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  Ten minutes after leaving the ferry, she drives past the large cream house, a modern mansion, which sits on a hillside at the edge of Douglas. This is where the rich people live. People like Tom’s parents, who run a shipping business and are wealthy beyond belief, having moved here for tax reasons before Tom was born. They travel all over the world on a regular basis, with other properties in tax-havens like Kuwait and the Cayman Islands, leaving this house empty for long periods of time. Plenty of space for Tom, Harry and the nanny.

  This is where Natalie thought her son would be, where her solicitor had said they were living, but the house appears to be empty. No curtains or blinds at the windows, no lights on, no cars in the drive. It has that forlorn air, which settles over properties when they are bereft of humanity; slightly tatty round the edges, the lawns uncut, flower borders tangled with weeds, a flyer poking out of the letterbox. Then she notices an estate agent’s board by the gate, sees the red letters stating that the property has been sold and her chest tightens.

  ‘No! No! No!’ She smacks her hands against the steering wheel in a furious drumbeat until her palms are burning and stares at the empty house, willing it to burst into life. Have I got the wrong address? She looks around, but knows that she’s in the right place, having been here several times with Tom.

  A few deep breaths help to steady her. They’re on the island. She knows this for sure, because her ex-husband registered as a director of a business here three years ago, and the business is still operating. She rang to make sure just yesterday and spoke to his secretary.

  ‘Mr Wilson’s in a meeting, I’m afraid,’ his secretary had said, her voice a pleasant sing-song, with the hint of a foreign accent. She’d sounded apologetic, sincere. ‘I’m not sure when he’ll be available. Would you like to leave a message?’

  Natalie had chewed on her lip. As if he’d respond to a message. For the last few months she’d been bombarding him with messages, warnings that their son was in danger. Tom hadn’t believed her. He was sure it was all a ruse to get access and said he wasn’t going to fall for her melodramatic games.

  ‘Um… no, it’s okay,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll try again later.’

  ‘Are you sure? Can I take your name, let him know you called? It’s no trouble.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine.’

  A car horn jolts her back to the present and she realises that she’s blocking the road. She holds up a hand in apology and pulls over to the pavement. What to do now? For a moment her mind is blank, but then she suddenly remembers something that the musician on the ferry had said, something that hadn’t registered as important at the time, but now it shines like a beacon of hope and she starts the engine and heads towards Peel, glad of the scrap of paper tucked in her pocket.

  The conversation runs through her mind.

  ‘It’s nothing fancy,’ Jack had said. ‘Just a charity do. A friend of our drummer works in wealth management and he’s managed to persuade a bunch of firms to put their hands in their pockets and sponsor the thing. Should be a fun night though.’

  Tom works in wealth management, she thinks, and he was always a sucker for a charity do. Thought it was good publicity. Maybe this friend knows where Tom lives. Maybe Jack does. The Isle of Man is only a small place, after all, no more than thirty miles long and ten wide. There are a lot of interconnections when you live in a place that size.

  The more she considers it, the more her spirits lift, certain that Jack will be able to help. She drives across the island, down lush, tree-lined roads, between the rolling hills, the tug of her connection to Harry feeling stronger than ever, pulling her, she’s sure, in the right direction.

  Twenty minutes later, she arrives at Peel marina, a pretty place, full of all manner of boats, bobbing on the tide, masts swaying, lines clanking in the breeze. Behind them, Peel Hill rises in a long, low ridge, protecting the town from north-westerly winds. To the north, on a rocky island, attached to the mainland by a short causeway, stand the ruins of a red sandstone castle, jagged against the skyline. A long, high breakwater reaches out from its walls into the Irish sea, forming a harbour and providing a protective arm to keep the worst of the weather from the mouth of the marina.

