I catch sight of my reflection in an old zodiac-themed mirror with cracks running through Scorpio and Capricorn. I’m so shocked by the dust creating crazy peaks in my hair that I move too fast trying to brush it out, knock over an ancient vacuum cleaner and, in jumping away so that it doesn’t fall on my toes, bang my forehead on a beam.
‘Ouch!’ I let out a yelp.
Tyler races over. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, seriously embarrassed. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Let me see.’ Tyler peers closely. So closely I can count his eyelashes. My heart thuds and I pray he can’t hear it. He runs his finger, very gently, over my forehead. I close my eyes, my skin tingling where he’s touched it. ‘Ah, there’s a little bump,’ he says.
In my imagination he’s about to lean just that fraction closer and brush his lips against mine. Every muscle in my body tenses, my nerve endings sparking like fireworks. But then I open my eyes and find that he is already turning away, going back to the box he’s been examining.
I swallow down my disappointment. I have to get used to the idea that Tyler just sees me as a friend and hide the strange, raw feeling I sometimes have around him, like my skin is inside out.
* * *
That evening Rik messages me. Like all his texts, it comes from a different number than the one before, but essentially asks the same questions:
How are you getting on? Any leads?
I message back straight away, explaining we’re looking through Dad’s things but haven’t yet found anything that indicates where he might be hiding. I also tell Rik about visiting his Aunt Sandy – though I decide not to mention the mysterious motorbike rider in the red skulls helmet.
The FFG are definitely on your and Dad’s trail – they went to see Sandy the day before we did.
Rik texts immediately:
That’s not good. Please be careful
It’s not exactly a reassuring message, but it helps to know that he’s out there, feeling concern and offering support. Especially when I’m getting neither from Mum.
She has no idea that we’re up here. She’s distracted and busy, either seeing clients or working on her talk for the upcoming astrology convention. She asks a couple of times if Rik has been in touch again. I tell her he hasn’t. What’s the point of being honest? Mum would only make a fuss and order me not to speak to him again.
* * *
The third day of our attic search and we’re still only about halfway through all the bags and boxes. There’s a constant knot in my stomach. The gangsters who think Dad stole their diamond could be getting closer and closer to finding him. For all I know they could have found him already and killed him. No. I can’t let myself think that. But it’s hard to stay positive.
‘Doesn’t your mum ever throw anything away?’ Tyler asks, despairingly.
‘She says she’s never had to,’ I explain, ‘because she’s lived here her whole life.’
‘I can’t imagine how weird that would be,’ Tyler mutters.
‘I gaze at his face. His left side is in the shadow thrown by the overhead light, but his eyes still gleam intently.
‘After your mum, did your dad ever meet anyone else?’ I ask.
Tyler shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘We’ve never even had a pet. It’s always just been the two of us. I don’t even have any grandparents any more.’
I turn back to my rummaging in a crate of ancient wooden tennis rackets, wondering what such a tiny family would feel like. As I peer into the corners of the crate, Tyler gives a low whistle.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘These must be your dad’s.’ I glance up and he shoves the box he’s examining towards me. My heart leaps. Here’s a boat Dad made once from a model kit I bought him with my pocket money. Underneath it is a folder. I open it eagerly. Inside are all Dad’s sailing certificates going back to when he was a child.
Tyler is rummaging deeper in the box. He pulls out two trophies, then peers at the labels more closely. His face falls. ‘Oh, but they’re really old.’
I take a look at the dates. ‘Yeah, they’re from when Dad was a teenager.’ I rustle around in the papers at the bottom of the box, but they’re all school-related things of Mum’s, plus a few baby pictures of me. My heart sinks. There’s nothing here that helps.
Tyler pulls out another box and lifts the lid. As he sets it down on the grimy attic floor he glances up at me. ‘Did your dad grow up by the sea?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, North Devon. He used to say that if you can sail there you can sail anywhere in the world.’
‘I’ve never been on a boat,’ Tyler confesses, his cheeks pinking a little.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Dad used to take me and Bess out every weekend. He had a little sailing boat. The Marvista.’
