Which was technically true, just not the town she might assume.
What’s up? x
Callum’s year are doing futuristic day at school tomorrow so can you get a load of tinfoil and silver spray paint or something? Will bodge something up later. x
I text back a thumbs-up. The school seemed to do one of these days every few months and it was always a mad rush to get something made for one or other of the kids to wear. I grab the things for Callum’s school costume from a Tesco Express—tinfoil, glue, silver duct tape, and magic markers—and head back to the car.
The drive back into the city goes quickly as I mull over everything Max told me about her missing husband, trying totease out the connection between Adrian and my house. His friends, and what little family he had at the time, had been in Kimberley. He’d gone to school in Eastwood, the neighboring town. He had worked in Nottingham, but on a big industrial estate in Beeston Rylands—nowhere near The Park.
I had driven out this morning in search of answers, but found more questions instead.
The curiosity is like a drug, an intoxicating itch that I can’tquitescratch.
Back in the city, I crawl along Castle Boulevard in stop-start traffic until I can finally turn left onto Peveril Drive and join a short queue of cars at the access gate, each driver waiting for the green light to show the barrier has dropped. A largeSTOPsign painted on the road is echoed by another at eye level, alongside more capital letter instructions:
RESIDENTS ONLY
ANPR IN USE FOR ACCESS
NO TAILGATING
I inch the car forward, waiting while the automatic number plate recognition system scans the front of the car, before the steel bollard depresses flat and the light turns green. I’m still new enough to the neighborhood for there to be a little novelty to it, at being able to use a road I’ve only ever driven past before. Although the entrances to the estate on the north side and to the east—by the castle—always seem to be open, so I’m still not really sure why they limit access here on the south side. To stop people cutting through, I suppose, and reduce traffic in general.
I pull away over the twenty-miles-per-hour speed limit sign painted on the road, ease over the speed bump, and head up the gentle gradient of Peveril Drive into the heart of The Park estate.Mature trees line a wide road of handsome Victorian houses, each in its own generous plot of space, and I’m struck again by a sense of unreality that we’ve ended up here. This strange enclave in the middle of the city, with its access gates andRESIDENTS ONLYsigns, all of it overlooked by the pale stone of the castle further up the hill.
I make the turn onto Regency Place and I’m about to call Dom on the hands-free, to see if he’s heard anything from his police contact yet. But the words die in my throat as I turn into the driveway of my house.
A man is staring into the lounge window, hands cupped against the glass.
He turns as I pull up, raising a large hand in my direction.
He’s easily six foot three, a few inches taller than me, shoulders straining against a navy bomber jacket and a gray V-neck that accentuates the swell of his chest. One hand clasps the strap of a backpack over his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” I grab the Tesco shopping bag from the passenger seat and lock the car. “Are you looking for someone?”
“Hi,” he says, his stubble-thick face breaking into a smile. “Sorry to bother you. Is this a bad time?”
“That depends.”
He smiles. “Of course.”
There’s no lanyard around his thick neck, no indication that he’s selling anything or collecting sign-ups for a charity. I keep the keys in my right hand as I walk across the drive.
“Sorry,” I say, remembering the way I had surprised Max on her doorstep just a few hours ago. “I don’t really buy on the doorstep, as a rule, but if you’ve got a leaflet or something you can leave…”
“It’s OK, I’m not selling anything.” He hitches the strap of the backpack a little higher up his large shoulder. “But I wonder if you have a couple of minutes? I think you can help me with something and I’d really appreciate it. My name’s Shaun, by the way.”
He’s good-looking in a rugby-player kind of way, with his square jaw and uncomplicated face. His voice is heavy and deep, a local accent but not strong.
“Help you with what?” I say. “We’re a bit busy at the moment—we’ve just moved in and still trying to get the house straight.”
“I know, that’s kind of why I’m here.”
“Really?”
“I spoke to the estate agent and he said it would be OK to drop around.”
I frown. “You spoke to Jeremy?”