  Officially Peel is a city because it has a cathedral, but she decides that’s a ridiculous concept when she sees the size of the place. Even the label of town is pushing it, given that it takes her five minutes to do a circuit, ending back where she started, by the marina, outside a tiny chippy. Her window is open and the enticing smell drifts into the car, reminding her that she’s only had a chocolate muffin to eat since breakfast. She checks her watch, sees that she still has an hour to kill, and decides she might as well be eating. Refuel while I can. Who knows how the evening will pan out? There might not be another chance. She parks up, and gets herself some fish and chips, then walks round to the promenade to find somewhere to sit and eat.

  She passes a rowdy group of teenagers playing volleyball on the crescent-shaped beach. There are dog walkers, couples walking hand in hand and, out in the bay, a small fleet of kayaks, like a line of ducks. On the horizon, fishing boats are coming home. There’s something very innocent about the place. Time wound back by thirty years.

  Although it’s evening, a handful of children still play on the beach and she watches a toddler as he tries to shovel sand into a bucket, fascinated by the concentration on his face, his determination to accomplish his task. She imagines what it might be like to be one of the mothers, holding her child’s hand as they stand in the sea, screaming at the chill of the waves as they break over their legs. Laughing and playing together.

  It’s a bitter reminder of all the time that she’s missed, the stages of development that Harry has been through without her, the things she’ll never remember because she wasn’t there, the days like this one when they should have been together. She shifts her gaze, aware of the hollowness inside her; the empty space where shared experiences should be, filled with a seething mess of anger.

  Halfway down the promenade, she finds a shelter, with a bench seat and view out to sea. But as soon as she starts to eat, she feels imaginary eyes burning into the back of her neck, making her gulp down her food. Distracted by the children on the beach, and the thought of finding Harry, she hasn’t been as vigilant as she should have been and she glances round, looking for faces that don’t fit. She swallows big chunks of fish, moist and slippery, no need to chew.

  A seagull perches on the sea wall in front of her. Quiet at first, just watching, then, as she eats, it starts to shriek, strutting to and fro. Several other birds fly down and now she has an audience. She eats faster and they hop closer, surrounding her in a noisy rabble of hooligan birds. They are quite big, close up, scary with their sharp orange beaks. One flaps up onto the bench next to her, beady eyes focused on her fish and she rears back, a protective hand over her food as she moves away. It follows and she snatches up her meal, jumps to her feet, setting off a cacophony of screeches as the birds watch their dinner disappear.

  They follow her down the promenade, an embarrassment of flapping wings and noisy, gaping beaks, until she escapes across the road, which appears to be some sort of magical barrier because they don’t follow. She breathes a sigh of relief as she hurries towards her car, keeping her head turned away from the curious people on the promenade, annoyed to have drawn so much attention to herself.

  That’s when she spots the notice, stuck with sticky tape to the front window of a whitewashed cottage. Bed and breakfast, fifty pounds a night, it says. She hasn’t booked anywhere to stay; her intention was to find a hotel in Douglas, but now that her search has led her here, she feels that she should stay. For tonight, at least. She could sleep in her car, but it’s very small and has a strange, musty smell about it. A bedroom has much more appeal, and would feel safer.

  Will this do for the night?

  She steps back and looks at the house, one of a row that lines this side of the road. It looks small, narrow, hardly big enough to
have more than one bedroom, but she knocks on the door anyway. No harm in asking. Nice and cheap, and after prison she reckons she can sleep anywhere.

  An elderly lady opens the door, a glass of something in her hand. She is small and dumpy, her round face framed by short, straight hair, her cheeks flushed. The hand holding her glass is crinkled like crêpe paper, dotted with liver spots.

  ‘Hello,’ the lady says, friendly. She gives Natalie a glassy-eyed smile.

  ‘I was just wondering if you have any vacancies,’ Natalie says, no pleasantries to warm up the conversation, having already convinced herself she’s wasting her time. The lady looks her up and down, takes a sip from her glass, then opens the door wide.

  ‘Come and have a look, lovey. It’s just a small room, but it might suit you.’ Natalie hesitates, then follows her inside. Why not? She can always say no.

