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ELEVEN

Now

I read the email again, then sit back in my chair, thinking about St Mary’s. I haven’t been back to Devon since the ceremony we had for Layla, five years ago now. It was Tony who’d suggested it. It seemed to come out of the blue but the timing wasn’t lost on me. It was seven years since Layla had gone missing, so around the time that she would have been declared dead had she gone missing in the UK, and I suspected that Tony, who over the years had kept Ellen and me informed of any developments, hoped a ceremony would give us some kind of closure. Except that being declared dead isn’t the same as being dead.

I wasn’t keen, I remember, but Tony said Ellen was, and as she was Layla’s sister, I felt she had more right to decide than me. Their father had died six months previously and I guessed she wanted to put the past behind her and move on. I thought she would choose to do something on Lewis and I was looking forward to finally visiting the island where Layla had grown up. But I never got to Lewis because Ellen told Tony that Layla’s happiest times had been with me, and suggested putting up a bench in a place that had some special meaning for the two of us.

I immediately thought of Pharos Hill. Layla had loved it there – the half-hour’s walk from St Mary’s, the legend of the lighthouse that had once stood on top of the hill, although nothing remained of it, just a few ruins. We often climbed it for the beautiful view that stretched out over the sea for miles, sitting with our backs against the tree-stump which was shaped, Layla said, like a Russian doll. So I bought a simple wooden bench in kit form and drove to Devon with Peggy, while Tony collected Ellen from Exeter Station.

I was dreading meeting Ellen that day. The only direct contact I’d had with her had been a letter I’d received a couple of months after Layla’s disappearance, telling me that she knew I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her sister. It had only compounded the guilt I felt and I hoped that seven years on, it wouldn’t be visible on my face. But apart from her eyes, Ellen was very different to Layla. If she’d had the same red hair, the same freckled skin, I would have found it difficult. She was slimmer than Layla, more conservatively dressed, more reserved. In short, she was the proverbial older sister and it seemed on that first meeting that she never smiled. It was still awkward though, and with my mind on Layla, I left Tony to do the talking.

Tony and I carried the box up Pharos Hill between us, Ellen following behind with a small bag of tools, Peggy at our heels. We put the bench together in near silence, and after, we’d sat side by side, each of us lost in our own thoughts, while Peggy played with the empty packaging. And sitting there in the late afternoon sun, with someone who had known Layla better than I had, and someone who hadn’t known her at all, I’d felt a kind of peace.

I told myself I’d go back to Devon every year, on the anniversary of Layla’s disappearance or on her birthday, or on the anniversary of the day we put up the bench, but I never have. I preferred to forget about Devon, taught myself to not even think about it. It’s the email I just received which has stirred up all these memories.

It came in on my work email and was from someone claiming to be looking for a house to buy in Devon. It made me immediately suspicious. I’ve never sold the cottage where I lived with Layla so, technically, I do have one I could sell. But how would they know this? There aren’t many people who know I still own it. Even Ellen doesn’t know. She’s never asked about the cottage, just as she never asked why I don’t have any photos of Layla in the house. When she moved in, she didn’t ask if she could put any up, which meant a lot to me, that she’d understood. Neither of us needs reminding that it’s Layla who binds us together.

I look again at the email, a random message sent to addresses on a mailing list, I presume. There’s no name but it’s contained in the email address rudolph.hill@outlook.com. So who is Rudolph Hill and how much does he know? I decide to treat it as a genuine enquiry – which it could very well be – and send back a quick Sorry I can’t help.

To my surprise, a reply comes straight back.

What about the cottage in St Mary’s? Surely you’re not going to keep it, now that you’re going to marry the sister?

My heart gives an almighty thud. I read the email again, thinking I must have misread it. But it’s even more disturbing than before, because this time, there can be no mistake.

I try to be objective. Rudolph Hill, or the source behind him, has to be someone who knows my past. Ellen’s announcement about our engagement will have been logged online somewhere, and knowing the relentless competitive drive in journalists to find a new story – or a new angle to an old story – there are probably Google alerts set up for my name. So this could simply be a reporter wanting to make a story out of ‘Partner of Missing Woman Hangs on to Cottage Despite Plans to Marry Sister’ or some equally puerile headline. He must have done some digging to know that I still own the cottage in St Mary’s. Or used old knowledge. Is it the same person who left the Russian dolls? Are both these things part of some elaborate plan to make trouble for me? But who would want to? Because the Russian dolls were left with such ease, it has to be someone local.

A voice in my head hisses Ruby’s name. I never found out if she was responsible for the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ article, because it didn’t really matter, even if it did stir up some animosity towards Ellen. I don’t remember the name of her journalist cousin but it could be Rudolph Hill.

I find it hard to believe that Ruby would do such a thing. I understand that she’s sore at me over Ellen, I understand she feels I treated her badly, and I did. But why play games, and why now, why not last year when Ellen first moved in with me? It has to be more than just to get back at me. I look at the email again, at the mention of my marriage to Ellen. And then it hits. The wedding. It changes everything – at least, in Ruby’s eyes, because it makes my relationship with Ellen permanent.

