Chapter Thirty-Five

15 April

Drew lugged two suitcases full of dirty washing and a slew of small bags – what the hell was in half of them he had no idea – up to his apartment. Once he got them all inside, he collapsed on the floor beside them. Travelling, talking and editing the next book on the road, and he was just about knackered.

The publishers wanted to have the new Andrew Vitruvius in the stores on both sides of the Atlantic and Australia to hit the Christmas trade. Someone had mentioned a ‘Down Under’ tour in September and the usual noises were being made about the next book.

And there is no next book.

A flutter of disquiet shivered through him. There was the usual soup of ideas floating about in his head, but nothing had reached out and demanded to be written. Frighteningly, he wasn’t sure how much he cared.

You’re just tired. And if you could stop thinking about her …

He rolled over and dragged the bag with his laptop towards him. With some jetlagged stabbing and cursing, he got his e-mails open.

Still nothing from Lori.

Did you really think being back in the UK would make an e-mail magically appear?

He’d sent three more cards from the States.

Face it, mate, if she wanted to get in touch …

With a grimace, he shut down the machine. Cards could go astray, e-mails got caught in spam filters, people got tied up with work, had accidents, got ill …

The last two had his head spinning. No, not that, please.

If she’d felt the same way you did …

Hell! He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. One more try. Do what he should have done in January.

It took him a few seconds of disoriented exhaustion to figure out that the vibration against his thigh wasn’t weird muscle spasms but his phone. He fished it out and pressed talk.

Clint. ‘How d’you fancy Paris, like? I got a mate there, does a bit of Parkour.’

Parkour.

Running and jumping off high buildings without a safety net. Maybe that would trigger the new book?

‘You’re on. But there’s something I need to do first and I’m not functioning tonight. Ring me tomorrow with the arrangements?’

He ended the call and turned again to the computer. The virtual assistant who never slept. He tapped out an e-mail. I need a large bouquet of flowers delivered to my address by 10 a.m. tomorrow.

Arrangements made, he looked at the bags. Nothing there he needed. With an effort he hauled himself to his feet and staggered towards the bedroom.

16 April

It was a very big bouquet. He stood in the doorway looking at it, after the guy handed it over. Kaz would have told him what all the flowers were. He recognised roses and tulips, but the rest? He didn’t have a clue. All tied up with what looked like a piece of sacking and what seemed to be string. But it was big, and pretty, and that was all that counted. He closed the door and stepped over the pile of bags.

There was a stuffed giraffe for the baby and a pair of mouse ears and an ‘I’m the big sister’ T-shirt for Jamie somewhere in his baggage, that he needed to find and take round to the Devlin household. He’d sent a good wishes telegram when Lily Olivia had been born, but now he was home he needed to visit.

But first the bouquet.

This time he was taking advice from Elvis.

He was delivering it himself.

He made good time to the barn. Parking the car in a lay-by further up the road, he walked back to the building. There was an unfamiliar Peugeot parked on the forecourt. Had Lori changed her car? Was it a visitor, a boyfriend? His chest tightened. At least it suggested that someone was at home.

Ignoring the sudden heavy thump of his heart, Drew edged past the car to the door, and rang the bell. There was an immediate sound of scuffling footsteps and the door was flung open.

The woman was petite, dark-haired and a complete stranger.

‘Oh, how lovely. Mum,’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘Flowers for you. They must be from Eldon.’ She already had a hand on the bouquet, riffling through for the card.

‘No!’ Drew didn’t quite snatch it away, but it was close. ‘You’ve made a mistake.’ She was looking up at him now doubtfully, delight faltering as she began to register that he wasn’t a delivery man from a florist. He tried a placatory smile. Maybe this was Lori’s sister? Misty’s mum? ‘They’re not for your mother. They’re for Lori.’ Now the woman looked totally confused. An older woman, a carbon copy but with greying hair, appeared behind her. ‘Lori?’

‘She lives here?’

‘Oh.’ The younger woman’s face sagged into disappointment. ‘Sorry Mum. They’re not for us.’ She shook her head. ‘You must have come to the wrong place.’

‘No. It’s the right place.’ Something cold was clawing around Drew’s chest. ‘Lori lives here. Or she did … in December.’ Just in time he remembered not to mention Christmas.

The woman was shaking her head again. ‘I don’t know about December, but no one lives here now. It’s a holiday let.’ She brightened a bit. ‘We’ve rented it for a week to celebrate Mum’s sixtieth birthday. Room for a party, you know.’

‘Holiday let.’ Drew could hear the hollowness in his voice. ‘Rented by the week.’

‘Yeah.’ The girl was staring at him narrowly. ‘Hey, aren’t you that writer – the one that was just in the news?’

‘No, not me.’ The denial was automatic. No way could he start explaining that.

‘You look like him.’

‘Yeah. I get that a lot.’ He forced a laugh. It sounded like gravel shaking in a tin.

She was looking at the flowers. ‘Sorry and all that, about your friend. The one you were going to give them to. Lauren?’ she prompted. He must have been looking blank. ‘Perhaps you can find out from the letting people?’ She pulled the door open wide. Her mother had disappeared back inside. ‘You want to come in, while I look for their card?’

Drew stepped into the barn. Memory hit him like a punch to the gut. It was the same and not the same. The furniture was still there, though the chairs were arranged at a different angle and the rug looked unfamiliar and there were net curtains at the French windows that he didn’t remember. It looked less … personal. Would taking down the Christmas decorations be enough to make that change? He didn’t think so. Maybe it was the cushions and the blankets – throws, Lori had called them throws – most of them were gone. And there was a large-screen TV sitting in one corner.

His eyes fixed on the stairs. On that stair …

‘Here you are.’ The woman was back, holding out a card. ‘I hope they’ll be able to help.’ Her voice sounded hearty and over-bright. He realised he must be looking around, bewildered, and she was wondering about the wisdom of letting a stranger in.

‘Thank you.’ He dredged up another smile. ‘Look.’ He held out the bouquet. ‘I think you’d better have these, after all. Tell your mother, happy birthday. And enjoy your party.’

Back in the car, he looked at the card. The name meant nothing, and he had a pretty shrewd idea that a holiday rental company wouldn’t be giving up the details of clients to random enquirers, even if he used his own name as a lever. Which you will certainly not be doing.

He tapped the cardboard square on the steering wheel. What now? He needed someone … He needed a private investigator. He sighed. Looked like he would be phoning Devlin for another favour. And he still had the bruises on his butt from the last one. Chris in L.A – who’d turned out to be Christina – a diminutive blonde, who’d been able to throw him across the room with embarrassing ease.

The knowledge that he had a passable ability to defend himself against attack helped him sleep a bit better at night. Memories of Lori – not so much.

At least he knew now why there had been no response to his postcards. They had probably already been dumped in the recycling. Or they were lying in a dusty heap of junk mail in an office somewhere. That thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Connections.

He looked back at the barn. The woman had recognised him. He could see now how stupid it had been to come in person.

But the urge to reach out … to find Lori again …

He looked again at the card. Could she have been renting the barn for the holiday? It hadn’t felt like a rental. It had felt like a home. Or was that rose-coloured thinking, the state you were in? No – he answered himself immediately, the place he had just seen had been different, things added and things taken away.

Abruptly he recalled the lack of power, landline phone, television, at Christmas. Had Lori been squatting in an empty property? No, she had keys. She knew the security system. He frowned, trying to remember. Could it belong to that friend? Owner of the paint-stained cargoes?

He exhaled deeply. He wasn’t going to solve it sitting here. He’d get that private eye.

And in the meantime …

He found his phone. ‘Clint? I’m on, for Paris.’