  The cottage is Tardis-like in its dimensions, the hallway stretching back into what must be an extension. Natalie follows the lady up steep, creaking stairs, lit by shell-shaped wall lights, along a landing with cream woodchip paper on the walls and a purple swirly carpet on the floor, into a cosy little room at the front of the house.

  There’s a small double bed, draped with a patchwork quilt, in shades of heather, cream and blue, a pine wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a mirror on the wall above. A sheepskin rug lies on varnished floorboards by the side of the bed and pretty floral curtains hang at the windows. She can hear the sound of the waves, rhythmic and soothing as they break on the beach.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she says. Much better than a hotel. Who would think to look for me here? ‘I’ll take it. A couple of nights, would that be okay?’

  ‘That’s fine, lovey.’ The lady gives her a wan smile and walks over to the window. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful sunset.’ She turns to Natalie and her eyes glisten. ‘My husband loved the sunsets.’ She sniffs and takes a hanky out of her sleeve, blows her nose with a loud trumpet.

  ‘Mmm,’ Natalie says, unsure where the conversation is heading.

  ‘Four years today since he died.’ The lady’s chin wobbles. ‘He was a lovely man. Lovely.’ She puts her glass down on the windowsill and takes a picture out of her cardigan pocket, holds it out for Natalie to take a look.

  It’s a wedding photo of a middle-aged couple laughing as they cut into a single-tiered wedding cake. He’s a large man by all definitions, with several chins and a bald head, and their happiness shines out of the picture.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Natalie says, handing back the photo.

  ‘He was my second.’ The lady sighs. ‘Heart attack. My first husband had a stroke. Absolute sweethearts, both of them. Really good to me. I’ve been very lucky.’ She looks at Natalie’s hands, which clasp the remains of her chip supper to her chest. ‘You married, lovey?’

  ‘Not anymore.’ The bitterness is clear in Natalie’s voice.

  ‘You’ll find someone else.’ The lady picks up her drink and finishes it off in one big gulp. She holds up her empty glass and gives it a wiggle. ‘Fancy some wine?’

  Natalie looks at her watch and gives an apologetic smile. ‘That’s so kind of you. I’d love to, really, but I’m meeting a friend. Maybe another time?’

  The lady sighs and walks towards the door.

  ‘Just have to drink it myself, then’ she says, sounding disappointed. ‘Before you rush off, though, I’d better give you a key. I keep the front door locked, you see. With it being on the prom. Get pranksters sometimes.’

  ‘Okay.’ Natalie nods and smiles, following the lady as she sways down the hallway. She watches as she takes the stairs sideways, one careful step at a time.

  ‘I’m Mary, by the way.’ She looks up, stopping for a breather after a few steps. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Natalie.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name.’ She winces, clearly in pain. ‘It’s my knees, lovey. I’m fine going up, it’s the coming down that’s the problem. But, you know, I’m seventy-four this year so I suppose you’ve got to expect a bit of wear and tear.’ She eases herself down a few more steps, grunting with each movement. ‘Nearly there.’

  Natalie checks her watch. Twenty past seven. She passed the Centenary Centre on her lap round Peel so she knows it’s only a five-minute walk. Plenty of time to get into the venue, find Jack, see what he knows and get out of there before the gig starts.

  Finally, Mary reaches the bottom and Natalie hurries down. She sees the rack of keys hanging by the door but Mary walks past and through a doorway into the front room. Natalie follows into a pleasant, square-shaped room with pastel-pink walls and roses on the curtains. A rectangular table and chairs are set up by the window and a couple of leather armchairs sit in front of a fireplace. A large dresser fills the back wall and Mary puts her empty glass on it.

  ‘So, this is the dining room. You’ll have your breakfast in here and you can use it as a sitting room if you like.’ She points. ‘TV in the corner, over there.’

  ‘Right, yes, that’s lovely.’ Natalie hopes she doesn’t sound impatient, but this is all happening at a snail’s pace.

