Close My Eyes (34 page)

‘This circle of stones was brought here by magic, Queenie, all the way from Ireland.’ He spread his palms against the pillar, swaying a little as he did so. I copied him, feeling the
cool roughness under my fingers. He closed his eyes. I followed his lead again. And then he sighed. ‘These stones heal the sick, Queenie.’

I opened one eye and glanced up at him. ‘Are you sick, Daddy?’

He laughed. I can remember thinking there was something wrong with his laugh, like he had something bitter in his mouth. He didn’t answer.

I glance once more at Stonehenge then turn away. All my life, whenever I’ve remembered that time with my dad, I’ve remembered it as a special memory, something he did for me.
It’s only now that I realize that what I had seen as adventure was, for him, something entirely more desperate. What was he looking for? Salvation? Redemption? Whatever it was, I wasn’t
with him because he wanted to give me something. He was drunk and just thinking of his own pain. And my only role was as his witness.

‘Gen?’ Lorcan’s voice rouses me again. He’s walking towards me from the visitor centre. ‘Ready to keep going?’

Shepton Longchamp is a large village, but still very much a village. It’s just gone 3 p.m. as we drive along the main road, taking in the few shops – a grocer and a
newsagent and a chemist – plus a small pub, the Dog & Duck, a picturesque cliché of a West Country inn, complete with ivy up the walls and flower baskets hanging from iron
hooks.

‘So where’s Bitsy and Bobs?’ Lorcan asks, pulling over.

I consult my phone. ‘It should definitely be on this road; maybe we passed it already.’

It’s as we’re driving on, looking for a place where Lorcan can turn the car around, that we find the shop. It would be easy to miss, sandwiched between a rather prim-looking boutique
and yet another pub.

From the outside, Bitsy and Bobs looks like any other upmarket gift shop. The window display is different from the one in the shiny picture on the website, but just as expensive-looking. It
includes hand made gift cards stuck with glitter and feathers, a row of scarves similar to the one Art gave the chambermaid at the hotel, plus a selection of children’s colouring sets and
some locally produced pottery, all set against a backdrop of chintzy wrapping paper.

The name of the shop is written in ornate swirls above the window. It’s all terribly chi-chi.

‘Art would never voluntarily come in here,’ I say as we approach the door.

‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Lorcan pushes it open.

Inside the shop I gaze around at the stand of flower-themed cards –
Blank for your own message
– and the shelves stacked with fancy pens and jars of local ‘apple-cider
flavour’ sweets. A girl – young, no more than twenty-one or -two – looks up from behind the counter.

Lorcan smiles and starts talking. My stomach feels heavy as I browse the card stand. This shop can’t possibly have anything to do with Art. If he did come inside, it must have been under
duress – or because he was out of other options. I can’t see either Sandrine or Hen wanting to shop here. Maybe Charlotte West, though.

Lorcan is chatting away behind me. The girl nods as he explains we’re on a mission to help a friend replace a missing scarf.

‘From what I understand,’ Lorcan says, ‘it was black silk. He said he bought it here so, as we were passing through, we promised we’d stop off to see if you had a
replacement. Sort of a surprise for his birthday.’

I turn around. Lorcan is leaning on the counter. For some reason he has dropped his own way of speaking in favour of a rather upper-class English accent. The young girl behind has pursed her
perfect cupid’s-bow lips, concentrating on his every word. She has to be less than half his age and yet she’s totally caught up in his charm. She points over to the scarf rack,
shrugging her shoulders.

‘I don’t remember a man’s scarf in black silk,’ she says in the plummiest of accents herself.

Lorcan turns, waving me over.

‘Show the young lady the picture,’ he says. ‘It might help her remember the scarf.’

The upper-class accent he has assumed mirrors perfectly the way the girl speaks. With a jolt I realize it must be a deliberate ploy to make her feel comfortable – and more likely to open
up.

Obediently, I scroll to the photo of Art and hand my phone to the girl.

‘He only bought the scarf recently,’ I say.

To my amazement she nods. ‘Oh, yah, he comes here a lot,’ she says.

I stare at her, my mouth gaping. ‘A
lot
?’

The girl nods again. ‘He’s a friend of Bitsy and Bobs. Didn’t you know?’

