Twisted

Chapter 23

The Crime Night producers had agreed to do the filming on the Saturday afternoon for release on the Sunday evening. The surprise was that everything went smoothly. Marjory Jordan accompanied Lena, who wore a demure dress and her hair drawn into a chignon, and looked very elegant. Marcus Fulford appeared to be more nervous than his wife as they sat apart in the waiting room. The producer had spent time with them, going over procedures and explaining there would be a short interview with them before the footage of their daughter was shown. They would then interview DI Reid, who would make the request for anyone with information to please come forward or phone the incident room.

At this, Marcus became emotional, but Lena remained downcast and silent. The only time she showed any tension was when she watched, on the screen in the waiting room, the footage she had provided them with from the family tapes. It was not the content but the fact it was so short, literally only one and a half minutes. Everyone involved, from camera crew to sound and lights, could not help but be moved by the stunning young teenager, and the director had chosen a section when Amy was on the beach smiling, and wearing the bikini, but without the sunglasses and large straw sunhat.

At one point the producer took Reid to one side, asking if there was also footage of their missing teenager taken by the vice squad. Reid curtly refused to answer but was unpleasantly taken aback that someone had leaked the fact that it existed.

Sunday evening proved to be exactly as Reid had feared. The office phones were ringing virtually nonstop from directly after the programme had aired, and he had nothing but gratitude for his dedicated team who had volunteered to work for no extra pay but a day off in lieu.

The majority of calls were a waste of time, but everything had to be checked out and logged. The programme had also brought about a new round of press interest and the station was inundated with requests for more photographs, as the journalists began to describe Amy Fulford as a Lolita because of the glamorous footage from Crime Night.

Reid was under mounting pressure, as all of this activity had still not brought any further leads, and so he was immensely relieved when DS Lane received a call from Simon Boatly’s lawyers. They had been able to contact Boatly and confirmed that he was out of the country when Amy disappeared, but nevertheless he would be willing to speak to the investigating officers. Boatly had agreed to return to England a week ahead of his schedule, and would make himself available as soon as he arrived. They now had a new mobile phone number for him and an address in Henley where he would be staying.

It was early Monday morning when the forensic tests finally came in. There was a DNA match to Marcus Fulford from semen on the underwear belonging to Justine Hyde, Gail Summers and the prostitute Tanya. There was no DNA from Marcus on any of his daughter’s panties, clothes or bed sheets. A profile from Amy had been raised from the hairbrush in the overnight bag, and matched menstrual blood and faeces on her school cotton knickers.

Reid felt it was dead end after dead end with Marcus Fulford: now there was nothing from forensics to support the idea that he was abusing Amy. Wey had also double-checked and confirmed his alibi for his movements over the weekend Amy went missing. Reid knew the evidence suggested Marcus couldn’t have murdered Amy, but there was still the possibility that she might have run away because she was being sexually abused by him.

As the calls still continued to come, with many apparent time wasters, he was certain that if Amy Fulford were still alive she would have made contact. Even if Amy herself had not wished to come forward, if she were with someone who knew who she was, surely they would have been in touch. An alternative of course was that she had not run away but had been abducted by someone. If that was the case then all the publicity surrounding her disappearance might mean it was too much of a risk for an abductor to keep her alive.

Reid had spoken with Chief Superintendent Douglas who, after much deliberation, had agreed to give him one more day before calling in the murder squad. Reid protested, demanding to know why he couldn’t work the case with his team, but Douglas said he wanted the case cleared up once and for all and it would be done a lot quicker by a bigger, more professional and experienced team from the murder squad.

Now Reid sat in a sullen mood, sifting through the mass of data that had been accumulated, returning to day one in his notes. The good news was that Simon Boatly was at last available and Reid decided he would drive out to speak with him later that morning.

But first he drove to the Fulford house, where Agnes had the front door open even before he’d managed to park. Harry was outside with the Lexus, waiting to take Mrs Fulford to her warehouse.

Agnes rang through to Lena’s office upstairs and then showed Reid into the drawing room, pursing her lips. ‘She is being a bit difficult at the moment,’ she confided, ‘although it’s understandable in the circumstances. It’s good that she found Amy’s journal, as maybe it will help you find out what’s happened to her.’

At that moment Lena walked in and heard what Agnes said, realising immediately that her housekeeper had seen the journal. She had not intended to tell Reid about it, but knew she had to now. ‘Thank you, Agnes, I am quite capable of informing the inspector about the journal.’