  Mary turns to her.

  ‘That your supper?’ She nods at the parcel of food, which is leaking the unmistakable aroma of fish and chips. ‘Feel free to tuck in. I can get you some cutlery, if you like.’ She gives an encouraging smile but the thought of soggy chips makes Natalie feel queasy.

  ‘Oh, thanks, but I’ve finished,’ she says, and Mary holds out a hand out to take it off her.

  ‘Right you are, then. I’ll just show you the kitchen where you can make a cuppa whenever you like, then I’ll let you get off.’ Natalie hides a sigh of relief and follows her down the hallway.

  If the rest of the house is dated, the kitchen looks like it hasn’t been altered since the nineteen fifties. Open shelves, stacked with tins and jars, line the painted yellow walls. Wooden worktops are fitted around two sides of the room, and cream floral curtains, hanging on strips of coated wire, hide more shelves underneath. Terracotta lino covers the floor, pretending to be quarry tiles. A fridge-freezer hums in the corner, next to a washing machine. But although the room is basic and a bit tatty round the edges, every surface is spotlessly clean and the smell of citrus hangs in the air.

  A clock chimes in the hallway. Natalie checks her watch. Half-past seven.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mary, I don’t want to hurry you, but I’ve really got to go.’

  Mary purses her lips a couple of times, like she’s sucking a sweet. ‘Oh, okay,’ she says, holding up a finger. ‘I better give you that key.’ She ambles to the row of hooks by the door, takes a key and presses it into Natalie’s hand.

  ‘Have a nice time, lovey,’ she says, opening the door for her.

  Natalie smiles her thanks and heads outside, speed-walking up the hill towards the Centenary Centre.

  Five

  Now

  My phone rings. I snatch it up and look at the screen.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, not even trying to hide my impatience. ‘So, where is she?’

  I know where she’s heading. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out, but I need to know how close she is. How much time I have.

  ‘Right. So, she went to a bail hostel in Bangor.’

  ‘Bangor? In Wales?’

  ‘North Wales. Yep.’

  ‘Why would she go to North Wales?’

  ‘Well, I dunno, do I? That’s where there was a space, I suppose. Or maybe she’s got family there.’

  ‘Right.’

  Silence. I sense there’s a but coming.

  My shoulder muscles tighten.

  ‘But I rang the hostel where she’s staying and she did arrive, the manager confirmed that. But when he went to check for me, ’cos I wanted to make sure I was giving you proper information… well, she wasn’t there. No bag in her room, nothing.’

  Listening to this woman is making my jaw ache and I massage the muscles before I speak again.

  ‘So, she’s done a runner?�
��

  ‘Well, it looks like that might be a possibility. But then again, she might come back. Maybe just didn’t want to leave her stuff there while she went out to get a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘So,’ I say, carefully, ‘you don’t really know where she is?’

  ‘I’ve informed the authorities here, and they’re waiting for the manager to call back when she turns up.’

  ‘If she turns up.’

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t come back, I suppose they’ll go looking for her.’

  ‘But it could be days before anyone bothers to do that?’

  She sighs. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. It’s not like she’s a dangerous criminal or anything, so I don’t suppose she’s a priority. But if it gets to Friday and she misses her appointment with her Probation Officer, then I suppose someone might do something.’

  ‘So,’ I say, realising that an opportunity has arisen, ‘nobody knows where she is and until she misses an appointment in three days’ time, then nobody is going to bother looking for her? And even then, it might take a while for something to happen?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I disconnect. And smile. That’s actually very good news.

  Six

  Then

  After Natalie was delivered to the police station, she was led to a small, airless room furnished with a metal table and four metal chairs, all bolted to the floor. The room was painted a pale green, no windows, only a rectangle with what she supposed was a two-way mirror on one of the walls. The grey vinyl floor was worn and damp in places, the smell of bleach floating in the air, stinging her eyes.

  She sat down, the door banged shut, and she was alone.