Page 39 of Don't Believe A Word

Meena threw out her hands. ‘You just need to share your suspicions, or reservations, even the spooky bit … OK, maybe not that … with the listeners. They’ll lap it up.’

Knowing that to be true, Cristy said, ‘Connor and I have already laid something down on that score. I’m not sure yet where we’ll use it, a lot will depend on what we can uncover in the next couple of weeks, but it’s there as a kind of padding, if needed. There’s just no knowing if Lottie, through her writing, or in the chaos of stuff she left behind, has planted the truth of what really happened twenty-three years ago. Or if it’s all some kind of ruse to steer us in completely the wrong direction.’

After a beat, Meena said, tentatively, ‘Aren’t you going to Exmoor tomorrow?’

Surprised, Cristy said, ‘I had no idea you were so up to date with our schedule.’

‘Iz,’ Meena explained. ‘Anyway, I’m told you’re meeting the ex-housekeeperandher son who apparently remembers the sisters and the child. That’s got to be a good lead, something to give the story … stronger legs?’

Hoping so, Cristy said, ‘We’ve already googled Robert Brinkley and he’s …’

As she searched for the right word, Meena said, ‘Impressive?’

Cristy had to smile. ‘You’ve looked him up too?’

‘I had a spare few minutes earlier, and well, wow! Not what I was expecting, that’s for sure. Leading heart surgeon down under, regular assignments forMédecins Sans Frontières …And, I get this isn’t important, but you know me …’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘You have to admit, with those looks he could give Avan Jogia a run for his money.’

‘Who?’

Rolling her eyes, Meena said, ‘The Indian/English—’

‘Poet, yes, of course, who’s probably half Robert Brinkley’s age and isn’t he part Irish as well? But OK, I can see the similarity, especially around the eyes.’

‘Smouldering,’ Meena purred mischievously. ‘I was so mesmerized I was tempted to ask if I could tag along tomorrow, but I wouldn’t want to distract him.’

Laughing, Cristy said, ‘You are shameless, Meena Quinn.’

Meena grinned, and raised her glass. ‘What’s important,’ she said seriously, ‘is that I don’t think someone like Robert Brinkley would be giving you his time if he didn’t have something to say that matters.’

CHAPTER TEN

CRISTY: ‘Connor and I have just pulled up outside the Notley Arms in the quaint Exmoor village of Monksilver. If you’ve never been, do put it on your list, because it’s absolutely the best pub in the area, if not the county. It’s owned and run by Simon and Caroline who’ll give you the warmest of welcomes, and who doesn’t want one of those on days as freezing as this one?’

CONNOR: ‘The reason we’re here is to meet with Gita Brinkley, the Winters sisters’ housekeeper from twenty-three years ago, and her son, Robert. Apparently Gita has memories of the sisters from the time they rented a holiday home on Exmoor, but perhaps more crucially, she recalls the child who came to live with them.’

Pausing the recording, Connor said, ‘Do you think we need to make reference here to the box of “Sadie’s Things”? It kind of expels any doubt that she was the child, so I could say, “The child wenow knowto be Sadie.”’

Cristy shook her head slowly. ‘Let’s do a sound edit on that later.’ She was staring along the sunlit, puddled high street to where an elderly couple was coming out of a picturesque thatched cottage with an even older-looking dog. So many of the properties in this secluded valley, with its centuries-old church and cherished spot on the Coleridge Way footpath, could grace a chocolate box, and plenty could probably tell their own colourful stories of past owners and their secrets.

‘We should go in,’ Connor said, packing up the recording equipment and opening the car door. ‘They could already be here.’

Not entirely sure why she was feeling uneasy about this meeting – was it to do with a persistent sense of something not being right about the story, or simply because she hadn’t slept well last night – Cristy got out of the car and followed Connor into the pub.

The instant they walked in to be greeted loudly and exuberantly by Simon, the wonderfully eccentric ex-prison governor, now landlord, her misgivings seemed to fade.

‘Come in, come in, my lovelies,’ he cried, pulling them both into fulsome hugs. ‘Great to see you. You’re looking very well. Caroline should be down any minute, and your guests are already waiting by the fire around the corner. Now, what can I get you to drink?’

‘I’ll start with something hot,’ Cristy decided.

‘Toddy or tea?’

‘How about coffee, black? And Connor’s been gagging all the way for a pint of Exmoor ale.’

‘Coming right up.’

Hefting his heavy bag onto one shoulder Connor led the way round to where a well-stocked log burner was throwing out heavenly warmth and all tables bar the one next to it were empty. ‘Hey! You must be Robert,’ he cried enthusiastically, as if he and the man turning to greet him had met plenty of times before, rather than over just one phone call yesterday. ‘Andyouhave to be Gita! No, please don’t get up.’

Cristy winced; Gita was in a wheelchair, although he presumably meant Robert who was already on his feet.

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