Agnes scuttled out, shutting the door. Lena looked rested, and immaculate as ever, as she gestured for him to sit down. Waving her hand, she said that she was concerned about the contents of the journal, but nevertheless if he gave his word that none of it would be made public he could have it.

‘I just need to read it, Mrs Fulford, and I will return it as soon as possible.’

‘I don’t want any copies made. It is a very personal journal and after reading what some of the press are saying about her, describing Amy as a Lolita, it has made me feel very anxious and obviously distressed.’

He gave her a polite nod. She walked out and after a moment returned.

‘Here it is,’ she said, handing him a manila envelope, her name and address printed on it in red. He took it and, eager to leave, moved to pass her. She rested a hand on his arm.

‘I hope you don’t feel that I should not go into work, but I have to deal with finding a replacement for Gail Summers. The stupid girl has left a large consignment for John Lewis in the warehouse and it should have been delivered last week.’

‘I think it is probably best to keep busy,’ he said, thinking it sounded lame under the circumstances.

Her hand still on his arm, she moved closer, looking up at him, and he could see her pupils were enlarged, the dark black making her irises very blue. ‘Has there been anything from the programme? I had hoped you’d call, and all the press – surely someone must know something?’

‘We’re still hoping, but sadly often these programmes create a lot of wasted time, with wretched people ringing in with sick false information, but every call has to be checked out.’

‘How awful that people use such heartbreak to concoct lies.’

He felt uneasy with her being so close and her hand on his arm was awkward. Eventually he gently patted it. ‘Don’t give up hope, Mrs Fulford; maybe we will get a call from someone that has seen her or knows where she may be.’

‘Oh I hope so, the house feels so empty all the time, and I miss her – I cry myself to sleep because it’s been over a week now. Have you ever had a case where a missing girl has been gone for so long?’

She finally moved her hand from his arm, and he lied, telling her that often it had been many months. She held the door open for him and he could not bring himself to say that a murder team would be brought in to review the case, as hope was fading for her daughter to be found alive. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but for no one to have seen or talked to Amy since that Saturday afternoon compounded his worst fears that she was dead.

As he left the house Reid gave a brief nod to Harry, who was standing by the Lexus waiting for Lena. Harry was increasingly nervous about the watch he had found in Marcus’s car, as his intention to sell it had faltered after the press release and his unwelcome discovery that it had Amy’s name engraved on it. It was still hidden in a drawer at his home. A Cartier watch would have been a nice little earner, but he was starting to think he should toss it into a skip and get rid of it.

Reid did not open the envelope containing the journal, but drove straight to Henley-on-Thames, feeding into the sat nav the address he’d been given, which was just outside the quaint Thames-side town. He drove along small country lanes, until he branched off into rather a substantial drive with big open gates. The Old Manor was a very elegant two-storey sprawling property with a vast garden and sweeping lawns down to the river at the rear. He drew up outside the white stone steps, which led to a large studded double door with a magnificent stone urn on either side. As he got out of the car a girl on a horse appeared from round the side of a barn and pulled up on the reins.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

He was about to take out his ID when the front door swung open and a huge dog that looked like a cross between a wolfhound and an Akita hurtled out. It almost knocked Reid off his feet as it bounded on towards the horse and rider.

‘Wally, just behave… WALLY!’ the girl shrieked.

She wheeled the horse round as the dog barked and bounded alongside them. A suntanned man wearing a padded velvet dressing gown and slippers appeared at the door and Reid instantly recognized him from photographs at the flat in Mayfair.

‘Mr Boatly, I am Detective Inspector Victor Reid.’

‘Sorry about the dog – totally untrained and an absolute pest. I’ve not been able to take him for a walk yet so he’s a bit boisterous,’ the man said. ‘Come on in, sir, and please excuse the apparel as I intended to get dressed, but I didn’t think you would get here so soon.’

Simon Boatly was at least six feet two, slender, and his hair was bleached blond, while his suntan gave him a rather heavily lined face, with his teeth made whiter than white. He slithered along the polished wooden floor in Moroccan slippers, his ankles a deep tan, and he was obviously naked beneath the velvet dressing gown. It was old-fashioned, worn in places, with a threadbare satin collar, and the sash was frayed at the ends.

‘Right, let’s get you settled and I’ll put some pants on. Go on into the drawing room, help yourself to a drink and I won’t be more than a minute.’

