He leans on folded arms against the varnished wood of the bar.
‘Kathrynwhat?’
I start to wonder if this was the wrong place to start. I’ll try the other pub next, The Crown, then the post office, if there is one.
‘She’s probably early twenties?’ I say. ‘Blonde, maybe five foot five? Could have sworn she said she lived here in the village.’
He starts shaking his head and is about to speak again when the young barmaid cuts him off.
‘D’you mean Kathryn Clifton?’ she says. ‘Skinny, pretty?’
‘That sounds like her. Don’t suppose you’ve got her number, have you? I could give her a ring, drop the bag over to her on the way to my meeting.’
The girl shakes her head. ‘Haven’t got her number.’
‘Is there someone who might—’
‘But she only lives around the corner.’ She gestures with a thumb.
My pulse ticks up a notch. The barmaid is about to say more, then sees the landlord giving her daggers and the words die on her lips.
‘I can drop the bag around to her,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind, honestly. If you just point me in the right direction, I can go.’ I give him a smile. ‘Do my good deed for the day.’
‘We’ll make sure it gets back to her,’ the landlord grunts. ‘It’s no bother.’
‘Really, I don’t mind. I’ve got time before—’
‘You a journalist?’ he says suddenly, his expression darkening.
‘What? No.’ I try to adjust to this sudden change of direction. ‘I’m just . . . someone she met on the train.’
‘Because that family’s had more than enough with journalists spreading their shit around trying to sell papers, if you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t really read a lot of papers,’ I say. ‘And I promise you, I’m not a journalist.’
‘Still, probably best if you don’t go knocking on doors,’ he says, all traces of warmth gone from his voice now. ‘Not after what happened to her sister.’
‘OK, thanks.’ I hand the bag over the bar to him. ‘Who’s her sister?’
Without asking, he reaches out, snatches the handbag and stows it away under the bar, out of sight. He ignores my question.
‘And your name is?’
‘Ellen,’ I say. ‘Ellen Devlin. Tell Kathryn I said hello.’
I take my Diet Coke to a side table by the door and sit with it for ten minutes, pretending to be absorbed in my phone. If they’re going to return the bag to her, now would be the time, before the lunch-time rush kicks off. If theyhavea lunch-time rush. But neither the landlord nor the barmaid are going anywhere, although the landlord catches my eye a couple of times as if he’s still trying to get the measure of me.
My drink finished, I walk out of the Red Lion and back to my car. I’m parked on the street with a good view of the front of the pub, next to an old-style red phone box. A tractor passes, huge tyres thick with mud, squeezing between parked cars and the pavement in a rumble of diesel. Five minutes later, the barmaid appears with the garish purple-and-black handbag slung over her shoulder, thumbs moving over the screen of her phone. I slide down further in the driving seat but she doesn’t even look up, just turns towards the centre of the village and sets off down the footpath. I watch her progress as she walks away. I could follow her on foot but it would be conspicuous in this sleepy Buckinghamshire village on a Thursday morning. The car is a marginally better option.
Little Missenden has two main streets that meet at a staggered crossroads. I turn the car’s ignition and wait to see which way the barmaid will turn, watching her amble down the path, still absorbed in her phone. Once away from the pub she stops, checks over her shoulder and then casually unzips the bag, fingering quickly through the contents, taking things out and putting them back again. She takes out the purse and unzips it, checks up and down the street again, opens all its pockets and flaps. Frowns, drops it back in the bag and zips it shut again. Keeps on walking.
She reaches the crossroads and turns left, disappearing from sight. I put the car in gear and pull out to follow her.
25
Leon
When he was out, Leon wore two pairs of gloves: long fingerless gloves over translucent skin-tight latex underneath. It was hard to see the latex pair unless someone was really close up, and Leon didn’t let people get too close. At his own place he just wore the latex but it was better to disguise them when he was out – and in any case he preferred to leave no trace of himself behind. Better to move through the world like a ghost.
