‘Someone will know. They always do. But watch your back. It won’t be long before they track you down.’
‘I’m going, Alec. I’ll call you when I get back to London.’
‘Okay, Jo. Make sure you do. Take care now.’
For several minutes, Joanna sat paralysed on the bed, thinking that so far this year, she’d lost her boyfriend, most of her possessions, her best friend, and now her job. Contrary to what Alec thought, she still had a lot more left to lose.
‘Like my life,’ she muttered to herself.
Five minutes later, she had picked up her holdall, locked the door behind her and was walking downstairs.
‘You off, so?’ chirped Margaret from behind reception.
‘Yes.’ Joanna handed Margaret her credit card. ‘Thanks for making my stay so pleasant.’
‘Not at all. Hope you’ll be back to see us again soon.’
Joanna signed the credit-card slip Margaret handed her.
‘There you go. Bye, Margaret, and thanks.’ She picked up her holdall and walked to the door.
‘Joanna, you weren’t expecting anyone to come visit you here, were you?’
‘Why? Did somebody call me?’
‘No.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘Safe journey home, and mind yourself.’
‘I will.’
Joanna stowed the holdall in the boot of the Fiesta, then drove out of the square and down towards the estuary. As she indicated left and waited for a car to pass, she noticed a small, single-storey pink cottage, standing solitary on the opposite side of the estuary to the coastguard’s house. The two dwellings were no more than fifty yards apart across the sandbanks. Joanna hesitated for a moment, shook her head in resignation, then indicated right. If she was fast, she could still make her flight. She didn’t notice the car behind her also change direction and follow some distance behind as the Fiesta drove down the narrow road.
‘Come in,’ said a voice from inside, when she knocked on the front door. She did as she’d been bid. The small front room she’d stepped into was rustic, reminiscent of another era. A healthy fire burnt in the large grate, a black kettle hung above it on a chain. The sparse wooden furniture was shabby, and the only adornments on the walls were a large crucifix and a yellowing print of the Madonna and Child.
Ciara Deasy was sitting on a high-backed wooden chair on one side of the fire. Her face had settled into soft wrinkles, indicating that she was somewhere between seventy and eighty. Her white hair was cut into a savage short back and sides, and as she stood to greet Joanna, her legs did not betray a whisper of unsteadiness.
‘The lady from the hotel?’ Ciara shook Joanna’s hand firmly.
‘Joanna Haslam,’ she confirmed.
‘Sit down,’ Ciara said, indicating a chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Now, tell me, why would ye be wanting to know about the coastguard’s house?’
‘Miss Deasy, it’s a long story.’
‘They’re my favourite kind. And call me Ciara, now, will you? “Miss Deasy” makes me sound like an old maid. Which I am, there’s no denying it,’ she cackled.
‘Well, I’m a journalist and I’m here investigating someone called Michael O’Connell. It just might be that when he returned to England, he was known as someone completely different.’
Ciara’s eyes sharpened. ‘I’d be knowing he went by the name of Michael, but I never knew his second name. And yer not wrong about him changing his name.’
‘You knew he used a different identity?’
‘Joanna, I’ve known since I was eight years old. Nigh on seventy years is a long time to be called a liar, an inventor of fairy stories. The village has thought I’ve lost my wits since, but of course I haven’t. I’m as sane as you.’
‘And do you by any chance know if “Michael” has any association with the coastguard’s house?’
‘He stayed there while he was sick. They wanted him hidden away till he was better.’
‘You met him?’
