‘Coming for a drink?’
‘Not tonight.’ His mind was working overtime; how could he find out what he needed to know without arousing suspicion?
Luckily every problem had a solution. Henry fired off another text: ‘OK, this could be a weird coincidence but the woman in the photo looks familiar – is she by any chance married to a guy called Bernard?’
As he waited, he could feel the perspiration drying on his skin. It wasn’t the nicest sensation. Come on, Dex, hurry up . . .
Because for some reason he was finding he couldn’t even jump in the shower until he had an answer.
Four long minutes later, it arrived: ‘Not the same woman. Frankie runs the café and her husband’s called Joe.’
Henry exhaled. That was it then, she was married. Just the answer he didn’t want to hear.
Damn and blast.
In fact . . . shit.
Then again, so much for allowing himself to get his hopes up.
This was pretty much the story of his life.
Chapter 17
‘I’ve got a massive favour to ask. But I don’t know if you can do it.’
‘If it’s help with your maths homework you’re after, fire away,’ said Molly. ‘But I’m warning you now, the answer to every question you ask me will be seven.’
Amber, who was a whiz at maths, said, ‘Luckily it isn’t that.’
‘Come on in, then.’ Molly had a piece of toast in one hand and a pen in the other. ‘So what’s the favour?’
‘OK, this is going to sound weird, but I’ve been trying to find out more about that guy from last night.’ Having come over to the cottage straight from the school bus, Amber dropped her heavy bag loaded with textbooks on to the sofa. ‘And basically, either his name isn’t Sam Jones or he doesn’t go to school in Cheltenham.’
Molly frowned. ‘Hmm, that is weird.’
‘I know! Me and my friends have been trying to work out what’s going on, but they don’t know what he looks like.’
‘Got it.’ Molly’s expression cleared. ‘So if he turns up at next week’s class, you want me to take a sneaky photo of him. Or not even sneaky. We can make it part of the task. That’s fine, we can do that.’
Was it being so much older that made Molly so patient? Amber said, ‘Yes, but that’s seven whole days away. How could you bear to wait that long? Don’t you want to know now?’
Molly finished chewing a mouthful of toast. ‘So how are you planning on doing this then? Taking a DNA sample from the pencil he was using last night? Tracking him through CCTV?’
‘Right, here’s the thing. Can you draw a picture of him?’
‘What? No.’ Molly put down her Berol pen and shook her head. ‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just couldn’t do it, not without something to work from. If he turns up next week I could ask him to sit for me . . .’
This so wasn’t the answer Amber wanted to hear. She said, ‘Could you do one of me? Now? If I wasn’t sitting in front of you?’
Molly pulled a face, thought about it for a few seconds, and looked pained. ‘Possibly. But only because I’ve known you for so long. And I still wouldn’t do it.’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘It wouldn’t be good enough.’
‘Have you ever tried?’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’ This was like being a high court judge.
‘Because I know it wouldn’t be good enough!’
‘OK, don’t panic. You mean it wouldn’t be up to your usual standard,’ Amber said soothingly. ‘You’d end up with something not as completely brilliant as usual. But it doesn’t have to be brilliant, it just needs to be similar enough to be recognisable.’
Molly still wasn’t looking thrilled. It was evidently a pride thing. But at least she’d stopped shaking her head.
‘Where’s the harm in giving it a try? Just close your eyes and picture him.’ Amber made her voice go all gentle and encouraging, like a hypnotist. ‘Remember the eyebrows? And those eyelashes? And the way his hair falls forward? Think about the shape of his mouth . . . Just have a little go and see what you come up with. Even if it’s just slightly recognisable, that’s all we want . . .’
Molly opened one eye. ‘Are you trying to do a Derren Brown number on me?’
‘Yes. Is it working?’
‘No.’
‘Look, just have a go. One sheet of paper, that’s all it takes. And it doesn’t matter, does it, if it all goes wrong? It’s not as if you’d be ruining a three-ton block of Carrara marble—’
‘OK, stop, I’ll do it.’ Molly threw her arms up in surrender.