‘A friend of the
shop
?’ Lorcan frowns. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Bitsy and Bobs are the owners. Robert and Elizabeth Renner. They’re not here right now. Bobs should be in later, though. I’m holding the fort.’

Art is friendly with a couple of shopkeepers who run a bijou gift outlet in the middle of Somerset? It makes no sense.

‘So you’ve seen him recently?’ Lorcan points to the picture of Art. ‘It’s just we didn’t know he knew the owners, so . . .’

‘Yah, like I don’t work every day but, like, I was here the Saturday before last, and he came in then.’

I blink, my mind flashing back to that particular day. The week before Lucy showed up . . . the week before the party. I slept late and when I woke, Art had left a note on my pillow.
Annoying meeting in town. Back by 4
.

He
had
been back by four or so. We’d had a cup of tea and he’d brushed away my question about his meeting with a sigh, saying he didn’t want to talk about work
tonight. We’d watched some rubbish film on TV while eating an Indian takeaway, then gone to bed. Nothing about that entire day had made me suspect that Art had spent the first part of it in
Somerset.

The girl is talking again, in response to something Lorcan has asked that I wasn’t listening to. I force my mind back to their conversation.

‘I’d say he comes in once a month,’ the girl says.

‘Alone?’ The question sounds inappropriate as it leaves my mouth.
Shit
. I should have left the questions to Lorcan. He asks them far better.

The girl screws up her face. ‘No,’ she says. ‘He’s always with his family.’

It’s like a punch in the guts. ‘His family?’ I echo, my legs threatening to give way under me.

The girl looks at me curiously.

‘Sorry, I’m not sure exactly what you mean,’ Lorcan says quickly.

The girl raises her eyebrows. ‘I mean his wife and child, of course.’

The shop seems to spin around me. It was one thing to suspect Art of meeting a woman in a hotel room, but to hear someone talk out loud about a wife and child is beyond shocking.

And yet . . . my mind tries to process what this revelation means.

It surely means Beth
is
alive.
And
Art is having an affair with the woman who he’s passing off as her mother. An
affair
. Wasn’t this precisely the
conclusion Morgan thought I had jumped to? After the chambermaid’s insistence that she’d never seen Art with a woman, I’d started to believe that perhaps that part of my
suspicions was wrong. But no . . . Art has a double life. He has taken our daughter and put her at the centre of another family.

I lean back against a display cupboard, pressing my hand against the wood to steady myself.

It’s unbelievable. And yet it makes sense. If I accept that Art is in love with someone else, then the rest all follows. For her he has been prepared to lie to me and to kill to cover his
tracks. For her, he took away my baby. Unless the child is
hers
. . .
theirs
. . . That’s possible too. Which means Art took away our baby for some other reason that I
don’t yet understand.

But what if it
is
Beth?

My
Beth. And she calls some other woman ‘Mummy’.

Fury surges through me. My fingers curl over the cupboard edge, the wood cutting into my palm as the next question explodes like a grenade in my head. Who is this woman?

Who the hell is this woman who has ripped the heart out of my life?

Lorcan is still talking to the girl. I force myself back to their conversation. Before everything else, I
have
to find out if the child Art comes here with is Beth.

‘How old?’ I demand, striding over to the counter.

The girl stares at me blankly.

Lorcan puts a restraining hand on my arm. I realize I am actually shaking.

‘We’re just wondering how old the little one is now?’ he asks with a smile.

The girl in the shop stares at him quizzically. ‘I thought you were all good friends?’

‘No, we said
friends
of friends.’ Lorcan smiles ruefully. ‘When you get to our age it’s astonishing how quickly time goes by. One day they’re babies. The
next they’re off to college.’

The girl laughs. ‘Yah, well I don’t think this one’ll be off to uni any time soon. I don’t know, about seven or eight, I’d say.’

It
is
Beth. Black shadows flicker in the corner of my eyes. For a second I think I might pass out.

‘Hello?’ A man stands in the door of the shop. He’s in his fifties, with short, thinning dark hair and a Barbour jacket that’s glistening with rain. It must have started
drizzling outside, but I don’t turn and look. I’m transfixed by the man’s gaze. He’s staring at me as if he’s seen a ghost. A second later he recovers with a
thin-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

‘Hello there.’ The man glances from me to the shop girl. His accent is as posh as hers. ‘Are these friends of yours, Franny?’

