I Spy. Claire Kendal

I will defer to your expertise. Am I free to go?’ My breathing is getting faster. My back is soaked, just as it was during the night sweats after her birth.

      ‘We’ve come across a photograph,’ Maxine says. ‘On the hard drive of a laptop that someone took a great deal of trouble to copy for us.’

      I know who that someone is. That someone is me, and though I’ve never been told exactly what was on the drive, I have guessed.

      ‘There were indecent images and video footage on that drive – I can assure you it has all been carefully protected.’

      I look at my feet. My eyes are welling up but I am determined not to cry.

      ‘One of the relatively innocuous images is of a woman lounging by a pool. Her birthmark is identical to this one.’

      I take a few small steps, unhurriedly, towards the door. ‘I asked if I am free to go.’ I am practically choking.

      ‘Of course,’ Maxine says.

      I am out of the room. I am on the landing. I am halfway down the paper-covered stairs.

      Maxine is right behind me. ‘Tell me the specifics of anything you’ve done to give yourself away.’ Her voice is quiet. ‘Contact with anybody from your old life. Any crumb of evidence that could lead Zac to finding you here. Please.’

      The image of my grandmother in the newspaper photograph, and the caption with her full name, flashes before me. Maxine’s face is expressionless as I tell her. But I leave out the sound of Peggy’s voice last night, and James’s, both of them flailing in the dark.

      There is something else I leave out, too, because it belongs entirely to me, and I genuinely don’t think it is why this has happened. It has been over two years since Milly or I reviewed anything on our blog, but it still exists in hyperspace. A straggle of readers occasionally look at it, and every once in a while, a new comment appears.

      Last summer, there was a response to a five-star review of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall that I’d written several years earlier. Somebody with the username Abandoned Friend had this to say.

      Your review sucks. You don’t address how selfish the heroine is. Whatever her husband did to her, she doesn’t stop to think about the worry and grief she caused the people she left behind. What about her poor aunt, who loved her? She should have found a way to let her know she was okay.

      I didn’t know for sure that Abandoned Friend was Milly. But it seemed pretty likely that she was, and that she was talking about Peggy when she mentioned the poor aunt. So I created a new User Name, Brontë Fan, and replied to the comment.

      I don’t think you are being fair. If she’d let her aunt know, that would have increased the risk of being discovered, and might also have put her aunt in danger. She knew her aunt was wise and would understand, and hoped the day would come when they could be reunited.

      As soon as I posted the message, I felt sick, knowing I shouldn’t have done it.

      I haven’t revisited the blog since then, fearing that even the act of opening the page would set off an alert somewhere.

      ‘Holly.’ The way Maxine says my name, my real name, out of anyone’s hearing, is almost human. For nearly two years, my grandmother has been the only one to call me that.

      Despite this, my next words come like an explosion. ‘Why don’t they just arrest him? You know he’s done this.’

      ‘They need evidence first – that’s what’s happening here right now.’

      ‘Why didn’t they arrest him two years ago, once you had the hard drive? She wouldn’t be dead if you had.’

      ‘The data wasn’t as strong as we’d hoped, back then – it wasn’t conclusive. As far as the body in that room—’

      ‘Not “the body”. Jane. A human being called Jane.’

      ‘As far as Jane is concerned, we can’t go around making arrests for cases that the Crown Prosecution Service would toss in the bin. We need to get this right, so it will stick.’

      I press my fists against my eyes. ‘He’s here. A woman came to the hospital. I think she must be his wife. With a little girl who must be his. Is she? Is she his daughter?’

      ‘Yes. His wife and his child. You’ve nothing to fear from them.’

      ‘The child is the same age …’ My voice trails off.

      ‘I know that must be difficult for you.’

      ‘Does the woman know who I am?’

      ‘We think probably not. The little girl’s medical condition is real. She needed that clinic appointment.’

      ‘Are they safe? He shouldn’t be allowed near a child.’

      ‘There’s no evidence he would hurt a child.’ She is uncharacteristically thoughtful, even hesitant, before she continues. ‘I’d hoped you could put all of this behind you. I wish that could have been true.’

       Then A Quarrel

      Two years and three months earlier

      Cornwall, 3 January 2017

      Since finding Jane’s suitcase two weeks ago, I’d barely thought of anything else. On the third day of January, though, I was thinking about Milly instead. I was on my way to see her, and we were meeting by the harbour.

      The sea was boiling. The wind was howling. The waves were moving walls of rock. Milly and I would never take the safer, drier lanes through the town. Like teenagers, we stuck to the path that followed the sea wall. Spray shot out and up, chasing us. We knew we really could be snatched and swallowed. It had happened to others before.

      We threw our arms around each other, grabbed hands and ran through a gauntlet of water, screaming and laughing our calls of Happy New Year, refusing to worry about slipping, stopping to buy chips at one of the cafes along the harbour. There was a belated rendition of Happy Birthday, sung by Milly to me.

      We turned on to the eighteenth-century pier, passing walls of stacked lobster pots, jumbo bags of green rope, and red plastic crates for hauling the dead mackerel from the boats to the land. The smell made me gag, but Milly didn’t notice and we walked on to the pier’s far end, where the air was clear.

      Our feet were soaked, our hair was drenched, and we were shivering. But we were happy, sitting on the stone bench that followed the wall of the pier and doubled as our backrest. We were burning our fingers on the chips.

      I scrambled to my feet, standing on the bench to look over the wall, so I could watch the lighthouse winking in the distance. Milly did the same.

      ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.

      I pictured the two of us, dancing together in a nightclub upcountry to celebrate my sixteenth birthday, our arms around each other, tinsel in our hair and swaying in heels too high to walk in, the room and lights spinning from too many bottles of beer, elated that we had pulled it off despite being underage.

      ‘Me too you,’ I said.

      ‘My mother says you have a father complex, because of your dad dying and all. She says that’s what you see in Zac.’

      ‘Eew. That’s not true.’ Though a part of me knew it was. Still, I blushed at the idea of Peggy thinking that.

      ‘We’re neglecting the blog,’ Milly said. ‘We’ll lose followers.’

      ‘I’ll do something this week. Wuthering Heights has been getting a lot of hate.’

      ‘Mum will be happy. She’s our number one fan. But have I told you lately she is completely insane? We crossed on the stairs, and she closed her eyes and chanted “Avert” and waved her hands about. Honestly,