‘The what?’
‘Marvista,’ I repeat. ‘It’s Italian, no… Spanish. Whatever. It means… sea view.’ I stop, eyes widening as the significance of this shoots into my veins. ‘Oh my God.’
‘What?’ Tyler asks, looking up. ‘Cat?’
‘I’ve just remembered something.’ My mind claws at the memory, trying to see it more clearly. ‘I remember Dad arguing with Mum about how he’d like us to move closer to the seashore and Mum saying she’d never leave this house, that she’s Brockledore born and bred.’ I meet Tyler’s gaze, suddenly certain. ‘If Dad had to give up everything… his life, his work, his family… I think that living by the sea would be the one thing that would make it bearable.’
‘Okay, but…’
‘It makes sense. He loved the sea. He loved the Marvista. In his drawings, next to his signature, he always drew a boat,’ I say, a grin creeping across my face. ‘Mum always says that Dad was forever trying new things and not sticking at anything, but boats, sailing - he always loved those.’
Tyler stares at me. ‘I don’t—’
I leap up. ‘I know I can’t prove it, but I’d bet anything that wherever Dad is living, it’s near the sea.’
‘Okay, but…’ Tyler frowns. ‘I hate to point this out, but Britain is an island – there are masses of places near the sea.’
He’s right. For a second, I feel the hope and excitement start to ebb away. Then an image of the brochures I found in Mum’s office springs into my head. I race over to the attic door. ‘I’ve got an idea. You carry on looking here.’ I hurry away, down to Mum’s office and drag out the box. I’d thought I’d seen two or three print-outs from websites of home rentals by the sea. In fact, now I’m properly looking, there are ten separate bundles. Each one of these contains at least a hundred potential places that Dad could have rented. It’s better than the whole of Britain, but it’s still an overwhelming number to investigate.
At least it’s a start.
Clutching the print-outs I race back up to the attic. I quickly explain my idea.
‘So…’ I finish. ‘If there was just some way to link the places Dad had looked at with the time period just before he disappeared…’ I trail off, the enormity of the challenge overwhelming me again.
‘But there is.’ Tyler’s eyes shine bright with excitement. Even with the dirty smudges on his cheek and T-shirt, his face is ridiculously handsome.
‘What?’ I ask.
For an answer, Tyler delves into the box behind him and brings out a heap of paper.
‘These are mostly credit card statements and paper receipts,’ he explains. ‘If we can just find the ones from the couple of weeks before he died…’
I gasp. ‘We’ll be able to work out what he was spending money on when he knew he needed to fake his death.’
We stare at each other. Tyler grins, moving a tiny bit closer to me. This time, I’m careful not to misread him. I take a step away. Tyler hesitates for a second, then puts half the papers in front of me.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘You sort through those. I’ll do the rest.’
We scan the papers fast, checking each sheet and putting it back in the box if it’s too old. After ten minutes we’re left wi
th one credit card statement and five receipts.
I snatch up the statement and read the list of names Dad had bought from. It’s just food shops and the local pub. Nothing that suggests he was preparing to leave home for ever. Nothing that indicates any kind of forward planning whatsoever, let alone anything connected to the seashore.
My heart sinks. Maybe I’ve got this all wrong. I force myself to read to the very bottom of the page. The last item is dated the day Dad died. It’s a payment for fifty pounds to Farraday Inc.
‘What’s Farraday Inc?’
Tyler shakes his head.
I hand him a bunch of cottage rental print-outs. ‘See if you can find the name Farraday anywhere.’
We both start looking, scanning each page carefully.
‘These are all things like cottages-on-the-coast.com,’ Tyler complains. ‘Nothing like Farraday.’
I keep looking, my excitement building. The name doesn’t come up on the first three batches of paper I examine. And then I turn to the fourth – SEAVIEW MOBILE HOMES – LONG-TERM LETS. I open it at the back, intending to flick forwards. There, at the bottom of the info page in tiny print is the name Farraday Inc.
‘I’ve found it!’ I thrust the page at Tyler. ‘What’s a long-term let?’
