It’s a text from Dennis.
I am sorry for not replying earlier, he says, rather formally.I wasn’t at home yesterday. I have spoken to the police and all is good now. Dennis.
He couldn’t have gone far yesterday as I remember seeing his car in his driveway. I wonder why he hasn’t given me any further information about Harry.
My mind turns again to Robert Falkner and the lighter and I decide to call Rachel.
She answers in that booming voice of hers. I can hear the familiar ringing of phones and murmur of voices behind her and I feel a sudden, sharp pang of regret that I’m not there. I’d give anything to be back in the newsroom again. It already feels like a lifetime ago since I was there, despite it only being last month. Being out of work is giving me too much time to obsess about Dorothea, her death and the past. Not to mention my relationships with Josh and Alison, both of which feel like they are crumbling – not that Alison and I have been close for a long time. I suppose, if I’m being honest with myself, the same can be said about me and Josh.
I explain about the biography. ‘I’m wondering if this Robert – Bobby – was abusive. What if he was the one who murdered Dorothea?’
‘So the lighter could belong to him? Not Rosemary after all?’
‘It makes sense. He smoked, according to the biography.’
I can hear her tapping on the keyboard. I notice a man walking through the kissing gate. He doesn’t have a dog with him so I call Solly over to me. On hearing my voice his eyes slide towards us and then he turns away and continues trudging across the field, hands in his pockets. He’s older, around Dennis’s age, and tall with a mop of grey hair. He’s dressed in a navy-blue wool coat, a maroon scarf wrapped up to his chin. He tucks his head down as he passes me. Usually when I’m out walking with Solly passers-by will call out a cheery hello, especially if they have dogs with them. Yet this man avoids eye contact and hurries away from us towards the Bath skyline.
I turn my attention back to Rachel. ‘Do you think you could find out where this Robert Falkner is living now? I’ve called DI Shirley to tell her about his existence but she hasn’t called me back.’ I follow Solly across the field, wrapping Dorothea’s scarf further around my neck. The wind is biting up here.
‘Yes, I’ll have a look and see what I can find out.’ She clicks her tongue, a habit she has when she’s thinking. ‘Falkner … hmmm. That’s interesting. Dorothea has birds on her sculpture.’
‘Yes, and in her art in general,’ I say. ‘Dorothea was born Dorothy Bird.’
‘That must explain it. And Falkner, of course.’
‘Falkner?’
‘Yes. Doesn’t it derive from falconer? Someone who trained falcons?’
I frown. The thought had never occurred to me. I always think of William Faulkner, although I know that’s spelled differently. ‘But they’re magpies, not falcons.’
‘Hmmm. Anyway, leave it with me. I’ll see if I can find out where this Robert Falkner lives now.’
‘I’ve tried googling him and nothing. Would be good to find out if he has any family still alive.’
‘I’m on it. Have you mentioned the sculpture to DI Shirley yet?’
A pang of guilt. ‘Not yet. I know I should. If this ex-husband ends up being the one to have murdered Dorothea then I’ll tell her about the sculpture. It’s just … I know Dorothea is trying to tell me something.’
‘Are you overthinking it, Immy? Don’t take this the wrong way, but if Dorothea really wanted you to know her secrets, wouldn’t she have written to you? Left you a letter somewhere? Maybe a diary? Would she really have made a sculpture with hidden clues? It all seems a bit … Sherlock Holmes.’
Doubt sets in. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I keep coming back to the hidden key and the whatthreewords. Perhaps she was worried a letter would get into the wrong hands, or didn’t trust that it wouldn’t get destroyed? Who knows.’
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call. I walk slowly back to the villa, thinking about what Rachel said. I picture Dorothea’s study and all those empty box files. Is that why someone emptied them? Had she left a letter for me? I guess I’ll never know.
When I get home I make myself a cup of tea and then google Clayton Rocks, where Dorothea grew up. A Wikipedia page comes up with the history of the town and the notable persons who lived there. I’m happy to see that Dorothea’s name is on the short list, but there is nobody else I recognize.
And then, under nearby places, I notice a name. Magpie Hill. I click on the link and see that it’s a set of hills famous for hiking. It’s only a twenty-minute walk from Clayton Rocks. A burst of excitement hits as I pull up the photographs of the hidden sculpture. Yes, the woman in the sculpture is wearing hiking boots. Surely that must mean something?
An idea forms. It’s a bit of a long shot but it’s worth it. I check my watch. It’s not yet midday, plenty of time before Josh gets home to do a bit of door knocking. I grab the biography, turning to the pages I’ve just been reading about Dorothea’s marriage and find the street in Clayton Rocks where she lived with Bobby. I still have my press pass and I tuck it into my pocket. I check train times. There is a train every half an hour from Bath Spa to Clayton Rocks which apparently takes twenty-five minutes. I book a return on the app and then call a taxi to the station. I decide to take Solly with me. He might soften people up and then they might be more willing to talk.
36
Dorothea
Sixteen Years and Seven Months Before
Ruth and Imogen Cooke stood on her front step like two defeated, traumatized refugees from a war-torn country with their suitcases and bags. There was fear and wariness in the young girl’s eyes, but Ruth’s face was set determinedly despite the arm in a sling: a broken collarbone thanks to that brute of a husband.
