‘Daft as a brush, isn’t he?’ she said with some satisfaction.

‘Have you seen his son recently? Mr Donald Maguire? Has he been here within – say – the last six weeks?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘No. I know him, though. Nice-looking bloke. Such a charming man.’ She looked at him and he could see her thinking unlike you. ‘He used to come every week, regular. You can check the visitors’ book over there if you like.’ She pointed to a table near the desk.

‘Thanks,’ said Farmer, and went over there. He leafed back through the book and found the last entry in Donny’s handwriting was a month back. Before that, she was right – it was every week. After that – nothing.

He went back to the reception desk. ‘Did Mr Maguire always come here alone?’ he asked, expecting that she’d blank him.

‘Mostly, yeah. But . . . oh, hold on. Once he brought a woman with him.’

‘A woman?’

‘Long time ago, this was. Years back. She was pretty. Blonde. And she seemed upset. Like she didn’t want to be here.’

‘When was this? Exactly?’

‘Exactly?’ The nurse puffed out her cheeks. ‘I couldn’t say. But maybe – what? – twenty years? Makes you wonder, don’t it, how Mr Maguire could afford to keep his dad here all this time. Must be a wealthy man, that one.’

‘This woman, she didn’t sign in the visitors’ book?’ He was thinking that it was a wonder, how Donny could have afforded all this on a copper’s wages.

‘No, I’m sure she didn’t. Only Mr Maguire did that. She stood here, by the desk. She looked like she wanted to make a run for it out the door, but she didn’t. That’s why I remember her. Because of the way she looked, the way she was behaving. The old books are destroyed. We keep them for a couple of years, tops.’

Farmer gave her a smile. ‘You’ve been very helpful, thank you.’

113

Sooner or later Angel supposed they would have to get back to reality, but for now this was bliss. They island-hopped over to Crete, then to Rhodes. They drank retsina, ate too much, and Angel began to wonder if England even existed any more. Lenny chartered a boat and crew, and they sailed to Majorca, then anchored off a beautiful cove called Camp de Mar.

They ate calamari at the restaurant out on the pier, then walked ashore along low wooden planking suspended over turquoise-blue water. Tiny fish darted under their feet. They picked up a taxi that took them up to a villa overlooking the bay, a Spanish-style delight with dazzling white arches draped with red bougainvillea, an infinity pool and maid service.

‘Do you own this place?’ asked Angel. She stood and stared out over the ocean, thinking that no one could afford a place like this.

‘Yeah. I do.’

She turned and looked at him. ‘What did you say your business was?’