Reid looked round the vast room; massive sofas and easy chairs almost as worn as the velvet dressing gown were dotted around a big stone fireplace. The grate was full of charred logs and cinders, dirty wine glasses were left on an assortment of coffee tables and a grand piano was draped in a Spanish embroidered shawl, the fringe puddling onto the floor. Oil paintings were hung in profusion, cups and plaques arranged on various sideboards, and above the fire mantel was a large gold-framed mirror with invitations stuck to the frame and propped up along the marble shelf.

The scattered Persian rugs were threadbare, with frayed edges, and badly stained. Reid eased himself onto a sofa, but then got up as he felt himself to be too low down. He eventually attempted to sit on a large carver chair, but most of the wicker seat had fallen out. The arms were embellished with wolf heads and were worn to a paler colour of wood than the rest of the chair. The room had a similar feel to the flat in Green Street – old-fashioned, full of antiques and no sign of anyone taking care of it; even the windows were grimy and the draped curtains a pale washed-out green velvet.

It was rather longer than a minute, more like ten, before Simon Boatly returned, now wearing cord slacks and a pale blue pullover, which enhanced his cornflower-blue eyes. He was a very handsome man but with an air of decadence, and a very easy-going manner as he slouched onto the sofa. He had a silk handkerchief that he wafted about, informing Reid it was dabbed in Olbas Oil as, since he got off the plane, he’d felt as if he had combination of jet lag and the onset of flu.

‘I obviously agreed to see you as I am shocked to hear about Amy; first thing I did was call poor old Marcus – he’s devastated, and it is really not a good sign for her to have been missing for so many days.’ He sniffed with the handkerchief covering his nose. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any news?’ He leaned forward. ‘Obviously not or I don’t suppose you would be interested in meeting me, but I can’t for the life of me think if I can give you any kind of insight as to where she might have run off to, or who she might have run off with.’

Reid said nothing, but took out his notebook and flicked it open.

‘How well do you know Amy Fulford?’

‘I wouldn’t even claim to know her. I’ve met her of course as me and Marcus are old mates; we go back a long way and he rents my pad in Green Street. This place used to belong to the same aunt – if it smells musty to you it’s because it’s been locked up while I am away. I’ve just got this elderly local biddy to clean and dust, not that I think looking around she’s very diligent; maybe I’ve got an allergy to dust and not the flu bug that’s apparently going the rounds.’

‘Did you entertain local prostitutes in the Green Street property?’

‘Wow, that is a bit on the nail, isn’t it? I may have done in the past, but I was left that place when I was a youngster. Did you know that one can even get a thing called “Gentleman’s Navigator” for a mobile phone? It can be used in major cities around the world to locate escort girls, strip clubs and even brothels, along with pictures, reviews and the going rate for sex… or any kind of erotic pleasure you may desire,’ he said with a smug smile.

‘No I didn’t,’ Reid replied tersely.

‘I used to be a bit of a jack-the-lad, but I can’t say that I have the same active libido, and doing the work that I do gives me a steady supply of lovely models.’

Reid made no notes but he found Mr Boatly a bit over-eager to depict himself as some modern-day Errol Flynn, and the longer and more closely he watched him and listened to the droll upper-class voice, the less he liked him. He constantly flicked at his blond hair, or sniffed at the Olbas Oil on his handkerchief; he still wore no socks and his slippers hung loosely on his tanned feet.

‘How did you get on with Lena Fulford?’ he asked quietly.

‘Well I honestly felt that old Marcus had got lucky – not only was she a beauty but a very keen businesswoman. I mean, he’s hopeless, one job after another. I know he had a sort of goodish job when they married, designer for a wealthy boat yard, or let’s say the customers were wealthy. He would design very elegant interiors, but then I think he sort of had his work cut out as Lovely Lena was quite a handful. I know she never liked me, in many ways she was jealous of our friendship, but it turned out to be more of a mental thing.’ He twisted a finger at his temple.

‘You met them in Antigua?’ Reid asked.

‘Good God, yes I did, two or more years ago, I think. I was on the yacht and visiting friends who were staying at the wonderful Carlisle Hotel. They don’t have water-skiing facilities, and my chaps and I were told not to use their bay, so we were going to move further along the coast and ski there. The yacht had a speedboat on board with jet skis, plus staff, chef and crew.’

‘Did you know the Fulfords were staying at the hotel?’

‘I think I had it lodged somewhere in the brain cells, but it was sort of a coincidence really.’