I go and find Ellen. She’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge, looking at its contents, Peggy sitting hopefully beside her. She turns at my arrival and her face lights up, reminding me how lucky I am to have her.

‘I was wondering what to make for lunch,’ she says.

I go over and slide my hands around her waist.

‘Wonder no longer,’ I tell her. ‘I’m taking you out.’

Turning up at The Jackdaw with Ellen is the best way I can think of to test Ruby, see what her reaction is when she sees me standing there so soon after her email. And safer than confronting her in private, where I might find it harder to keep hold of the anger I feel at her stupid games.

I pull Ellen towards me, and her body folds into mine. I bend my head to kiss her and when she responds passionately, we almost end up having sex, right there in front of the fridge.

‘Are you sure you want to go out for lunch?’ she murmurs when I begin to pull away. But I need to get this thing with Ruby sorted.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Let’s walk down to The Jackdaw.’ She looks questioningly at me. ‘We’ve given Ruby enough time to get used to the idea that we’re getting married,’ I explain. ‘Besides, Peggy is missing Buster and I could murder a steak-and-ale pie.’

I run upstairs to fetch my wallet and we walk down to the village, our fingers locked together. I walk fast because I’m impatient to get there, impatient to put an end to the uncertainty of the last three weeks, when Ellen found the first Russian doll. I want – need – to get back to how we were before, without memories of Layla intruding on us. But with Peggy stopping to explore under every hedge, it’s impossible to hurry, so I content myself with imagining the look on Ruby’s face when Ellen and I walk in.

The Jackdaw is packed, as it always is on a Friday lunchtime, with tourists outnumbering the locals, who know to avoid the rush and arrive later in the afternoon, once it’s over. There aren’t any free tables in the garden so we make our way inside. Buster is in his basket next to the bar and opens his eyes to check us out before he goes first to Peggy, then to Ellen, who bends so that he can lick her face, so different from Layla, who was too scared to touch dogs.

Peggy slopes off to drink some watered-down beer from Buster’s bowl and out of the corner of my eye I see Ruby coming towards us, her dark curls held back from her face by a red bandana, a bunch of silver bracelets on her arm. She likes to pretend she has gypsy blood but the truth is that her dark skin and black hair are a legacy from her Italian grandparents.

‘Long time no see!’ she says, greeting us with a kiss. ‘I hope you haven’t been avoiding me.’ There’s amusement in her voice as she says this, as if she knows that we’ve been keeping out of her way since the wedding announcement appeared and I have to admire how good an actress she is. But when she insists on opening a bottle of champagne to celebrate our forthcoming wedding, doubt begins to creep in. I know Ruby well, and what you see is what you get.

We leave Peggy with Buster, and Ruby finds us a table. She fetches three glasses and pours the champagne.

‘You’ve got yourself a good one there,’ she says to Ellen, raising her glass. ‘You too, Finn,’ she adds, which is generous of her because I know she thinks Ellen is wrong for me and not just because she’s Layla’s sister. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

After five minutes of perfectly normal small-talk, all to do with the wedding, which will take place at the end of September in the little stone church in the next village along, Ruby takes our order and leaves – but not after raising her eyebrows at me when Ellen orders a small salad and no starter. There’s no malice in her gesture, just a good-natured Seriously? Is that all she’s having? I can see where she’s coming from – in contrast to Ruby herself, Ellen watches her weight constantly. She’s super-slim without an ounce of fat on her and no amount of encouragement will persuade her to have anything remotely calorific. I used to tease Layla about the amount she ate and also about the weight she’d started to put on once we moved to Devon. That’s the thing about losing someone; you tend to remember every careless remark, even those made in jest.

While we’re waiting for Ruby to bring lunch, we finish the champagne and while we’re drinking it, I’m wondering why it isn’t adding up, why this Ruby seems so at odds with the Ruby behind the dolls and emails. So maybe it’s not Ruby, maybe it’s somebody else.

The hardest thing I’ve had to deal with over the years is the possibility that Layla was kidnapped from the car park in France. At first, I thought she’d run away because of what happened that night, and that she would quickly turn up safe and sound. But as the days wore on, then the weeks and months, I had to consider what the police believed, which was that she’d been taken by someone, either the driver of the car I’d seen parked outside the toilet block, or the driver of the lorry I’d seen taking the slip road. Despite huge efforts on the part of the French police, no trace was ever found of either driver, even though I’d been able to give them a fairly good description of the man I’d seen. The photo-fit circulated to the general public had brought up no names. Like Layla, he had disappeared into thin air so it was logical to presume that he had taken her from the picnic area.

So if Ruby isn’t behind the Rudolph Hill alias, who is? And more to the point, what does he know about Layla’s disappearance?