A flash of joy cut through the disappointment of Chris’s text because finally she had her story. She was the first to get it. Which meant that she had something that other people would want.
She’d quietly slipped out of bed, grabbed some clothes, and headed down to the kitchen. She’d typed up a page of copy, fresh coffee standing by, and then she’d made some calls. Not to the local paper she was currently working for but to contacts she’d been working on for a while. She had new information on Mr. Nobody—she hadn’t come up with the name herself, theMailhad, but everyone was using it—and she could send through her piece if they were interested in running it. It was source-verified. If needs be she could even give her source’s name; she knew she could easily get another one at Princess Margaret’s. Who didn’t like free money?
She sold the story once and then again and again, and by daybreak, when she was pretty much the sole reporter in the country covering the story, she’d grabbed some toast and headed straight into the storm brewing down at the Princess Margaret Hospital.
By mid-morning a whole new swarm of journalists had descended, eager to find out what Mr. Nobody was finally saying now he could talk. The story was gaining momentum, with newscasters and networks from other countries jostling alongside the crews she was already starting to recognize. Which was fantastic as far as Zara was concerned; there was more than enough to go around, and she was getting article requests from papers and magazines she’d never even heard of, across Europe and now America too. Her preparation had finally paid off.
—
That was two days ago but it was yesterday that things really kicked off. Zara had simply asked Chris, at breakfast, not for the first time, if there had been any breakthroughs since Mr. Nobody had started talking.
“Apparently, he’s not making much sense at the moment. We’ve been asked by the hospital to defer questioning him again until he starts remembering. His doctor doesn’t want to run the risk of setting his recovery back at this stage,” Chris had told her.
He hadn’t mentioned the text he’d received from Dr. Lewis. He hadn’t brought any of that up. Not the list of school staff she’d asked him for either. And he certainly hadn’t mentioned asking her out for a drink. So neither had Zara.
But then a call had come through on her iPhone and she’d slipped out into the garden to take it. It was her contact at the hospital; the call was rushed and muffled, clearly made in haste. The Metropolitan Police had just arrived at the hospital. Something big was happening.
Either Chris was keeping more things from her or the Met hadn’t told even the local police what was happening. A family was on their way to the hospital to ID Mr. Nobody. The Taylors. The parents of missing Benjamin Taylor.
Because of her, the press were prepped and ready when the Taylors arrived. They’d known the right questions to ask, and as the couple breezed past them without stopping, they got their pictures, they got their “no comments,” but most important they got their articles. And then an hour later they got even more.
Mr. Nobody wasn’t Benjamin Taylor, the text she received made that very clear. Again, Zara heard it first. The porter had been in the corridor after the meeting, he’d stood back and watched as Mrs. Taylor gave a sad little shake of her head in answer to DC Barker’s question. Matthew wasn’t their son.
Zara watched Emma leaving the hospital last night. She’d been ready, she’d seen her before, of course, the day she arrived at the hospital when Mike pointed her out as they stood in the coffee shop queue. She’d thought, at the time, she’d looked interesting, smart, and reassuringly out of place. Zara had always felt slightly out of place too; she recognized the look in others.
But last night, with her chestnut hair caught in the wind, cheeks rosy from the camera flashes and the flurry of shouts around her, she’d looked beautiful, Zara had to admit. She hated herself for bringing it down to that but she could understand why Chris might find her attractive—although the idea of it made her stomach lurch with heartbreaking apprehension. The thoughts started spiraling out of her grasp: her Chris with a doctor from London, a beautiful, clever, rich doctor.Her Chris.A possessiveness she didn’t realize she could muster bristling hard inside her, Zara had just stood and stared, until their eyes had locked. And Emma had looked back at her, haunted, before disappearing into the night. That’s when Zara had made her decision.
Zara would find out who Emma was. For the story, of course. She would ask her woman-to-woman: What was going on with the case? Why was she here? And maybe, just maybe, Emma’s connection with Chris would make sense. Maybe everything was actually okay.
Zara pulls off the main road and down onto the snow-covered drive of Cuckoo Lodge, wincing at the noise her tires make on the gravel. Obviously it’s not meant to be a stealth mission, but the element of surprise does tend to help when someone is opening their front door to a stranger.
There’s the chance, of course, that Emma Lewis could just slam the door in her face.
At the end of the drive, Zara pushes her car door closed as quietly as she can and looks up at the house.
She can understand why Emma chose this place. She makes her way through the snow-encrusted picket gate up to the gabled front door and knocks. The sound echoes through the empty house. She waits, then she tries again, harder.
No sound within but echoes. Outside, the sound of the wind through the trees and the occasional burst of birdsong.
She bends now, pushing open the mail slot. “Hello? Dr. Lewis? It’s Zara Poole, I was wondering if we could talk?” No reply, just the sound of her own breathing. She hopes she doesn’t sound angry or desperate or pathetic, like a crazy girlfriend or a wronged wife looking for an argument, because that’s not what she is. That’s not why she’s here. Chris can do what he likes with his life, she reasons. If he’d rather be with someone else, there’s not really anything she can do about that, is there? she asks herself. You can’t make people love you, she knows that. And Zara doesn’t want to be one of those people, a scorned wife, a victim, the one left behind. So, best not to rail against it, best to take it on the chin, keep her cards close and see how the game plays out. She’s just here for her story, she tells herself. Once she’s got the story, she’ll go.
Zara straightens and looks up to the darkened windows. No one is in. She turns to look back at the drive. And then she notices. The doctor’s little gray car is nowhere to be seen.
She must have already left for the hospital.
Zara pauses. She casts her eyes down the gravel driveway, weighing up her options. She looks back at the empty house.
If she does this, she thinks, she might be able to get away with it. She would definitely be able to hear someone coming down that long gravel drive. She’d certainly have enough time to get out, if she goes in.
She tries the front door handle. It pivots all the way down under her hand but the door does not budge. Locked. She smiles wryly to herself. Of course it’s locked. Nobody leaves their front door unlocked, not even in Norfolk. She turns to leave. Then she changes her mind.
She goes around to the back of the house and tugs at the patio door. It won’t budge. She doubles back to the side of the house; low to the ground there’s a long thin window, a basement window. She crouches to peer in. A dim utility room beyond. She gives the corner of the window a swift tug and nicks a nail. Locked.
She sucks her finger to dampen the smarting and thinks about what to do next. Suddenly concerned, she scans high along the eaves of the house for a security camera. Nothing.
Stepping back from the small window, she thinks of her options. She can just see around the side of the building to her car from here. The drive remains otherwise empty. She makes up her mind and swiftly walks up to the window, cautiously looking both ways before cocking her right foot back and kicking as hard as she can. The smash is loud and satisfying. She braces herself for a burglar alarm but no siren sounds. She nudges out the remaining loose shards with a heeled boot before leaning forward to check the hole.
Inside, the house is quiet and dark. Zara dusts off her trench coat and scans the dark utility room. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for, she’s never done anything like this before, but she knows she needs to find something and it almost definitely won’t be in the utility room.