‘You met Amy there?’

‘Yes I did; we all had lunch and Lena was a bit tetchy as usual. Thing is, you never know with her – sometimes she’s all warmth and smiles, next minute she’s quite nasty, and she refused to allow Amy to come on board the speedboat when I offered to take her water-skiing.’

‘How did Amy react?’

‘Just accepted it, no argument. I think she knew not to start one up with Lena – she’s a very intelligent girl, quiet, sort of watchful, as if she’s an arbitrator between them; anyway, I rejoined my pals and left. I think that is possibly the last time I saw Amy.’

‘She’s never been in touch with you?’

‘Heavens no, and when Marcus mentioned he needed a place it coincided with me getting the photo gig abroad, so I let him rent my old pad.’

‘You were never there when Amy spent the weekend with her father?’

‘Not that I recall; I’ve been skipping all over the place and the rent and stuff is handled by my lawyers. I think he’s a bit behind actually, but it doesn’t really worry me. I have this place for when I’m back in the country.’

Reid spoke quietly as he explained that he was concerned about the amount of pornography discovered in the Green Street flat. Boatly shrugged.

‘Well it could be my old magazines and videos? As I said, I was a bit of a lad. My parents died in a plane crash when I was fifteen and my aunt was my guardian. She was my father’s sister and not like some old doddery spinster but at one time had been a great beauty, married a couple of times, and was rather naughty, very theatrical. I doubt she had ever cooked a meal in her life, but she could drink, she had hollow legs as the expression goes. The reality was the flat originally belonged to my grandmother, who left it to Aunt Katherine with the stipulation that it passed to me eventually. Poor Katherine ploughed through her own inheritance and I think she even gambled away any money left by her husbands. I would say that she was not the most reliable person to act as a guardian – in fact some of her conquests were not that much older than myself; she’d never use the expression “toy boys”, but she had quite a sexual appetite for virile young men. I was still at boarding school so only came under her unwatchful eyes during the holidays.’

Reid was becoming impatient, and not quite sure why Boatly had gone into such detail regarding his aunt. He was about to ask more questions about the pornography when Boatly swung his legs down from the sofa and laughed.

‘I admit I was going through all the teenage sexual fantasies, but what happened was not intentional,’ he said and laughed again before continuing. ‘I was hammering in a nail to hang up a framed picture of some bimbo or other and it went straight through the plaster wall. It’s not obviously something I like to admit but it became my peephole into Aunt Katherine’s bedroom. I’d wank myself stupid watching her with legs akimbo being screwed by some waiter or other young man she’d picked up. Sadly her prowess with them didn’t last as she became such an alcoholic that the trustees felt her to be unsuitable as my guardian. They wanted to get some other distant relative to monitor me, but I’d just turned eighteen and had access to my inheritance, so I refused to accept anyone else and she was carted off to some hospice where she eventually died.’

‘Did Marcus Fulford stay with you at your flat in Green Street on a regular basis?’

‘Yes, very often, but that was before he married Lena. The place was only used infrequently as I went to Oxford and then would live here during my vacations.’

‘Did Amy stay here?’

Boatly frowned, and said she had on a couple of occasions as she used to ride at the local stables.

‘Who was the girl riding the horse when I arrived?’

‘Oh, she’s my neighbour’s daughter; they use one of the outbuildings to stable her horse, and she’s quite a little madam. They also look after Wally – well, he’s more their pet than mine, but when I’m here he stays with me.’

There was a pause as Reid made a couple of notes before closing his notebook. Boatly, thinking the interview was over, stood up, but Reid asked if he could recall the dates when Amy stayed.

‘Christ, I don’t know off-hand, but it would have been a good few years ago. Perhaps Marcus could give you a better time frame. She was always very quiet and well behaved and a very accomplished rider – and I think did some equestrian shows.’

Reid detected that Boatly was becoming irritated; his right foot tapped the floor and he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

‘Look, Detective Reid, I am obviously intelligent enough to know where your questions are leading. My neighbours’ daughter is eleven, and very annoying, I have no interaction with her. Amy was my best friend’s daughter, and I have not and never had any interest in pubescent females. As you know, I was abroad when Amy went missing, and I have been open and honest about my relationship with her and her mother, but Marcus was my only reason for knowing them. We have been friends for many years, dating back to our Oxford days, though Marcus was at the polytechnic. He was from a middle-class family without much money, and I had my inheritance, but it never created any friction between us. He eventually married Lena, but I still care for him and enjoy meeting up with him occasionally, on a one-to-one basis. I don’t like his wife and she has made it obvious that she does not like me and I think she was always envious of our friendship. I thought his daughter was lovely, but the undercurrent of your implications that there could have been anything more between us is abhorrent and distressing to me. I feel great compassion for what Marcus and Lena must be going through and hope their daughter will be found; at the same time I am aware of how long she’s been missing and I realize the outcome may be tragic. As a friend I will endeavour to be supportive because I know how much Marcus loves Amy and what a good father he is.’

