It was seven o’clock and Nathan was putting the last bolt in place. I offered him a glass of wine; the relaxed easy company felt good. He was about to start packing up his kit when he dropped his bombshell.

‘I did some work for a Mr Dawson. Yes, Mitch Dawson, I think it was. Not far from here. Winton Crescent, I think.’ At this point I stared down at a second hole which had appeared on Nathan’s other sock. The right big toe wiggled free from its confines. I was about to take a sip of my wine but hesitated and set the glass down before I spoke.

‘That must have been just before Christmas. Mitch said he’d had a new lock fitted.’

‘Yes. He was worried about burglaries. Apparently someone had tried to break in a couple of times. I tried to sell him an alarm but he thought that was a bit over the top. This wine’s good. French?’

My mind buzzed with the new information. Mitch hadn’t changed the locks to keep me out. He hadn’t tried to make my surprise appearances more difficult. Perhaps he really had been worried about break-ins. Perhaps I had been over neurotic, insecure. But then again, would he have shared his reasons with the locksmith?

‘Thanks for the drink. I’d better get off. Hope you feel safer now.’

As Nathan packed up, re-laced his boots and disappeared down into the street, a glimmer of hope peeked back through the clouds. The matter of the keys could have been one big misunderstanding. Why had I doubted Mitch so much? I still didn’t know what had happened, or what to believe, but I was starting to think my boyfriend’s disappearance might not have had anything to do with me after all.

28

Rebecca

It was early May when James announced that his wife and kids were going to France for a few days; to visit her mother apparently.

‘At last we can spend some quality time together,’ he said. He’d been waiting for this moment.

I arrived at the gallery early one morning with a small overnight bag.

‘Hi. Going somewhere nice?’ Oliver was collating accounts and glanced up when I entered.

‘You’re early,’ I said. I casually placed the small bag under my desk. ‘I’m going for a spa weekend with Jodi,’ I lied, as I hung my coat on the stand.

‘Lucky you. Sounds fun. I was going to ask if you fancied dinner but it looks as if I’ll have to wait.’ He pulled a sulky expression, using humour to bolster my belief that he was happy to be no more than friends, but it didn’t work. He was pretending. Although my affair with James deflected my more macabre thoughts away from Oliver, underneath the dormant volcano rumbled on.