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I move from the bed, aware that I need to finish my tour of the house. Taking my phone, and Ned’s, I leave the bedroom, find another four bedrooms, all with en suites, and return to the kitchen. I check the clock: it’s eight-fifteen, almost time to carry out the next part of the instructions. I falter a moment; it seems too enormous, what they’ve asked me to do. But I have no choice.
I make a quick mental check to be sure I’ve completed the first part properly.
First, look around you. Take note of where you are, familiarize yourself with the kitchen, then with the rest of the house. Walk around, open cupboards, touch things. Remember, for the last two weeks, you and Ned have been living here as man and wife.
In the master bedroom upstairs, you’ll find your clothes. Youwill also see half-packed suitcases; today, you and Ned were heading back to his house in Wentworth.
Before you have a shower, lie down in the bed for a moment, as if you’ve been sleeping in it. Your phone is in your bag; look at the last messages you received once you’ve had your shower. Ned’s phone is on his bedside table. When you leave the bedroom, take it with you to the kitchen. At 8:20 a.m. precisely, continue to the next part of your instructions.
CHAPTER TWO
It’s 8:20 a.m. Pushing my chair back, I go into the hall, turn toward the main door. Taking a bunch of keys from a hook, I read the labels to find the right key, unlock the door, and pull it closed behind me. I hurry to a small gate to the right of the main gates, recognizing Ned’s car parked on the drive. I press the buzzer to open the gate, step onto the pavement, and start running to the right. At the end of the road, there’s a barrier. Looking down, I see the beach below. I look for a way to reach it and about fifty yards to the left, find some zigzag steps leading to a promenade.
I run down the steps, jump from the low wall of the promenade onto the beach. There are a few people around and I hurry to a couple walking their dog along the sand.
“Excuse me,” I say, breathing hard. “I’m looking for my husband, he told me he was going to the beach for a walk and he hasn’t come back yet. He’s medium build, dark hair, gray eyes, he’s wearing knee-length navy shorts and a white polo shirt. Have you seen him?”
They shake their heads. “We passed a couple of joggers—”
“No, he’s not a jogger, he wouldn’t have been jogging,” I say, already running off. “Thanks anyway.”
I ask the same question to a man jogging along the water’s edge, then to a young woman sitting on the sand with a toddler, then to an older woman walking a Dalmatian. None of them have seen a man matching Ned’s description. I’ve been running along the beach for about ten minutes now, I see a pier ahead of me, it must be Bournemouth Pier. I keep on running, stopping another few people on the way, who all tell me that they haven’t seen Ned. When I’m almost at the pier, I turn and run back the way I came, past the steps I came down, until I can’t run anymore. I stop for a while to catch my breath, then go back to the steps and return to the house.
It’s now nearly nine o’clock. Using my phone, I search for the number of the local police station.
“Hello, can you help me?” I ask. “I’m worried about my husband, he went for a walk this morning at six o’clock, and he still hasn’t come back. I wouldn’t normally be worried, but he left his phone on the kitchen table.”
“Has your husband gone off on long walks before?” the responder asks.
“No, at least, not without his phone. But he’s been under a lot of strain recently, he’s been accused of something, allegations have been made against him, he’s been hounded in the press—”
“What’s his name?”
“Ned, Ned Hawthorpe, shall I spell that for you—”
“No, it’s fine.” The woman’s tone has suddenly perked up. “And you are?”
“Amelie Hawthorpe—I’m his wife.”
“And your address?”
“I don’t know it exactly, we’re not at home, Ned rented a house for a couple of weeks, it’s in Haven Cliffs. The house name is Albatross, but I don’t know which road it’s on.”
“Okay, madam, stay where you are. I’m sending someone to you, they’ll be with you within the next twenty minutes.”
“Oh good, thank you.” I let relief suffuse my voice, then hang up.
I wait, my stomach a mass of knots. Fifteen minutes later, there’s a ring on the bell. I use the control pad by the door to open the main gate. A police car drives through and pulls up at the front of the house. Two police officers get out, a man and a woman. I hurry to the door.
“Mrs. Hawthorpe?” the woman says. “I’m Officer Wendy Garrat and this is Officer Phil Allson. Can we come in?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, hoping I sound worried rather than nervous. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
I lead them to the kitchen, offer them a seat, and repeat what I already said on the phone.
“You say your husband—Ned—has been under some strain recently?” Officer Garrat asks.
“Yes, he was accused of sexual assault.” I glance at them. “You probably know about it, the accuser was one of his staff atExclusivesmagazine, he fired her and she took revenge.” I twist my hands in my lap. “But even though she dropped the charges, the press won’t leave him alone and it’s been getting him down, it’s why he decided to rent this house, he wanted to get away for a while. I thought he was fine, a little depressed maybe, but he seemed to be coping. But last night I woke up and he wasn’t in bed. I went to look for him and found him here, in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his head in his hands. He said that he had a headache and that I was to go back to bed.” I pause, slow my speech. “I managed to persuade him to come with me but he couldn’t sleep, and at around five-thirty, he took a shower and said he was going for a walk on the beach, that he’d have breakfast with me when he got back. He gave me a kiss and I went back to sleep.”