Driving back to London, Reid mulled over the interview. Although he had no evidence to suggest the handsome and suntanned Simon Boatly was involved in Amy’s disappearance, he could not allay his suspicions. He wondered if the nail-causing-the-peephole story was a lie fabricated in collusion with Marcus to cover up something more sinister. However, the look of gratification on Boatly’s face as he spoke about it suggested there was some substance behind the admission. Although he knew Boatly was not even in the country when Amy disappeared, he could have been involved in some previous sexual abuse of Amy, maybe even with Marcus present.

Boatly had returned to bed, certain he was coming down with some flu bug as he kept on sneezing and his head ached. He was dabbing more Olbas Oil onto his handkerchief when the bedside phone rang. It was Marcus, asking if everything went all right with the meeting.

‘Yes, everything that needed to be was said, I think; there was no need to even mention it. He might want to know when you came to stay with Amy because I couldn’t remember; it was when she was horse-mad, but it sort of makes me pissed off.’

‘So you never brought it up?’

‘I just said so, didn’t I, and I’m sorry if I sound a bit tetchy but I feel horrific, like I’m coming down with flu or something. The fucking woman who’s supposed to clean the place seems to have done no dusting at all so I might have some allergy, unless it’s the bloody dog hairs.’

‘Listen, thanks, I really appreciate it, and I’m sorry about the rent not being paid.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, forget it, you’ve enough to worry about.’

‘Thank you. Obviously the divorce is sort of on a back burner at the moment, but as soon as that’s finalized I’ll repay you and you know how grateful I am about you funding Jacob Lyons.’

‘Let’s meet up for dinner. I’ll call you when I’m next in town.’

‘Right, look forward to seeing you. Bye for now.’

Boatly hung up and sniffed the handkerchief, lying back on the pillow as Grant walked in with a hot lemon and ginger drink. He was as suntanned as Boatly, with long hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing torn jeans and an expensive shirt in heavy linen.

‘I heard him leaving, thought it best not to be visible. Do you want me to make you some lunch?’

‘No, I feel terrible. Can you get me some aspirin and I’ll try and have a sandwich or something later.’

Grant put down the mug and went to a drawer in the dressing table, rooted around and took out a bottle of aspirin. ‘Here you go, Simon. I’ll be cleaning up downstairs, and then doing a grocery shop, so if there’s anything you feel like eating I’ll bring it back.’

‘Thank you; maybe some pasta – nothing too heavy – or spinach soup, get a load in, as I am sure I’m coming down with something, and we need bread and cheese.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve made out a list. Drink up and take the aspirin and I won’t be too long.’

Boatly held out his hand. ‘What would I do without you, darling one?’

Grant laughed and picked up Boatly’s wallet. ‘Can I drive the Porsche?’

‘Yes, but for God’s sake be careful, you’ve only just passed your driving test.’

Grant opened the wallet and removed two fifty-pound notes, wafting them towards Boatly who was taking his aspirin and sipping at the hot drink. ‘See you in a while. Maybe get some more wine as you had a skinful last night.’

‘Whatever,’ Boatly said, sighing and closing his eyes.

He thought to himself that he was not going to stay much longer in England and wouldn’t mind selling up the house and the flat and never returning. The sound of his Porsche being revved up as if at Goodwood racetrack irritated him. He got up and crossed to the window as Grant drove out far too fast. The wretched girl from his neighbours was riding across the lawn, Wally bounding after her. He tried to open the window to reprimand her – not that the lawn was in pristine condition, it was the fact she had been told to keep off his property. But the window was stuck firm and he slapped the frame with the flat of his hand. He was even more annoyed as he saw Wally taking a crap and scratching at the grass, sending turf flying. ‘Fucking dog,’ he muttered as the horse jumped over a small row of bushes and the girl whooped and hollered. It was then that he recalled how he had been standing at the same window – how many years ago? Maybe two or three? Amy slapping her thigh with her riding crop and wearing her riding hat, hacking jacket, white shirt and a cravat, jodhpurs and black polished boots.

