There had been something about her father’s stance that day, something about the intensity of the way that he gazed at Alice that had scared Marnie. She had turned and scuttled away without him ever realising she was there.

* * *

When Lucy was finished in the stables, she and Marnie returned to the cottage together. Lucy went upstairs to run a bath and Marnie went into the kitchen. She deduced from the debris that her daughter and her father had made cheesy beans on toast for lunch. Tiny yellow curls of grated cheese were on the counter top and in the well of the hob. Three empty beer cans were lined up beside the sink.

She tidied up, filled the kettle and went to the living-room door.

Her father was sitting in the easy chair watching a quiz show on television with the volume turned up painfully high. TT was curled in the corner of the settee. He pricked an ear, opened an eye to look at Marnie and his tail thumped against the cushion but otherwise he didn’t move.

‘David Moyes!’ Marnie’s father yelled at the TV, leaning forward in his chair, beer can in hand. ‘The answer’s David Moyes!’

‘Who’s David Moyes?’ Lucy called from the landing, laughing.

Marnie pushed the door shut and leaned against it. The noise! She closed her eyes for a moment, and returned to the kitchen. The kettle boiled and switched itself off. Marnie opened the fridge, took out a can of Thatchers Gold and popped the tab. She took a drink and then opened the drawer where she kept her special things. She reached her hand into the drawer for the photograph of Alice on the carousel but at that instant she heard Lucy say: ‘Mum?’ behind her.

Marnie turned and pushed the drawer shut with her hip.

43

The first raindrops fell hard, slicing from a glowering sky, bouncing on the pavement. In his attempts to avoid John Morahan, Will had gone further than he’d meant to. He was a long way from the town. He quickened his pace, keeping his head down, his hands in his pockets. As he ploughed through the downpour a large, pale-coloured car pulled up alongside, and the window was automatically lowered from inside. The driver leaned across, towards him.

It was Edward deVillars. Will expected a rebuke, but the old man spoke in a friendly voice.

‘Will? Where are you going?’

‘Er… Bradshaw’s. Mr Bradshaw’s guesthouse.’

‘I’ll give you a lift. We’re both heading in the same direction and you’re getting soaked. Hop in.’

Will hesitated. He didn’t feel comfortable at the prospect of spending time with Mr deVillars, but good manners and a lifetime of deferring to the man made it difficult to refuse.

‘Hurry up, old chap, or the rain will mark the leather.’

Will opened the door and climbed in.