We drive away in silence. Dario stops at a picturesque pub and orders me an elderflower pressé, and food. ‘Sorry I can’t get you anything stronger,’ he says. ‘But this steak sandwich will sort you out. Trust me.’
Tears spring to my eyes. He reaches across the table and gently squeezes my hand. I rummage in my bag for a tissue, but for once, I don’t have any. ‘Sod it,’ I mutter.
Dario slides one across the table.
‘It’s not Geoff,’ I say. ‘It can’t be.’
The sandwich is excellent, but it does nothing to settle the dread growing in my gut. What if…?
‘You said he’s been acting off,’ Dario presses. ‘We could search the garage. He might have a fake plate, a disguise, or, hopefully, nothing.’
‘Let’s do it now,’ I say, rising.
‘Agreed,’ he says, and nods, brushing crumbs from his hands.
***
Geoff’s not home when we arrive. I haul the garage door open, and we start sifting through the clutter. I pray that we don’t find anything.
Thankfully, we don’t.
‘What about his car?’ Dario asks.
My stomach drops. I check the boot. It’s empty.
‘The boot’s clear.’
With a solid thud, Dario shuts the door. Then he turns to me, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry, Josie, but I found this.’
He holds out a thong. My heart lurches. Tears blur my vision.
‘At least he’s no kidnapper,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘But we have to test it for Joanna’s DNA,’ Dario says gently. ‘And maybe, tonight, you can search the van when he gets back.’
I sigh. ‘Jesus, Dario.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, lightly touching my arm.
Dario’s reassurances fall flat. The moment that thong was sealed into an evidence bag, I felt the ground shift. Geoff and I weren’t rich, but we weren’t desperate either. Why would he kidnap someone? And even if he had, where would he keep her?
***
Back at the station, I try to swallow the nausea as Dario and Roy pore over the latest CCTV. Then Dario looks at me, smiling, giving me a flicker of hope, and I crumble.
‘Nothing on the footage,’ he says softly. ‘We had to double-check. I'm sorry.’
Geoff’s secret, it turns out,wasjust an affair. Not a kidnapping.
‘We’re just waiting for Forensics to confirm,’ Burrow says. ‘I’ve asked them to rush it.’
Time drags.
Eventually, the call comes. No trace of Joanna Neal’s DNA on the thong.
So that’s it. He’s been screwing around behind my back, while I’ve been going through hell, thinking he murdered someone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
