Page 139 of The Love Letter
Panic crossed Margaret’s face as she saw Marcus. ‘Is he . . . safe?’
‘Perfectly,’ Simon nodded. ‘A case of mistaken identity, nothing more. Could I have the keys to Miss Haslam’s room? We’re concerned for her. She didn’t get on the flight at Cork airport this evening.’
‘Of course. I haven’t touched it yet, so. It’s been too busy in here.’ Margaret handed Simon the key.
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll come up with you,’ Marcus said, as he bounded ahead of Simon up the stairs.
Simon unlocked Joanna’s room and went about methodically checking the usual places, while Marcus began sweeping up objects haphazardly. Finding nothing, Marcus sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. ‘Come on, Jo, where are you?’
Simon’s eyes caught the wastepaper basket. He emptied the contents onto the floor and fished out a tightly balled piece of paper. Flattening it out, he deciphered the text.
‘She’s gone to meet a woman,’ Simon said, ‘in a pink cottage opposite the house in the bay.’
‘Who . . . where . . . ?’
‘Marcus, I’ll sort this out. You stay here, keep out of trouble and I’ll see you later.’
‘Wait—’ But before Marcus could finish, Simon was through the door and gone.
Simon drove along the causeway to the estuary as Margaret had instructed, and found Ciara Deasy’s cottage, standing alone overlooking the sandbanks and the ominous black shape of the house in the bay. He jumped out of the car and walked towards the door.
33
Joanna stood in the room, as still as the walls around her. The room was bare, stripped by unknown hands of everything it had ever contained.
She shone the torch onto the ground, looking at the thick wooden floorboards, and walked towards the window facing Ciara’s cottage. She crouched down, pulling at a floorboard with her hands. It crunched, then came free easily. Joanna gulped as she heard a sudden scratching, a patter of small paws scurrying away.
Settling herself down on the floor, her fingers numb with cold, she pulled at another rotten board, which put up little resistance as the damp air filled with dust and wood splinters. As she shone her torch into the gap beneath, she saw the gleam of a rusted tin. She snatched it up, her shaking fingers straining to prise open the lid.
Then she heard the footsteps outside the door. They were slow and measured, as if the owner of the feet was commanding them to move forward as quietly as they could. On instinct, Joanna dropped the tin back into its hiding place, switched off her torch and froze. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run to. Her hands reached for a broken floorboard, her breathing coming in short, sharp gasps as she heard the door creak open.
Simon stepped inside the pink cottage and saw the sitting room was empty. The fire had died, leaving only a pile of glowing embers. He opened the latch door into the kitchen. There was an enamel sink with a pump above it and a pantry containing a collection of tinned vegetables, half a loaf of soda bread, some butter and cheese.
The back door took him outside to a lavatory. Simon walked back through the sitting room and mounted the stairs. The door at the top was shut. He tapped on it gently, fearful of frightening the old lady out of her wits if she was asleep. He tapped louder, considering she might be deaf. Still there was no reply. Simon pulled up the latch and opened the door. The room was in darkness.
‘Miss Deasy?’ he whispered into the ether. He felt for the torch in his pocket and switched it on. Seeing there was a shape in the bed, Simon walked towards it, leant over and shone the torch onto the face. The mouth was open and slack, and a pair of green eyes stared unblinkingly back at him.
Simon found a light switch and turned it on, his heart heavy with dread. Checking for signs of bruising or a wound on the body, he found none, but the terror – fixed for eternity in the eyes – told Simon their own story. This was not death by natural causes, but the work of an expert.
Joanna heard the feet enter the room. It was pitch-black, but by the heaviness of the tread, she knew it was a man who was approaching her. A beam of light shone suddenly and brightly into her eyes. She raised the floorboard and swung at the air in front of her.
‘Woah! Lucy?’
The feet came towards her, the torchlight burning into her retinas. She swung again.
‘Please! Stop! Stop! Lucy, it’s me, it’s Kurt. Calm down, I won’t hurt you, honest.’
It took a while for her brain to break through the blinding fear and recognise that, yes, this was a voice she knew. Her hands shaking violently, she dropped the floorboard, and lifted her own torch to shine the light on his face.
‘Wh-what are you doing . . . h-here?’ She was shivering, her teeth chattering from fear and cold.
‘I’m sorry to have startled you, honey. I was just concerned about you, that’s all. You seemed . . . a little jumpy when I saw you earlier. So I followed you down here to make sure you were okay.’
‘You followed me?’
‘Jeez, Lu, you’re soaked. You’re gonna catch your death. Here.’ Kurt placed his torch on the floor, then reached into a pocket and took out a flask. ‘Drink some of this.’ He stepped forward, then seized the back of her head suddenly and forced the flask to her lips. She pursed her mouth to stop the disgusting liquid from entering, and it splashed down her shirt.
