‘Sorry, this number is out of service.’
I curse and throw the phone on the bed. He’s likely already destroyed the SIM card and dumped the phone. I suppose I could sit around here and wait for him to contact me again. Or I could take the initiative, get on the front foot. I wasn’t sure of a surname for Mia’s grandparents, but I could start with Clifton and see where that led. I remember a favourite quote of one of the instructors at the Royal Naval College, who taught the leadership element of the officers’ course.A good plan, vigorously executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week.The words have always stuck in my memory for some reason. It’s better to crack on with what you have, rather than waiting and waiting for everything to line up in perfect order. Do I evenhavea good plan? Maybe not, but I’m certainly not going to sit around in a hotel room waiting for my phone to ring. I grab my keys and coat and head out.
*
As I drive north out of London, I turn the question over in my head. Did I mean what I said to Dominic, when I agreed to talk to Mia’s grandparents? Was I just saying whatever I needed to say, to get away from him in one piece? Maybe. But beneath that there is something else. I want to know if what he said is true, to judge for myself if Mia is safe. I told Dominic I would talk to them – and I will. To warn them. All I have to do is find her.
Prestwood Ash is a small, picture-perfect Chiltern village nestled in a shallow valley. Huge oaks and horse chestnut trees tower on both sides of the road as I approach, branches touching overhead as if I am driving through a dark, forested tunnel. The satnav announces that I’ve reached the village, a speed limit sign urging drivers to stick to twenty miles an hour, the trees giving way to hedgerows, then walls and fences, then a neat village green with large houses set back behind gates and walls. I drive around for a few minutes, taking it slowly, getting a feel for the place. Three and four cars on shaded driveways, Range Rovers and Mercedes, Audis and a couple of Aston Martins. A tennis court in the garden of one house, a triple garage next door, an outdoor pool covered for the winter; landscaped lawns and tall wrought iron gates. Everything about it saysmoney.
It’s not quite what I had envisaged. I thought there would be somewhere I could go, a meeting place with people I could ask. But there is no pub, no post office, no starting place for a conversation that might lead me to the right house. I even thought I might catch sight of Mia through a window, maybe in a pushchair being taken for a walk. But it’s almost six o’clock on a Friday evening and a sharp autumn shower from the darkening skies seems to have cleared the streets of people, if there were even any out in the first place. Maybe this isn’t the kind of place where you walk even when the sun’s shining. I circle the village twice, driving in and out of the long main road before doing a U-turn in a farmer’s track and going back through, looking for a car seat strapped into a car, a stroller in a porch, a glimpse through a window. Nothing.
An elderly man walking a dog emerges from the woods at the end of the lane. I wait for him to come level with my car and buzz my window down.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘I’m a bit lost, could you help me? I’m looking for the Clifton house.’
His eyes narrow slightly, the lines of his face pinching into a frown as he clocks me for an outsider. He bends awkwardly down to my window.
‘Who?’
I repeat the question and his frown deepens.
‘Sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘Can’t help you.’
Turning around again, I drive back up the main street and pull over next to a teenage boy on a bike. He’s maybe thirteen or fourteen, leaning on his handlebars and intent on the screen of his mobile phone, and he barely removes one earpod for long enough to listen to my question before shaking his headnoand putting it back into his ear.
A single street lamp flickers hesitantly into life, throwing a narrow wash of pale light that only serves to emphasise how dark the rest of the street has become as night falls. I’m starting to get the feeling that Prestwood Ash is one of those places you see on the news sometimes, the kind of place whereeveryone keeps themselves to themselves, where you might know your immediate neighbours to say hello to but not many beyond that. No pub to bump into people, no shop to trade gossip at the till, most residents happy to stay cocooned inside their own little bubbles of wealth, with their walls and gates and gravel driveways. I take out my phone and google the village name again in frustration. This isdefinitelythe place. One of these houses. There can’t be more than a few dozen here, fifty at most. But which one? I get out of my car and go to the nearest gate, a driveway leading up to a large whitewashed house with a thatched roof.
I press the buzzer and a woman’s voice barks a single word in response.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, I wonder if you can help me, I’m looking for—’
‘Not interested, thank you.’
The intercom clicks again: the conversation is over. I walk down to the next gate, the next intercom, press the buzzer. A dazzling halogen security light comes on, half-blinding me, but there is no answer at all from inside the house. The next one has never heard the name Clifton and the occupant of the one after that – an older man by the sound of him, with a thin, reedy voice like a frightened bird – threatens to call the police if I press the bell again.
It’s almost fully dark now, windy, wet and cold out – all factors working against me, against the stranger at the gate. I could keep knocking on doors in the hope of striking lucky or finding someone who knows Kathryn’s family. But almost all of these houses have gates with intercoms, cameras and keypads to keep visitors at arms’ length. I get a strong sense that the residents of Prestwood Ash are pulling curtains and locking doors, hunkering down, shutting themselves up in their multimillion pound houses for the night. But there’s still a little time left. I’ve got to try.
I’m starting up another tree-shaded driveway when I register the sound of rapid footsteps behind me. A heavy, unfriendly tap on my shoulder. A man’s voice.
‘Hey!’ the voice says. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
47
I turn and recognise him instantly. Tall and heavily built with a sleeve of tattoos visible through his white shirt, dark hair cropped close to his scalp. Kathryn’s boyfriend, Max, faces me at the head of the driveway.
‘I asked you a question,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Trying to find someone.’
He stands close,tooclose, pure aggression in the set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin. ‘You are one of them, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
‘A reporter.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Trying to stir up shit and print lies about people.’
‘I’m not a reporter. We met the other day, remember?’
