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Leon fixes me a plate—I’ve learned by now that it’s impossible to even make myself a simple meal here, the kitchen is his domain, and he takes it as a personal insult if I so much as open a bag of chips—and I retreat to the sunroom, to think.
As relaxing as our time in Italy was, the real world—and my real mission—is still waiting. I have dozens of unanswered questions, and with Sebastian’s uncle, Richard, lurking in the shadows with his surveillance and agenda, I can’t forget that I’m exposed here.
I may be running out of time.
Pulling up Charlie’s text message, I make sure Leon isn’t around and call the number she included to “book an appointment.”
“Stonebridge Spa,” Charlie’s voice says when she picks up on the first ring. She sounds believable with her serene tone.
“It’s Avery Carmicheal,” I say brightly, playing along with the act. “Calling to make that appointment we discussed.”
“Good to hear from you,” she says, “I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”
“My schedule has been busy.” I say blandly.
“Well, I’ve managed to locate the therapist you requested, Terry Hardcastle,” Charlie continues.
“Oh.”
I should be happy about this. Finding the police officer who was first on the scene of the accident could be a big lead. But now, I have a small knot of dread forming in the base of my stomach.
What if I don’t want to know the answers?
“I’ll send you the address,” Charlie continues. “I would suggest you don’t delay in seeing him.”
“Thanks,” I reply, still conflicted.
We hang up, and the text comes through moments later, with this policeman’s current address. I wish I could just ignore it, but I can’t, not when I’ve come this far.
I have to find out if Sebastian is hiding something.
I finish breakfast,and then set out on my journey. I walk on foot a few blocks from Sebastian’s house, and then catch a taxi from there to Victoria Station. Terry Hardcastle lives in Wimbledon, an area I only know from the tennis tournament, but it’s easy enough to take a train, and then walk when I reach my destination.
When I finally arrive, I find that I’m in a leafy residential area. The home is a modest cottage with a meticulously maintained garden, and I slowly walk up the path and knock on the blue-painted door, that sinking feeling in my stomach back again.
Everything here looks friendly and innocent, but I’m about to go digging up the ghosts of the past.
Ghosts that have stayed buried for the past sixteen years.
There’s no answer at the door. I pause. After coming all this way, I can’t just leave empty-handed. I see a car in the gravel driveway, so it looks like somebody’s home. I follow the garden path around to the back of the cottage. When I round the corner, I see that the beautiful garden continues back here, and there’s a man on his knees in a vegetable path, pulling weeds. He’s in his fifties, with a weathered face, wearing scruffy corduroy pants and a cable knit sweater.
“Hi there,” I call, not wanting to startle him.
He looks up, surprised. “Hello.” He gets to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. “Something I can help you with?”
“Are you Terry Hardcastle?” I ask, hopefully.
“Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”
“My name is Avery,” I say, pleased I’ve found the right guy. “And, well, this may seem strange, but I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about an old case of yours.”
Terry gives me an assessing look, and I can see that despite his retirement, he’s still sharp. “An old case, eh? Are you some kind of reporter?”
“No, nothing like that,” I reply quickly. “I’m just… curious.”
“Well, I worked on a lot of cases over the years,” he says, strolling closer. “What makes you think I’ll remember this one?”
I pause. “Do you remember the car accident that killed Patrick Wolfe?”
