sympathetic mutter and a
shake of the head before the reader flipped over to the celebrity gossip printed on the following pages. The idea was illogical, but he still looked.
He now drew no conclusions about Rachel’s personality: it did not jump from the canvas the way it seemed to from Kimberly’s portrait. Who Rachel was – or maybe who Kimberly
thought she was – wasn’t on display. But the moment seemed real enough, not an imaginary scene like the one on the punt.
‘And did you paint this from a photograph?’
‘No, sort of from memory. I started it that same night.’ She could tell that puzzled him. ‘I mean the night we were in that bar. She was drinking but I was sober, so I saw her
at various stages during the evening. There was this moment’ – she tapped the canvas – ‘that moment in fact, when she seemed to be in the perfect place. We shared a flat
then, and I stayed up ’til dawn making sketches. I went into her room and copied her nose and mouth while she was asleep. Those were the bits I couldn’t do properly from
memory.’
She took the canvas from him before he’d finished looking.
‘Was that in Cambridge?’ he asked. ‘I don’t recognize the background.’
‘Artistic licence,’ she replied, and said it quickly and lightly. And immediately he wondered if she was being sarcastic or telling a lie. She obviously heard it in her own voice,
too, and corrected herself. ‘We were in Spain for a while.’
‘Working?’
‘Yeah, it started as a holiday, then we decided to stay on.’ Kimberly paused then put more emphasis on the start of the next sentence. ‘I painted Rachel quite often.’ It
seemed a clumsy change of subject.
Kimberly’s front door was fitted with a bell but no knocker, so the only alternative to ringing was to push the hinged letterbox open and let it spring shut again, with an abrupt
snap-snap-snap. That was the sound which now carried up the stairs, providing Kimberly with a more convincing way to avoid discussing Spain.
Inside the cupboard was a shoebox sitting on a shelf. She pushed the lid to one side. ‘You go and answer the door. I’ll find you that photo.’
‘The others are down there.’
‘Just PC Gully. Anita’s left and your boss has gone to hurry up the search outside. I thought they would have finished by now.’
‘They decided to concentrate on the cemetery and university grounds first.’
As he said this, he heard the front door being opened. They both tried to listen to the conversation, but could only catch a word or two.
‘Who is it?’ he asked her.
‘I can’t tell,’ Kimberly replied. ‘But it sounds a bit like Tamsin.’
‘Who’s Tamsin?’
‘Her dad owns the Celeste.’
‘And you know her?’
‘Unfortunately.’
Kimberly slid her hand further back into the shoebox and flicked through several more snapshots, finally picking out one which was posed more formally than the rest. She stared at the toddler in
the photo and Goodhew could see that the distraction of the previous few minutes was gone. As the little boy grinned at her with a lopsided expression full of unbridled mischief, she touched his
face and drew in a long slow breath.
‘Just then when we were talking . . .’ she began, but the words wouldn’t come.
‘I know – you hadn’t forgotten him.’
She nodded, then managed to say, ‘Stefan has no reason to hurt him.’ There was no sign that she was going to cry, but that didn’t mean she relished being confronted by an
unwanted visitor.
‘You can stay here while I find out what she wants?’
‘No,’ her grip on the photograph tightened, ‘I’m not going to hide from her.’
FIFTEEN
Kimberly had long since chosen to forget the occasions when she’d socialized with Tamsin Lewton. The idea that there’d been anything approaching warmth between them
served only to deepen the hostility she felt now.
She doubted that Tamsin had changed much: still youthful yet mature, blonde
shake of the head before the reader flipped over to the celebrity gossip printed on the following pages. The idea was illogical, but he still looked.
He now drew no conclusions about Rachel’s personality: it did not jump from the canvas the way it seemed to from Kimberly’s portrait. Who Rachel was – or maybe who Kimberly
thought she was – wasn’t on display. But the moment seemed real enough, not an imaginary scene like the one on the punt.
‘And did you paint this from a photograph?’
‘No, sort of from memory. I started it that same night.’ She could tell that puzzled him. ‘I mean the night we were in that bar. She was drinking but I was sober, so I saw her
at various stages during the evening. There was this moment’ – she tapped the canvas – ‘that moment in fact, when she seemed to be in the perfect place. We shared a flat
then, and I stayed up ’til dawn making sketches. I went into her room and copied her nose and mouth while she was asleep. Those were the bits I couldn’t do properly from
memory.’
She took the canvas from him before he’d finished looking.
‘Was that in Cambridge?’ he asked. ‘I don’t recognize the background.’
‘Artistic licence,’ she replied, and said it quickly and lightly. And immediately he wondered if she was being sarcastic or telling a lie. She obviously heard it in her own voice,
too, and corrected herself. ‘We were in Spain for a while.’
‘Working?’
‘Yeah, it started as a holiday, then we decided to stay on.’ Kimberly paused then put more emphasis on the start of the next sentence. ‘I painted Rachel quite often.’ It
seemed a clumsy change of subject.
Kimberly’s front door was fitted with a bell but no knocker, so the only alternative to ringing was to push the hinged letterbox open and let it spring shut again, with an abrupt
snap-snap-snap. That was the sound which now carried up the stairs, providing Kimberly with a more convincing way to avoid discussing Spain.
Inside the cupboard was a shoebox sitting on a shelf. She pushed the lid to one side. ‘You go and answer the door. I’ll find you that photo.’
‘The others are down there.’
‘Just PC Gully. Anita’s left and your boss has gone to hurry up the search outside. I thought they would have finished by now.’
‘They decided to concentrate on the cemetery and university grounds first.’
As he said this, he heard the front door being opened. They both tried to listen to the conversation, but could only catch a word or two.
‘Who is it?’ he asked her.
‘I can’t tell,’ Kimberly replied. ‘But it sounds a bit like Tamsin.’
‘Who’s Tamsin?’
‘Her dad owns the Celeste.’
‘And you know her?’
‘Unfortunately.’
Kimberly slid her hand further back into the shoebox and flicked through several more snapshots, finally picking out one which was posed more formally than the rest. She stared at the toddler in
the photo and Goodhew could see that the distraction of the previous few minutes was gone. As the little boy grinned at her with a lopsided expression full of unbridled mischief, she touched his
face and drew in a long slow breath.
‘Just then when we were talking . . .’ she began, but the words wouldn’t come.
‘I know – you hadn’t forgotten him.’
She nodded, then managed to say, ‘Stefan has no reason to hurt him.’ There was no sign that she was going to cry, but that didn’t mean she relished being confronted by an
unwanted visitor.
‘You can stay here while I find out what she wants?’
‘No,’ her grip on the photograph tightened, ‘I’m not going to hide from her.’
FIFTEEN
Kimberly had long since chosen to forget the occasions when she’d socialized with Tamsin Lewton. The idea that there’d been anything approaching warmth between them
served only to deepen the hostility she felt now.
She doubted that Tamsin had changed much: still youthful yet mature, blonde
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