‘When you rent somewhere for a long time, I think, rather than just on holiday.’ Tyler pauses. ‘Do you think your dad would have rented a mobile home to live in?’
‘If it was by the sea, yes, but where exactly?’ I scan the pages eagerly. Seaview Mobile Homes offers long-term lets at three trailer parks: one just a few miles away, near Torquay; another, larger, place just outside Cardiff in Wales and a third, much smaller place on the coast near the village of Saltcliff in Norfolk, on the east coast of England. ‘Dad wouldn’t stay in Devon,’ I reason. ‘Rik was adamant he’d leave the area. And the Welsh park is too big, too close to a big city. Rik was sure Dad would have gone somewhere really isolated.’
‘That leaves Norfolk,’ Tyler says.
Nodding, I snatch up my phone and, with trembling fingers, dial the number for the Saltcliff park.
‘Hello? How may I help?’ The woman on the end of the phone sounds bored and irritable.
‘I’m looking for Alan Mooney,’ I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. ‘He booked… that is, I think he might be living in your mobile-home park.’
‘I see.’ There’s a short pause, then the woman says she’ll check her database. A minute later she’s back. ‘No Alan Mooney lives here,’ she says briskly.
‘Oh…’ I frown. ‘Okay, but could you check back over, say, the past year and a half?’
The woman makes an exasperated clicking sound with her tongue. ‘Hold the line.’ Another minute and she’s back again. ‘No, no one of that name has lived here in the past two years. I’ve just done a scan of the files.’ She sighs, impatiently. ‘Was there anything else?’
I tell her there isn’t and ring off. Despair mounting, I turn to Tyler. ‘What do we do now?’ I ask. ‘Dad isn’t in the Norfolk mobile-home park after all.’
Tyler frowns. ‘You don’t know that,’ he points out. ‘You just know that no one called Alan Mooney lives there. Stands to reason your dad would have used a different name to avoid arousing suspicion. He’d left all his ID behind anyway.’
‘You’re right.’ Hope surges inside me.
‘Not that it helps much,’ Tyler goes on glumly, ‘unless we know what name he is using.’
‘We don’t need his name,’ I say, a small smile creeping across my face. ‘Not if we go there and look for him in person.’
‘Go to Norfolk?’ Tyler’s jaw drops. ‘But that’s right on the other side of England.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I can’t see another option.’ I hesitate. ‘You don’t have to come… I can go on my—’
‘Of course I’m coming,’ Tyler interrupts. He grins at me, determined. I smile back. ‘But how are we going to get there?’
The smile falls from my face. ‘I have no idea.’
15
Half an hour passes and we still can’t see a way to get to Norfolk. Tyler and I sit on the dusty attic floor and look at the challenge from every angle.
‘It’s too far to go there and back in one day,’ Tyler says, tapping at his phone. ‘We’d have to get to London first, then it’s another two and a half hours from London to Norwich… plus an hour on the bus to Overstrand and then a three-mile walk to the mobile-home park at Saltcliff.’
‘We’d have to stay overnight somewhere,’ I say with a sigh.
‘I don’t have the money for that,’ Tyler says. ‘Not on top of all the buses and trains we’d need to catch.’
‘I should pay, it’s my dad we’re looking for.’
Tyler frowns. Before he can speak, I hurry on. ‘Never mind the money, Mum would never agree to me going all that way. She’ll be furious if we sneak off.’
‘Yeah, my dad wouldn’t be too pleased either.’ Tyler makes a face.
I bite my lip, unsure how to express what I want to say next. ‘I… um… even if we can’t get there, I really appreciate you saying you’ll come with.’
‘Don’t sweat it.’ Tyler smiles shyly. ‘And we will get there. It’s gonna be an adventure.’
‘Cat? Where are you?’ Mum’s imperious cry blasts up the stairs. ‘Come here!’
We head downstairs. It’s late – Bess is already sitting at the kitchen table, tucking into the tea that Mrs Trimble has left for her. Tyler slips away, out of the back door, just as Mum emerges from her office.