‘Yay!’
‘But I’m warning you now, I don’t think it’ll work.’
Work commenced on the portrait. As Molly had predicted, it wasn’t easy. Conjuring up an image of Sam in her mind was one thing, but opening her eyes and attempting to transfer the details from brain to paper was quite another.
The first few goes were discarded. Amber ate Honey Cheerios out of the box as Molly drew pencil lines, erased them with her grey Staedtler rubber, heaved gusty frustrated sighs and crumpled attempt after attempt into a ball until the living-room carpet was awash with them.
‘I can’t do a straight portrait,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s too much I don’t know. Let me try a caricature.’
It took a while but after several more attempts she was getting there. Hardly daring to breathe, Molly gazed at the drawing board as the image began to take shape. As she’d predicted, it wasn’t brilliant, nor was it instantly recognisable as so-called Sam, but it was similar enough to suggest it was him.
Which, with a bit of luck and a following wind, might be just enough to do the trick.
Amber hugged her when it was finished. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘OK, but I’m still not happy with it,’ Molly grumbled. ‘Don’t tell anyone it came from me.’
Facebook was too public, in the end. Upstairs in her bedroom, having scanned the finished drawing into her computer, Amber emailed it instead to six of her friends along with a note saying: ‘Just doing a bit of detective work, so don’t mention this to anyone else, but does this picture remind you of anyone at all?’
Her phone began beeping with texted replies shortly afterwards. Her friends, while intrigued, were largely unable to help, although Aimee wrote: ‘Looks a bit like a guy I met at a barbecue last year, can’t remember his name though.’
Then Georgia sent a message that said: ‘Ooh, you big old Sherlock Holmes you! Is it someone called Connor? Do I win a prize for this??’
Amber texted: ‘Connor who? How do you know him?’
The message flashed back: ‘Met him at Donna’s boyfriend’s party before Christmas. If it’s him, don’t bother asking Donna – she was trashed and doesn’t remember a thing about that night!!’
Great. Amber sent the picture out to half a dozen more friends, widening the circle slightly. Then, because the endless beeps drove her parents demented when they were trying to eat, she left her phone on the unmade bed and went downstairs to join them for dinner.
Fillet steak with brandy and mushroom cream sauce and chips, her dad’s favourite before he headed off to Norfolk.
‘Found out anything more about your new admirer?’ Her mum was looking all interested.
‘Not really. His name might be Connor. But he isn’t my admirer anyway.’ Intrigued by the mystery though she was, Amber didn’t want her mother involved; was there anything more cringe-making than parents encouraging you to get together with someone they liked? Changing the subject, she said, ‘So, Dad, where are we going on holiday this year? Can we go to France again?’
After dinner they said their goodbyes. Once her dad had left, Amber headed back upstairs.
Her phone had been busy taking messages in her absence.
Basically the answers were:
‘Nope.’
‘No. Killer eyelashes though. What mascara does he
use??!!’
‘No idea but did you draw that picture???’
‘Isn’t that Sean Corrigan?’
‘Is it Hugh Grant?????’
‘Give us another clue, I like this game.’
And finally, a follow-up text from Georgia: ‘Duh, I’m so stoopid! Not Connor. Sean. Got muddled because we were watching a James Bond film last night with that old guy Sean Connery in it. All this revision has shrivelled my brain to the size of a walnut, haha!!! Xxx’
Which was a blatant lie because Georgia never did any revision ever.
But things were looking up. Logging into Facebook, Amber keyed in the name Sean Corrigan.
God, there were loads. Hundreds of Sean Corrigans all over the world. Thank goodness she could narrow it down. Gloucestershire, typed Amber.
Oh. No results. That was a bit too narrowed down.
Maybe he’d been telling the truth about not being on Facebook. Amber tapped her nails against the screen and considered what to try next.
Wiltshire. No.
