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I shower, get into bed, because it’s the middle of the night in England, and fall asleep wondering why Carl made the long and exhausting journey from New Zealand to go to a memorial service for two young women he didn’t know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I give myself two days to get over my jet lag and use them to get my bearings, walking around Akaroa or along the beach at French Bay, taking in the beautiful scenery, breathing in the fresh sea air but always, always, watching for Carl. I still don’t have a plan and I need to make one. But if I see him, I’ll do what I did last time, and follow him.
I wait for Glenda to have one of her quiet moments, after guests have checked out and before new ones check in, then head to the reception area.
“How are you today?” she asks, as I approach the desk.
“I’m fine, thank you. It’s so beautiful here, so relaxing.”
“It sure is. And the weather’s pretty good for this time of the year.” She leans on the counter, ready for a chat. “Got anything nice planned for today?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be trying to find some people my parents used to know back in England. Apparently, they immigrated to Akaroa, and my parents lost touch with them. They made me promise to try and find them while I was here.” I give a theatrical sigh. “I’m not sure how I’m meant to do that without an address.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes, Hunter.”
She nods. “There’s a guy having a house built up in the hills back there,” she says, indicating somewhere behind the building. “I think his name’s Hunter. But I’m not sure he’s of your parents’ generation, I heard mid-thirties. And he lived in the UK until a few months ago, so he’s probably not who you’re looking for.”
I take a step back, certain she can hear my heart crashing in my chest. He sounds like exactly who I’m looking for.
“No, that doesn’t fit,” I say. “My parents are in their fifties and this couple emigrated years ago.” I’m so shocked that I barely know what I’m saying.
“He could be a son or something.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think they had children, my parents didn’t say they had.” My mind fast-forwards, thinking what I can ask without it looking suspicious. “A house in the hills, that must be nice. Quite a hike from here, though, I imagine.”
“Not that far. If it’s where I’m thinking it is, somewhere on the way to the peak, you could get up there on foot in about an hour.”
“Really? Gosh, it sounds like the perfect place.”
“You could go up there, try and speak to him. He’s a bit of a loner, by all accounts.”
“No, I won’t bother, it can’t be the same family. At least I can tell my parents I tried. In fact, I’ll call them now, they’ll still be up, they go to bed late.” I move away before she can ask any more questions.
I’m shaking so much I drop my key card on the floor, then fumble to open the door. In the apartment, I cross the room to the balcony and stand, my hand clutching the rail, looking out to the sea. It has to be Carl, everything fits, from his age, to his recent return from the UK, to a house in the hills.
I only realize now that I should be afraid of confronting him. But I don’t think Paul would have let me come if he thought that Carl might harm me. And I’ve left a letter at the house in Reading in caseI don’t return from New Zealand, in case my body is found washed up on the shore, or not found at all. It’s addressed to Anthony Barriston, and details everything, from the murders of Justine and Lina by Ned, to the suspected murder of Carolyn by Ned or a third person, and the murder of Hunter by Lukas, or by someone he knew. I’ve named Carl and Lukas as the men who kidnapped me, and detailed what they asked me to do in return for my life. And there’s the rub: if I’d known that my life would be filled with guilt and uncertainty, maybe I wouldn’t have valued it quite as much.
Glenda said that it was an hour’s walk to where she thinks the house might be, so I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, stick it in my bag, squash a baseball cap on my head, check I’ve got my sunglasses, and run downstairs.
“I got it wrong,” I say to Glenda, shrugging my shoulders. “The name of my parents’ friends was Humber, not Hunter. And they were older than my parents, so they’d be in their seventies.” I force a laugh. “They might not even live here anymore.”
“You could ask at the post office,” Glenda says. “They might be able to help.”
“Good idea, I’ll do that. But not today. Today, I’m going for another walk along the beach at French Bay.”
“Have fun!”
Outside, I turn left, walk along a bit, and turn left again, checking the map on my phone. The road climbs gradually, then gets steeper. Fifteen minutes later, the road divides; I take the left-hand turn and follow the road up. Despite everything, despite what I’m here to do, I stop now and then to admire the vibrant bursts of color from the indigenous trees and shrubs, and to take in the spectacular view of sea. There’s a beautiful stillness in the air and I try to think of the last time I felt so relaxed. When I work out that it was in Las Vegas, the day Ned and I were married, the irony isn’t lost on me.
There aren’t many houses around and those I pass look as if they’ve been standing for years. I carry on climbing, looking for one underconstruction and just as I’m thinking of turning back, because the road has become a track, I catch a glimpse of something through the trees. I push on and see ahead of me, on a plot of land about the size of a soccer field, the walls of a house. There’s no roof yet, and there’s still scaffolding up, but the ground floor, complete with a wraparound veranda, seems to be finished. I stop. It’s lonelier than I thought up here. If this is the place, Carl could be nearby.
I move into the trees, then creep around the edge of the plot and take another look from the safety of my cover. Because the house is in a slight dip, I’m able to look down on it. Apart from the building equipment that litters the plot, there’s also a shed to the left of the house. There are no signs of life, but I wait for another twenty minutes or so, then leave. I hurry back along the track, hoping I won’t come across Carl, because I don’t feel ready to see him. If he’s in a car, he would hopefully think I was just another tourist on their way back from a hike. But if he’s on foot and we come face-to-face, he would recognize me.
I only relax when I’m back in the town. The thought of going back to such an isolated place makes me jittery. But it’s what I came for.