‘Daddy, Daddy, are you coming to watch me jump, Daddy!’

Boatly had turned to Marcus, who was naked and sprawled across his bed. They had both got very drunk the previous evening, and he had to nudge him awake.

‘Amy’s waiting for you,’ he had said.

Marcus roused himself and had an obvious hangover. ‘Bugger! What time is it?’

It was eight o’clock, and Marcus had been too drunk to return to his own bedroom the night before. He grabbed a dressing gown and stumbled to the window, but even back then it was stuck firm. He hurried from the room and somehow managed to pull on his trousers and a sweater. Boatly followed him downstairs and laughed as he watched from the doorway as Marcus hopped barefoot over the gravel towards Amy.

He remembered she was very angry, shouting and swiping at him with her riding crop. ‘You said you would be at the stables to ride with me and I’ve been waiting ages. I have to have a practice before the fete this afternoon.’

Marcus had apologized and said he’d overslept. He promised he would join her and ride out to the fields to watch her jumping. He ran back over to the house, shouting as he went.

‘Simon, SIMON, can I borrow a pair of your boots?’

Boatly smiled as his mind returned to the present and he went and lay back down on his bed. He remembered thinking that Amy was a right little madam; if she’d swished her riding crop a little closer she’d have slashed her father’s face. Marcus had burst into the bedroom, asking again if he could use a pair of Simon’s riding boots. Boatly had gestured to his wardrobe and said there was a pair in there or a pair of old ones by the back kitchen door. Marcus had sat on the bed, pulling on the black leather boots; they were too large and he had to tuck his trousers inside them.

‘Christ, this could be embarrassing. I hate bloody horses. What’s the one I rode out on once with you?’

‘It’s an old police horse – they use him for children with special needs. He’s called Puddle; he might not get up the energy for a trot but he won’t throw you off.’

‘Fuck off, I am going to look a right arsehole.’ Marcus stamped his feet in the boots.

It was strange to remember it all so clearly after such a long time. Whether or not it was due to Detective Reid asking when Amy had stayed, or seeing the annoying girl on her horse, he wasn’t sure. He remembered when they both returned from the ride and the outcome had made him laugh until he ached. Marcus, covered in mud, described Puddle’s slow ponderous walk and how it had left him far behind Amy. Suddenly confronted by a thick thistle bush, Puddle was spooked and took off at a gallop. Amy described the way she had first been impressed as her dad sped past her – she didn’t think Daddy could gallop so well – but then seeing him hurtling through the air headfirst into the ditch had made her hysterical.

Boatly remembered they were all sitting at the kitchen table, with a bowl of hot water and Dettol; Amy dipping in a wad of cotton wool to clean a nasty scrape on the side of Marcus’s face. Her cheeks were flushed, her blonde silky hair falling around her shoulders, and she had loosened the cravat of her shirt. Tall and boyishly slender, she tenderly washed out the graze. Boatly recalled how envious he had felt, her adoration and sweetness touching him, because he knew he would never experience that kind of affection from a child of his own. He also remembered just how beautiful she had become when he had seen her on the beach in Antigua, the tiny bikini showing off her perfect pubescent figure. The way she had lowered her sunglasses to look at him, it had felt provocative; even the way she had sipped her fruit-filled glass with a straw had not been like a young teenager. But similar to the way Lena had behaved towards him when they had first met.

When Lena had refused to allow her daughter to go water-skiing, Amy had given him a knowing glance and a shrug of her shoulders. He left after lunch to join his friends on the waiting speedboat, and when he turned back, she had been waving and smiling. ‘Bye-bye, Simon,’ she had called out. That was the last time he had seen her, and now it really saddened him that she was missing, but there was also a niggling unease that perhaps Marcus might have had something to do with it. He hoped that he had not, but at the same time it had registered with him that their affection towards each other was very intimate.

Simon suspected Marcus must have persuaded Amy not to tell Lena about staying at the Old Manor as she did not approve of their friendship and would have refused to allow Amy to stay there. They had slept together in the guest bedroom, and Marcus had come through to his room when Amy was asleep. Boatly now found himself wondering if there was something beyond the doting father image that Marcus portrayed. His mind was made up in an instant: he would sell the flat and distance himself from Marcus, as he didn’t want any possibility of becoming embroiled in the police investigation.