Oxfordshire. Yes, Oxfordshire had a Sean Corrigan. Who was currently away on a gap year in New Zealand.
More nail tapping.
OK, try spelling it differently.
S-h-a-u-n C-o-r-r-i-g-a-n.
Gloucestershire.
Press Return . . .
And there he was.
Wow. Amber sat back in her chair. That was him, Shaun Corrigan, laughing into the camera. He was using privacy controls on his account, which was a bugger, but his school was listed as Deer Park School in Cirencester.
So, no Sam Jones. No Cheltenham. Why would he be lying about that?
OK, backtrack. It was Susie who’d known his name. Luckily she was discreet. Texting her, Amber sent the message: ‘Yes, clever girl. How do you know him?’
A couple of minutes later, Susie’s reply pinged up on her phone: ‘He lives in Tetbury, across the road from my uncle. I met him at my uncle’s New Year’s Eve party. How about you?? He’s not your usual type!!!’
Amber’s heart was racing now. This private investigation malarkey was addictive. She wrote: ‘Can’t say. This is TOP SECRET, OK? Do you know his address?’
Another couple of minutes later and – Ping! – another reply. An email this time, containing a Google Earth link: ‘My uncle’s house is on the left, number seventeen, next to the postbox. Sean lives across the road at number twenty-two, the one with the yellow front door and white flowers in the garden.’
Amber opened the link and zoomed down to street view. She found the house, semi-detached and unremarkable.
The sensible thing to do now, of course, would be to wait as Molly had suggested and see if Sam-Sean-Shaun turned up at the café next week.
But what if he didn’t? And what if he didn’t turn up the week after that? What would she do then?
Another plan would be to send him a message. She could do that now, this minute. Just say something casual and non-heavy, along the lines of: ‘Hmm, I thought you said you weren’t on Facebook??’
And when you were as impatient as she was, it was a massive temptation. Ask a question, get an answer, no hanging around, simple as that.
Because it wasn’t as if she found him remotely fanciable – if she did, she wouldn’t dream of being so forward. But since she really didn’t, she could just go ahead and ask him what he was playing at.
Except . . . would it be simple? And what kind of answer would she get? Because the down side of electronic communication was the time it gave the other person to think. And to come up with a convincing reply.
Whereas face to face would be so much more interesting.
Wouldn’t it?
Amber smiled to herself as a possible plan began to unfurl. Tomorrow was Wednesday, which was good, she could do it then.
She couldn’t wait a whole week for Mohammed to – possibly – come to the mountain. Far better for the mountain to get proactive and visit Mohammed.
Whose real name was Shaun Corrigan.
Chapter 18
The journey had taken a while; it was quite a trek. After leaving school, Amber had needed to catch two buses in order to get to Tetbury. A bunch of hilarious younger boys had sat behind her on the first one and made fun of her hair: ‘So how d’you get it that colour, then? Just mashed up a load of pickled beetroot and splatted it on to your head?’
The second journey had been made to the accompaniment of two old dears moaning non-stop about young people today: ‘And I know what’s caused it too. Soft toilet paper. The country wouldn’t be in the mess it’s in now if we were all still using Izal.’
Honestly, geriatrics were weird.
The bus reached Tetbury at last and Amber jumped off. After all this effort Shaun Corrigan had better be home.
Parnall Avenue was easy to find and instantly recognisable from the street-view site. There was number seventeen, Susie’s uncle’s house. She walked past the postbox and paused to look across the road at number twenty-two. The front door was still yellow. The front garden was small but neatly maintained.
OK, no point hanging around. She crossed the road and made her way up the front path.
Rang the bell.
This was actually quite exciting now.
He’d bloody better be at home.
Moments later the door was opened and Amber found herself being smiled at by a slender green-eyed woman who had to be Shaun’s mother. She was pretty, in her early forties, wearing jeans and a grey V-necked sweater beneath a striped apron. A delicious smell of casserole hung in the air behind her.
‘Hello . . .?’
