Close My Eyes (32 page)

He pulls me round. Kisses my mouth. His hands are stroking my back. There’s an urgency and a delicacy and he pulls me onto the bed and we’re lying there and he kisses my neck again
and now my whole body is trembling. And he takes off his clothes and I peel off mine and we’re touching and kissing and the smells and the sounds of us and what we’re doing fill my head
and there is no guilt and there is no confusion and it’s just this moment where I’m somewhere I’ve never been and I can’t think outside that and all I know is this is right
this is right this is right.

After what happened with Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth, I dreamed about the Bad People a lot. In my dreams they were big and tall grownups with hoods over their faces so
all I could see were their smiles except for bits when I would see mean eyes. They would come up behind me and grab me. I would try to cry out but my voice wouldn’t work and the Bad People
would take me away to a prison far away, like in
The Special Child.

One night I remember I thought one of the Bad People was hiding in my bedroom. There was a big shadow from the dressing gown on the door and I thought it was a Bad Lady and I kept getting
out of bed to see if she was there. Mummy came home and found me out of bed and she was cross. She said I must toughen up and not be scared and that I must be ready to fight if I had to. She said
if I kept imagining the Bad Lady it would make a Bad Lady come in real life. Mummy said being strong is the most important thing and that everyone has to take care of themselves and look after
their families and that dogs eat dogs so you have to kill them before they eat you.

She said she didn’t mean real dogs.

‘Any mustard or mayonnaise with that?’ the woman asks.

‘Mayo, please.’ Lorcan flashes her a smile.

I realize I’m staring and look away. It’s nearly midday and we’re the only people eating lunch in the restaurant of the inn. The woman wanders away and Lorcan leans back in his
chair.

I feel his gaze on me but don’t turn straightaway to meet it. The intensity of his presence is delicious but terrifying . . . overwhelming . . .

‘Gen?’

I turn and look at him at last. I’m consumed with self-consciousness. What the hell has happened to me? I can’t remember when I last felt this out of control. Images from our
love-making burst into my head, all lust and joy. This is nothing like the way it was with Art when I met him. Back then I admired Art before I loved him. I felt attracted to him, sure, but it was
his drive and focus that really drew me in.

With Art my feelings grew slowly and steadily. With Lorcan, it’s like a bomb has gone off inside me. It’s ridiculous – like I’m fourteen years old again. And yet in the
cold light of the morning, I am all too aware that Lorcan had his own agenda when he offered to help me. And I still can’t be sure I can really trust him.

‘Are you all right?’ Lorcan asks.

His hand reaches for mine and he smiles as our fingers touch. The woman appears with two plates laden with the tarts and salads we have ordered.

‘Everything’s going to be fine, Gen,’ Lorcan says quietly.

‘Here we are.’ The woman sets her tray down on the table next to ours and proceeds to place the plates carefully in front of us. She’s much the same age as the landlord and
equally formal in her manner. Plump, with a carefully blow-dried bob, she’s the only other member of staff we’ve seen apart from a couple of twenty-somethings serving behind the bar
last night. We’ve asked all of them – in roundabout, chatty ways – if they remember seeing Art with anyone and, so far, no one has done so.

I’m hoping we haven’t made anyone suspicious, but I know it’s too much to expect that Art won’t eventually find out we’ve been asking questions. Meanwhile, we are
as much in the dark as ever about why
he
comes
here
. I’m well aware that this hotel could be a complete red herring in terms of finding Beth. Art might simply be having an
affair and using this spot as a meeting place. Which would have nothing to do with Beth. Which would mean we are wasting our time . . . and that the truth about my child lies elsewhere.

I go over what I know again. Rodriguez was paid to lie about Beth. Someone else, other than Art, is involved too . . . plus the guy who mugged me. Everyone else present at the birth has died
under suspicious circumstances. And no one will talk. Every turn I take, every attempt to find out what happened to my baby, leads to a dead end.

Lorcan is chatting to the woman who served us. I haven’t been listening. As she walks away, he tucks into his ham-and-cheese tart. I glance down at my own, picking at the pastry with my
fork. I spear a tomato, then realize I have no knife. Lorcan leans over and uses the sharp edge of his Swiss Army knife to cut it in half.