I stare at him. It’s as obvious that he is trying to cover his confusion as it is that he has recognized me from somewhere.

‘No.’ Franny pouts her perfect lips, flicking her hair back self-consciously. ‘But they know of a friend of yours, Bobs. That guy and his wife who come in every few weeks? They
buy toys and colouring things for—’

‘I can’t possibly remember every customer we have.’ Bobs rolls his eyes in mock-exasperation, but his face is reddening and there’s an undeniable look of panic in his
eyes.

He knows who I am
. He knows I have a connection to Art. I tense and glance at Lorcan. I can see from his expression he’s noticed the recognition in Bobs’s eyes too. Lorcan
holds out his hand.

‘You’re the owner?’ he says.

Bobs nods. He stares at Lorcan, then shakes his hand. ‘I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage.’

‘We were just trying to track down a black silk scarf,’ Lorcan says smoothly.

‘Your assistant here . . .’ I nod towards Franny then hold my phone out to Bobs. ‘She seems to think you know this man quite well, that he’s a regular customer.’ My
heart thumps. I know I’m throwing caution to the wind by being so blatant in my questioning. Lorcan casts me an anxious glance.

Bobs rubs his hands together. He looks nervous. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says.

‘You’re kidding, Bobs.’ Franny’s voice from the counter expresses confusion and surprise. ‘You
do
know him. So does Bitsy. He comes in
with—’

‘Would you check the stock delivery in the van, Franny?’ Bobs interrupts. ‘The schedule is on the front. Last time they sent too many gel-pen sets so we need to make sure this
order’s correct.’

‘You want me to check the stock before you’ve brought it inside?’ Franny pouts, looking both put out and surprised.

‘Yes.’ Bobs stands by the door. The atmosphere grows tenser still.

Franny lopes sulkily across the shop to the front door. Lorcan holds it open for her. ‘Will I help you with the stuff in the van?’ he says.

‘No.’ Bobs’s head jerks up. His tone verges on the aggressive. He quickly smiles, holding out his arms in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Sorry, but if you’re not staff,
I’m not insured. Health and safety, you know what it’s like.’

Lorcan catches my eye. I’m certain he’s thinking the same as me: Bobs is lying from his balding head down to his well-polished brogues.

As Franny disappears into the rain, I turn on Bobs.

‘How do you know Art?’ I say. Bobs shakes his head. ‘I don’t.’

I glance at Lorcan. In a second he’s across the room, towering over Bobs.

‘We know you’re lying,’ he hisses. ‘Why are you protecting him?’

Bobs backs away. ‘You have to go,’ he says shakily. ‘Please leave the shop or . . . or . . .’

‘Or what?’ I say. ‘Or you’ll call the police?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bobs insists. ‘And yes, if you don’t leave I
will
call the police.’

I want to call his bluff but the memory of my recent encounter with Sergeant Manning is still fresh in my head. Lorcan and I don’t have any more solid evidence against either Art or
Rodriguez than we did two days ago.

I glance out of the window, where Franny is half-visible behind the van doors. Right now she is our best bet.

I dart closer to Lorcan, tugging him away from Bobs. I lean up and whisper in his ear: ‘Keep Bobs here a minute.’ Then I walk out of the shop. Behind me I can hear the two men
arguing, but I head straight over to Franny. A misty rain shrouds my hair and coat and the air is cold and damp, but I pay this no attention. I’m fixed on Franny. She’s still standing
at the back of the van, checking the contents of one of the cardboard boxes inside against a list on a clipboard – and looking irritated.

I go up to her. ‘Franny?’

She glances over.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d be really grateful if you could tell me everything you remember about the man in the shop and his family. There was just one child,
right?’

She nods, looking over my shoulder at Bobs, who is still inside the shop, clearly arguing with Lorcan.

‘Yes, but my boss obviously doesn’t want me to talk to you about it. Why are you so interested anyway?’

‘What about Bitsy?’ I say quickly. ‘She’s your boss too. Maybe she wouldn’t mind. Please.’

Franny gives a little snort. ‘If Bobs minds a little, then Bitsy will go ballistic.’ She looks at me. ‘Why is this so important? I thought you said you were just looking for a
scarf?’