‘Uh, hi. Is Shaun here?’
The smile broadened. ‘Yes, he is. Hang on, he’s up in his room revising. Well, allegedly revising. Who shall I say’s here?’
Why miss the look of surprise on his face? Where would be the fun in that? Two can play at changing their name, Shaun Corrigan.
‘I’m Jessie,’ said Amber.
Raising her voice, his mother called up the stairs, ‘Shaun? You have a visitor! Jessie’s here.’
They both heard a bedroom door open. ‘Who?’
‘Jessie’s come to see you.’
Amber’s heart was clattering; any second now, he’d see her. She could hear footsteps along the landing. The next moment she saw his trainer-clad feet on the stairs, then his jeans, then the rest of him.
And he saw her.
The blood drained from Shaun’s face and he stopped dead, visibly appalled.
‘What’s going on? What the hell are you doing here?’
Bewildered by her son’s outburst, his mother said, ‘Shaun!’
‘Charming,’ said Amber.
‘I mean it, go away.’ He was shaking his head, still frozen on the stairs. ‘You can’t come here, you have to leave now. Just go.’
‘Hang on.’ Stunned by his reaction, Amber shot back, ‘You were the one who lied to me!’
To the left of her, Amber heard his mother say faintly, ‘Oh no . . .’
To the right of her, another door was pulled open and a male voice said, ‘Dinner smells good. What time are we eating?’
And then it was Amber’s turn for her world to implode and go into slow motion. Because the owner of the male voice was someone she knew.
Only too well.
It was her father.
‘Oh God.’ He stopped dead, closed his eyes and put his hands up to his face. ‘Oh God.’
If her heart had been clattering along before, it was now thudding ten times faster. More than anything, Amber wanted to run away but her legs refused to move. She was welded to the doorstep. Her father had been having an affair and she’d just caught him out. Chiefly because he was wearing slippers.
What were the rules for what happened next? She didn’t have a clue.
‘Amber. I’m so sorry.’ Her dad sounded shaken, as well he might. ‘How did you find me?’
Could she even speak? Only one way to find out. Amber cleared her throat and said, ‘Um . . . I did
n’t. I wasn’t looking for you. I was looking for him.’
She pointed to Shaun, who was looking as if he might actually be sick.
‘What?’ Her father stared in disbelief at the boy on the stairs who had just blown apart his double life. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
Time was now simultaneously speeding up and slowing down. There was a loud buzzing in Amber’s ears.
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t know how she managed to find me.’ Shaun was shaking his head at her father. ‘I just wanted to know what they were like.’
‘Oh Shaun . . .’ His mother was looking increasingly distressed. His mother, who was having an affair with her father.
‘How could you do this to Mum?’ Amber’s voice rose and cracked as she faced her father. ‘How could you? How long’s this been going on?’
Silence. Icy, tortured silence. Unable to bear it a second longer, she stumbled backwards and turned away.
‘Amber, no, come back.’ There was anguish in his voice. ‘We need to talk. I can explain.’
But she couldn’t even look at him. In his slippers, for God’s sake. He was having an affair with another woman and wearing slippers . . .
‘Don’t come near me. I hate you.’ Amber meant it. In the space of a few seconds everything had changed. How could she ever forgive him for this? ‘You make me sick. You’re disgusting. What about Mum?’
‘Oh God, Amber . . .’ She heard him call her name, fear mingled with desperation.
‘Get away from me! I hate you. I never want to see you again!’
Her brain buzzing, Amber slammed the front door shut and stumbled into the street with no clue where she was going. Turn left at the end of the road . . . now turn right . . . or was it left? Oh God, this was like being trapped in a nightmare . . .
Fifteen minutes later she was back in the centre of town, where people were walking around and carrying on as if nothing had happened. Still in a daze, Amber made her way towards the bus stop.
Shaun was already there, waiting for her.
‘Go away.’ She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets, refused to look at him.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I don’t want to speak to you.’
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