‘A million uses,’ he says with a smile, and my mind flashes back to last night and his tongue working its way down my body. I flush hot with self-consciousness again.

I tell Lorcan I’m going up to the room while he checks out. We’ve agreed we’ll meet with Bernard O’Donnell back in London. He called us last night to report that Art went
nowhere yesterday other than home and office. Bernard hopes that if we get together once more, pooling the information we both have, that something – some clue – will emerge that we
haven’t seen before.

I have my doubts, but at least we will be doing something.

I leave Lorcan and trudge up the inn’s uneven staircase. It strikes me that this kind of hotel really isn’t Art’s usual choice. And I wonder, for the millionth time, why he
chooses to stay here for those mysterious visits. Is he having an affair? Is it Hen? She certainly knows more than she’s saying. I’m sure of that. But what? I’m exhausted by the
relentless way these questions stalk my mind. And yet I can’t seem to stop asking them.

A chambermaid – olive-skinned and dark-haired, with a pretty green scarf trailing down her back – is emerging from the room next to ours. She carries a bucket containing cleaning
cloths and sprays and glances shyly at me with a smile. She’s young, no more than eighteen or nineteen.

I hesitate. I should ask her about Art and whether she’s seen anyone visiting him, but I feel so far from finding the necessary cheery tone that Lorcan and I have deployed with other
members of staff that I simply disappear into my room.

I sit on the bed for a second, waves of despair and exhaustion washing over me. And then I force myself up, grab my phone and head out into the corridor again. I can’t give up now.

‘Excuse me.’

The chambermaid is a little way along the corridor, her hand on another room’s door knob. She turns around.

‘Please?’ Her accent is Eastern European. She reminds me a little of Lilia.

I put a smile on my face and walk over, my phone in my hand.

‘I was just going to say thank you; we’ve had a great stay here.’

‘Stay?’ She frowns, clearly not understanding the word.

‘Visit,’ I explain. ‘A friend of ours also comes here,’ I say, showing her the picture on my phone of Art flanked by Sandrine, her husband and various work colleagues at
the party. ‘We are happy he told us about this place.’

The lie is so total that it catches in my throat. Tears bubble up behind my eyes. The chambermaid looks at me strangely. ‘You are all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Tears are now trickling down my face. I try to stop crying but I can’t. Misery is oozing out of me. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘Sorry.’

I turn and walk away. The chambermaid follows.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please be you okay.’

The strange construction makes me smile. I turn back. ‘Thank you.’

Sympathy shines from her eyes. ‘Do not cry,’ she says. ‘Is it so bad?’

‘Yes.’ The agony of the past week surges up inside me. I can’t hold it back. I indicate the photo on my phone again. ‘It’s not true this man is a friend. He’s
my husband. And I think he’s been lying to me.’

The chambermaid frowns, then she looks at the picture of Art. ‘This man you husband?’

I nod, wiping my face.

‘He come . . . he visit this place many times.’ She smiles again, a kind, warm smile. ‘I not see him with woman, not you worry.’

‘Really?’ I sniff back my tears.

‘Really.’ She points along the corridor to the fire door at the end. ‘But I see him go through there.’

I follow her gaze. ‘Where does that go?’

‘Exit out back,’ she says. ‘I see him use. Before. Many time. Last time Monday.’ She unwinds the long silk scarf from around her neck. ‘He give me this soon after
Christmas. A present to be keep quiet.’

I take the scarf out of her hands and examine it. It’s beautiful – a long strip of pale green with just a hint of silver woven through the threads. A tiny tag dangles from the end,
easy to miss as the price has been snipped off. Only the shop or brand logo remains:
bibo
.

My heart thuds.

‘Do you know where he goes?’ I ask.

She draws me to the window beside the end of the corridor. I can see over the yard at the back of the inn. A line of bins marks the path up to a privet hedge, the road lies beyond. The
chambermaid points to the left. ‘He go that way,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I am not know where.’

‘Thank you.’

I can hear footsteps on the corridor behind me. I turn. It’s Lorcan. The chambermaid takes a step away. ‘I go now,’ she says, gathering up the scarf. ‘Please not saying I
told.’

I nod, then watch her disappear into a room, then beckon Lorcan into mine.

