Page 109 of Worse Than Murder
‘Precisely. Although I did have a perm in the early nineties. Maybe that put him off. So, why is Travis missing, then? Is he dead?’
A thought springs to mind. ‘Unless the sightings of Jack are really sightings of Travis. How old would he be now? Mid-fifties? If he’s been living rough all this time, he’s going to look older. He could look like how people might expect Jack to look and not everyone realised Travis was missing. To all intents and purposes, he left the village and returned home.’
‘And Travis would have unfinished business as he’s angry with Iain for driving him out in the first place,’ Tania says. ‘But why now, after thirty years? You know, I’d love to find out what really happened on the night of the storm all those years ago.’
‘There is one person we can ask.’
‘Who?’
‘The person who was there. Alison.’
‘Will she really remember, all this time later?’
‘I’m not sure. But there is an interview technique we can try.’
Idrive to the edge of Lake Windermere. I sit on the opposite side to where Travis’s car was pulled out. It’s quiet. The only sound comes from the birds in the trees and the ripple as the water laps the shore. It’s calming, soothing and I can feel myself relaxing. The great outdoors is a tranquil place. In Sheffield, I go from home to the office and back again. I live right on the edge of the Peak District National Park but never take advantage of what it has to offer. That needs to change. I need fresh air and open space. It really does clear the mind. Sitting here, like this, taking in the beauty of nature, my mind is almost blank.
Almost. But not quite.
Would it be fair to interrogate Alison Pemberton? She was only five at the time her father disappeared. She wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on while the storm was raging. Is it possible there is something locked away in her memory that can reveal the truth?
‘I was told I’d find you here.’
I know that voice.
I don’t move. I feel the emotion rise up inside me.
I know that voice.
It can’t be. Can it?
Slowly, I stand up and turn around. I’m looking at a ghost standing by the Porsche.
‘Adele?’ I ask, softly, disbelievingly.
‘Hello, Matilda.’
Oh my God, it’s her. She’s come back. I try to smile but the tears won’t let me. I look at my best friend. I take in the change in her appearance. She’s thinner. Her hair is longer. She’s tanned. She’s wearing a dress. She’s a mirage, surely. She’s in Sierra Leone.
‘Is that… is it really you?’
‘Sian called me. She told me everything that’s happened. I’m so sorry.’
Adele walks slowly towards me. I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming. It’s not until she puts her arms around me, pulls me to her and holds me tight that I know it’s real. It’s familiar. She’s hugged me many times in the past. I know an Adele hug when I feel one. The familiarity causes my body to relax and releases the tears. Adele is crying, too. We both are. We can’t stop.
* * *
We sit at the edge of the lake. Adele has her legs outstretched; her dress pulled up beyond her knees to catch the sun. I have my legs drawn up, hugging my knees.
‘It’s not like you to run away,’ she says.
‘If I’d stayed, who knows what I would have done.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.’
I shake my head. ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for. You were looking after yourself as you’ve every right to do.’
‘We’ve both been through the shit over the last few years, haven’t we?’
