‘This is exciting,’ Jasmine said as we approached the house. ‘I had no idea I’d be involved in investigating a real-life mystery while I was here.’
On the walk, which had taken us past the closed visitors’ centre and the pub, I had filled Jasmine in on what Brenda had told me about Samir Anand. How he had left Coventry, having outlined no plans to travel to Scotland, and had been found days later in the hills here, dead. I didn’t tell her that Samir wasn’t the first person to die at the caves, mainly because I didn’t have any other details about that yet. I’d been too distracted by Charles and Jasmine’s arrival to follow up with Holly. Her reluctance to discuss it also made me realize I would need to find the right moment. I was wary of upsetting her during this important, already stressful week.
What had I found out about Samir? During my search earlier, I had read through a few news stories about his death in the local press, here and in the West Midlands, as well as a memorial page that must have been set up by his family.
He had been nineteen when he died. The photos that had been posted on his memorial page showed a tall, skinny young man, average-looking, with a wispy moustache. It was obviousfrom the way he didn’t look at the camera in any of the photos that he was not a confident boy. I imagined him to be shy, self-conscious about the way he looked. He had the droopy eyes and frown of a boy who spent a lot of time in front of a computer screen, and I could picture him in his bedroom, headset on, chatting with his mates as he played online games.
The messages on the board backed up this image.
Love for all the times you helped me with my IT homework. You saved my skin so many times!!
Samir, NGL– gonna miss u kicking my ass at Fortnite.
One of the local papers had published a photo of Samir at sixteen, a bashful smile on his lips. I felt like I knew him, or the kind of boy he had been, and the photo made me ache for the life he could have had, if he’d been more confident, less shy. Had a chance to grow and mature.
The saddest thing I’d found was a video interview with Samir’s mother. She must have been only in her fifties but looked old before her time, with hair that had gone completely grey.
‘He was so unassuming,’ she said. ‘He trod lightly on the Earth, never expecting anything. A good, humble boy who respected his elders and loved animals and who brought me so much pride, even though I always worried about him.’ She had looked directly at the camera, speaking in her broad West Midlands accent. ‘I have to know why he was there. What he was doing. Somebody must know. Please, even if it’s anonymous, let me know. I can’t go the rest of my life without…’
She had been unable to finish the sentence, dissolving into tears, the camera lingering as she sobbed. It was awful.
‘All I’m trying to do at this point is figure out if there’s enough meat here,’ I said to Jasmine now. ‘Enough to formthe basis of my next film. If I don’t get on with something soon, I’m going to have to find a different career.’
‘Do you make much, being a documentary-maker?’
‘Ha. Barely anything. I’m not even sure how my next film will be funded.’
‘Could your folks help?’
‘My family? They’ve never had any money. My upbringing was the exact opposite to Holly’s.’ I hesitated. ‘To be honest, I find it all a bit intimidating. I’ve never been around rich people before.’
For the third time, she touched my arm. ‘You and me have a lot in common, Patrick. I grew up dirt poor, too. Smallest trailer in the park. But you know what? People like us, we’re hungry, right? Prepared to work hard for what we want. Like you with your movies. I think it’s awesome.’
It was lovely to get a reaction that wasn’t condescending or disinterested. It was easy to see why Charles had fallen for her, and not just because she was young and beautiful. She had an energy– an optimism– that was infectious and that made me think that yes, if I worked hard I could achieve anything. She was right. I was hungry, in a way people born with privilege could never be. I was confident that, after she’d spent some time with her, Holly would like her, too.
Susan’s house was a forty-five-minute walk from where we had spoken to Morag, much of it uphill. As we got closer, I got a better view of the huge building on the opposite hill. I could see now that it was in a state of disrepair, holes in the roof, an air of abandonment surrounding it. I made a mental note to ask Holly about it.
We reached Susan’s front door and I pressed the bell. She answered within moments, as if she’d been standing there, waiting for us.
‘Can I help you?’
She was in her fifties, I guessed. A small, wiry woman with brown hair streaked with grey. She was wearing an apron and the smell of baking bread wafted from the house.
We introduced ourselves and noted her reaction when I told her we were with the Grants. Raised eyebrows. Something else. Sympathy?
‘Would it be possible to come inside?’ I asked. ‘I’m starting to turn into an icicle.’
Without a word, Susan disappeared into the house. I guessed this meant she wanted us to follow.
We found her in the kitchen, sliding a loaf of bread out of the oven. She set it on the side and put a tea towel over it, then stood with her back to the counter, waiting for one of us to speak. She reminded me of one of the scariest teachers at my school, a pint-sized woman who had managed to control a class full of thirteen-year-old kids by employing terror and sarcasm.
‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ Jasmine asked, and Susan told her where it was.
‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ I said, after Jasmine had left the room.
‘Please do.’
As she stood there with her arms folded, I told her I’d heard about Samir and was hoping she’d be able to tell me more about the police investigation.