As I explain what the maid has said, my phone beeps at me. I take a look at the call log. There are eleven missed calls and texts. Not just from Art, Hen and my mum, but also now from Kyle
Benson at Art’s work. I shove the phone in my pocket.

‘But why would Art sneak out the back? And Bernard said Art’s car never left the car park. Where would he go on foot?’ Lorcan frowns. ‘We drove around yesterday, we
didn’t see anything.’

‘Maybe we missed something.’ I grab my coat. ‘Come on, let’s dump our bags in the car, then go for a walk ourselves. See what we can find.’

Ten minutes later, we’re making our way along the narrow country lane out of the inn. A couple of cars whizz past at high speed. Even though we’re keeping to the hedgerow in single
file, the passing vehicles feel dangerously close.

‘I can’t believe Art would just be coming out for a stroll,’ I say. ‘It’s lethal, walking along here.’

‘Maybe he turns off somewhere.’ Lorcan looks across the fields to the cluster of small buildings in the distance. ‘Maybe he heads for one of those farmhouses.’

‘But
why
?’

Lorcan shrugs.

I sigh and carry on walking. The sky is grey and gloomy and the air feels heavy with rain, like the pressure in my head. After a couple more minutes we arrive at the hotel down the road. The
Princess Alice is also a pub with rooms attached, but it’s a far larger establishment than the Wardingham Arms, with a car park off to one side and freshly painted cream walls.

‘I guess we should see if anyone’s seen him in here,’ I say.

We try the front door, but it’s shut. As Lorcan rings on the doorbell, I look at his hands, remembering the touch of his fingers. He glances round and meets my eye.

The front door opens into a cool, stone vestibule. A man wearing work overalls and a scowl stands there.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I launch in. ‘But we were wondering if you have seen this man?’ I hold out the picture of Art.

The man in overalls grunts and shakes his head. ‘You police?’ he mutters.

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No, we’re just meeting someone.’

A woman bustles into the vestibule. She’s about my age, with warm eyes and wispy strawberry blonde curls. ‘Hello, can I help?’ She glances from me and Lorcan to the man in
overalls. ‘Thanks, Andy,’ she says. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

Andy slopes off and the woman moves back to allow us inside.

‘Sorry about that, I’d just stepped away from reception. Were you looking for a room?’

‘No.’ I walk into the stone vestibule, Lorcan at my side.

‘We’re here for a meeting with a Mr Loxley,’ Lorcan says. ‘We were supposed to meet him in the bar but we’re running late and we don’t have a number for
him.’

I make a face, jumping into the story we’ve used before. ‘It’s my fault, I lost the information.’

‘Sorry,’ the woman says. ‘I don’t recognize the name you said. There’s no one in the bar, though. I’d have seen anyone going through from
reception.’

‘I’ve got a picture of him actually.’ I’m trying to sound casual but my heart is racing. Lorcan seems to handle our cover stories with ease but each time I have to lie
about Art I feel stressed and uncomfortable. I hold out my phone, a picture of Art displayed on the screen. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen him around?’

The woman takes my phone and tilts it to get a better view. ‘Oh, but that’s Mr Rafferty,’ she says with a frown.

I exchange glances with Lorcan.

‘I don’t understand,’ the woman says, looking up at me. ‘Rafferty wasn’t the name you said before.’

I think fast. ‘Gosh, did I get that wrong too? Head office will have my guts.’ I shake my head.

‘Total ditz,’ Lorcan adds, jerking his thumb in my direction.

‘Right.’ The woman looks like she’s not sure whether to believe us or not. ‘Well, I’m pretty sure he’s not with us today, though his car’s still
outside.’

‘His
car
?’ My mind flashes back to the Mercedes parked in our Crouch End driveway.

‘Yes.’ The woman looks at me, her face now covered in confusion.

I freeze, not knowing what to say. Luckily Lorcan is thinking more quickly than I am.

‘Thanks so much for your help,’ he says. Then he turns to me. ‘I think you’re going to have to call head office after all. Track Mr Rafferty down.’ He opens the
door and shepherds me outside.

I follow Lorcan across the gravel, my mind spinning with what we’ve just learned. ‘Why does Art have a car here?’

‘You mean “Mr Rafferty”?’ Lorcan shakes his head. ‘How are we going to work out which car it is?’