Chapter Thirty-Six

17 May

Drew stared down at the street from the window of his flat. After a late start, spring was coming in at last. There were flowers in window boxes and in the street the trees were green. He was trying to avoid the depressing pile of letters and documents scattered across the desk behind him. Some of them related to the trial, which was provisionally set for September. He’d engaged a legal advisor, and was given to understand that everything was proceeding as would be expected. The police were apparently still assembling evidence.

Unease fed the depression. As far as the police were concerned, Drew had managed to get free and had contacted Devlin to bring him back to London. Christmas at the barn with Lori had not been mentioned. In a corner of his mind, Drew was almost beginning to wonder if he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

And if you’d told the police the whole truth, maybe they’d have been able to find her.

The investigator’s report, which was one of those depressing papers, had arrived three days ago. Arranged by Devlin through a third party for ‘Mr Williams’. It was sitting now on top of the pile, contributing to the feeling of a lead weight lying in his stomach.

Spiral-bound, with a tasteful matt cover and plenty of fancy platitudes, the report came down to two words. No trace. They couldn’t find Lori. The barn had belonged to a woman – but she was in her seventies and was now living in a home in Hereford that cared for people with dementia. The property had been sold to the holiday company before Christmas, and had been unoccupied until they moved in to prepare the place for letting in the New Year, confirmed by the previous owner’s daughter. So Lori had been a squatter? Discreet enquiries had been made in the vicinity of the property, and while some local traders recalled a young woman and a child, matching the descriptions given, nothing useful had been forthcoming. The usual social media and background checks had not turned up any relevant information. To paraphrase – a big fat zero.

Enquiries had been halted at this point, pending fresh instructions. There were further avenues which might be explored. Did Mr Williams wish to pursue the matter?

Drew wasn’t sure what the other avenues might be, but he didn’t think he would go down them. He’d already been treading too far on dangerous ground.

He’d lost Lori. Just like he’d lost Kimberly. The pain of the similarity and the difference was something else for the cold weight in his stomach.

He had to face it, if she’d wanted to get in touch with him, there were ways. The seventy-two hours they’d spent together had meant more to him than it did to Lori. To her it had clearly been an … interlude

He’d tried to rationalise, to tell himself his weakened and needy state had made him vulnerable. Susceptible. You know that’s not true, you berk. In those few days you came perilously close to falling in love with Lori France.

He’d wondered, in the first few hectic weeks of the American tour, when she hadn’t been in touch, whether he’d read everything wrong. Whether a ‘tell all’ story was going to suddenly appear. Lori had never made any attempt to include him in pictures she took of her niece, but there’d been times when his attention had been diverted, or when he’d virtually passed out in a chair, from exhaustion. As the weeks passed the tiny imp of doubt had faded.

Could still happen, mate.

And won’t that drop you in it, up to your neck, with the police?

Trying to protect a lady when she’s just been waiting for her moment to take you to the cleaners?

And dragging Devlin in alongside you?

Shit!

But was Lori really that woman? He couldn’t believe it.

Or don’t want to?

Somehow he didn’t think it would happen. If she’d been using the place illegally, they both had something to hide. The thought left an acrid taste in his mouth.

He wasn’t sure he knew what to think, any more.

His heart wasn’t broken, but it wasn’t in the shape it had been before they met. And now it really was as if that meeting had never taken place. Like something from the Fae, Lori had vanished into the mists on the Black Mountains.

He gathered up all the papers and tossed them into a drawer.

Since agreeing to sign up for that stupid kidnapping stunt, too many parts of his life were disintegrating. The trial, the nausea when he thought of the police investigation, the woman he couldn’t find, the haunting doubts.

Aveline’s venom was working like slow poison through the future he’d built, warping and tarnishing as it touched, then slowly spread.

He needed to work. Two weeks of throwing himself off buildings in Paris had convinced him that he was still alive, but hadn’t given him a book. He’d put a pallid and scrappy outline in to his editor – some stuff set in the French Revolution and a partial subplot about Celtic circles in the Welsh hills. He’d taken out a disturbing reference to a scene of the hero in chains in a dungeon that had drifted up from somewhere and was definitely not making it into a script any time soon.

He’d told himself that it was the thought of the upcoming trial that was sapping his energy, which could be true. He needed to get away. Shut himself up somewhere, with only his laptop for company. Maybe then the ideas would come.

Sitting down at the desk, he googled the name of the letting company that had handled the barn. He wasn’t going there, but maybe …

He frowned. He shouldn’t really be looking at these people, but he didn’t have the energy to start trawling for holiday lets. If the barn was an example of the properties they offered …

If he found something, the virtual assistant would make the arrangements.

The properties were attractive and well presented in the pictures on the screen. Typing in a few details brought up a selection – he scrolled down – too big, too remote, not remote enough.

He stopped scrolling at a slightly sinister looking vicarage on the Norfolk coast, with amazing views of the sea. It was available for longer lets.