‘So what happened when he came here?’ I asked.

‘He told us that he’d lost a lot of money.’ Martin had taken over again. ‘He wanted us to help him. We said we’d think about it, although we’d both made up our minds that it wasn’t going to happen. We called him a taxi and he went back to the hotel.’

‘Did he mention the wedding?’

‘As a matter of fact, he was quite pissed off about it. The place was jammed and there was a big marquee in the garden which spoiled the view. He said they should have given him a discount.’

‘Did he say anything about Cecily? Or her fiancé, Aiden MacNeil?’

‘He didn’t mention either of them. I wish I could tell you more, Susan. But he was only here for about forty-five minutes. We had tea. We talked. And then he left.’

Joanne clearly wanted me to do the same. I had finished my tea and no second cup was being offered. I got to my feet. ‘You’ve both been very kind,’ I said. ‘I may be in Suffolk for a few more days. Do you mind if I come back?’

‘You’re welcome any time,’ Martin said. ‘If you have any more questions we’ll be happy to answer them, won’t we, Jo?’

‘Let me show you out.’ Joanne had got up too. She gestured towards the archway.

If she had been just a little less formal, she might have escorted me through the sliding doors, the way I had come in. But she clearly felt a need to take me through the hallway and out through the front door, which was how I came to see the cork board half concealed behind the Aga and, as we walked past, the business card pinned in the corner.

Wesley & Khan – Solicitors

Framlingham

It was Sajid Khan who had told Lawrence and Pauline Treherne where they could find me. He had once represented Alan Conway. In what way, I wondered, was he connected to Martin and Joanne Williams?

I was about to ask Joanne how she knew him but I never got the chance. She had been tight-lipped as she led me out of the kitchen but suddenly she turned round and I saw that something extraordinary had happened. She was furious. She was staring at me as if she wanted to kill me.

‘I don’t want you to come here again,’ she hissed, keeping her voice low so that Martin wouldn’t hear.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Just go away. We never wanted to see Frank and we don’t want to see you. Whatever’s happened at the hotel, it’s got nothing to do with us. So piss off and leave us alone.’

I don’t even remember stepping out of the house. I just remember the door slamming behind me and being left with the knowledge that I had no idea what had just happened, but whatever it was, it made no sense at all.

Branlow Cottage

There was no one around when I got back to the hotel and no sign of any police car, which made me think (and hope) that Detective Chief Superintendent Locke must have left. It was just before midday, which seemed like a good time to call on Aiden MacNeil. I still had a certain dread of meeting him but knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. I phoned Lawrence from the car, but it was Pauline who answered.

‘Lawrence is in the garden,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday. I wasn’t feeling very well.’

‘That’s all right, Pauline. I’m just on my way to see Aiden.’

‘Oh yes. He talked to the police this morning.’

‘Is there any news?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I was just wondering if Lawrence spoke to him. He said he was going to mention that I might call in.’

‘I don’t know. Hold on a moment. I’ll ask him.’

There was a click as she put the phone down and then, in the distance, her voice calling through the window: ‘Daaaahling?’ I waited about a minute and then she came back, slightly breathless. ‘Yes. He’s waiting to hear from you.’

‘He doesn’t mind?’

‘Not at all. Anything that might help find Cecily … ’

That reassured me.

I walked through the hotel, passing Lars, who was sitting behind the reception desk reading a Danish football magazine called Tipsbladet. He didn’t look up as I went past. I continued out the back, past the spa and swimming pool and along the gravel drive that led to Branlow Cottage.

Why were they pretending it was a cottage? What they had built was a solid, three-storey house standing in its own grounds, surrounded by a low wall and a gate. There was a swing in the garden and a partly deflated paddling pool. The Range Rover was parked in the drive. Walking past it with my feet crunching on the gravel, I had the strangest feeling of trepidation, even of fear. But I wasn’t afraid of Aiden. I was thinking of Cecily, a daughter and a wife and a mother of a seven-year-old girl. She had gone for a walk in the Suffolk countryside and had never come back. Was there anything worse that could happen to anyone? When you live in the country, you spend every minute of the day surrounded by a vast emptiness. I could feel it now. But you never think for a minute that you might become part of it.

As I approached the front door it opened and Aiden came out, walking towards me. He had seen me from the window. He held out a hand. ‘You must be Susan Ryeland.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s good timing. Roxie’s out with Eloise. She’s off school at the moment. Come on in.’

My first impressions of Aiden surprised me. He was a very handsome man, fair-haired, blue-eyed, in great shape. He was wearing a polo shirt, jeans and loafers. From what the Trehernes had told me, I knew he was thirty-two years old but he looked at least five years younger, with a Peter Pan quality that expressed itself even in the way he moved, light on his feet. I followed him into the kitchen and, without asking me, he flicked on the kettle. The house was very clean and orderly. There was nothing out of place on any of the surfaces.

‘When did you arrive?’ he asked. It was only when he turned round that I saw the tiredness in his eyes, the worry lines. He hadn’t been sleeping properly. He’d lost weight.

‘Yesterday.’ I didn’t know how to begin. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘This must be awful for you.’

‘Awful?’ He half smiled as he considered the word. ‘That doesn’t even begin to describe it, if you want the truth, Susan. What’s awful is that the fucking police think I had something to do with it. What’s awful is that they’ve been here seven or eight times and they still don’t have a fucking clue.’

There was a ragged quality to his voice. It was as if he was speaking with a bad sore throat.

‘I know Detective Chief Superintendent Locke,’ I said. ‘He’s a very thorough man.’

‘Do you think so? If Detective Locke and his friends had been a bit more thorough to begin with, Cecily might have been home by now.’

I watched him make the tea. He did it with exactly the same taut, jerky movements that an alcoholic might use to pour himself a glass of Scotch and he talked all the while, even with his back to me.

‘I called the police at eight o’clock on the evening she disappeared. That was a Wednesday. She should have been back at six to help put Roxana to bed and I rang her mobile a dozen times. No answer. I knew something was wrong but it was another hour before someone turned up – a pair of “community officers” – and even then they didn’t take it seriously. Had we had an argument? Had she been depressed? It was only when the dog showed up at Woodbridge station two hours later that they began to take action. Her car was there too.’

‘The Range Rover?’

‘No. That’s mine. She drives a Golf Estate.’

I noticed the present tense. Aiden hadn’t hesitated. He thought she was still alive.

‘What did Locke tell you today?’ I asked.

‘He told me nothing – which is exactly how much progress they’ve made.’ He reached into the fridge and took out a carton of milk. He slammed it down on the counter, almost crumpling it. ‘You have no idea what it’s been like,’ he said. ‘They’ve taken her bank details, her medical records, photographs – there was one of us on our wedding day that was in all the newspapers. They had a hundred people searching around the River Deben. Nothing. And then we had reports. She’d been seen in London. She was in Norwich. She was in Amsterdam – although how she managed that when her passport was still upstairs, I don’t know.’

He poured the milk.

‘I’m told that the first seventy-two hours are the ones that matter. People who were in the area are still there and they may remember things. You can still find evidence. Did you know that eighty per cent of all people who disappear are found forty kilometres from where they live?’

‘I didn’t know that.’