I say: ‘You can go, on one condition.’
‘What?’
‘I want to clear it with his mum.’
‘Not treating me like a kid didn’t last long.’
‘Well, until you’re sixteen, legally, you are.’
She gives me a look that could pierce steel. I stare back steadily. ‘Message him and get his mum’s number.’
‘Jeeessus.’
But she picks up her phone and taps out a message.
I walk into the hall and kick off my boots. Flo’s phone pings.
‘AirDropping it to you,’ she says.
I take out my phone and accept the WhatsApp link. The tiny picture in the corner shows a woman in a large sunhat holding up a cocktail of some sort. I can’t really make out her face.
Flo smiles sweetly. ‘Happy now?’
No, but it’s a start. I tap out a message.
‘Hi, I’m Jack Brooks, Florence’s mum. As Flo and Lucas seem to have made friends, I thought it might be nice to get to know each other. Maybe a coffee sometime? Also, just wanted to check that you’re okay with the pair of them going to the youth club tonight?’
It pings almost immediately with a reply. I pick it up.
‘Hi, Jack, thanks for your message. Yes, I was thinking exactly the same thing. Lucas mentioned the youth club. I’m sure they’ll have a lovely time. Would you like me to pick them up later?’
I feel my worry ease a little. I type back:
‘If you don’t mind?’
‘No trouble! xx.’
‘So?’ Flo is regarding me sulkily.
‘Wrigley’s mum says she’ll pick you up afterwards.’
‘I can go?’
‘I suppose so.’
Her face lights up and my heart gives. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you?’
‘No, it’s fine. Have a bath or something this evening. Chill.’
Fat chance.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she says. ‘Something weird happened this afternoon –’
‘Weird? How?’
‘There was this man hanging around.’
I stare at her. ‘A man. What sort of man?’
‘Like a homeless man.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Scruffy, dark hair.’
My nerves jangle. It could be Jacob. But then, it could be anyone. And how would he find me here?
‘Did he talk to you?’
‘No. He was just hanging around in the graveyard, and then he disappeared.’
I’m probably being paranoid. On the other hand, he found me last time.
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘No!’
I try to batten down my panic. ‘I just don’t like the thought of strange men hanging around.’
‘Maybe he wanted to get into the church, but it was locked?’
‘Maybe.’
She gives me a worried look. ‘I can still go tonight, can’t I? You’re not going to go all weird about this?’
I don’t like it, but it would be unfair to go back on what I’ve said.
‘You can still go but, please, be careful.’
Her face relaxes. ‘I will. Thanks, Mum.’
I stand. ‘I need a coffee and then I’ll make some dinner. Chilli okay?’
‘Yeah. And then I have to get ready if I’m going to catch the bus.’
‘Okay.’
I walk into the kitchen and take two mugs out of the cupboard. I’m trembling with adrenalin. A man. A strange man. As I reach to put the mugs on the worktop, one slips from my fingers and smashes, jagged pieces of pottery flying across the worn linoleum.
‘What was that?’ Flo calls from the living room.
‘Just dropped a mug. No worries.’
I breathe heavily, staring at the bits of broken mug, imagining for a moment jumping up and down barefoot on the razor-sharp shards. Then I fetch the dustpan and brush. Chill.
Flo saunters down the pathway and along the road towards the bus stop. She looks beautiful in skinny jeans, purple Docs and a baggy vest top. She would look beautiful in a sack. My heart aches. Wrigley isn’t good enough for her. No one is good enough for her. Least of all me.
I slowly close the door, fighting the urge to follow her and make sure she gets on the bus safely. I’m worried about the man she saw. Even if it’s not Jacob, any strange man hanging around is a potential threat. I try to tell myself that it’s still light outside. The bus stop is right outside a house. She’ll be back by ten at the latest. She’s only going to a youth club. Not a nightclub. Or a pub. And Flo knows how to defend herself. She’ll be fine.
But I can’t shift the lump of unease in my stomach. Was she a bit too keen to refuse a lift? Or am I just being overly suspicious? There will be other teenagers at the youth club. Other adults. And Wrigley’s mum is picking them up. Isn’t she? I didn’t actually speak to her. What if it wasn’t her messaging?
Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jack. Get a grip.
Or rather, don’t. Teenagers are like sand. The tighter you try and hold on to them, the more they slip through your fingers. I have to give her her freedom. Let her choose her own friends, and boyfriends. But does it have to be Wrigley?
I walk into the kitchen and pick up a bottle of red wine from the worktop. I don’t drink much at home, but this evening I could do with it. I open the bottle and pour out half a glass.
My voice of reason tries to tell me that there are only a couple of weeks of the summer holidays left. Once Flo starts school, she’ll make new friends. Hanging out with Wrigley might not seem so cool. Unfortunately, I also know my daughter. She’s loyal and, like me, she has a thing for underdogs.
Talking of which, my mind drifts back to Aaron. Did his father hide Grady’s body? It seems the most likely scenario. Marsh had access. He knew about the vault. And if he thought he was protecting someone, then there’s motive. He was also best placed to cover up Grady’s sudden disappearance. But there’s still something about it that doesn’t quite gel. I just can’t think what.
And what of Reverend Fletcher? A man haunted in more ways than one. An illicit relationship, blackmailed by Harper, conflicted by his faith. Perhaps his death had nothing to do with the discovery in the vault.
I take my wine over to the kitchen table and sit down. There is still one person I haven’t spoken to who might be able to shed some light on things. The elusive Saffron Winter.
I open up my ancient laptop. Internet, at last. ‘At last’ being the operative term, as it is painfully slow. But beggars, choosers, et cetera. I google Saffron’s name. Fletcher supposedly confided in her, but I still don’t know anything much about the reclusive author.
The picture on the website is a larger version of the photo from the back of her books. There is a short bio, telling me not very much about her at all, and a link to her titles. Five YA novels about a school for witches. There’s also an email link, and I send a quick message, explaining who I am and asking if she has time for a chat. Just on the off chance, I search for her name on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Nothing. No social media, which is unusual, and especially so for a writer.
I stare at my laptop thoughtfully. I’m pretty sure Joan will know where Saffron lives, but although I am making my peace with this whole ‘turning up on people’s doorsteps unannounced’ way of life in the country, I’m getting the impression that Saffron Winter is a private person. Which is fair enough. Although, in that case, moving to the country was a bad idea.