‘There he is,’ Bex suddenly says. ‘Even more of a looker than I remember.’
‘Is he with anyone?’ Kate asks, watching as the drone approaches. The sight and sound of it make her uneasy, cutting through the coastal calm. Rob has recently invested in a start-up drone courier company. He tests a lot of his gadgets down here. Is that one of his? It can’t be. He’s in London.
‘On his own,’ Bex says.
‘That’s good.’
‘I can’t see anything strange about him, Kate. That’s all I can say. Right lanky sod, isn’t he? And so young! How old is he again?’
‘Twenty-nine.’ The drone is above her now, hovering high above the coast path.
‘Cheeky. Dead cool bag over one shoulder. Sound familiar?’
‘All good. What about the way he’s walking?’ You can tell a lot by the way someone walks.
‘Preoccupied,’ Bex says. ‘He’s just pulled out his phone.’
Kate’s own phone flashes up a message that he’s on the other line. ‘He’s trying to call me,’ she says, not sure whether to be reassured or scared.
‘Are you going to answer it?’
‘No.’ She lets the call go to voicemail. The drone starts to move away, back out to sea.
‘He’s stopped on the platform. He’s glancing around,’ Bex says. ‘Nice smile. Looks like he’s leaving you a long, loving message.’ She pauses. ‘Hang on.’
‘What?’ Has Bex noticed something about him?
‘Shitters, he’s heading in here.’
‘What are you going to say?’
‘Better go.’
‘Just tell him the truth, that you’re coming down to see me, waiting for your train,’ Kate says, but the line’s already dead.
11
Kate
Kate stops on the coast path and leans against the drystone wall. London feels so far away. At least Bex has got an excuse for why she’s up in town. Rob knows Kate was going to ask her down. And Bex is a good bluffer. She tries to guess what they’ll talk about. Rob will confide that he’s a bit worried about her but won’t go into details. He’s too decent to be indiscreet. And Bex will flirt with him, pick some fluff off his shoulder, which will make him blush and blink.
‘Shall we carry on?’ she asks Stretch, who is pulling at the lead again. ‘Keep ourselves busy?’
She turns to breathe in the pure sea air. No sign of the drone now. Two people are walking towards them on the coast path. Below, a sailing dinghy heads out into the bay, a tiny blade of brilliant white slicing across the haze of blue. And there, on the far side of the bay, is the field where she and Jake used to camp in the summer. Ironic that she’s ended up living within sight of it but not with Jake. It always rained for the week they were down. They argued a lot too – he liked to go sailing, she didn’t – but she still feels a pang of nostalgia. It’s the laughter she misses. His reassuring presence too. Was he a father figure to her, as Bex always used to say? She was brought up by her mother, a West End actress. Her father died before she was born.
She smiles weakly at the couple as she passes them, allowing their dog, a black Labrador, to sniff at Stretch. Ten minutes later, she’s about to enter the village when her phone rings.
She almost drops it as she whips the phone out of her back pocket.
‘He’s worried about you, pleased that I’m coming down,’ Bex says. ‘Told me to make sure the house is triple-locked and alarmed at night.’
Sounds like Rob. ‘Did anything strike you as odd about him?’ she asks breathlessly. ‘Different?’
‘There really wasn’t anything, Kate. Short of grabbing his balls and asking him to cough, I couldn’t have examined him any closer. He must have thought I was right weird, the way I was standing in his face.’
‘Did he offer to pay your fare?’ she asks.
‘Of course. And I declined. Let him buy me a coffee, though.’
Out of nowhere, a treacherous thought snakes into her head. ‘What did you have?’ she asks.
‘Cappuccino, why?’
‘How about him?’
‘What is this, twenty questions?’
‘Please, it’s important.’
Her brain is already getting ahead of itself.
‘Flat white, I think,’ Bex says.
‘He asked for a flat white?’ she repeats, feeling dizzy, trying to buy herself time.
‘Like a latte only with less foam. Can’t see the point of them myself.’
‘I know what it is,’ she snaps. There’s no need to be short with Bex. She has gone out of her way to help her. It’s just that a flat white is what Kate usually has.
‘Rob only ever drinks espresso,’ she says. ‘A double. He’s a man of ridiculous habit.’
She’s always teasing him about his routines, telling him he needs to let his hair down more often. In truth, she envies his discipline. She can’t seem to focus so well since the accident.
‘Maybe he fancied a change, I don’t know,’ Bex says. ‘It’s just a bloody cup of coffee, Kate.’
But Kate can tell that she’s not convinced, that Rob’s choice has disconcerted Bex. Kate too.
12
Silas
‘This better be worth it,’ Detective Inspector Silas Hart says as Jake sits down opposite him in the café. Silas tries to avoid work at weekends, but his current in-tray at Swindon CID is making that difficult.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jake says. ‘Bus from Marlborough was delayed.’
‘What sort of bestselling author travels by bus?’ Silas asks.
It’s a cheap shot, below the belt. Silas was happy to help Jake with his books when he approached him a few years ago, assumed he’d soon become the Morse of Swindon. But it turns out his thrillers aren’t so bestselling after all. They’re not even published in English.
Jake takes out a small padded envelope as a waitress comes up to ask if he’d like anything to eat. Silas is halfway through a bacon sandwich.
‘No, thanks,’ Jake says to the waitress.
The guy really is broke. They haven’t met up for a while and, these days, when they do, they spend more time discussing rare birds than police procedure.
‘Get him a tea and a bacon sandwich,’ Silas says, turning to Jake. ‘On me.’
‘Thanks,’ Jake says sheepishly, and retrieves a small memory stick from the package. Jake is a big man, and his long hair and flecked beard make him look a bit wild. It’s a mystery how he manages to live on a narrowboat.
‘What’s on it?’ Silas asks.
Jake swings his bag around, rummages through a mess of books and old newspapers and pulls out a battered laptop. Silas catches a whiff of diesel.
‘Is it suitable for public viewing?’ he asks, glancing around the café, one of his favourite greasy spoons. It’s in the town centre, near the courts, where he’s been most of this week for a human-trafficking trial. Until recently, Swindon’s nail bars weren’t really his sort of place. Now he’s got to know them well. Extensions, overlays, the lot.