‘There you are,’ she snaps. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’
‘Yes,’ I say, instantly riled. ‘That’s why I came down.’
Mum gives an exasperated tut, then shoos me into the kitchen. She flaps around, looking for something, while I join Bess at the table and help myself to some fish pie.
‘Mmm, creamy,’ I say, smacking my lips as I swallow a mouthful of mashed potato.
Bess gives a silent giggle, her eyes crinkling.
‘Cat.’ Mum sounds a low warning from across the room. ‘Oh, I hate it when Neptune is in transit. I can’t find anything.’ She pauses. ‘Do you know where Mrs Trimble might have put the scissors?’
‘Drawers to the left of the cooker,’ I say. ‘Second one down.’
Mum stares at me for a second, then turns away and rummages in the drawer.
I grin at Bess. Truth is, I know where the scissors are because I borrowed them last week to cut a piece of fabric I needed for my dress. It’s weird to think that, just a few days ago, dress-making was the most important thing in my summer.
Mum retrieves the scissors with a surprised sniff, then heads back to her office. Bess and I finish eating, and I load the plates in the dishwasher. Mum comes back in just as I’m rinsing our glasses. She replaces the scissors in the drawer and trudges over to the fridge, where she heaves another weary sigh as she pulls out a bottle of wine and unscrews the cap. ‘I’m exhausted,’ she moans, reaching for a glass and letting the wine glug into it. ‘This keynote address will be the death of me. I can’t believe I have to have it ready and myself packed up in just two days.’ She shudders. ‘If only my Mercury was in something helpful like Gemini or Libra.’ She sighs. ‘It’s the thought of the journey too. All that way into the stink of London.’
I straighten up from the sink, an idea sparking inside my head.
‘What about letting me come with you to London?’ I ask.
Mum stares at me, clearly taken aback. ‘To the convention?’ she asks.
‘You’re driving anyway, so there’d be plenty of room in the car. And I could help with all your admin. Give out information on your stall while you’re doing readings and talking to people.’ There’s no way I’m really intending to help her out at the convention, of course. But it can’t be far from there to Liverpool Street Station, where – I’ve already discovered – trains leave for Norfolk.
Mum leans against the counter. ‘I guess yo
u would be a help,’ she says. ‘I mean, I know they’ll give me a volunteer but…’
‘But I’d be much better,’ I point out. ‘I know how all your stuff works.’
‘That’s true.’ Mum nods. ‘The accommodation wouldn’t be a problem either. They’ve lined me up a flat near Alexandra Palace – that’s where the convention is – and there’s a pull-out sofa bed, so… I mean, I’ll have to socialize a bit in the evenings, but you’re old enough to be left alone for a few hours, and it would save me paying Mrs Trimble to stay over, so maybe…’
‘Oh, please, Mum,’ I say. ‘It would be so much fun. And it’s not like we’re going on any other kind of holiday.’
‘You’d have to be responsible for Bess, of course.’
My jaw drops. ‘Bess?’
Mum gives a nod. ‘Of course, I can hardly leave her behind.’
I frown. Bess wasn’t part of my plan at all. It’s one thing plotting to give Mum the slip and make my way to Norfolk for the day – but leaving Bess behind means abandoning her to face Mum’s hysteria after I’ve gone.
Well, it can’t be helped.
I leave Mum sipping her wine at the kitchen table and hurry over to the Barn. I cross the courtyard, carefully avoiding the section that Mr Tuesday has fenced off. The mosaic is starting to take shape. The missing astrological symbols are still absent, of course, but overall it looks tidier and brighter, with all the weeds gone and about a quarter of the damaged tiles replaced.
I hesitate outside the Barn. Through the window I can see Tyler, shovelling in the final forkful from a bowl of pasta. His free arm is resting on the kitchen table. The muscles under his T-shirt are clearly defined, even in the gentle glow of the indoor light.
I push down the longing that fills me. There’s no point me wishing Tyler would miraculously discover he likes me.
I hurry to the back door which is propped open with a shoe – presumably to let some air in. I give it a soft tap, then ease it open and peer into the room.
Hide and Secrets Page 8