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‘So you will still work?’
‘Well, it’s early days. I haven’t got it off the ground yet. But my friend, Dido’ – she points to the door – ‘she’s the head designerand franchise owner of the kitchen showroom in town where I used to work; she’s going to help me get set up.’
Dido is waiting outside the living-room door. She thinks she is invisible, but she is not. I can hear her breathing, hear her bare feet against the wooden floorboards, a slight clearing of her throat. I wonder how much Dido knows about the mystery that her friend is part of. Maybe as much as the dog, who has stopped growling, but is very much staring at me.
‘Well. That sounds like a great plan and a great use of your inheritance. And what of the rest of it?’
‘The rest of it?’ She looks somewhat startled.
‘Yes. A house in the country. A barn. A business. You will have plenty left over?’
‘Well, not really. I mean, I’ll give some to my mother. Of course. And maybe, you know, some charities. Investments. That kind of thing.’
I nod. I need somehow to get into Libby Jones’s bank account. I’ll need a warrant but I will worry about that later.
‘Do you ever fear that one of your siblings might come to you, once they hear of the sale of the house? It is on the internet after all; soon the land registry will post the selling price and the whole world will know. Including your brother and sister, Henry and Lucy. What would you do? If they came to find you?’
I hear Dido break out into a strong cough behind the living-room door.
‘They won’t,’ Libby says.
I don’t respond to this with words, but a raised eyebrow.
‘They’re probably dead.’
I try to look as if there is a small chance that I believe what shehas just said, but it is hard. ‘Dead?’ I say. ‘That seems a dramatic conclusion to have reached.’
‘It’s the only thing that makes any sense though, isn’t it? Like you say. Teenage children, here one minute. Gone the next.’
‘Ah, well, yes. You may think that. But it is easier to keep a living person hidden than a dead body. As a detective, I know this only too well. A change of name. A change of appearance. A different country. Very easy to do. So they may not be dead at all, Miss Jones; in fact, and in all probability, they are much more likely to be alive. Have you ever tried to trace them?’
A very firm shake of the head follows my question. ‘No. No I have not.’
‘Would you want to?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not curious to know what became of them? To have them in your life?’
‘I just assumed they were dead. It never occurred to me …’
I sigh. This conversation has gone as far as it can go. But as I get to my feet the dog begins once more to growl and I look at the dog and I realise that there is one more question to ask.
‘Your mother’s dog, you said?’
She nods.
‘So this is youradoptivemother’s dog?’
‘My—?’ All the colour leaves her face. ‘Yes.’ She rallies. ‘Yes. My adoptive mother’s dog.’
‘And where is she, your mother?’
‘She’s in Spain. She lives in Spain, or well, at least she sometimes lives in Spain. She has a place. She sometimes comes back. We – It’s kind of a dog-share thing, I suppose.’
Libby Jones is gabbling. Lying. Or covering up a lie. I think of the photo in theGuardianof her birth parents: the exotic, dark-haired, half-Turkish mother. The squat, bulldog-faced father. She looks like neither of them. Not in any respect. I am leaving Libby Jones’s home with more questions than I arrived with.
