a dream, or an ancient story told to her by someone else.
‘We used each other, that I’ll admit,’ she continues. ‘Both of us wanted to further our careers. But Hunter never, at any time, betrayed you. That’s the truth, Sylvia. We met last night to talk about the reopened investigation. He was frightened, afraid he would come under suspicion. He needed to know I’d be strong for him. And I would have been… I’d have gone to jail rather than reveal my source. But someone tipped off Lucy Knight and her photographer. I know who it was – oh Christ, I know who sent her—’
‘I tipped off Lucy Knight.’ Sylvia speaks distinctly, coldly.
‘What?’
‘I tipped her off,’ she repeats. ‘I told her where to find you.’ She has drawn her shoulders together, as if she needs a barrier between herself and Amanda. No flicker of emotion crosses her face as she calmly admits to ruining her own husband’s career and destroying their marriage.
‘I don’t believe you…’ Amanda reels back from the shock of her admission.
‘Your belief or otherwise is a matter of complete indifference to me,’ Sylvia replies.
‘Why would you do—?’ Amanda slides her tongue over her teeth. She’s doing it all the time now. It soothes her, this childhood habit that the pupils in her class used to mock, calling her ‘Buckteeth Bowe,’ until she fought the ringleader, loosening one of the girl’s own front teeth in the brawl.
‘What is your question?’ Sylvia spreads out the papers, as she has done every morning since Marcus was taken.
‘Why would you destroy your marriage?’
‘Since when has that been a concern of yours?’
Amanda’s shock is abating, as is her guilt. ‘You’re right. All I care about is finding Marcus. Karl Lawson was your source. He hacked into my phone—’
‘My source was anonymous.’
‘You know it’s him. He has my son. Do you understand? He’s never forgiven me—’
‘Why should he forgive you?’ For the first time since Sylvia entered the room her voice shakes, if only slightly; she pauses to steady her words. ‘You never counted the cost when you and my husband decided to wreck his life.’
‘We believed he was guilty…’ It’s warm in the drawing-room, the heating turned up full, but Amanda is unable to stop shivering.
‘And now you believe he has your son.’
‘I know he has my son.’
‘You knew he took Constance. You were wrong then. Just as you’re wrong now.’
‘Please help me… please.’
‘I can’t, Amanda. The person who has your son is not Karl Lawson.’
There is something hidden at the heart of what she has just said. Something that should alert Amanda… would alert her if she was in her studio or investigating a story for Capital Eye. Something she should reconfigure, grasp, yet it eludes her. Sylvia Thornton is right. Losing everything that makes life worthwhile has to change a person. But it does not make him invisible. He is somewhere out there and Sylvia, too, is punishing her.
‘Sylvia, if you’ve received any information…’ Amanda searches her face for compassion, understanding, relief from her turmoil. ‘If you know anything that can help the police to find Marcus, please tell me.’
‘The only information I received was from an anonymous source, who claimed you are a liar and a cheat,’ Sylvia replies. ‘That was simply a verification of a truth I’ve known for some time.’
‘Whatever you’re thinking about me, it’s wrong – wrong.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Amanda. For a detective, my husband was amazingly clumsy when it came to covering his own tracks. You were his first. Did you know that? You left no signs but I sensed your presence. The ones who followed behind you left clues. The back of an earring on the floor of his car. Sand on the soles of his shoes. Unexplained phone calls—’
‘I never… you’re wrong.’
‘Jon had explanations for everything.’ Sylvia ignores the interruption. ‘Explanations I chose to believe. Sounds like a cliché, doesn’t it? We all make sacrifices for our children. I chose denial until I was ready to handle the truth.’ She coughs, an audible rasp, as if her mouth is dry. ‘You called him “Hunter” in The Amber Door. I saw him grip your wrist. It was a threatening gesture, not a loving one, but it told me everything. I realised he’d been your source – and much more than that.’